Acting Up E-Book

Kevin Fitzpatrick

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

West Berkshire, the 1970s. PC Don Barton is convinced that life has taken a turn for the better when he passes his promotion exam and becomes an acting sergeant.

Things take a turn for the worse after a violent altercation with a local thug. Soon later, Don finds himself investigating a hit-and-run case. Somehow, international drug smugglers and the London gangland all seem to be involved.

Don is determined to find out the truth, but the more he uncovers, the greater the danger becomes. Can he crack the case before more lives are lost?

Leseprobe

Acting Up

The County Mounties Book 2

Kevin Fitzpatrick

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Holloway Women’s Prison

Author’s Note

Copyright (C) 2021 Kevin Fitzpatrick

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2021 by Next Chapter

Published 2021 by Next Chapter

Edited by Brice Fallon

Cover art by CoverMint

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author’s permission.

To all those marvellous men and women of the Thames Valley Police with whom I had the honour to serve.

And a special thanks to those ex-colleagues who contributed the anecdotes, ideas, and background knowledge that made this work possible.

Chapter One

West Berkshire 1970s

Police Constable Don Barton had just finished eating a rather large and very tasty bacon sandwich when he received the radio message that was destined to change his life.

His wife, Rosemary, had put on a couple of pounds since the birth of baby David, and she was determined to shed this extra weight before it became permanent. As a dutiful husband and father, Don was expected to do his share of suffering in support of his wife, and had been advised, in no uncertain terms, that he was obliged to stick with her through the agony of dieting.

This meant eating only “healthy” food. Breakfast, which he’d taken at home that morning during his official meal break, had consisted of some sort of oaty concoction mixed with raisins.

Desperate for something more substantial, Don had decided to abandon the pile of paperwork sitting on the desk of his one-man rural police office and, having “booked on” the radio with Headquarters Control Room, he had driven his Ford Escort police van to a transport café on the A34, just off his patch. It was here that he purchased his guilty snack.

Being a conscientious officer, he had declined the complimentary cup of tea that had been offered by the lady serving behind the counter, much to her surprise. Coppers always wanted tea didn’t they? Especially if it was free. However, as much as Don may have fancied a cup, drinking tea would have meant being away from his radio — so he had chosen instead to consume his sandwich in his van.

He had parked in the large open lorry park that surrounded the café and was casually observing the huge lorries, known colloquially as “trunkers”, as they rolled in and out of the café from the main road. Suddenly, silence was broken as the van’s VHF radio came to life and demanded his attention.

“HT for Foxtrot Golf Five Zero, receiving? Over.”

“Five Zero receiving, A34, uncommitted, over.” Don replied, letting the Control Room know that he was available to be deployed.

“Five Zero, from Foxtrot Yankee, ten-three Chief Superintendent Boxwell at your earliest convenience, over.”

Don was confused. Ten-three in the “ten-code” used by the force meant that he was required to attend the superintendent’s office at Newbury in person. Ten-two would have only required a telephone call.

“Confirm ten-three, Control, Five Zero over.” Don requested.

“Affirmative, Five Zero, please make your way to Foxtrot Yankee, important but not urgent, over.”

“All copied, ETA two five minutes, over.”

“Thank you, Five Zero. HT to stand by.”

Don got out of his van and managed to brush most of the breadcrumbs off his tunic with his hands. He regretted now that he’d not taken the time to press his trousers the evening before.

Unfortunately, little David was cutting his first tooth and had been letting the world know all about it. Don, whose turn it was to comfort the child, had eventually managed to get the little chap to sleep in the early hours of the morning. Exhausted, he had finally fallen into bed beside the peacefully sleeping Rosemary at three o’clock. Trouser pressing was the last thing on his mind as he struggled to get back to sleep.

Now, driving towards Newbury, he wisely decided not to light a cigarette, much as he needed one. Crumbs were one thing, fag-ash quite another. As he negotiated the surprisingly light traffic conditions on the main road he contemplated the reason for his summons to the “guvnors’” office.

The tone of the message “earliest convenience” didn’t make it sound like a bollocking — but one could never really be sure. Perhaps the transfer he’d been requesting for the past year had finally come through. But, if that was it, why did he have to see the big boss? Any supervisor could have told him about that — if that was all it were.

Twenty minutes later he pulled into the car park at the rear of the Divisional Headquarters. For once there was plenty of room to park, and Don let himself into the building via the back door.

Normally he would have had to use an entry code to go in through this door, however, a delivery of beer to the station’s social club was in progress and the door had been propped open. Barrels were being expertly rolled in by the draymen; ready to be loaded onto the “dumb waiter” that serviced the licensed bar in the clubroom on the top floor.

The ground floor corridor was almost deserted, and the few people who were around were busy with their own affairs. They ignored Don as he made his way along to the main reception hall then up the wide staircase that led to the commander’s suite of offices on the first floor.

The chief superintendent’s secretary, Phyllis, looked up from her desk and smiled as Don came into the anteroom outside the main office. She pressed a button on the intercom in front of her.

“PC Barton has arrived, sir,” she said. “Shall I send him in?”

“Yes, please, Phil,” came the reply, “And perhaps you could round up a couple of cups of tea? I think you’ll find Barton takes one sugar.”

Bloody Hell! thought Don, what on Earth is going on?

“Come in, PC Barton, take a seat,” shouted Chief Superintendent Mike Boxwell in response to Don’s knock on the door. “I won’t be a minute. These damn letters have to be done today, and I’d like to get them out of the way before we have our chat.”

“Yes, of course, sir,” said Don as he sat down in the chair in front of the boss’s desk while Boxwell carried on reading and signing forms.

A minute or so later Phyllis came in with a tray of tea that she put down on a small table conveniently located close to Don’s chair. She took a cup of tea over to Boxwell who, in turn, handed her a sheaf of papers.

“Post these off today if you could, please, Phil,” he said. “They’re quite urgent.”

Phyllis left the room and Boxwell turned to Don, “Drink your tea, Don,” he said. “It’ll help wash down the bacon buttie.”

Don took a large swig from his cup and looked at Boxwell in admiration.

“Everyone knows you’ve been an ace detective in your time, guv’nor, but I admit I’m impressed — you even know how much sugar I take in my tea!”

Boxwell smiled at the compliment.

“No mystery, Don,” he said. “The smell of bacon and the breadcrumbs are a bit of a giveaway — and it was a little bird that told me about the sugar. Was it Jack’s Café the sandwich came from?”

“Yes, sir, my wife’s put me on a muesli diet, and I was starving.”

“Well, you can’t beat a transport café breakfast. However, I want you to spread the word on the section that Jack’s is out of bounds for the time being. Quietly, mind, nothing on the air, nothing on paper. There’s an operational reason, that’s all I’m going to tell you.”

“Yes, of course, sir, leave it with me. What about Traffic?”

“They’ve been told as well, so don’t worry about them. But I mean what I say. Anyone caught using that caff until I give the all-clear will find himself on the nine o’clock bus to the nearest Job Centre before he knows what hit him.”

Don’s mind was racing. The chief super was being serious, it was obviously an important instruction, but an embargo on the café couldn’t possibly be the reason he had been called in. A telephone call to the section sergeant could have sorted the cafe out.

So, why was Don here?

“I take it you haven’t seen this?” Boxwell said, as if reading Don’s mind. He held up a two-foot-long teleprinter message that he handed across the desk.

It was a circulation to all stations from Headquarters and headed:

The following officers have been successful in the qualifying examination for promotion to the rank of sergeant.

The message was in three parts. The first was a very short list of those candidates, under thirty years of age, who had passed the exam first go and whose marks placed them in the top two hundred positions nationally. This small group were the elite who were now qualified to apply for a place on the Special Course at Bramshill, the home of the Police College. Attendance was usually followed by rapid promotion through the ranks.

Don didn’t recognise any of the names on that list.

The second part was a much longer list of officers who had passed the exam but were not in the top group. Several of the names of that list were familiar.

The final group were those officers who had previously failed one of the three papers but whose aggregate score was sufficiently high to allow them a second attempt at the one paper they had failed.

There, circled in biro, was Constable Donald Barton, F Division, Brompton

Don had passed his sergeants exam. He couldn’t believe it.

Boxwell was beaming.

“Well done, Don,” he said, standing up to shake Don’s hand.

“Thank you, sir,” Don was in shock.

“It’ll take you a while to realise it, young man, but that piece of paper will totally change your life. Take my word for it, nothing will ever be the same again.”

“No, sir.”

“Right. Well there’ll be some boards coming up in a few weeks. I hope you’ve been doing your homework?”

To gain promotion, passing the exam was only half the battle. A candidate still had to undergo the traumatic experience of convincing a trio of senior officers at Headquarters that he or she was ready to take on the responsibility of the higher rank. Promotion boards were notoriously difficult to pass, and many said that the exam, hard as it was, was actually the easy part.

“I’ve started having Police Review delivered, and I’ve been studying some of the recent developments in government. But I’m not overly confident of my knowledge, to be honest with you, sir.”

“PC to sergeant is the biggest jump of them all, and there’s a lot to be done to convince a board that you’re ready for it, that’s for sure. So, to help you, I’m organising a spot of Acting Sergeant for you for here at DHQ — if you want it.”

The chance to prove oneself as an acting sergeant was almost a pre-requisite to being taken seriously by a promotion board. Don knew he would be a fool to turn it down.

“That would be great, sir. Thank you.”

“Good man. There’s a month’s acting starting next week. You’ll be working B Shift with Inspector Collier. Do you know her?”

Don couldn’t have been more pleased. Sally Collier was known and respected throughout the force area. Long before the Sex Discrimination Act, as a young WPC, Sally had broken out of the glass cage of the Women Police Department and had gained a fearsome reputation as a detective on CID.

She had then progressed slowly through the ranks and, at the age of thirty-nine, had recently been promoted to uniform inspector at Newbury.

“I actually know her husband, Graham, better than I do Mrs Collier herself — but I’m delighted to be working with her.” Don replied.

“And so you should be. Sally’s one of the best coppers I ever worked with. You’ll learn a lot from her.”

“Yes, sir. I know I will.”

“B Shift are on rest day today; they’ll be starting Early Turn on Saturday. You’ll be joining them on Monday. Reckon you can get up on time?”

Don hadn’t worked the three-shift system (known as “strict shifts”) for some years. The early shift, which began at 6 am, would mean his leaving home around 5.15 in the morning to get in on time for briefing.

“We’ve got a baby who’ll see to that, Guv’nor!” he replied cheerfully. “The little sod wakes us up at four, every day without fail. That reminds me, can I hang onto my van? I’ll need it to get in to Newbury rather than use my own motor. I really don’t want to have to leave the missus out in Brompton with no car.”

“You can organise that with Sergeant Whitbread. He’s expecting you in Admin after you leave me. He’ll get all the other paperwork, expenses, et cetera, sorted out for you at the same time. Any further questions?”

“No, sir. I’ll pop along and see him straight away.” Don stood up to leave.

“One more thing, Barton.”

“Yes, sir?”

“Tell Sgt Whitbread to give you an extra couple of uniform cleaning tokens. We don’t want you turning up on your first day as a sergeant looking like a sack of shit tied up in the middle with a piece of string, now do we?”

“Er, no, sir, sorry, sir.”

Thank God he was smiling, thought Don, as he beat a hasty retreat.

With all the admin sorted out, Don couldn’t wait to get home and give Rosemary the news. If he could secure promotion they would be guaranteed to be moved to a new area — and they would finally have the opportunity to get out of tied police accommodation and purchase a house of their own. Don knew Rosemary wanted this more than anything.

However, when he got home, he was afraid the glad tidings had somehow preceded him. The first thing Rosemary said as he came indoors was, “Did Mr Boxwell get hold of you? He phoned here this morning, and I told him you were out on patrol.”

“Did he tell you what it was about?” said Don, thinking the boss may have stolen his thunder.

“No. It was odd really. He just asked if you took sugar in your tea.”

Chapter Two

Brompton Village Area

(Three Weeks Earlier)

Alan Churcher was feeling on top of the world. It was a beautiful, sunny May afternoon, and the landscape around him was alive with colour as millions of wild flowers highlighted the lush green background of the West Berkshire countryside.

As he drove his old, blue, Ford Transit van gently though the narrow lanes Alan knew this was his true home. The views that he had once casually taken for granted now filled him with joy. He was born in the countryside, he belonged in the countryside.

Everything he could see was in stark contrast to the grey stone walls of the prison in Oxford. The place from which he had recently been released.

The air here was fresh and clean. Alan expanded his chest and breathed it in deeply. It were as though he was using its purity to wash away the dark memories that has taken up permanent residence inside his head. Thoughts that kept taking him, mentally kicking and screaming, back to that evil-smelling cell.

He could vividly recall the body odour, the stale smell of cigarette smoke, and the all-pervading stench of boiled cabbage that always seemed to be present. There was no escaping that smell. It hung in the air all day and all night.

It was only now he was free that he realised how good simple fresh air could taste. And it smelt so sweet!

To make it even more perfect, the roads were empty of other traffic. There were no cars and there was nobody out walking. Alan felt he had the world to himself and, once more, he had the freedom to embrace it.

That was the best of it, the absence of other people. Unlike the prison, there were no crowds here. No hustle, no bustle — and especially, no need to constantly look over one’s shoulder for that nutter with the home-made knife. The one who would cheerfully slice a man’s face to ribbons just for the fun of it.

These days Alan loved his solitude — but he still missed his brother.

Frank, when he was alive, had given Alan stability and confidence. Frank was the older brother in every sense of the term. It was Frank whose active brain had been responsible for all the scheming and all the planning. Alan never had the need to think when Frank was around.

Alan wasn’t too good at thinking for himself. His was the role of the loyal assistant. He was always the lieutenant, never the captain.

However, as he piloted the van along the quiet lanes, now that he finally understood the true meaning of freedom, he vowed he would never again return to that hated prison. He would die first.

Of course, technically, he wasn’t completely free from custody. The trial judge had actually sent him down for a three-year stretch for the manslaughter of the retired sex worker, Suzanne Hoskins. However, with good behaviour, and a favourable probation officer’s report, he had been released early on licence.

This meant he was now subject to “recall”. One small transgression, or a failure to obey instructions from his probation officer, could very easily result in his being immediately taken back inside to complete the remainder of his sentence.

That was not going to happen!

Alan was acutely aware of his vulnerability, and he drove accordingly. No speeding, no jumping lights, and definitely no swearing at other drivers. His van was totally legal, and he always remained completely sober when he was driving it.

He had spent his first few weeks of freedom living quietly with his mum at their secluded cottage near the village of Brompton. Alan had felt safe there, away from the dangers and temptations of the outside world; but it couldn’t last forever. Also, one of the conditions of his release had been that he seek gainful employment.

So, he borrowed a few quid from his mum and used it to get the van properly serviced and MOT tested. Getting third-party insurance had proved to be more difficult than he had anticipated, but a local broker, an old friend of his late dad, had taken pity on him and had found him a sympathetic underwriter at one of the smaller companies.

Once the vehicle was roadworthy and insured, Alan was ready for the road. He took out a small ad in the local paper and advertised his services as an odd-job man.

This casual labour was work he knew well. He had acquired a variety of skills from being brought up in the countryside during his boyhood and, although he was no craftsman, his work was sound and reliable — if somewhat under-priced.

He had quit school at fifteen years of age and gone to work with Frank. They ran the family business of helping mostly upper middle-class folk, usually from London, with the maintenance of their homes in the country. Their “piles” as they called them.

Alan and Frank used to joke about that.

“Can you sort out my piles for me, young man?” Frank would say, putting on a high-pitched “posh” voice. “Sorry, madam,” he would answer himself, this time in a baritone, “We don’t do back passages!”

No matter how often he heard it, Alan always laughed.

Sadly, the young men’s service to the local community hadn’t been restricted to doing odd jobs. It was their side-line in supplying certain illegal substances to several of their clients that had ultimately, if indirectly, led to their downfall.

Frank used to like to downplay their role as drug dealers.

“We’re no different to the ice cream man,” he would often say. “Only we deliver candy to stuff up their noses instead of into their gobs.”

“Yeah, but it’s not the same is it? It’s doing people harm.” Alan was never keen on that side of their business.

“Look, mate,” his brother would answer. “They’re grown-ups making their own choices. We don’t go around making small kiddies fat, or rotting their teeth, now do we? Looking at it that way, the ice cream man is far more of a wicked villain than ever we are.”

Alan tried not to think too much about Frank these days. His brother’s death in a blazing wreck nearly two years previously still gave him bad dreams. Frank had been his best and only true friend and Alan felt his loss keenly. Tears were never far from the surface whenever he thought about his lost sibling.

Despite his best efforts, work had been slow coming in. Alan assumed it was because of his status as a gaolbird. Consequently, the past month had been very quiet, and he had secured only a couple of small commissions. Those little jobs had mostly involved labouring. Heavy, dirty work; not very pleasant and not at all well-paid.

But beggars can’t be choosers. So Alan didn’t complain, and he had cheerfully taken on anything that was offered.

It had come as a welcome surprise when he got the call this morning to go and do a little plumbing job. The phone had rung while Alan was eating a late breakfast, so Mum had answered it. Through an open door Alan could hear her speaking to the caller.

“Oh, hello… Yes, it is, would you like me to get Alan?” “Okay then, just give me a second to write it down.… Oh yes, he knows where that is. What time would be convenient for him to call. Yes, he’s brilliant with plumbing, he’ll be happy to help. Goodbye then. Thank you, Mr Mortimer.”

Mum came through to the kitchen with a big smile on her face and a note in her hand.

“That was Raymond Mortimer. He wants you to fix a leaky tap.”

“I don’t know any Raymond Mortimer.”

“He’s Miss Anne’s new husband. You know, Miss Wilson as was.”

Alan certainly did know Anne Wilson (as was), he had known her for years. She was the owner of Bluebell Wood, and it was she that had made the gruesome discovery of Suzanne Hoskins’ body almost a couple of years back. Alan was, to say the least, a bit surprised to be invited to do work at her house.

Of course, it was now fairly generally known that Suzanne had actually been killed by her husband, Steven Hoskins, not by Frank or Alan — as had been originally suspected. So maybe Alan wasn’t as despised as he assumed himself to be. He could always hope.

“What time does he want me there?” he asked.

“Oh, not until a bit later this afternoon. He says he’s out all morning, so any time after three.”

“Right-o.” That was good. It gave him time to finish his breakfast and give the van a wash. Frank used to say that first impressions mattered — and Alan didn’t want to let himself down over something simple like arriving at a customer’s house with a dirty van; especially now that things seemed to be finally looking up.

It was twenty minutes past three when the large residence, known as The Grange, came into sight. Alan drove through the gate and onto the gravel driveway. He immediately noticed a smart, classic, 4.2-litre E-Type Jaguar parked outside the house. The car was a convertible, about ten years old.

Alan felt a pang as he remembered that his brother had died at the wheel of a Jag.

That particular model was the much sought after XJ6. It had been lovely. It was the best car Alan had ever driven. It was sleek, powerful, and luxurious. However, the car had been badly serviced by a local garage, and the use of incorrect hydraulic fluid had indirectly led to brake failure, with fatal consequences.

For Alan, the recollection of the crash was as clear today as it had ever been. And, alongside the prison, it was a constant presence during his waking hours. It also sometimes haunted his sleep at night. In his dreams, Alan could see and even feel the heat as the car went up in flames.

Even worse, was the memory of the sight and smell of the thick black smoke from the fire. The fire that had consumed Frank’s body. In Alan’s dream, the smoke writhed and twisted and became a gloating demon that chortled gleefully as it made off with his brother’s soul.

It was a strange thing, but in Alan’s dreams, Frank was screaming in agony as he was dragged off. However, in reality, his brother had been dead from the impact long before the fire had broken out — and well before the petrol tank had gone up. Alan obviously knew all this, but the vision in his dreams still tortured him.

Alan took a deep breath and shook the memory from his head. He parked up in a corner, facing a large bush, and the gravel under his boots made a crunching sound as he walked across the drive to the big house.

In response to his knock, the front door was opened by a fair-haired man in his late twenties. He was wearing a blue and white rugby shirt and a pair of flared Levi jeans. The fair-haired man tilted back his head and, as he looked at Alan down his nose, he gave him a hard searching glare.

“Er, Mr Mortimer?” Alan said politely. “I’m Alan from Churcher Brothers, sir. I’m told you need some work doing.”

As though frightfully bored with the tedium of it all, the man didn’t bother to speak. He simply sighed and beckoned Alan with a crooked finger. Alan followed him indoors then through the house and on into the large kitchen at the back.

Arrogant bastard! Alan said to himself. Too full of himself to even speak to the likes of me!

Inside the kitchen, the man, whom Alan presumed to be Raymond Mortimer, pointed towards a large sink in the corner.

“Tap.” He said tersely, breaking his silence. “Leaks a bit. Needs fixing.”

He then he sat on the edge of a large wooden table in the middle of the room and folded his arms. From this vantage he had a clear view of the sink, as well as everything Alan was doing.

Alan put his canvas tool bag down in front of the huge, square Belfast sink unit. The tools made a clanking sound as they made contact with the hard floor tiles. From the bag he removed a large wrench, which he placed on the top of the bag. He then began turning each of the taps on and off, watching the flow of water as he did so.

“You’ve been here before haven’t you?” said Raymond Mortimer finally. His voice was clear and crisp with a slight trace of an upper-class accent.

“Er, yes, sir. Old Mr Wilson used to employ me and Frank, that’s my brother, a few years back. That is, before the old chap went, you know, er…”

“A bit do-lally?”

Alan looked embarrassed and said nothing.

Raymond smiled condescendingly. “Don’t worry, we’re all friends here.” he said. “And talking of friends — well not exactly friends, more like acquaintances — we have one in common, strange as it may sound.”

“Oh yes? Who’s that then?” Alan couldn’t quite believe that this posh young man could possibly know anyone in Alan’s somewhat limited social circle.

“Scouse Jimmy.”

Alan dropped the wrench he had just picked up and the blood drained from his face. Even though the weak spring sunshine had as yet done little to relieve his prison pallor he visibly paled.

He picked the wrench back up with a trembling hand and said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Never heard of him”

“Jimmy’s had some back luck lately,” said Raymond, ignoring Alan’s comment. “Several of his outlets have burned down apparently.”

“Huh?” Alan looked perplexed.

Raymond laughed condescendingly, “Sorry. American slang don’t you know. I really must stop using it. It’s how our friends over the pond refer to narcotics dealers getting arrested. They get burned down.”

Alan’s mouth fell open.

Raymond laughed. “Calm down, Alan, there’s no need to be afraid. Jimmy’s no friend of mine.”

Alan stuck his chin out and said, “I’m not afraid.” Then, with somewhat more conviction than he felt, added: “I don’t even know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, I think you do. I know all about it. All about your little chats with the law. But don’t you worry, my friends and I don’t like Jimmy at all. As a matter of fact, they think you’re doing a splendid job helping the police. According to them, everyone should be so public spirited.”

“I still don’t know what you’re on about.”

Raymond smiled. “We all think you’re very brave informing on Jimmy like you do. Very brave indeed.” He said, ignoring Alan’s protestations of ignorance.

“What do you want Mr…?”

“Call me Mr Raymond. It somehow sounds more servile than Mr Mortimer, more appropriate for us in our situation, don’t you agree?”

“What situation? I’m not in any situation. Not with you. Not with anyone. I’m going straight.”

Raymond paused then, giving Alan a thin smile, said, “So, all I want you to do is to continue passing information to the heat. Oops, there I go again. Too much time spent in America. The coppers is what I meant to say. Do they pay you, by the way? What’s the going rate for a grass these days?”

Alan said nothing.

“Well, my friends will pay you handsomely.”

“What for?” said Alan suspiciously.

“It’s simple. All you have to do is keep passing on information. The thing is though, from now on it will only be information that I supply you; not the rubbish you pick up from your cronies down the pub.”

“NO! No way am I giving Old Bill any duff gen. They’d have me back inside quicker than that!” Alan snapped his fingers.

“Whoa! Whoa! Calm down. Who said anything about false information?”

“Huh?”

“It will all be pure gold. Twenty-four carat, rock solid. The real McCoy, no duff.”

“So, what’s the catch?”

“No catch, my friend, not a one. I give you genuine information and you pass it on to your contact in the force. Nothing hard about that, now is there?”

“I still don’t know what you’re talking about — and even if I did I’m not interested.”

Raymond’s tone hardened. “Don’t play games with me, you little shit,” he said, menacingly. “I could have you back inside you know. One word to your probation officer is all it would take.”

“But I haven’t done nothing.”

“Act your age, Alan. There’s a lot of chaps inside who’ve not actually done anything. I’m sure you met a few while you were in there.”

Alan fell silent. Yes, he had met them. They were called “bodies”. Framed and put up as scapegoats by the real villains. He knew, with sickening certainty, that Raymond’s threat was far from being an idle one.

“And, by the way, the folks inside will know what you’ve been up to,” said Raymond pressing home his advantage. “You’ve probably seen what they do to informers in there.”

Alan had indeed seen that as well. He could clearly visualise one poor sod. The latrine floor had been covered with his blood. The hapless victim of prison “justice” was kneeling with his head in the toilet bowl, heaving up a bucketful of red-stained puke.

“How’s your mum by the way?”

“You leave her out of this!” At the mention of his mother, Alan suddenly became aggressive, and, in spite of his otherwise servile demeanour, there was now an icy menace in his voice.

Raymond put his hands up.

“Easy, tiger, nobody’s threatening your mum. She’ll be fine, I promise. Nobody will go near her.”

“They better bloody not!”

“So, come on. Do we have a deal?” Raymond realised he had overstepped the mark by mentioning Alan’s mum — and he was now desperate to regain the initiative. Alan was a strong country lad. He was also fresh from prison. He was tough, and Raymond had no desire to tangle with him physically.

Alan pondered the situation. Where was Frank when he needed him? Frank would have known what to do. But Frank wasn’t there. Alan had to work it all out for himself these days.

As Raymond seemed to know, that from the old days, Alan did still have his “handler” in the force — and the police did give him some money for the bits of information he supplied. His cooperation had even helped with his getting an early release from prison.

However, with having been out of circulation for so long, he didn’t have much to tell them these days. Just the odd rumour, nothing substantial.

Alan decided that he didn’t like Raymond. But Mortimer had revealed so much that Alan realised he was now in danger himself. Would Alan simply be allowed to say “no” and walk away — perhaps to pass on a message to Scouse Jimmy. It didn’t seem likely.

He realised now that something dreadful would happen if he didn’t do as he was being asked.

On top of that, it was also true that an extra few quid would help out no end. Mum was doing her best the keep them both going, but the pittance she earned as a school dinner lady could only go so far.

“I want it clear that I’m never touching shit again,” he said defiantly. “I’m off that stuff. I’m clean — and I mean to stay clean.”

“Good lord, no!” Raymond’s tone had softened. “Nobody’s going to ask you to take drugs, or indeed do anything that could get you into trouble with the law. Quite the opposite, in fact.”

“AND I’m not going back inside — not for anyone.”

“Seriously, Alan. There’s no chance of that happening. All you have to do is pass on genuine information that I supply and do it when I give it to you.”

“And that’s it, nothing else?”

“Not a sausage. So, are we good to go?”

“How much will you pay me?”

Raymond laughed.

“As much as the job’s worth.” He said. “My colleagues and I look after our friends. You’ll never be broke again. So, do we have a deal?”

“I’m not sure. I suppose so. But only as long as it doesn’t involve me breaking the law.”

“Like I said, we look after our friends. You’ll be in no danger from the law. But make no mistake,” he added threateningly. “We will always take care of our enemies as well as our friends. I hope you understand that.”

“Just leave my mum out of it, that’s all.”

“Right, well I’ll let you know when I have something for you to pass on. So, how much do I owe you for the tap?”

“There’s nothing wrong with the tap.”

“But you must charge a call-out fee? Here’s fifty quid, that should cover it.”

Alan was shocked. Fifty pounds was a lot of money, ten times more than he would ever consider charging for a call-out. However, he made no comment as he took the notes and stuffed them into his back pocket.

“Right, I’ll see you out then,” said Raymond with a smirk.

Raymond closed the front door as his visitor departed then walked through the hall and into the large reception room. He wandered over to a decanter that was standing on a silver tray in the corner and poured himself a healthy shot of malt whisky. He heaved a big sigh; that meeting had actually been a lot easier than he had anticipated. He tossed the drink off in one swallow.

That went rather well, he said to himself, pouring another drink.

Anne Mortimer smiled as she reflected on a thoroughly enjoyable day. She had been giving riding lessons to a friend’s daughter and the horses had behaved impeccably. However, the day had passed so very quickly and, all too soon, it was time to go home.

Her smile faded to a frown as she thought of going back to her husband. For the umpteenth time she wondered what on Earth had possessed her to marry him. Now, barely six months after the wedding, she realised she didn’t even like Raymond, let alone love him.

As she neared home, her frown deepened when she spotted Alan Churcher’s van emerging from her driveway. Fortunately, as the van pulled out, it turned the other way, heading away from her. She was grateful for the fact that the driver had apparently not seen her.

She parked her battered old Land Rover on the gravel drive and stormed indoors. Raymond was sitting on a sofa drinking whisky.

“What was that man doing here?” Anne demanded, slamming the doors behind her.

“What, Churcher? He was fixing a tap. What’s wrong with that?” Raymond said calmly. He placed his glass on the table in front of him and stood up to face her.

“He’s a bloody murderer, that’s what’s wrong with it for Christ’s sake!” she shouted.

“Oh, come on! That’s all in the past. He’s done his time; he deserves a break. Besides which, he’s a damn good worker.”

“Have you forgotten what he did to that poor woman? I still have nightmares thinking about her.”

“Your dad liked him.”

“My Dad liked everybody. And since when did you start worrying about rehabilitating criminals?”

“I had a job that needed doing, and I just wanted to give young Churcher a break, that’s all. No big deal.”

“Well, I do not want that vile creature stepping foot inside my house ever again. Do you understand?”

The sound of the slap was like a pistol shot.

With no warning, Raymond Mortimer struck his wife with such force that she was knocked off her feet and landed in a heap on the floor by the edge of the sofa.

Shocked, she instinctively brought her hands up to protect her bruised and rapidly swelling face. She raised her knees and curled up into a foetal position on the floor as her husband now advanced on her. She shrank back when he raised his hand as though to strike her again.