Zero Tolerance

Barfied was in Yorkshire but Mayden didn't let that cloud his
judgement of the town. He still disliked it.
The buildings, squat and ugly, crouched in a low horseshoe ridge of
hills. The town tried to be too many things at once. It clung to its,
romanticised, industrial past with several heritage centres while
milking for all it was worth a totally spurious connection with a
popular TV series. In Mayden's view it had long ago given up being a
'proper' town and now its only saving grace was its Rugby team,
Barfield Panthers.
That the team existed at all was a constant source of wonder, so the
fact that it continued to prosper and improve was nothing short of
miraculous.
The Panthers, drawing on a catchment area of barely thirty thousand,
regularly pulled in crowds of five thousand when they were in the old
Second Division. Now they were in the Super League, Mayden winced
whenever those two words were used together, gates were edging towards
eight and a half thousand. Playing the likes of Wigan, Leeds and Saint
Helens each week probably helped.
Mayden drove past the stone-built cottages that surrounded the club's
ground. A new stadium was being built on the outskirts of the town,
complete with athletic track, conference centre and restaurant. Mayden
thought of Gortonbury, with its catchment area of over one hundred and
twenty thousand, its crumbling, tawdry ground and gates averaging five
hundred on a good day and smiled a rueful smile. Playing crap rugby
against other crap sides probably didn't help.
Mayden rang the bell on the desk of Barfield's Green Road station and
asked for DI Jim Player.
'Transferred to Leeds last month,' said the desk sergeant without
looking up.
'DI Mayden, Gortonbury CID.' Mayden showed his warrant card. 'I need to
speak with a local CID officer about a little matter. Shouldn't take up
too much of his time.'
The sergeant informed him that DI Steve Spencer would be back
shortly.
'There's been a break-in at the Golden Days Centre. Old folks
recreation place.' He said this with some pride.
'Must be a slow day,' said Mayden under his breath and took a seat in
the waiting area.
DI Spencer arrived fifteen minutes later. A small man, he must have
just scraped inside the Force's height limit, with thin, jet-black hair
slicked back so that the spiky ends curled over his jacket collar. A
drooping black moustache completed the image of a South American drugs
baron. The desk sergeant pointed out Mayden and told him what he
wanted.
'DI Mayden?' he held out a hand of stubby fingers. He smelled of cigars
and cheap, acidic cologne. Mayden took his hand. 'Benny not got you any
tea? Probably just as well. You're better off using it to de-coke your
car.'
Mayden followed the detective up a flight of stone stairs worn to
grooves by years of policemens' and -womens' feet. The air was stale
with the smell of cigarettes, disinfectant and suspicion.
DI Spencer's office differed from Mayden's present one and was similar
to his previous one on one respect. The view. Spencer could look out
onto the dark brown stone of the town hall and the flat square of its
attached car park. He pointed to a chair by his desk and proceeded to
fill a kettle with bottled water and put tea in a pot.
'Sorry I wasn't here but I was required down at the Golden Days
Centre.'
'So your Sergeant told me.'
'Some kids had broken in and set the alarms off. Managed to lock
themselves in the toilets. Not from the higher end of the gene
pool.'
'Not a job that'd call for a DI,' said Mayden.
'I've just been on a Hostage Negotiation Course. Thought I might get a
bit of practical experience.'
'And did you?'
'No. The uniforms switched off the lighting. Scared the little bastards
shitless and they came out crying for their mothers. Bit of a let down
really.'
The tea was poured. Mayden refused sugar and took the offered mug from
Spencer.
'So. What brings you to Barfield?' He sat down on the opposite side of
the desk and slurped noisily at his tea.
'Frankie Fisher,' Mayden said. 'His father's worried about him.'
'So's his coach. The lad keeps some expensive company. He likes a bet
and a drink. But the word I hear is that he's got a little out of his
depth, playing too much with the big boys and he now owes a high five
figures to Lou Kippax.'
'Lou Kippax?' Mayden failed to keep the disbelief out of his
voice.
'Yeah, I know. I thought he'd been watching too many Scorsese movies
but I checked. It's his real name. He owns one of the casinos and the
betting shops young Fisher frequents. He also does a bit of loan
sharking. He's actually not too bad, as far as mean-spirited arseholes
go. He usually asks for his money nicely before he sends in his
gorillas to re-arrange your dental work.'
'So, beating on his feet with a plank of wood could be his
style?'
'It's original but not too smart. And that's one thing about Lou. He's
not dumb. Crippling a star rugby player would not be Lou's opening
gambit. But if Frankie's been playing silly buggers then Lou might have
seen it as his only choice.'
'But you think it's unlikely?'
Spencer nodded. 'Knowing Lou, yes. He's more likely to fire-bomb
Frankie's Mother's house, or send him his pet dog piece by piece.
Something subtle.'
'What about another, less bright, loan shark?'
Spencer shook his head. 'Nobody else really. Lou's sort of cornered the
market. This isn't South Central LA. In the grand scheme of things Lou
isn't even a tenth as big as he'd like to think he is.'
Mayden finished off his tea.
'Does Frankie have a girlfriend?'
'Not sure of the present situation. He put himself about a bit, that's
for sure. There was a girl, but I forget her name.'
'Do you mind if I ask around? Talk to a few people? I'll be
discreet.'
'That'll be a novelty for them round here. Yeah, I don't have a problem
with that. In fact, in Lou's case, bugger discreet. Let him think he's
in the frame for ABH. It'll make his day.'

The Paradiso Casino was located in a backstreet in the town centre
between an electrical wholesalers' and a charity shop. It operated on
two floors, both of which seemed to be below street level. The double
black doors of the entrance were wedged open and kegs of beer were
being lowered into a hole in the floor that took up half of the
entranceway. Mayden walked through and down a flight of stairs into a
gloomy room measuring about thirty feet by forty. A small bar was in
the corner opposite the stairs and three roulette tables took up the
majority of the floor space. A cashier's booth was to the left of the
stairs and alongside it a door covered in plush red velvet marked
'Private'. A man of about twenty-five, tall and fit looking with thick,
black greasy hair was stocking the bar. Mayden walked over to
him.
'I'm looking for Lou Kippax.'
'Who's asking?' the man, whose badge named him as Gary, asked in a
Scouse accent.
'We have a mutual acquaintance. I need something from him.'
'You'll have to make an appointment. Mr Kippax is a very busy man.'
Gary continued to stock the bar.
'Mr Kippax will see me if you tell him I'm a colleague, indeed a good
friend, of DI Spencer's.'
'Mr Kippax does not see people without a prior appointment, whether
you're a friend of DI Spencer's or not.' Gary had now put down the
crate of bottles he had been holding in one hand and leaned on the bar,
his arms resting flat on the surface with his clenched fists pointing
straight at Mayden. Mayden took another step towards him.
The door at the side of the booth opened and a man who was probably
fifty walked out. He had grey hair cut to a stubble on a round florid
head. Small eyes barely showed between folds of fat. The nose was a
flattened ball of red clay on the beachball head. He was dressed for
the gym in a plum coloured sweat suit and white Reebok trainers.
'Who the fuck's this, Gary.' His voice was like stones being rattled in
a tin.
'Harold Mayden. I'm a friend of Steve Spencer's. He said you could help
me.'
'I told him you were busy, Boss. Do I toss him out?' said Gary. He made
it sound like a welcome diversion from the monotony of re-stocking the
bar.
'Nah. Leave it. For now.' He took a few steps nearer toward Mayden.
'What makes you think I'd do Steve Spencer any favours? Fucker gives me
nothing but grief.'
'I'm trying to find out who's persecuting Frankie Fisher. His father's
worried. He wants me to help sort him out.'
'Didn't know Frankie needed sorting out. Thought he had the world at
his feet.'
'Can we talk? Somewhere private?'
Lou Kippax seemed to weigh up the pros and cons of indulging this
herbert or letting Gary use him as a bowling ball to knock over a few
of the beer kegs. After a few moments he walked to the door marked
'Private' and motioned for Mayden to enter.
The office was a cramped box, barely eight feet square. The desk was
against the far wall with a green onyx desk set and precious little
paperwork on top of it. An expensive-looking Moroccan carpet hung on
the wall behind it. A four drawer filing cabinet stood beside it with
the top drawer half open. Lou Kippax walked around the desk, slammed
the drawer shut and sat down. He pointed to the other chair that
matched the door and Mayden took it.
'What do you want to know about young Frankie?'
'Who would beat on a man's feet with a plank of wood? And why?'
'Someone who didn't like his style of Rugby? A maniac Leeds fan?' He
spread his hands out, palms upward as if at a loss for another
explanation. 'You do get them, you know. Can't see the attraction,
meself.'
'What, putting a bloke in hospital for no known reason?'
'Nah, that would have its attractions. I mean the bleedin' game.
Complete waste of time if you ask me.'
Mayden didn't have the time to defend his beloved game. 'Could be it
was someone he owed money to.' Lou Kippax laughed at this.
'Mr&;#8230; Mayden? Mayden, yeah. I'm a businessman. I do business.
I do business with young Frankie Fisher. He likes to gamble. I like
people who like to gamble. Especially people who loose at it regularly
and particularly those who do it in my betting shops and casino. In
fact, only in my places. I get very possessive about my customers. They
go somewhere else, I think I've done something to upset them.' He
smiled at this. It made his face look like a Halloween pumpkin.
'Frankie Fisher owes you money and&;#8230;'
'Owed, Mr Mayden. The word you should use is owed.'
'When was the debt cleared?'
'Oh, mmmm,' Lou Kippax looked up at the ceiling in an exaggerated
expression of bemusement. 'I dunno. Lessee. He exceeded his credit
rating, again, on the Friday, I had a nice, friendly chat with him
about it on the Monday. The debt was cleared by banker's draft on the
following Wednesday.'
'Banker's draft?'
'Yeah. Banker's draft. It's like money. I'd've taken cash but I've
nothing to fear from the taxman so banker's draft it was.'
'When did all this happen?'
'Couple, no, three months ago.'
'And does Frankie still gamble here?'
'Like it's going to be un-invented. His luck's been with him lately.
He's got himself a good source at the stables and he's learned to play
blackjack. He's finally found out that Roulette's mug's game. Just hope
other punters don't realise it.' Another pumpkin smile.
'So who paid Frankie's debt?'
'Can't tell you that, Mr Mayden. Ethics. We do have some, you
know.'
'I can take steps to make you tell me.'
'I've no doubt you can and would but until then my lips are sealed. But
what I will do, to save you a bit of trouble, is give you a
name.'
He pulled a pad of yellow Post-its towards him and wrote something on
the top sheet. He tore it off, folded it and handed it to Mayden. His
expression was now a blank slab.
'Frankie Fisher is a good client of mine. Even when he's winning I like
him around. He's popular. He brings in the girls. The girls attract the
guys. They gamble to impress the girls. I get rich. I like that. I
would rather cut off my balls with a chainsaw than have Frankie Fisher
harmed. If the boy was in some sort of trouble I'd want to look after
him. In fact, I'm deeply hurt that he didn't come to me when he had
this spot of bother. I feel very, what's the word? Paternalistic
towards him. Know what I mean?'
Mayden took the piece of yellow paper, thanked Lou Kippax for his time
and left the Paradiso.

Mayden bought a street map of Barfield at a newsagents across the road
from the club. He went back to his car to study the map and find out
where Larchmead Grove was. It turned out in was situated on the north
east limit of the town so Mayden decided to eat before he ventured out
to find Lorraine Charles.

It was fortuitous that Mayden ate before setting out because he got
hopelessly lost in the maze of newly developed housing estates, some of
which were so new they had not yet been blessed with street signs. He
stopped on a clear stretch of road where he could consult the map. It
was only by the position of the sun and the time of day that he
realised he was heading in the wrong direction.
Eventually he found an area close enough to where he wanted to be to
stop someone and ask for directions to Larchmead Grove.
Number twenty four was a small bungalow with a credit card-sized front
lawn, a white-painted wooden gate with the number twenty four on it in
black metal figures and early pansies growing in the narrow
borders.
He rang the front door bell. A tune played somewhere in the house and a
dog set up a thin, nervous, yipping accompaniment. Mayden was about to
ring again when a woman's voice came to him from around the corner of
the house.
'Yes?'
Mayden turned. The voice belonged to a woman of about fifty. Permed
gray hair, round face with pale complexion beneath heavy make-up. She
had long lashes over pale gray eyes. She wore a scarlet polyester dress
and fawn cardigan. Her expression was neutral but wary.
'I'm trying to get in contact with Lorraine Charles.'
'I'm afraid she's out.'
'Will she be back shortly?'
'Possibly. What's it about?'
'I'm a police officer. Detective Inspector Harold Mayden.' He offered
his warrant card which she barely looked at.
'Police?'
'Don't worry. I'm not here in an official capacity. I'm moonlighting as
it were.'
'You'd better come in.'
Mayden followed the woman around the corner. The perimeter of the house
was edged with coloured paving slabs with strip of border plants and a
brittle-looking Beech hedge as the boundary of the property. She led
him into the kitchen that was heavy with the smell of baking.
'I'll put some tea on.'
'Thanks. I'm parched.'
The kitchen had been recently decorated and the aroma of baking was
mixed with the bitter aftertaste of gloss paint. A Yorkshire Terrier
came warily into the kitchen and eyed Mayden suspiciously, seemingly
trying to decide whether to ignore him or do its canine duty and bite
his leg. It took an exploratory sniff at him, decided he wasn't worth
the effort and went and curled up in its basket in the corner.
'Would you like a scone?' she asked. 'They're fresh baked,' she added
unnecessarily.
'Love one.' Mayden sat at a laminated breakfast bar that jutted
awkwardly into the room. 'Do I take it you're Lorraine's Mum?'
'That's right. Well&;#8230; stepmother. Her real mother died when
she was quite young. I married her father, Ronnie a few years later.
She thinks of me as her real mother. She has to.'
'And Ronnie&;#8230;Mr Charles?'
'Oh, he died a few year back. Heart attack. It were very sudden.' She
waved her hand as though the deceased Mr Charles was a mere footnote in
the story. 'Lorraine and me, we do everything together. Like sisters we
are. Nearly twins.'
There was a forced note in her voice that could have spoken volumes or
not meant anything at all. She cut up a scone that was the size of a
saucer, buttered it, put it on a plate and placed it in front of
Mayden.
'Tea'll not be long. You'll like it strong I've no doubt. Sugar?'
'No sugar, thanks.' Mayden thought he detected a tut-tut from beneath
her breath so decided to refrain from asking for skimmed milk. He
groaned inwardly as a generous measure of full cream milk went into his
cup. Mrs Charles obviously did not believe in a low-fat diet. Mayden
suspected that Ronnie Charles' arterial system didn't so much collapse
as it surrendered to the constant onslaught of cholesterol.
The cup of tea, surprising dark despite the high gold-top content, was
put in front of him. He bit into the scone. It was delicious. The outer
crust, only a faint layer of golden brown, gave way to the
feather-light interior rich with sultanas. Only the best from Mrs
Charles.
She stood over him demanding a response. Only a rapturous one would
suffice. It was not hard to oblige her.
'Delicious. Never tasted better. So light.'
'I do my best,' she said with mock modesty.
'I could get you a job in our canteen. You'd be real winner.'
'Oh, I've never worked,' she said, as though the very idea was
ridiculous. 'Ronnie was always a good provider.'
The front door opened.
'I'm back.' It was a young woman's voice. A coat was thrown onto a
chair. The Yorkie yipped and left the kitchen. 'Hello, Biscuit. Have
you missed me? I've not been gone long, you silly sausage. Come on,
let's go see Mum.'
'In here, love,' called Mrs Charles, looking nervously at Mayden.
'There's someone here to see you.'
Lorraine Charles entered the room and Mayden took in a sharp gulp of
breath that made him choke on his scone. Lorraine Charles was perhaps
the most achingly beautiful girl he had seen, in the flesh, in his
life.
She was approaching six feet tall with waist length chestnut hair,
centre parted, that, even after being out in the damp air, shone like a
sheet of silk. There was not a trace of make-up on her oval face. She
wore a long, fawn coloured, cashmere jacket over black crew neck
sweater and matching trousers. Her black eyes took in Mayden's coughing
fit. The perfectly formed mouth, letterbox straight in repose, curled
into a smile bright enough for Gortonbury Gunners to use to illuminate
all their night games.
'Are you all right?' she enquired and patted him on the back.
'Just something that went down the wrong way. Sorry,' gasped Mayden
between gulps of air. He finally got his breathing under control and
took a sip of tea.
'Better now?'
'Yes. Thanks.'
Lorraine sat down opposite Mayden at the breakfast bar.
'What can I do for you, Mr&;#8230;'
'Mayden.'
'He's a police officer. An inspector,' said Mrs Charles, failing to
stop it sounding like a warning.
'Police?' She flashed a questioning look at her step-mother.
'Don't worry. As I told your Mum, I'm not here as a copper. I'm helping
a friend get some information.'
'What about?'
'Frankie Fisher.'
The black eyes widen in surprise. 'Frankie?'
Mayden nodded.
'Well, Frankie and I stopped seeing each other nearly six, no seven
months ago.'
'Did he break off the relationship?'
She smiled at this. 'Not really. He was quite serious about us. In his
own way. But I could see it wasn't going to go anywhere.'
'So you finished with him?'
'I was as nice as I could be about it. I think. I explained to him that
I wanted something a bit more&;#8230;well, stable from a
relationship. He was always surrounded by girls. Groupies I suppose you
could call them.
'Tarts is what I'd call them,' interjected Mrs Charles. 'Skirts up
round their backsides. Faces caked with paint. Trollops the lot of
them.'
'You didn't approve of Lorraine seeing Frankie?'
Mrs Charles glanced quickly at her step-daughter.
'No. Frankie was, as Lorraine says, quite a serious minded boy when he
wanted to be. But&;#8230; It was just his lifestyle.'
'He was very ambitious. He wanted to play for Wigan,' said
Lorraine.
'Still does as far as I know,' said Mayden. 'Do you know anything about
him being attacked?'
'Yes, that was terrible. Who would do an awful thing like that?'
'That's what his father would like to know.'
'Frankie hasn't told him?'
'I think there's a bit of a breakdown in communication between the two
of them. There's a few things they don't see eye to eye on.'
Mrs Charles placed a small green salad in front of Lorraine. The girl
grimaced at it.
'Can I have a slice of bread, Mum? Please?'
'If you do you'll only get one of those baked potatoes for your
tea.'
Mayden was having difficulty squaring this parsimony with her
step-daughter's food with the lavishness of her hospitality.
'Surely you're not on a diet?' he asked.
Lorraine nodded. 'I'm entering the Miss Barfield contest next month. I
have to keep below nine stones.'
'You'll be able to limbo under a gravestone eating that sort of
thing.'
'The Miss Barfield contest leads on to the Miss Yorkshire Pageant.
Barfield's hosting it next year. It'll be on TV,' Mrs Charles
interrupted, her pale cheeks flushing pink. 'There's a tradition of
tall and slim.'
'I'm sure you'll do well. Just don't overdo the rabbit food.'
Mrs Charles snorted her disapproval of this heresy while Lorraine
smiled wanly at the salad.
'Did Frankie take up with another girl after you finished with
him?'
'Oh yes. He played the field for a while but started seeing a girl on a
regular basis. It got quite serious. Well, so she thought. They had a
blazing row in a casino.'
'The Paradiso?' asked Mayden casually.
'Yes. You know it?'
'I've been there, yes. What was this girl's name?'
'Collette. Collette Watson. Very possessive. Daddy's very rich.'
'Made his money selling cement.' Mrs Charles made it sound as if, in
her eyes, cement was as dangerous as heroin.
'So they finished?'
'Oh yes.'
'And has there been anyone else?'
'Not that I can think of. It was not long after that that Frankie was
attacked. He didn't deserve it.'
Lorraine looked genuinely upset at the thought of Frankie being nearly
crippled before his playing career got off the ground.
Mayden asked for Collette's address but neither of them knew it. He
decided not to raise the subject of Frankie's debts. If either of the
women knew anything they were not letting on. Lorraine might have
opened up away from the influence of her step-mother but he didn't have
the time and he reckoned it would do him no good as far as finding out
why Frankie was attacked.
'Well thanks. I appreciate your help. Both of you.' He stood up to
go.
'You must be good friends,' said Lorraine.
'Who with?'
'You and Frankie's father. Trying to find all this out for him. We're
always being told how busy policemen are. You must be using up your
free time.'
Mayden was not sure whose time was being used on this business.
'Let's say we owe each other a couple of favours.'

Mayden went back to Barfield Police Station to see if Spencer knew of
Collette Watson's address. The phone book had revealed scores of
Watsons the addresses of whom meant nothing to Mayden.
Spencer had his feet up on his desk, leafing through a recent copy of
The Job. He looked up as Mayden entered.
'Any luck?' He got up and began to make a fresh pot of tea while Mayden
outlined his investigations.
'I know that old man Watson detests publicity,' he said, handing a cup
to Mayden. 'He's got a big pile out in the sticks but I doubt his
daughter lives there.'
'What's it called?'
'Radley Manor. You'd need a map. But anyway, before you go steaming in
up there, upsetting the locals and getting nowhere, I've heard a little
whisper from a snout of mine I've been talking to. No just about your
little problem but just in passing.'
'What's he say?'
'She, actually. But that's neither here nor there. It's not much but
this tom reckons she had this punter who was a bit flush. Started
bragging about how he'd earned a couple of ton causing a spot of GBH on
a local sporting hero. The tom's not that kind of a sporty type but
when I mentioned you she remembered.'
'Any name?'
'Said he called himself Archie, which probably doesn't mean a thing.
But she's seen him regularly in a few boozers in town.'
'Could she, or would she point him out?'
'We might be able to persuade her.'

Spencer drove through the darkening streets of Barfield. Shop front
lights glimmered palely in the gloom. He parked on a set of double
yellow lines even though there was a parking area less that twenty
yards up the street. 'He can, so he does,' thought Mayden.
The pub was busy despite the early hour. It was a long, high ceilinged
place with the bar taking up nearly all of one of the long sides of the
room and all of the short one opposite the entrance.
'What'll it be?' called Spencer over the sound of a karaoke singer
murdering 'My Way' in the far corner.
'Scotch. No ice.'
Spencer went to the bar, was served immediately and didn't pay for the
two large drinks the barman served him.
'She should be in in about half an hour.' Spencer nodded to an
unoccupied table away from the singer.
'Did this tom give you a description of this man?'
'Not much. Tall and rangy she said. Whatever rangy means. Dark hair.
Stubbly beard. Hair needed a trim so she said.'
'What age?'
'Mid thirties she reckoned. Which could be anything from twenty to
fifty depending on the light.'
'Is she normally reliable?'
'She's not what you'd call the fountain of all knowledge but she's put
a few names my way. Her expectations of life are not all that high, if
you know what I mean.'
Mayden nodded in recognition of the type but did not return Spencer's
leering grin. He looked around at the crowd in the pub.
'Don't worry. She'll be here. ''Nother drink?'
Mayden declined but, remembering that all he'd had to eat had been a
quick snack and Mrs Charles' scone, asked for a sandwich.
Spencer returned with another large Scotch and several bags of crisps
which he put on the table.
'Not too strong on home cooking in this place. I got you a couple of
different flavours.'
'Thanks,' said Mayden with little enthusiasm. He opened a packet of
barbecued tomato. It had been crushed so that the contents were smaller
than postage stamps. 'And about as appetising,' thought Mayden putting
the packet down.
'Thought you were hungry,' said Spencer picking up the packet and
devouring the contents in a matter of seconds.
As he crumpled the empty bag in one hand and drained his glass with the
other his eyes went to the pub entrance.
'She's here,' he said.
The woman wore a scarlet jacket and black-ribbed stretch leggings. Her
hair was an auburn bubble perm that was beginning to grow out with the
dark roots showing. The face was round with a high colour and green,
almond shaped eyes. Hooped ear-rings hung from fleshy lobes and
droplets of rain glistened in her hair and on the thin material of her
jacket.
Spencer raised a hand to attract her. She moved towards their
table.
'Hello, Steve,' she said, putting her black patent leather bag on the
table and looking at Mayden as she sat down. 'This your friend?'
'That's right, Greta. This is Harold. Drink?'
'VAT, ta.'
Spencer went to the bar. Mayden fiddled awkwardly with his drink,
unsure of how to proceed.
'Not from round here are you, Harold?'
'No. Gortonbury.'
'Never been. Never been anywhere, me. Went to Blackpool once to try the
summer trade. I got me first dose there. Never been back.'
Spencer returned with re-fills for himself and Mayden plus a vodka and
a small bottle of tonic water.
'Ice and a slice, yeah?'
'Ta.' She poured a third of the tonic into the glass and took a drink.
'First of many, here's hopin'.'
'Drinks or punters?'
'Both of course. So, before the trade dries up, what does your friend
want to ask?'
Spencer looked at Mayden. 'Your shout, Harold.'
Mayden cleared his throat. 'This punter who was bragging about fixing a
sportsman, a local rugby player? Would you be able to point him out if
you saw him again?'
'Yeah, no problem. No doubt. Trouble is I can't remember which pub I
seen him in.'
'It was a pub though?'
'Oh, yeah. No doubt. But I get in that many places. We could do a right
pub crawl and still not see him. Fun trying though.' She grinned at
Spencer.
'Can you describe him?'
She took a long drink, the ice cubes clinking in the glass. She picked
the lemon slice from the glass with the cocktail stick, put it in her
mouth and sucked it. As Spencer went to get re-fills she pulled the
lemon rind from her mouth, drained the glass and dropped it in with the
melting ice cubes. She considered Mayden for a few moments
longer.
'Tall, young, about thirty. Dark hair. Needed a wash. The hair that is.
He needed a shave.'
'He said his name was Archie?'
'Yeah, what you want him for?'
'Information, that's all.'
Spencer returned with an identical round of drinks. Mayden had not
touched his previous Scotch. He took a small sip from it.
'Did he say anything else about it?'
'Like what?'
'About this sportsman he hurt.'
'What else would he say?'
'I don't know, I'm asking you.' Mayden tried to keep his tone as level
as possible but the woman's incomprehension, feigned or real, was
beginning to try his patience.
'No need to get shirty wi' me. I'm doin' you a favour, mate.'
'I realise that and I'm very grateful. Did he say, for instance, who
put him up to it?'
'No.'
'Why he did it?'
'No. He just went on about how he got a couple o' hundred quid for
whackin' this rugby player. I was too busy givin' him a blow job at the
time to listen to 'im.'
'So you didn't have much of a conversation?'
'Like I said, I had me mouth full. An' anyway, I'm not one o' those
sorts who likes to listen to them whinin' on about how their wives
don't understand them. Not bloody surprised they don't understand them.
Thick as pig shit, most of them, and twice as useless.'
She poured the remains of the tonic into the glass and drained
it.
'Come on, then,' she said. 'Let's get on the road. Sooner I spot him,
the sooner I can start earnin'.'
A thin drizzle blurred the street lights and soaked Mayden's hair
within seconds. They were only on the street a minute before entering
another pub, a more modern affair with white walls and chrome fittings.
The ceiling was a warped mirror that threw reflected shards of neon
light onto the crowd who, again, seemed barely above the legal drinking
age.
'Your round, I think, Harold. My influence doesn't stretch this far up
the road,' said Spencer.
Mayden went to the bar and was ignored by all the bar staff. The
clientele around him, all distressingly younger and better dressed than
him, were served before him, despite his proffered twenty pound note.
Spencer, having seen his predicament, pushed through the crowd and
stood beside him.
'You'll stand there all night with this bunch of zombies.'
He snatched the note from Mayden's hand and bellowed at a passing
barmaid.
'Two large whiskies and a vodka and tonic!'
The girl turned and stared at him as though he'd made some rude comment
about her morals.
'What was that?'
'You heard the first time, love. And that's no ice in the scotches and
ice and a slice in the VAT. Quick as you like!'
The girl turned and began assembling the order. Spencer turned to
Mayden with his, now familiar, leering grin.
'Notice that the words 'Please' and 'Thank you' never passed my lips?
Not in this lot's vocabulary. Pond life, the whole fuckin' bunch of
them!'
Mayden looked around at the crowd. All young, the men drinking
expensive foreign larger straight from the bottle, the women with
glasses of high strength cider. The music emanating from huge
ceiling-mounted speakers was loud enough to cause nose bleeds.
'I thought this was a quiet town!'
'Don't you believe it! There's money in the area. Tourism in the
summer, nude badger-baiting in the winter! And electronics all the year
round. Two Jap firms have just ploughed up God knows how many acres of
woodland to build a TV factory and a microchip plant. Just so's the
little bastards can screw our economy even more!'
The girl served the drinks, took the money and returned with the
change. Not a word passed between them. Spencer handed the change to
Mayden who felt that he was about to avail him of his own theories on
global macro-economics when Greta pushed through the crowd towards
them.
'He's here! Up on the balcony.'
A narrow ledge supported by the regulation chrome pillars ran around
three side of the pub. It was lined with small tables occupied by a
throng of drinkers.
'Where?' asked Mayden, scanning the crowd.
She looked back quickly and turned back to the bar.
'He's wearing a light grey jacket, jeans and a purple shirt.'
Mayden glanced at the crowd again and caught sight of a figure pushing
back from the edge of the balcony. There was a flash of vivid purple as
the grey unbuttoned jacket moved through the knots of people.
'I see him,' he said. 'I think he's coming down.'
A flight of stairs made of reinforced glass led down to the main body
of the pub on the far side. They watched as the man made his way
through the crowd towards the bar. He stopped twice to talk to a few
people. No smiles, just purposeful nods as though arrangements were
being made.
'He's a dealer,' said Spencer flatly.
'Just what I was thinking. He's certainly not booking seats for the
opera,' said Mayden. 'Do you recognise him?'
'No. He could be from out of town or he could just have got
lucky.'
'You're sure that's him?' Mayden said to Greta.
'Yeah. He's smartened himself up since last time I saw him.'
'I get the impression he's either come into some money or he's been
taken under someone's wing.'
'Groomed, you mean?'
'Yeah. If what Greet says is true he's undergone a pretty dramatic
change in style in the last few weeks or so. When was the last time you
saw him, Greet?'
'Can't remember. A month, maybe a bit longer. 'Ere, can I go now?
Trade'll've died a death before much longer.'
Spencer glanced questioningly at Mayden who nodded. The woman was going
to be of no further use.
'Go on then, Greet. Mind how you go.'
'Thanks,' said Mayden, handing her two twenty pound notes. 'You've been
a great help.'
She nodded her thanks, stuffed the notes into her handbag and threaded
her way through the crowd and disappeared into the night.
The man called Archie approached the far end of the bar and was served
straight away. He chatted to a couple of girls while warily eyeing the
crowd.
'I'm going to get the car and bring it a bit nearer. He might decide to
go for a drive. We need to keep tabs on him. And I don't mean just to
ask him about his woodworking skills.'
Mayden nodded and, as Spencer left the pub, he began to feel very
exposed. He must have been the oldest in the pub by a good fifteen
years and his presence in the place was drawing curious glances from a
few people. He moved around the bar so that he was not in Archie's
direct line of sight.
The combination of little solid food during the day and the fiery
spirit he had drunk too quickly was making him unsteady on his
feet.
Archie continued to chat to the two girls as he took short, nervous
glances around the room. He was obviously waiting for someone.
'Buy a girl a drink, stranger?' A woman's voice at his shoulder made
him turn around too quickly for his unstable senses. The ceiling
revolved in one direction as the sea of faces spun in another.
Mayden tried to focus on the woman. Bottle auburn, back-combed hair,
black mascara and blood red lips doubled in his vision and slowly
focused.
'Shorry?' he mumbled.
'You look lonely, love and my glass is empty. I call that a perfect
combination.' She was barely five-three tall in her high-heels and must
have weighed the same as Mayden. At least he was now the second oldest
in the pub.
The entrance doors opened and a party of at least fifteen
twenty-somethings pushed into the crowd. Behind them Mayden could just
make out Spencer trying to elbow his way into the pub. As he made his
way towards Mayden he saw Archie disconnect a call on a mobile phone
and head towards the exit. Archie's and Spencer's paths crossed and the
detective motioned Mayden to leave with him. Mayden put down his
half-finished whisky and trod on toes to catch up with Spencer. If he
had looked back he would have seen the bottle-brunette tip the whisky
into her gin and tonic and down it in one.

Outside the sky had cleared and a cold, drying wind was clearing the
streets of the slick of rain. Spencer was waiting in his car, engine
running, a few yards from the pub entrance. He watched as Archie slowly
walked down the street. Mayden finally extracted himself from the crowd
and stumbled onto the pavement. He stood for a few moments breathing in
the night air and getting his bearings.
'Over here!' Spencer called through the open car window and flashed his
headlights. Mayden walked a little unsteadily and maddeningly slowly
towards the car and took an age getting in. Spencer set off before the
door was closed.
'God knows where he's going,' he said.
'Jus' follow 'im,' mumbled Mayden, fumbling with the seatbelt.
'You all right?' asked Spencer, casting a sidelong glance.
'Fine. Nev'r bedder.' The seatbelt failed to locate in to housing and
snapped back. 'Oh, fugg'it!' exclaimed Mayden and slumped back in the
seat.
Archie walked into a pay and display car park. Spencer followed slowly,
pretending to be looking for a space. Archie stopped at a Jaguar XJS,
its colour indeterminate in the patchy sodium lighting. He unlocked the
car and got in. The engine growled into life, the headlights came on
and there was the thump and boom of some jungle-tecno-rap emanating
from the opening window. The car backed out of its space quickly and
swung in a ninety degree arc to point away from Spencer. Barely a
second passed and the Jaguar set off at high speed, leaving Spencer to
try to emulate the manoeuvre. The Jaguar was out of the car park and
turning left without indicating. Spencer tried burning rubber to keep
up but only managed to stall the engine.
'Shit!'
The engine clattered into life as he instinctively turned the ignition
key. Unfortunately he had forgotten to de-clutch or put the gears into
neutral. The car leaped forward and was silent.
'I think we're goin' to loose him,' said Mayden.
'Like fuck we are,' snarled Spencer, as he started the engine up again.
This time the racing start was perfect and they left the car park in
time to see the Jaguar pull away into slow-moving traffic. Spencer
tucked in with two cars in between. Archie kept to the main road,
staying in the outside lane.
Traffic thinned out as the Jaguar left the town centre behind. Spencer
had to run a couple of red lights to keep up.
'Doesn't seem to be in too much of a hurry,' said Mayden, holding onto
the retracted seatbelt to steady himself.
'He's got a meet with a supplier,' said Spencer flatly.
'What, out in the sticks?'
'Where better than a country pub car park? Particularly if we're
talking fair quantities. How many Drug Squad do you see out in the
country?'
Mayden was too tired to answer. Events seemed to be running away from
him. He'd almost forgotten why he was in the middle of Yorkshire in
someone else's car, chasing a man he knew nothing about. A simple
favour for a friend had turned into a possible drugs bust. The thought
suddenly struck him that if this did turn out to be an arrest situation
then his presence in Barfield would become official. He didn't want to
think about how he would explain it all to Clegg.
The Jaguar made an un-signalled right turn into a narrow, unlit road.
Spencer pulled into the side of the road.
'He's getting away. Why've you stopped?'
'I know this road. There's no turning for at least four miles. He could
have got suspicious that we were following him. Now he knows we're not
after him he may relax. Also there's only one pub along that road. The
Nag's Head. Unless he's going for a tour of North Yorkshire then that's
where he's going.'
Spencer put the car into gear and turned into the narrow road. He
switched to sidelights and slowed his speed. Fortunately the moon was
high and full in a, now, cloudless sky so the drive was not as
hair-raising as it might have been. The road undulated and the red eyes
of the Jaguar's tail lights could be seen a mile ahead.
They carried on this sedate pursuit until the lights of the pub could
be seen. Spencer drove past, switched on full beam and pulled into a
short lay-by a dozen or so yards past the pub. He killed the lights and
the engine.
'You walk back to the pub. Go in the lounge and order a drink. I'll
follow,' he said.
The last thing Mayden wanted at that point was another drink but he
climbed out of the car and walked back to the pub.
The Nag's Head was a three storey stone built house with less than a
car's width of free space between the front and the road. A narrow
porch was lit by dim coach lights and a smoky yellow glow emanated from
the windows. Mayden had to enter the pub sideways through the narrow
porch door way. He caught his foot on the door surround and half
stumbled into the pub. Steadying himself, he walked to the central bar
through the door marked Lounge.
'A whisky and an orange juice,' he said to the fat barman who idled
towards him after finishing his conversation with a thin woman wearing
thick make up and tiger skin pants.
Mayden paid for the drinks and put several cubes of ice in the orange
juice and gulped it straight down. The room was quiet with only a few
couples at tables around the perimeter. The fat barman ambled back to
the thin woman and Mayden eyed the door for signs of Spencer. Archie
was nowhere to be seen.
His drink was curdling his stomach and he was considering asking for a
mineral water when there was the sound of raised voices from the rear
of the building. The fat barman looked up from his view of the thin
woman's meagre cleavage. Mayden moved around the bar to get a better
look. The door to the Gent's toilet burst open as two bodies fell
through the space onto the floor, turning over a couple of tables in
their wake.
One of the bodies was Spencer, the other Mayden did not
recognise.
Spencer came up with the man in an armlock and a knee in the small of
his back.
'Where's Archie?' he looked up at Mayden.
'Nobody's come through here.'
'What the fuck's going on here?' said the fat barman.
'Get his fuggin' twat off me!' yelled the man under Spencer's knee.
Mayden thought he detected a harsh Scottish accent.
'Police,' said Spencer, dabbing at a lightly bleeding nostril with his
free hand. 'Harold, check the Ladies. He just might be in there.'
Mayden went through the door to the Ladies leaving Spencer to argue the
finer points of police procedure with the fat barman who turned out to
be the landlord.
He pushed open the door. There was a sink and a hand drier opposite the
two cubicles, one of which was closed. Mayden knelt down to look under
the door. He just had time to identify a pair of red patent leather
high heeled shoes and rolled-down pantyhose when he heard his name
called.
'Mayden! Get out here!'
Mayden left the Ladies in time to see Spencer disappearing out of the
back door of the pub with the fourth man, now handcuffed, being dragged
in his wake.
Outside in the car park Mayden had time to see the Jaguar's headlights
come on to full beam and the engine growl into life. Spencer and the
fourth man were silhouetted in the light and the Jaguar's engine revved
up and accelerated towards them, spitting gravel into the undergrowth
behind it. Spencer and the fourth man stood their ground although
Mayden guessed the fourth man had little choice as Spencer still had
his arms up by his shoulder blades.
'He's fuggin' goin' to kill us!' he screamed as the Jaguar covered the
ground between it and the two men. They were directly in the car's path
and it was obvious Archie was not going to swerve. At the last moment
Spencer pushed the fourth man aside and jumped clear himself. There was
scream from the fourth man as the Jaguar went past and a sickening
crack of bone that could be heard over the noise of the engine. The car
accelerated out of the car park and on up the narrow road. The fourth
man lay on the gravel moaning, unable to clutch at his smashed legs
because of his handcuffed hands.
Spencer was on his feet but he was limping. He fumbled in his pocket
and gave Mayden his car keys.
'Get after him!'
'But&;#8230;'
'Don't fucking argue! Get the bastard! I'll call for back up!'
Mayden unlocked the car and started the engine. Fortunately it was a
Vectra so he was familiar with the controls. He made a respectable
enough racing start and headed up the road after the Jaguar.
He fumbled with the headlight switch and managed to get full beam on.
He accelerated up to sixty which seemed as fast as he dare go on an
unfamiliar road in the dark.
It very soon dawned on him that Archie would know the road a lot better
than he did and would not be as reticent about keeping to a safe speed.
He pushed the accelerator and gripped the wheel tighter as the car's
speed crept up
The fact that he was well over the legal drink drive limit was also not
far from his mind but soon left it as he negotiated a blind right hand
bend. He stamped on the brake and felt the wheels lock as he entered
the bend. The back end started to slide as the ghostly outlines of the
roadside trees came closer. As the bend began to straighten he
accelerated, the car stopped sliding and he was speeding past sixty
once more.
He fancied he caught a glimpse of red lights through the trees but as
soon as he saw them they were gone. The strong moonlight picked out the
outline of the straight road ahead. He pushed the car to ninety and
only slowed a little for the easy left hander. Coming out into the
straight, he caught another flash of red in the distance.
A series of chicanes in the road took up all his concentration as he
tried to match what he perceived as the Jaguar's pace. The trees
thinned out and gave way to bare moorland. How far had he travelled?
Five miles? Ten? What had Spencer said about where this road led to?
Mayden couldn't remember. Cursing Billy Fisher, he negotiated another
tight right hander that lead to a sharp incline requiring much gear
work to keep the Vectra's engine revving. At the brow of the rise the
ground levelled out, the moonlight picking out a landscape of varying
shades of grey. The road ahead followed the graduated undulations of
the ground. Beyond were the lights of houses and in between were the
tail lights of the Jaguar.
Once he was in a built-up area Mayden felt sure he would loose
him.
Although the road surface could not be described as bumpy, at the speed
Mayden was having to maintain every short rise and dip in the road, no
matter how graduated, caused the car to lift to the point of take-of
and then bottom the suspension with a sickening grating sound. Mayden
felt a momentary pang of guilt at treating Spencer's car in this way
but quickly let it pass as, up ahead, he saw the Jaguar's lights again,
this time closer than at any time since the Nag's Head car park. Also
he thought he saw other lights. There was still some distance to go to
the town so what were they? He was definitely gaining on the Jaguar.
Was this some trick? Had Archie decided to stand and fight? Was he
armed? Mayden kept up his speed. He lost the lights in a dip in the
road. As he breasted the rise the Vectra lifted off the ground as the
road fell away again. The suspension grated when the vehicle
re-connected with the road only this time the near side kept on grating
and that side sagged. Up ahead was a mess of different coloured lights.
Steady red, flashing red, glaring white and rippling electric blue. The
Vectra's speed was dropping as the steering grew heavy. Mayden could
not control the car and felt the back end slip. As the car began to
pirouette across the road he saw the full beam of the Jaguar
approaching at speed. What was the mad bastard trying to do? The car
began to roll and Mayden realised that he did not have his seatbelt
fastened. So now death or at least paralysis and severe disfigurement
were lying in wait for him.
The Vectra's progress was a stately but irresistible roll as it
collided with the Jaguar, which was trying to take avoiding action.
Mayden's final impression, as a cool softness enveloped him, was of
Archie's face, framed, upside down, in the shattering windscreen of the
Jaguar. Mayden fancied he was smiling.

------

He was lying in a field of corn. There was a hot orange ball of sun
directly over him. The sound of the corn in the breeze was a distant
roar, like a Wembley crowd. He had a ticket but he couldn't get in. The
steps went on upward to forever. Then they went down into a black hole
full of red blinking eyes. It started to rain. The drops landed only on
his face, splashing in big, fat slaps of water&;#8230;.
'Mr Mayden. Time to wake up.' The woman's voice came from behind him.
He looked there and the voice was still behind him. 'I know you can
hear me. Come on, time to wake up.'
The rain was still splashing on his face but now it was the colour of
blood. It was sticky just like blood&;#8230;.
'What&;#8230;.!' He opened his eyes and the nurse stopped patting
his cheek. She was young. Like the coppers, they get younger by the
day. Auburn hair pinned back under a small white cap. Blue checked
uniform, red belt. Pretty.
'It's all right. You're OK. You had an accident. No bones broken. Bit
of concussion, some cuts and bruises. You're going to be fine. As long
as you're awake.'
'Can I sit up?' He felt panicky and claustrophobic while lying on his
back.
'I don't see why not.' She cranked a handle at the side of the bed and
Mayden felt his upper body being pushed up.
He was in a small ward with five other beds, three to each side. His
bed was by the large window and the swing doors were at the other end
of the ward. The view was of an expanse of farm land with a line of
poplar and ash trees bordering the hospital grounds.
'Do you feel up to visitors?' The nurse poured him a glass of water
from a jug. Her badge named her as Jennifer Popplewell.
'His name isn't Clegg is it?'
'I don't remember his name. But he is a policeman. Stocky, dark
moustache.'
'That's OK. I'll see him. At least he's not the enemy.' He'd have to
face Clegg's wrath sooner or later. So a dressing down from Spencer
would be good practice.
Nurse Popplewell gave him a quizzical look and went to fetch Spencer.
The detective followed her direction into the ward. He carried a bottle
of Lucozade and a bulky paper bag. He was smiling broadly as he
approached the bed.
'How's the hero of the hour?' he said.
'Oh, just cuts, bruises and concussion. Nothing life-threatening. What
do you mean, hero?'
'Just that. Putting your life on the line to stop a dangerous drug
dealer. Above and beyond the call of duty. Blah, blah, blah.' He began
pulling grapes from the paper bag and eating them. 'Bugger. She said
they were seedless. Mind your fillings.' He offered the bag to Mayden
who shook his head.
'But I must've written off two motors, yours for starters.'
'Yeah, bit unfortunate, that. But never mind. Thank God for fully
comprehensive.'
'I can't believe that that&;#8230;. comedy of errors, to put it
mildly, can result in me coming out of this smelling of roses. It just
doesn't add up.'
Spencer looked a little sheepish and ate some more grapes.
'Yeah, well. There is an ulterior motive for all this.'
Mayden pondered Spencer's words.
'A smokescreen.' He said finally.
Spencer nodded ruefully. 'Concussion can't be that bad. That's it in
one. Basically, if the truth came out, Barfield's finest, that is its
much lauded drugs squad, would look a right bunch of wankers. Letting a
big time drugs baron come into the area and not picking up on
him.'
'Who? Archie?'
'No, Fergus McCloud. The bloke in the pub. A big operator in the
Glasgow drug importers union. Obviously came south to extend his
empire. His name's well known to drugs squads in Manchester, Newcastle
and Liverpool and it was circulated to regional drug squads because it
was known that he was making inroads into areas like Barfield. Our
heroes chose either to ignore this information or it just didn't filter
through to the troops. Either way everybody could come out of it with
egg on the face, reduction in budgets and even disciplinary action. So,
all in all, you get to be hero of the hour as if it was all meant to
happen like it did.'
'What about Archie?'
'They couldn't get him out in time. The uniforms on the road block had
enough bother getting you out before it all went up. The airbag stopped
you going through the windscreen.'
'The Jaguar caught fire?'
'Like Bonfire Night so I'm told. The lad was barbecued.'
'That's terrible. I'm responsible.'
'Don't sweat it. He was a total lowlife. He'd moved into the area after
doing four years of an eight stretch for aggravated burglary etc,
etc.'
'But you don't understand. I only wanted to talk to him about Frankie
Fisher. I didn't think it was going to turn into a drugs bust involving
a car chase halfway across North Yorkshire.'
Spencer shrugged. 'These things happen even in the best regulated
societies. So in ours' it should happen more often.'
'What's going to happen to McCloud?'
'He's had several courses of action put to him. I think he'll see sense
before long. His first priority is getting his legs fixed.'
'Where did the roadblock come from?'
'As soon as you set off after Archie I got on the blower and called up
the troops. That road only leads to Turnberry. So long as they could
block the road before town then we had him.'
'So there was no need for me to chase him.'
'You weren't to know that. He had plenty of warning. The road into town
is dead straight. He decided on a handbrake turn. Quite spectacular so
I'm told. So if you hadn't been on his tail then the uniforms could
well have lost him.'
'Yes, but they're trained in vehicle pursuit and I'm not,' Mayden said
morosely. 'This hero business is all bollocks. My DCI'll have my balls
on a plate.'
'All taken care of. My guv'nor's been on to him. Pulled the old Masonic
shuffle on him. You did all right, Harold. No problem. Would've been
nice if we could've avoided calling out half of North Yorkshire Fire
Brigade. Not to mention the Ambulance Service, but, like I said these
things happen. We got a result and you're fireproof, son. Have a
grape.'

They kept Mayden in Barfield General for two extra days as his blood
pressure would not go down. Eventually it reached a point where the
doctors considered it safe for him to be discharged. He was getting
dressed when Spencer parted the curtains and looked in.
'Got some news for you.'
'I only want it if it's good,' said Mayden, buttoning his shirt.
'I'm stuffed if I know whether it's good or bad.'
'Let's have it then.'
'Not here. Too public.'
Mayden finished dressing, thanked nurse Popplewell for her care and
consideration and followed Spencer out of the hospital. The air seemed
cleaner and the light brighter than he remembered. Spencer drove to the
nearest pub. Mayden asked for an orange juice. Spencer pulled a
face.
'I'll put it down to concussion.' He ordered the drinks and they took
them to a corner table away from the office workers on liquid
lunches.
'I went to see the girlfriend, Collette, and Daddy Watson. A class act,
both of them.'
'What did they say?'
'That Frankie was a complete shit to Collette. Fucked her about. She
was besotted with him. Got Daddy to bail him out when his debtors got
heavy. The final straw was when Collette thought she was pregnant and
Frankie did a runner. Didn't want to know at all.'
Mayden swirled the ice around his glass.
'So, Father pays off his debts, then Frankie gets her pregnant. I take
it he didn't pay Watson back.'
'Correct.'
'So they decide to hit him where it hurts.'
Spencer shook his head. 'He decided. She knew nothing about it. I could
tell it had caused, let's say, a degree of friction between them. He
dotes on her. Do anything for her. He's a bit of a rough diamond. He
used rough diamond logic. She still holds a candle for him. Frankie
that is. Silly bitch.'
'Did he readily admit to all this?'
'After a bit of persuasion. I made it clear it wasn't an official
investigation. It wouldn't go any further. I was right, wasn't
I?'
Mayden nodded. 'Yes. There's only one person who's going to find out
what happened. Although I don't approve of paying boneheads like Archie
to extract your own form of revenge. I don't see anything being gained
by taking it further. I hope Frankie's father sees it that way.'
The two men fell silent, each in their own thoughts about relative
justice. Spencer was the first to speak.
'Well, I've got to go. Villains to catch, laws to uphold, public order
to be kept, all that old bollocks.' Spencer drained his glass and stood
up. 'You going straight back home?'
'Got to face the music some time. Better sooner than later.'
'You might be surprised when you report back.'
'Why's that?'
'Wait and see.' He winked at Mayden, shook his hand and then was gone
into the lunchtime crowd.