The Only Game

‘I thought she didn’t get out of her flat?’

‘Her window overlooks the front. She spends a lot of time there.’

‘What about this morning?’

‘She didn’t get up till half past nine.’

‘Pity. OK, what else?’

‘Number Fourteen, Nigel Bellingham, would-be yuppie, driving a Sierra until he can afford a Porsche …’

‘For Christ’s sake!’

‘Sorry, guv, but it’s relevant, sort of. He doesn’t notice people, this joker, but he notices cars. It’s all resident-permit street parking round here, and those with regular habits usually end up at about the same spot. Maguire was very regular, and her car hasn’t been in its usual spot since Saturday morning.’

‘Why should he notice her car in particular?’

‘Cars equal pecking order in his tiny mind. Maguire’s banger was right at the bottom of his league table.’

Dog considered this, nodded, and said, ‘OK. I’ll buy that. What about the third witness?’

‘That’s Mary Streeter, Number Six. She’s got a little girl, takes her to that park across the shopping precinct most Sundays to feed the ducks and usually sees Maguire there with her boy. They’re not friends. I got the impression Mrs Streeter wouldn’t have minded being closer but Maguire wasn’t having any. Anyway, she says Maguire definitely missed the park this Sunday, and it was a fine afternoon.’

‘So she was away for the weekend,’ said Dog.

‘So she went away after the social worker called and she didn’t answer the door,’ corrected Johnson unnecessarily.

‘So what?’ said Cicero. ‘Would you let a social worker into your house?’

The door bell rang.

The two men exchanged glances. It wasn’t likely to be either Maguire or the alleged kidnapper. On the other hand it was silly to take risks.

Dog moved quietly to the front door and squinted through the peephole.

Nothing.

Motioning Johnson to one side, he gently turned the handle of the Yale lock. Then he dragged the door open and leapt out into the corridor.

An arm like a steel bar caught him round the throat, his right wrist was seized and his hand forced high up between his shoulder blades, while his left shoulder was thrust with such force against the wall that he screamed out in pain and felt his left arm hang paralysed. He tried to lash back with his heel but his assailant was ready for that and he kicked feebly into air while the pressure on his neck redoubled.

Then a voice said, ‘Tommy, what are you playing at? Put him down at once. This is my old mate, Dog Cicero. Dog, how’ve you been, old son? Long time no see. We’ve got ever such a lot to talk about.’

9

‘Funny old thing, life,’ said Superintendent Toby Tench.

Dog Cicero said, ‘Can’t argue with that,’ leaving the sentence hanging uncertainly over Toby or sir.

Tench had never lost his stoutness. At nine it had given him the bulk to back up his claim to be pack leader in the school yard. A rival had started picking on the slight, sallow, silent Italian kid and Tench had taken him under his wing to affirm his primacy. Then puberty, the great equalizer, had got to work, turning Dog into a darkly attractive young man, academically able and athletically outstanding, while it marooned Tench in a podgy, spotty, undistinguished adolescence. Their ways seemed to have parted forever when Tench left to become a police cadet and Dog stayed on to qualify for entrance to Sandhurst.

He recalled their last encounter. He’d just come from saying goodbye to Father Power at Holy Trinity. Tench, looking like the stout constable of the comic books, was walking past the church yard gate.

‘Hello, Dog,’ he’d said with surface affability. ‘Off to officer training, I hear. You’ll need to watch it on that drill square.’

‘Will I?’ he’d asked foolishly. ‘Why’s that, Toby?’

‘Come on, Dog! Everyone knows when you Itis hear the order, Forward March! you automatically start running backwards!’

He’d almost hit him, but had had control enough to know that assaulting a policeman would probably stop his army career before it began.

Now it felt like a chance missed.

But perhaps it was going to be offered again.

The podginess had turned into a solid bulk, no less menacing for being gift-wrapped in a Pickwickian waistcoat and topped with a matching smile. The two men were sitting in the armchairs in the living room of Maguire’s flat. Tench’s companion was searching the bedroom. Introduced as Sergeant Stott, he had the features of a Narcissus, and if his Cartier watch and Jean-Paul Gaultier jacket stretched across pumping-iron shoulders reflected the inner man, there was no shortage of self-love here either.

From the sound of it, the body-beautiful muscles were being exercised just now in tearing the bedroom apart. Johnson’s face appeared in the doorway with an expression of shocked interrogation, but Dog motioned him back inside. He had no idea what the newcomers were after, but if they found it, he wanted a witness.

‘Heard you joined the local boys after your spot of bother with the mad Micks,’ said Tench. ‘Surprised me, that did. Thought you’d have had enough of uniforms, especially when it meant dropping down to plod level.’

‘Can’t recall what I felt,’ said Dog evenly. ‘It was ten years ago.’

‘Long as that? Well, I never. And this is the first time our paths have crossed.’

‘Us plods don’t have much to do with the Branch,’ said Dog.

He didn’t add that one thing he’d done before joining the Romchurch force was check out Tench’s whereabouts. He might have been confused, but not so confused as to take the risk of finding himself in the fat boy’s gang again. But now here Tench was, and clearly enjoying the ambiguities of the situation hugely.

Time to clear the official ground at least.

‘What’s the score, Toby?’ he said. ‘What’s the Branch’s interest in Maguire?’

‘No real interest, Dog,’ said Tench with mock solemnity. ‘Nothing that I’d call an interest. Just that she’s on a little list of ours. People with a fine thread tied to their tails. Touch ’em and there’s a little tinkle in the guardroom, know what I mean?’

‘The computer?’ said Dog. ‘I wondered why that entry was there. Anyone asking questions jerks the trip wire, right?’

‘Clever boy,’ said Tench. ‘So tell me all you know.’

Briefly, Dog outlined his investigation so far.

Tench produced a notebook, not to make notes in but to examine.

‘Well done,’ he said at the end of the outline. ‘Missed out nothing.’

‘You’ve spoken to Parslow? You knew all this! What the hell are you playing at? Checking up on me or what?’

‘Hold your horses, my son,’ said Tench earnestly. ‘Not you. Old Eddie Parslow, he’s the one we need to double check. He’s so demob happy, he’s stopped taking bribes.’

The muscular boy came out of the bedroom. In his hand was a foolscap-size buff envelope.

‘Found this in the mattress cover, guv,’ he said, handing it over.

‘Well done, my son,’ said Tench, smiling fondly.

‘You want I should organize a real search, guv?’ asked Stott.

Dog Cicero had no doubt what a real search meant. He’d supervised enough in scruffy Belfast terraces and lonely country farms, watching as floorboards were ripped up, tiles stripped, walls probed, while all around women wailed their woe or screamed abuse, and men stood still as stone, their faces set in silent hate.

Tench shook his head.

‘Early days, Tommy. Just carry on poking around.’

Tommy went into the kitchen. A second later what sounded like the contents of a cutlery drawer hit the tiled floor.

Tench was peering into the envelope.

‘What’s in it?’ asked Dog.

‘Not a lot. Hello. Must be saving for a rainy day. Well, the poor cow’s got her rain. Bet she’d like to get her hands on her savings!’

He tossed a smaller envelope across to Dog. He opened it. It was full of bank notes, large denomination dollar bills and sterling in equal quantities, at least a couple of thousand pounds’ worth.

‘Can see what you’re thinking, Dog. That’s a lot of relief massage. Maybe she upped her prices for more demanding punters. Any complaints about queues forming on the stairs?’

He looked at Dog with his head cocked to one side, like a jolly uncle encouraging a favourite nephew.

‘No,’ he said. ‘Nothing like that. Not so for.’

The last phrase was an attempt to compensate for what had come out as a rather over-emphatic denial.

Tench caught the nuance, said, ‘You don’t think she gives the full service then? Just the odd hand job for pocket money?’

‘I don’t know. I just don’t like running too far ahead of the evidence, that’s all.’

‘Oh yeah? Of course, she’s Irish, isn’t she?’

‘What’s that got to do with anything?’

‘Quite a lot, as it happens, my son. But in your case, it could mean you’re so desperate to put the slag away that you’re falling over backwards to be fair. You never were much good at thumping people just because you didn’t like them, Dog. Always had to find a reason! You’ll not admit it, but what you’d really like is solid evidence that she’s topped her little bastard, then you can go after her full pelt! Well, you can relax, my boy. Uncle Toby is here to tell you it’s going to be all right. It doesn’t matter if she’s cut his throat or she’s the loveliest mum since the Virgin Mary. You’re allowed to hate her guts either way!’

Dog was half out of his chair. One part of his mind was telling him to sit down and laugh at this provocation. The other was wondering how much damage he could inflict before Tommy, the gorgeous hulk, broke him in two.

Tench wasn’t smiling now.

‘Down, Dog. Down. If you don’t like a joke, you shouldn’t have joined. Man who’s not in charge of himself ain’t fit to be in charge of anything.’

Slowly Dog relaxed, sank back into the armchair.

‘That’s better. Godalmighty, just think, if you’d stayed in the Army, you’d have had your own company by now, maybe your own battalion. You’d have been sending men out where the flak was flying. Few more like you, and I reckon we’d have lost the Falklands. Still, not to worry, just think of the money we’d have saved!’

Dog said steadily, ‘Don’t you think it’s time you put me in the picture, sir. You called the boy a bastard. I presume you were being literal rather than figurative.’

‘I love it when you talk nice, Dog. Shows all that time in the officers’ mess wasn’t wasted. But yes, you’re dead right. Bastard he is, or was. One thing we know for sure, Maguire never got married. How do we know? Well, Oliver Beck was never divorced, was he? Let me fill you in, old son. After she jacked in the teaching, our Jane got herself a job with a shipping line, recreational officer they called it. On one Atlantic crossing she came in contact with an American passenger, Mr Oliver Beck. On the massage table, I shouldn’t wonder! Anyway, he was so impressed with her technique, he set her up in his house on Cape Cod. Oliver was living apart from his wife, natch.’

‘So it was more than just a bit on the side for him?’ interrupted Dog.

‘Why do you say that?’

‘He took her into his home. They had a child.’

‘Rather than setting her up in a flat and having an abortion? You could be right, Dog. Or maybe he just wanted a son and heir and didn’t much mind who the brood mare was. We don’t know just how close they really were, and it’s of the essence as you’ll see if you sit stumm for a few minutes. They certainly stuck together for the next five years. On the other hand he was away a lot and a live-in fanny probably comes as cheap as a live-in nanny. To cut a short story shorter, last April Oliver Beck snuffed it. He was a sailing freak, always shouting off he could’ve done the round-the-world-single-handed if he’d only had the time. This time he didn’t get out of Cape Cod Bay before a storm tipped him over, and put the Atlantic where his mouth was. Now came crunch time for our Janey. Who’d inherit?’

He paused dramatically. Dog said, ‘I thought this was the short version.’

‘Satire, is it?’ twinkled Tench. ‘All right. Well, it certainly wasn’t Maguire. There was no will and in less time than it takes to say conjugal rights, the real Mrs Beck came swanning in to claim everything. At least she wanted to, only at just about the same time, the Internal Revenue boys turned up too, and they were claiming everything times ten for unpaid taxes. Our Janey summed up the situation pretty well. There was nothing in it for her, so she upped sticks and headed for home, taking with her every cent she could lay her hands on plus everything portable in terms of jewellery, objets d’art et cetera. Only thing was, none of it belonged to her officially, and if she shows her face again back in Massachusetts she’ll find a warrant for her arrest waiting.’

He looked at Dog as though inviting a comment.

‘She was in a tough situation,’ he said. ‘She was entitled to something, surely.’

‘You reckon? Still falling backwards to be fair, are we, Dog? Even though this lady has an undeniable tendency to violence, an undeniable tendency to help herself to what ain’t hers, and an undeniable tendency to pull men’s plonkers for pocket money? Jesus, Dog, it’s the priesthood you should have turned to, not the police!’

‘You still haven’t said what your interest is, sir,’ said Dog.

‘Haven’t I? Neither I have! The thing is this, Dog. It wasn’t just the IRS who were keeping a friendly eye on Oliver Beck. It was the FBI. You see – this’ll slay you, Dog – it appears that one of the many shady ways that Beck earned his crust was by acting as a bagman for Noraid. I knew you’d like it! Now no one knows how much Janey was involved but one thing’s sure, she can’t have been ignorant. So now you can really let all that nasty bubbling hate go free, my son. You see, the money that kept that slag in silk knickers, maybe even those nice crisp folders you’ve got in your hand, all came from his commission moving the cash which bought the Semtex that cut your shaving bills in half for the rest of your natural life!’

10

Jane Maguire stood in a telephone kiosk in Basildon town centre. She could have been anywhere. One of the new towns built after the war to ease the pressure on London, its designers probably comforted themselves with the thought that a couple of hundred years would give it the feel of a real place. But in the decades that followed, up and down the country they had ripped the guts out of towns and implanted pedestrian precincts lined with exactly the same shops that she was looking at here. Why let the new grow old gracefully when you can make the old grow young grotesquely?

The thought wasn’t hers but standing here brought it back to mind, and the dry amused voice that spoke it. She longed to hear it now at the end of the phone, but the ringing went on and on. Abruptly she replaced the receiver.

It was time to move. The journey, though not long, had dulled the impression of the man in the tweed hat. Was he watching her or was it just her terror and guilt which needed some visible object to slacken the pressure within? No matter. Her mind had gone beyond rationality. Almost beyond pain. She needed a safe place to curl up in till she was able to plan the future – and feel the agony – once more.

She started walking away from the commercial lights. She could have got a taxi where the bus had dropped her but she had felt a need for movement without confinement. The rain had grown finer till at last its threads wove themselves together into a silky mist which clung just as dampeningly but at least did not lash the exposed skin. She found herself walking faster and faster till suddenly, without conscious decision, she was running. Her newly bought clothing constrained her, particularly the waxed coat, and she felt an urge to pull it off, to pull everything off, and run with no restraint, as sometimes secretly she had done in the past when her cross-country training had taken her on a safe, secluded route.

But here even a fully clothed woman running was going to attract notice. In fact in these conditions a woman walking, once she left the lights of the town behind, was likely to draw attention, both friendly and unfriendly. She slowed to a steady walk, pulled her hood up over her head, and tried to swing her shoulders with the aggressive rhythm of a man.

A car passed, slowed, picked up speed. A lorry thundered by, almost upending her with its blast. A van drew alongside, matching her pace. A window was wound down and a voice said, ‘Like a lift, mate?’

She shook her head, or rather her hood, vigorously and grunted a no in the lowest register she could manage.

‘Please yourself,’ said the voice, and the van drew away.

She reached a crossroads, turned left on a narrower minor road, and after a traffic-free half a mile, she climbed over a gate into a field. By daylight she was sure she could have walked this path with her eyes closed. But with the pressing damp darkness closing her eyes against her will, things were very different. Her feet were slipping and slithering in the muddy ground and eventually she felt one of them sink in so deeply that the cold mud oozed over her new footwear.

But her memory had not failed her. In mid-stride she hit the high wire fence, and clung on to it to stop herself falling as she bounced back.

Slowly she moved to the left till she reached a metal support post. She let her hand run down it to three feet from the bottom. Then she reached through the mesh.

For a moment she thought it was the wrong post. Then she found the loose staple and slipped it out. In a changing world some things didn’t change. She tried to think of another, failed, slid through the gap she was able to force in the fence, refixed it behind her, and set off now with perfect confidence at a forty-five-degree diagonal.

There was a light ahead, the dim glow of a curtained window. She made for it, feeling a great sense of relief. The unanswered phone had been a worry. Even though she had a key, she would have felt uneasy about using it uninvited after the bitter words she’d flung over her shoulder last time she’d departed from here.

Now there was concrete underfoot once more. She moved forward swiftly and as she passed the curtained window, she gave it the double rap with which she usually presaged her arrival.

Inside there was movement and as she approached the door, it opened.

There was no light on in the hallway and for a second she hesitated, unable clearly to make out the dimly silhouetted figure that awaited her there.

Then it moved forward, and the dark was light enough for her to recognize the stubbly blond hair, the bright blue eyes, the slightly crooked and very attractive smile as he reached out his arms and said, ‘Hello, Jane. I’ve been expecting you.’

11

It was a lousy night for driving. Traffic was heavy and the rain had thinned to a glutinous mist which speeding juggernauts layered across his windscreen. It felt like a pointless journey. Far simpler would have been to ask the local force to talk with Mrs Maguire and keep an eye on her house in case her daughter returned. Instead here he was letting himself be carried along at eighty in the outside lane on the doubtful grounds that if he got involved in a pile-up, he’d prefer it to be fatal.

So why was he doing it? Possibly to escape from Tench. Or, more accurately, to escape from what he feared Tench might provoke him to. To be fair to the man, he had laid it on the line.

‘The way I see it, Dog, it’s likely I’m wasting my time. Could be she’s just got so strung out taking care of the brat that she hit him too hard, and he snuffed it. Happens more and more, especially with a boy friend around. Could be she’s telling the truth, even though there’s no witnesses, and some weirdo’s snatched the kid. Could be that none of this has got the slightest to do with the late Ollie Beck and his Irish connections. In which case, I’ll be more than happy to say, over to you, Mr Plod, and get back to the bright lights. But until I do, you’d better understand this is my case, my son, and you don’t do nothing that hasn’t been agreed with me first. OK?’

Parslow, when consulted, had said, ‘Can’t argue with the Branch, Dog. National Security, and all that.’

‘More like National Socialism,’ Dog had retorted but the superintendent had preferred not to hear.

So, he had announced challengingly that he was going to drive up to Northampton and interview the mother.

Tench had considered, smiled, and said, ‘Good thinking, Dog. You do that. One thing though. Keep a low profile. Don’t give the local plods any details. Don’t want them muddying the waters, do we? Above all, I don’t want anyone getting a sniff that the Branch is interested, not till I’m good and ready. So, mum’s the word. And watch out for Indians north of Watford!’

Tench’s agreement as much as anything had convinced him he was probably wasting his time.

It was his first visit to Northampton, so when the traffic on the approach road slowed to a crawl he had no local knowledge to make a diversion. The problem turned out to be a roundabout next to which some planning genius had built a superstore whose car park spilled a steady stream of late shoppers into the carriageway. On the other side, bright and compelling as a wise man’s star, beamed a sign: CLAREVIEW MOTEL: Accommodation, Fuel, Cafeteria, Toilets. Feeling the need for a pee, a coffee and a map of the city, preferably in that order, Dog turned in.

Five minutes later, all his needs satisfied, he sat in the cafeteria smoking a roll-up and studied the map. The Maguire house was in a suburb quite close on the ring road, but it wouldn’t do to head straight there. Courtesy, and also common sense, required a visit to the local nick to reveal his presence and check out any local knowledge.

He got lost twice in a one-way system before he made it to Police HQ. There he was passed on to a grizzled chief inspector called Denver. Dog outlined the situation, following Tench’s instruction to keep things as low key as possible. Without actually lying, he gave the impression that Noll Maguire had probably just wandered off and his mother had gone looking for him and possibly one or both of them might fetch up at the grandmother’s house. He anticipated some probing questions. Instead Denver’s face lit up when he heard the name Maguire.

‘Janey Maguire! She was at school with my girl. Lovely lass, and by God she could move! I mean move. National standard, international maybe. Sprints, hurdles, cross-country, they were all one to her. If you could run it or jump it, she was your girl. And when it came to throwing things, she was no slouch either. Modern pentathlon, that’s what she should have done. But you need encouragement at home to buckle down to that kind of training.’

‘Which she didn’t get?’

‘No, more’s the pity. From all accounts she didn’t get much encouragement to do anything. Mrs Maguire sounds like a real throwback. Type who thinks decent Catholic girls don’t need educating for anything but keeping house, getting married and having babies. As for athletics, that was carnal display! Their parish priest backed her up. He was out of the Middle Ages. You a Catholic, Inspector? Name like Cicero …’

‘Was,’ said Dog.

‘Then you’ll know what I mean. Fortunately, her uncle, old Mrs Maguire’s brother, was a priest too, taught at the Priory College, Catholic boarding school, just a few miles out of town. All boys, naturally. But at least he was able to put his vote in for education so Janey didn’t leave school after “O” levels like her mam wanted but went on into the sixth form. She still did her athletics, but never lived up to her promise. Some said she lost her edge because she filled up too much up top. Me, I don’t think so. There’s been plenty of world beaters with big knockers. I think she was just so worried about not making the grade that she spent more time on her books than she needed to. It was her escape route, see? Get away to college, then get a qualification that’d get her a job anywhere.’