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Chapter One
Detective Sergeant John William Stallworthy, Jack Stallworthy, gave a groan.
Bloody Monday mornings. And something wrong inside me somewhere. Stomach? Chest? God knows. Probably just how old I am. Fifty-two years of age. Too clapped out for much more of this caper.
No.
He straightened his shoulders, pulled in his belly, raised his head till he could see the incised stone letters Abbotsport Central Police Station. And took the steps up at a trot.
All right, getting on if you like. Worse for wear. But still a bloody good thief-taker.
The swing doors thumped to behind him. To his left the old mahogany counter, still highly polished, brass bits gleaming, young Sergeant Evans leaning his uniformed elbows on it contemplating the day ahead.
'Morning, Jack.'
'Morning, Taff.'
On up the broad stairs, heading for the CID Room. Less of a trot now, more of a trudge.
Too old to be showing off to the youngsters. Retirement age. Thirty years' service behind me. Could put in my papers any time, get pretty well the full pension. Full? Full of shit.
Nothing but that measly monthly pay-out to show for it all. The years and years of putting villains behind bars. All right, there's the nest-egg safely tucked away. I've got that to add to the pension. But, damn it, put together it's not enough, not nearly enough, to get me and my little Lily the sort of nest I'm entitled to. Sort of comfy nest she's counting on.
Halt at the turn of the stairs.
So how to get the nest-egg a bit of extra this merry morning? Couple of possibilities. Thank God. Place I tumbled to Friday afternoon. Video Magic. Fancy name, poxy little shop. Dropping in on the unlikely chance they'd have that gardening video I been on the look-out for. The Lovely World of Lilies. For when we get the bungalow in Devon, if we ever do. Go for a garden full of lilies there, for my Lily. Least I can do. And that garden, twice the size of the bit we've got out the back now. A garden full of lilies. Pretty as my Lil. Pretty as she is still. Knows how to look after herself, Lily, say that for her.
No Lovely World of Lilies, of course, in that grubby place. Forlorn hope asking, really. When I've never seen it anywhere else. Not sure I've even got the name right now.
But what did old sharp-eyes Jack see instead? Lovely world of hard-core porn. That's what. Those unboxed tapes on the counter the slimy shitbag there quickly flipped out of sight.
Not quick enough, though. Not before I'd taken in the labels on them were blank. Bar those tiny letters pencilled at the corners. S/M, Les, Gk, Ped. Or, say it out loud, Sado-masochism, Lesbian love-making, Greek (also known as up-the-bum) and Paedophile. Nasty stuff, specially that last one. Little kids involved. So, if there turns out to be nothing else on this chilly March morning — no, April morning, first of the month, isn't it? — then a visit to Video Magic, give it a good spin, put the fear of God into the scumbag behind the counter, and there should be a nice little bit to add to the bungalow fund.
But, no. Shit like that fellow don't deserve to get away with it. Peddling that sort of porn. Kids. Using kids. No, better make that scrote one more for the old arrest record. Put him where he ought to be. Behind bars.
Instead, think I'll take a quick trip see my old friend Jinkie Morrison, criminal activities strictly confined to break-ins on the creep. Spots a place where some dozy citizen's left an upper window a crack open. Checks there's no lights on — bar the one in the hallway, specially left as a certain sign to anyone contemplating entry that there's a householder waiting with a loaded shotgun — shinnies up a drainpipe like a ruddy spider. In at the window. Picks up whatever's going and waltzes out through the front door. His MO.
The MO all over the smarmy-posh residence of Councillor Arthur Symes last night. Modus operandi, poncy Symes'd probably call it, making a meal of it. Method of operation, I called it from the first, back at Mansfield.
Police Training College. Jesus, that was a long time ago.
A right laugh, really, the business last night. Called out on orders from Detective Chief Superintendent Detch, no less, at damn nearly midnight. Duty bod on the phone. Listen, Jack, that stupid sod Symes, Councillor Symes on the Police Committee. His place has been done. Been on the blower to old Detchie. Howling blue murder. 'Aren't you doing anything to protect the citizen from these burglarious acts?' What he said, if Detchie was passing it on word for word: burglarious acts. So, listen, get round there toot sweet, eh?
'I don't know what Abbotsport Police are coming to. A home like ours, fully protected, and when I have to go out to attend a function and my good wife is visiting a lady friend, what does she find when she gets back? The house ransacked. Ransacked. And I'm willing to wager you people never bring the perpetrators to justice.'
'Well, I hope we shall be able to do that in the course of time, sir.'
Could do it tonight, almost for a cert. If I was willing to stay up till all hours doing the paperwork after I'd brought the bugger in. Spotted Jinkie's MO soon as I felt the draught coming down the stairs from that wide open window.
'We shall see. We shall see. What did you say your name was, officer?'
'Stallworthy, sir. Detective Sergeant Stallworthy.'
'Well, I shall remember that. And why are you here on your own? Where is the fingerprints team? The — what are they called? — Scene of Crime officers.'
'Scenes of Crime, plural, we generally say, sir. And they're not actually called out unless it's for a major inquiry.'
'But this is a man. Thousands of pounds worth of property taken. My wife's jewellery, a very considerable amount in cash, some extremely valuable ornaments.'
'Very good, sir. So if you can supply me with a full list, our inquiries will be all the more likely to produce a quick result.'
A sniff of disbelief.
Toffee-nosed sod. And what is he, take away that Councillor? Just some minor official, isn't he?, at the what-d'you-call-it, Fisheries Development Authority place. Pretty tuppenny-ha'penny affair. Not as if he's an executive at Abbotputers, employing half the people in the city now the fishing's down to nothing.
Then, while Councillor Arthur Symes was making a big performance out of producing his list of property stolen — How valuable was a mail-order 'Collector's Item' group of three china budgerigars? — into the room comes his wife. And a right sight for sore eyes she was. Twenty years younger than her old man, if a day. A slinky collection of luscious curves under a clinging satin housecoat, where he was a little stick of a fellow in a three-piece suit. Mass of loosely curled dark hair falling to her shoulders. His narrow skull hardly covered by slicked-down, greying strands. She altogether as sexy as a model, if a bit on the large side. And Symes, no doubt about it, a dried-up pompous little git.
'Two thousand pounds in twenty-pound notes from a locked drawer in my desk. Two thousand at least, plus the necklace I gave Raymonde when she consented to be my wife. Dia— very fine stones.'
'Yes,' sexy Raymonde had broken in. 'That necklace cost every bit of ten thousand pounds. I do hope—'
'No, no. No, dear, not that much. Nothing like that. You know you've no head for figures. Sergeant, I'll give you the full description later. When I've looked out the jeweller's receipt. Now, darling, why don't you go and make yourself a nice cup of tea and pop off to bed? All this has been a shock for you, you know.'
And, good as gold, off she'd gone.
Must be a bit more to Arthur Symes than there looks. Be able to order about that piece of gorgeousness. Hidden talents in the bed line? That what he's got? Certainly what he'll find in the bed when he gets there would be worth exercising the talents on. If he has any.
So, if there's nothing special down to me, as it isn't likely there'll be on a Monday morning, it'll be off to not very magical Video Magic. Turn the place well over, secure the evidence, arrest the toe-rag from behind the counter. But before that Jinkie, and the usual arrangement. Half the cash should be about right, provided Councillor slimy Symes was telling the strict truth last night about it being two thou.
Make-believe to search Jinkie's place top to bottom. Rely on him to have everything bar the money well buried. In that cat-smelling backyard of his as per usual. All out of sight, that necklace — no surprise shifty Symes had 'mislaid' the receipt, probably cost only a quarter what he'd told sexy Raymonde — her other jewellery, the four Staffordshire figures, the three china budgies. If Jinkie didn't toss those over the nearest hedge on his way home. And, this time, old Jinkie can go free as air. Only fair not to put him away too often, harmless little bugger as he is.
After all something's got to be done on behalf of the nest-egg. Still a bloody sight too far off the total I'll need when my time's up, even to buy the Devon bungalow. If that's still for sale. Let alone to cater for the mad notion Lily's got in her pretty head about what she'd really like when I've turned in the warrant card. The sort of sum that'd need doesn't even bear thinking about.
