Last Reminder (17 page)

All that was left was the waiting. I turned my pad over to a clean page and tried working out my pension, but I couldn’t concentrate. It was quieter in Gilbert’s office, so I trudged up the stairs and sat in his chair with my feet on the desk, pretending to
be Mr Partridge. ‘Well done, Priest,’ I said to myself, gruffly. ‘Damn good show. Why don’t you start taking a bit more time off? Relax a little?’

There was some mail in the tray: Gilbert was invited to attend a bash at the Town Hall, dress formal; our year-after-next’s provisional budget forecasts were overdue; and we hadn’t replied to a survey on the effects of closed circuit TV on rowdyism in the town centre. A nice letter from the Police Authority congratulated us for having the joint best clear-up rate in the region. Perhaps that’s because we don’t spend all our time going to
piss-ups
and answering bloody useless questionnaires, I thought. My last Fin 23 form was still there, unsigned, which explained why I hadn’t received any expenses for six weeks, so I did a passable copy of Gilbert’s scrawl and slid it into the out-tray.

The Traffic car was thirty-five minutes late. I was pacing up and down the foyer like a pregnant tiger when the driver strode in carrying a manila envelope.

‘Is that for DI Priest?’ I asked, reaching for it.

‘Er, yes, sir.’

‘That’s me. Now could you get me to the City HQ before two, please.’

These Traffic boys can drive, I’ll say that for them. He sliced a good ten minutes off my best our-nick-to-their-nick time and deposited me near the entrance with ninety seconds to spare.

‘Don’t wait, I may be some time,’ I told the driver as I slammed the door, before he could protest that he had no intention of waiting. It occurred to me that I might not have the clout to hitch rides in police cars when I came out.

The desk was unmanned, as is usual. I leant on the bell push.

‘DI Priest,’ I told the irate-looking WPC who came to see what the fuss was about. ‘Is there a package for me?’

‘A package? What sort of package?’

‘Any sort would do. What sorts do you have?’

‘I’m not sure. I’ve just come on.’

‘Could you look? Please? It is rather urgent.’

She rummaged under the counter and straightened up holding a plastic carrier with something about reggae written on the side.

‘That’ll do,’ I said, snatching it from her. ‘If anybody wants me I’ll be in Mr Partridge’s office.’ I sprinted up three floors and only slowed down when the thickness of the carpet told me I was there.

‘Come in!’ someone growled when I knocked. The clock above his desk told me I was exactly on time, to the second. I wondered about using Jean Brodie’s line, ‘I was so afraid I might be late, or early,’ but I settled for, ‘Good afternoon, gentlemen.’

Dominic Watts was seated at this side of the ACC’s desk, the placatory cup of coffee perched on his knee, as if he was afraid to sully the polished magnificence of the desk. He was a small man, neatly dressed in a shiny suit. Shiny all over, not just at the backside and elbows, like mine. His briefcase was on the floor beside him, with a leather trilby hat balanced on it. His expression indicated that it was unlikely we’d end up swapping funny stories and fishing in our wallets for family snapshots.

‘Sit down, Priest,’ the ACC said. I pulled the chair back from the desk to make room for my legs and sat down, placing the envelope and the carefully folded carrier bag on the desk.

‘I don’t believe you two have met,’ he went on. ‘DI Priest, this is Mr Watts. Mr Watts, this is DI Priest.’

Watts barely nodded at me. I said, ‘Hello.’

‘Mr Priest,’ Partridge continued, ‘Mr Watts
approached me yesterday, as I am standing in for the chief constable, with some serious allegations about a…’

‘They are not allegations,’ Watts interrupted. ‘They are definite charges, with many witnesses who will confirm…’ He had a clipped, precise way of speaking, every word carefully enunciated, the result of having a better primary education than you get here.

Partridge held up a hand. ‘Mr Watts, please. At this moment in time I am just trying to establish the ground rules. I’ll give you every opportunity to air your grievances in a while, if you’ll bear with me.’

So, we were having ground rules, were we? I’d tell him a few rules of my own, if he’d bear with me, at this or any other moment in time.

‘As I was saying. Serious allegations about a raid Heckley CID made on the home of Mr Watts’s son, Michael Angelo, who happens to live next door to Mr Watts.’

In a house with bars on the doors and six inches of reinforced concrete over the manhole covers, I thought.

Partridge went on. ‘Now, Mr Watts has kindly agreed that this meeting, and any subsequent action, will be off the record. I assume you have no objection to that, eh, Priest?’

Subsequent action meant disciplinary action. I did object, actually, but it was a finer point of the
rules of the game, and above all I wanted to get on with it. ‘No, sir,’ I said.

‘Right. Good. So what I propose is that you, Priest, explain what you were playing at yesterday morning, and then Mr Watts will have an opportunity to state his case. That way, hopefully, we’ll be able to iron out this problem to everyone’s satisfaction. Is that understood?’

Fat chance, I thought, as I nodded.

‘Yes, Assistant Chief Constable,’ Watts replied. ‘It is perfectly understood.’ His precise constructions reminded me of Enoch Powell, and I almost smiled.

‘Very well.’ Partridge turned to me. ‘So what was the purpose of this raid, Priest?’

‘Thank you. First of all, sir, can I say that we were not playing. We were acting on information that Michael Angelo Watts’ home is used as a safe house for the distribution of class A and class B narcotics. In other words, he is a…’

‘What is your evidence for this?’ Watts demanded, rising from his chair. ‘These are scurrilous allegations, completely without foundation. I demand to know where…?’ A fleck of saliva landed on the polished mahogany and the leather hat rolled off the briefcase.

‘Please! Please!’ The ACC jumped to his feet. ‘Mr Watts, you will be given every opportunity to respond, in due course. If you will only let Mr Priest finish.’

‘I demand to know what evidence he acted upon!’ Watts insisted.

‘Right. Right. Mr Priest, could you answer that specific point before you continue?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘Evidence about the movements of drugs is obtained at great danger to the officers and others concerned, and I cannot risk lives or prejudice enquiries by giving that information.’

‘Just as I thought!’ Watts insisted. ‘There is no information. This attack on my son and his young family, which took place early in the morning when they were all in bed, was nothing more than blatant racial harassment by a police force where racism is…’

‘Mr Watts!’ Partridge shouted, shutting him up. ‘These outbursts will get us nowhere. Let Mr Priest continue.’

‘Ask him if he had a warrant,’ Watts demanded.

‘Well, Priest?’

‘We didn’t need a warrant. We knew we couldn’t obtain access to the house until it would have been too late, so we didn’t try.’

Partridge shook his head. ‘If you didn’t have a warrant, why did you go there?’ he asked.

Watts jumped in first. ‘To inflict more suffering on my son and to terrorise his family – that is why they went, so early in the morning,’ he claimed.

I said, ‘We regret that any children were involved, but the total responsibility for any stress
imposed on them must lie with Michael Angelo Watts and his lifestyle.’

‘What do you mean, his lifestyle?’ Watts demanded.

‘The lifestyle of a drugs dealer,’ I replied.

‘Where is your evidence?’ he shrieked, saliva spotting the desk like the first flurry of a snowstorm. I eased away from him.

‘Yes, Priest,’ Partridge said. ‘These are very serious allegations you’re making. I hope you’ve some evidence to back them up.’

I pulled the envelope from under the carrier. ‘It’s all here, sir. If I may…?’

Watts wiped his mouth and retrieved his hat. The ACC lounged back in his big chair, rotating a silver propelling pencil in his fingers. It looked as if the stage was all mine.

I said, ‘It is well established that pushers and dealers flush drugs down the toilet when they think they are in danger of being discovered. So we lift the cover of the manhole outside and try to catch whatever comes through the drains. The next step in the game is that they cover the manhole with concrete and reinforce the fall-pipe so we can’t break into it. Our progress is further impeded by iron grilles over the windows and steel barred gates outside the doors. The house at Sylvan Fields belonging to Michael Angelo Watts has all these modifications.’

‘Because of the crime rate in the area!’ Watts told us. ‘Why do you not address that problem, instead of harassing honest citizens? Tell me that.’

I ignored him. ‘I decided to make a mock raid on the house, acting on information that heroin from the Continent was being distributed from there.’ Watts waved his arms, but stayed silent. ‘We posted a team from the Wetherton laboratory at the next drain down the circuit, with other people at all the stench pipes coming from the block of houses where the Wattses live, and the next block of houses down the line. When we knocked on his door there was a flurry of action inside, accompanied by much flushing of the toilets both there and next door, where you live, Mr Watts.’

‘This is ridiculous,’ he said. ‘Fanciful nonsense. It is obvious to me, Mr Partridge, that by listening to this you are as prejudiced as he is. This is a waste of my time.’ He jammed the hat firmly on his head and rose to his feet.

‘Sit down, Mr Watts!’ Partridge insisted. ‘This meeting was called at your request. Please have the courtesy to hear us out.’ He inclined his head towards me, the signal to continue.

I pulled the report from the envelope, and studied it for a few seconds. ‘In a nutshell,’ I told them, ‘somewhere between one hundred and one hundred and fifty litres of water came from the two houses. None came from the other four drains that fed into
that manhole. Samples were taken and checked for specific gravity, and then the water was boiled off and the residue analysed. The laboratory have given us low and high estimates which indicate that between six and twenty kilograms of substance were in solution in the water that came from the Wattses’ households. That substance, gentlemen, was fifty per cent pure heroin. Working on the lowest figures, it would have a street value of approximately a quarter of a million pounds,’

‘Lies, lies, lies!’ Watts shouted at me. ‘All lies. If any drugs were found it is because they were planted, by you.’ He reinforced his words by stabbing a finger at me. ‘Twice before my son has been falsely incriminated. Now he is not allowed to sleep in the safety of his own home without being persecuted by you. This is not over yet, Mr Partridge. I will take this up with my MP.’ He jammed the hat on his head again and grabbed the briefcase. His parting shot was, ‘This whole sad story has been motivated by jealousy and racism, purely and simply, but I will stamp it out. Believe me, I will.’

Before he reached the door I said, ‘I understand you have a shop in Lockwood Road, Mr Watts.’

He turned and took a pace back towards me.

‘Yes, I have. Are you now about to tell me that I am charged with peddling drugs from there, too?’

I pulled the T-shirt from the carrier and held it up
for Partridge to see. ‘Make my day, kill a pig,’ I read from it. ‘A young friend of mine bought this, earlier today. A black friend, from your shop. Printed on your machines, no doubt. He’s as disgusted with it as I am.’ I hurled the T-shirt at him. ‘Take it back where it came from, Mr Watts, and never dare accuse me or my men of racial prejudice again.’ It draped itself across his shoulder, then fell slowly to the floor.

He yanked the door open. ‘You will be hearing from the Council for Civil Liberties about this!’ he shrieked at me.

‘And you will be hearing from the Crown Prosecution Service!’ I shouted after him.

Partridge had his head in his hands. As silence fell in his office he removed them and peered at me.

‘He’s gone,’ I confirmed.

He let out a long sigh. ‘You’d, er, better leave me a copy of that report,’ he said.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And, er, before you embark on anything like this again, er, have a word with someone, eh?’

‘We took at least six kilograms of heroin out of circulation, sir. Probably a lot more. At a conservative estimate it cost them a hundred thousand pounds, so they’ll be hurting. It’s called pro-active policing, sir.’ The ACC is big on proactive policing. He wrote a paper on it. He’s written papers on most things.

‘Quite,’ he said.

I sat there, feeling awkward, wondering if that was it, and I was dismissed from his presence. He didn’t exactly smile, but the frown slowly slipped from his face, like the shadow of a cloud passing from shrubbery.

‘I, er, might have a little job for you,’ he said, and nodded slowly and repeatedly, as if congratulating himself on finding just the sucker he’d been looking for.

‘Oh,’ I said.

‘Ye-es.’ He opened a drawer and pulled a big envelope from it. ‘In fact, you’re just the man. Next Friday – week tomorrow – I’m supposed to be delivering a lecture at Bramshill to a bunch of…a party of overseas officers. Unfortunately I can’t make it. I rang them and they said, “That’s OK. Just send someone else.” It’ll be a nice day out for you. You can have my first class rail warrant, too. How about it, eh, Charlie?’

Suddenly it was Charlie again. I thought about offering to wash his car every week for two years, but he didn’t look in the mood for bartering. I said, ‘Fine, sir. What’s the lecture about?’

‘Ethics. Here you are.’ He passed the envelope over.

‘Ethics?’

‘Yes. What do you know about them?’

‘They beat Yorkshire by ten wickets, didn’t they?’

I was still a policeman when I left his office, which was a surprise. I popped my head round a few doors, looking for Sergeant Kim Limbert, only to be confronted by shiny faces that I’d never seen before. She wasn’t in, so I missed out on a coffee and sympathy. I walked out of the building with my car keys in my hand, then realised I needed a lift. A friendly panda took me back to Heckley, and as we drove past the municipal sewage works I looked into the sky and watched the huge flock of seagulls that scavenge a living there. They were looping the loop and practising their barrel rolls.

I needed to unwind. Nigel had a date and Sparky shook his head when I suggested going for a drink.

‘Sorry, Chas,’ he said. ‘Going out with Shirley.’

‘Oh. Anywhere special?’

‘No. Just…out.’ He was uncomfortable, almost blushing. This was a rare event, like a visit from Halley’s comet, or Mrs Thatcher contemplating that she might have made a mistake.

‘Whaddya mean, out?’ I demanded.

‘Out. Just…out. That’s all.’

‘Why all the secrecy?’

‘It’s not secrecy. We’re just going…’

‘Out.’

‘Yes. Out.’

‘Why don’t you tell me to mind my own business?’

‘Because I’m too polite.’

‘Since when?’

‘There’s a first time for everything.’

‘But you’re thinking it.’

‘Yes!’

‘Right I will.’

I went home, showered, and walked down to the pub about half a mile away; the nearest thing I have to a local. I only go there as a last resort.

Nothing had changed since my last visit. The landlord resented my interrupting his conversation with the three cronies who occupied their permanent positions at the little bar, and checked the tenner I handed over by holding it up to the light. I did the same with the fiver he gave me in my change. The regulars were local businessmen of the upstart variety. Their Pringle jumpers had crossed golf clubs on the breast, and they fell silent while I was being served. I ordered a home-made chicken pie and chips and found a table away from the door.

The food was reasonable. No, fair’s fair, it was good. I enjoyed it, and a second pint relaxed me. Long time ago I started hitting the booze hard, but not any more. It’s an occupational hazard, an antidote to the long hours and the stress of the job. I saw where it was leading me and looked for a different strategy. I decided it was all a matter of attitude.

A third was tempting, but I decided to stick to my
two-pint limit. As I placed my empty glass on the bar one of the cronies said, ‘You’re the policeman, aren’t you?’ making it sound like an accusation. He had a Zapata moustache that made him look much older than he probably was, and would have been horrified to learn that in some circles it was a badge of homosexuality.

‘That’s how I earn my living,’ I confessed.

He elbowed his way round his colleagues. ‘I’ve just been done for speeding,’ he declared, which was more-or-less what I’d expected. ‘Said I was doing fifty-five on the by-pass, and I wasn’t doing an inch over forty-eight. Bloody diabolical, I call it. When somebody had a go at the wife’s Clio you didn’t do a thing about it.’