Life on Mars: Get Cartwright

What? What do they have on their minds?

Was it something to do with Clive Gould? If Annie was right, they had both been in Gould’s pocket back in the sixties. Was something about Gould troubling them? Is that what the two of them wanted to discuss?

He recalled what Carroll had howled at him in the church: ‘I’m not going to end up like Pat! I’m not going to end up that way!’

Did they see Gould, just like I saw Gould? Sam thought. He felt a deep sense of conviction that he was thinking along the right lines – a conviction that came from the fact that Carroll and Walsh, like Sam, were caught up in the machinations of the Devil in the Dark.

Sam took a slow breath, relaxed, and allowed a picture to form in his mind’s eye. Where there was a lack of hard evidence, maybe his imagination, his intuition, his copper’s nose would point the way.

Walsh had the place to himself. He had things on his mind … things to do with Gould. Carroll came over, because he had worries too. Gould was haunting them both in some way. They were disturbed, frightened. So the two of them sat down here, Walsh and Carroll together, playing cards, drinking. It comforted them. They started talking things through, trying to make sense of whatever it was that was disturbing them, and then …

Sam turned, looking back into the hallway at the smashed front door, then glanced about at the shattered furniture, the broken windows, the scattered wreckage. Something came crashing in here, roaring through that front door like an express train and turning the whole place upside down. And then what?

His intuition could not fill in the blank. Whatever happened was beyond his experience to imagine. All he could tell for sure was that Carroll had escaped, but not before he witnessed something happening to Pat Walsh – something awful – something that sent him haring off into that church with a gun in his hand.

‘Looky-here, Tyler,’ Gene said. There was a bullet hole in the wall. Gene peered at it for a moment, then hunted about amid the wreckage at his feet. Bending down suddenly, he straightened up again with something held between his thumb and forefinger.

Sam drew closer and examined it: ‘A spent cartridge.’

‘From a pistol. The same pistol Carroll’s got with him in the church, you reckon?’

‘It’s possible, Guv. We’d need an official ID from ballistics.’

‘Let’s assume for the time being it is from that same gun,’ said Gene, his face pulled into a pinched, pensive expression as he examined the shell. ‘What does this tell us? Did Carroll whack Walsh, is that what happened?’

‘I don’t see any blood,’ said Sam.

‘No. Neither do I …’ muttered Gene, almost to himself. ‘So – he either fired at Pat Walsh and missed. Or else he fired at somebody else entirely.’

Sam imagined the bullet passing straight through Gould’s shadowy form. The image made his stomach tighten.

What weapon will stop Gould? What have I got that can hurt the Devil in the Dark?

Instinctively, he reached the gold-plated fob watch nestling in his pocket. As his fingers felt across the dented surface of the casing, he willed himself to sense some sort of magic power surging out of it, something that intimated that this simple little pocket watch was in reality a talisman, a weapon, salvation.

But he felt nothing. Nothing at all.

CHAPTER FOUR: SLEEPING DOGS

Monday morning. The overhead strip lights of CID were burning and flickering, bathing A-Division in their unhealthy, cheesy glow. Typewriters clacked, telephones rang, great mounds of paperwork leaned precariously on desks thick with fag ash, unwashed coffee cups and crumpled betting slips.

Sam strode into the department, and was confronted by the sight of DC Ray Carling lolling about at his desk. Ray was already on his fourth or fifth fag of the morning. He had draped his corduroy jacket on the back of his chair to fully show off his sweat-stained, eggshell-blue nylon shirt in all its unironed glory. His brown kipper tie hung loosely from his collar, and his top buttons were undone enough to reveal a flash of wiry chest hair.

‘Morning, Boss,’ Ray intoned without looking up. The remains of an egg butty were still visible, clinging to the bristles of his moustache.

‘Ray – seriously – is that any way to turn up for work?’

Ray stared blankly, then glanced down at himself uncomprehendingly.

‘I’m a bloke,’ he said. ‘How the hell else do blokes turn up for work?’

‘Some of them wash, Ray, and change their clothes, and at the very least do their bloody tie up. You look borderline homeless.’

‘I had a wash Saturday,’ Ray rebuked him, lifting his stubbly chin in a display of dignity. ‘And this shirt’s clean on from last week.’ He sniffed his armpit, then looked past Sam and called out: ‘Hey, Chris! I don’t whiff, do I?’

DS Chris Skelton emerged from behind a filing cabinet, dressed in a diamond-pattern tank top and beige slacks. But instead of answering Ray, he came swaggering slowly across the room, his face impassive, his hands held strangely at his sides. Fixing Sam with a dead-eyed stare, he gruffly intoned the single syllable: ‘Draw.’

Sam stared blankly back at him: ‘… What?!’

In the same gravelly voice, Chris grunted: ‘I said draw.’

‘He went to see that flick the other night,’ Ray put in, picking at crusty bits on his shirt. ‘The cowboy one with Yul Brynner where his face falls off at the end.’

‘Westworld?’ Sam asked.

But the moment he spoke, Chris suddenly drew an imaginary revolver and pow-pow-powed it straight at Sam. Despite Sam’s total lack of reaction, a grin spread across Chris’s face. He blew the gun smoke from his finger tip and said: ‘Oh, Boss, you got more holes in you now than a ruddy sieve. I am Yul Brynner!’

‘I see the movie’s fired your imagination, Chris,’ Sam replied. ‘And yes, I admit it’s a bit of a sci-fi classic. But can we leave the gunslinger routine for the pub?’

‘The saloon,’ Chris corrected him. And then, turning to Ray, he added: ‘And in answer to your question – no, you don’t whiff. Not at all. If you do, the fags and farts cover it.’

Sam held up his hands in a gesture of surrender: ‘Hey, fellas, I’m not up to intellectual debate of this calibre so early on a Monday morning. Ray – forget I said anything.’

‘I already ’ave, Boss,’ muttered Ray.

‘Anybody got any news on the siege at the church?’ Sam asked.

‘Last I heard, it were still dragging on,’ said Chris, heading over to his desk. ‘There’s coppers all round the place, but nowt’s happening.’

‘If there are any developments at all – anything – I want to be informed at once. Understood, cowboy?’

‘Yee hah, Boss,’ winked Chris, giving a jaunty Yankee Doodle salute.

‘Understood, Ray?’ Sam added.

‘Nope,’ Ray muttered. ‘I don’t even understand how to get dressed of a morning.’

‘Oh, stop sulking,’ Sam said, striding past him. And mischievously he added: ‘Sometimes, Ray, you’re worse than a bird.’

‘Shoot him for that, Ray!’ Chris urged, and he fell back into his gunslinger stance.

Getting clear of all this idiocy, Sam headed over to Annie who was sitting off by herself, hunting through masses of old police files and making scribbled notes. She barely acknowledged him as he approached.

‘I promised the Guv I would have words with you,’ Sam said gently, half smiling. ‘You overstepped the mark yesterday: you honked his horn. And he was not well pleased. In fact, he was livid, and the only way I could stop him coming after you like a rabid Rottweiler was to promise him I would officially reprimand you for your behaviour. So. There you go. Consider yourself officially reprimanded.’

He grinned at her, but Annie didn’t look up. Her face was serious and intense as she pored over her files, ran her finger down a page of typescript, paused, then made a note. Sam’s smile faded.

The more she looks into those files, the more she starts to see of her forgotten life. It’s coming back to her – slowly, and in fragments, but it’s there.

‘Listen, Annie,’ he said in a whisper. ‘I know you went to see Carroll, that you spoke to him. I haven’t said anything to the Guv about it – in his current state of mind, I think he’d hit the roof. I understand that you feel compelled to find out more about PC Cartwright, but you’ve got to be careful. You’ve got to try to –’

‘I think he was murdered,’ Annie cut in suddenly, without looking up.

‘Who? PC Cartwright?’

She nodded, keeping her head down as she thumbed her way through yet another file.

‘PC Anthony Cartwright died while off duty,’ she said. ‘DCI Carroll compiled the official report on what happened. The report says that DI Patrick Walsh and DS Ken Darby were witnesses to what happened. Together, they testified that they had gone drinking with Tony Cartwright, and that he had admitted to owing hundreds of pounds to a loan shark to pay off gambling debts. Heavy pressure was being put on him to pay back his loan plus yet more hundreds in interest, but he simply didn’t have it. According to Walsh and Darby, Tony Cartwright got drunker and more despairing, until at last he staggered off, distraught. They hung about for a bit and then went after him. They saw him throw himself into the canal, but it happened too quickly to stop him. It took two weeks to start dredging the canal.’

‘Two weeks? Why so long?’

‘There were no qualified divers available, apparently. Eventually the body was found and hauled out. Walsh and Darby testified to what happened, and DCI Carroll signed off on it. Case closed. But look here, Sam … The coroner’s report for Anthony Cartwright. It says that the body was identified by Walsh and Darby, not by Cartwright’s wife. She never saw the body. Carroll wouldn’t let her. According to his report, it was to spare her the trauma because the body was badly decayed. But, Sam, look …’

She shoved the coroner’s report at Sam and jabbed at it with her finger.

‘The name of the doctor who carried out the autopsy,’ she said.

‘Dr F. Enderby,’ Sam read out. ‘That name’s important?’

‘Only because there is no Dr F. Enderby who ever worked as a police coroner or anything else – not here, not in the Midlands, not in London, nowhere! If there was, then he’s done a brilliant job of removing every trace of his existence from the CID files. His name isn’t mentioned anywhere else, not once. Not once, Sam. When I get the chance I’m going to go down the county coroner’s office and see if there’s any mention of him there, but I’m not betting on it. Two weeks to get a diver in, by which time the body’s in too bad a state to be seen by anyone but this non-existent coroner. That ain’t right, Sam. And look at this. It’s a file of bank statements for Cartwright’s current account and building society account at the time of his death.’

Annie thrust the file into Sam’s hands. He opened it.

‘It’s empty,’ he said.

‘The statements are marked as “mislaid”,’ said Annie. ‘No proof that he was ever in debt. And the last person registered as taking this file out of the records office –’

‘– was DCI Carroll,’ Sam finished her sentence for her.

‘And here’s a statement from a man called Terrence Fitch, arrested less than a week after Cartwright’s body was recovered. He was a money lender, a loan shark. In this statement he admits to lending seven hundred pounds to Cartwright at some ridiculous rate of interest, and then threatening to kill him and his family when the repayments stopped.’

‘In fairness, doesn’t that corroborate the official story?’ said Sam.

‘Fitch was arrested by Walsh and Darby, and interviewed by Carroll. His statement was put into the Cartwright file, and after that Fitch disappeared from the records. Completely. No word of him.’

‘Are you saying he didn’t exist?’

‘If he did, he had the same talent for vanishing as the mysterious Dr F. Enderby. Look at all this stuff, Sam – it stinks of a cover-up. Files going missing. A dodgy coroner’s report. A miraculously convenient suspect interview that just happens to confirm the official story. And those same three names cropping up time and again: Carroll, Walsh, Darby.’

‘It certainly feels all wrong, Annie. But …’ He hesitated, fearing that the ears of Ray and Chris were flapping in their direction. Lowering his voice to a murmur, he said: ‘Why is it so important to you to find out what happened to PC Cartwright? Do you feel … close to him in some way?’

Annie paused, chewed her lip, and said: ‘I think so. I’m confused. Why does all this stuff feel so personal?’

‘Has the name McClintock turned up in those files?’ Sam asked. Here in this otherworldly 1973, McClintock was House Master of Friar’s Brook borstal. But, in life, he had not only been a serving police officer at the same time as Tony Cartwright, but he had died right alongside him on that awful night when Gould’s garage went up in flames.

‘Mr McClintock?’ Annie asked. ‘The House Master from Friar’s Brook borstal? I’d remember if I’d seen his name anywhere.’

‘No mention at all? That’s strange. Or maybe it’s not strange at all, given the way names come and go so freely in those files.’

‘This much I know, Sam – PC Cartwright died and his death was covered up,’ Annie said, her voice tight and constrained. ‘And the main culprit for that cover-up was DCI Michael Carroll.’

‘Well, at least we know exactly where he is and what he’s up to right now,’ said Sam. ‘Unlike your other suspect, DI Pat Walsh.’

‘And then there’s DS Ken Darby. We need to track them all down, Sam. We need to know exactly what happened, how they were involved, and why they covered it up.’

‘You need to know,’ Sam gently corrected her.

And now Annie looked up at him, her face drawn and pale, her eyes slightly bloodshot as if she had been crying.

‘Yes!’ she hissed at him. ‘I need to know. I need to know who I am and why all this is so damned important to me and what the hell’s going on!’

‘Shhh!’ Sam glanced over his shoulder at Chris and Ray, both of whom were pretending to do paperwork whilst in fact they were flagrantly ear-wigging. Drawing closer to Annie, Sam said in a low voice: ‘We need to talk.’

‘Well I don’t want to talk!’ Annie suddenly snapped at him. ‘I want to find out what’s going on and I want to do it my way!’

‘I did it myyyyy waaaaaaaayyyy!’ Chris suddenly bawled out.

Sam hurled a stapler at him. Chris shot him a threatening, dead-eyed, Yul Brynner look, and seemed ready to challenge him to ‘draw’ once again. Ignoring him, Sam turned back to Annie and urged her to keep it down.

Annie glared at him and said in a low voice: ‘I want to do it my way because I don’t like your way!’

‘What are you talking about?’

In the background, Chris was putting the hurled stapler back together again whilst burbling under his breath: ‘Regrets … I’ve had a few … like that curry after the film. Stone me, I’m regretting that!’

‘Your way, Sam, is all about keeping things from me, and not telling me what you know,’ Annie hissed. ‘You’ve known things … about me, about … about everything! But you haven’t said.’

‘Annie, keep it down, this isn’t the time or the place.’

‘How can I trust what you say, Sam? You’ve kept secrets from me! You knew things – important things – but you didn’t tell me!’

There was a deep, chesty rumble, and the sound of congealed phlegm being grunted out. Gene Hunt strode into CID, a fag smouldering in his gob.

‘Morning, my lovelies,’ he intoned.

‘Draw!’ Chris challenged him, squaring up for a gun fight. ‘I said, Guv.’

Gene stopped dead in his tracks, looked Chris over like he was made of freshly dropped shit, and then said in low and menacing voice: ‘If that’s Brynner from that bloody kiddies’ flick you’re doing, Skelton, then I’m giving you precisely one second to pack it in.’

Chris responded by drawing his imaginary revolver and pow-pow-powing the Guv with it.

Gene turned down the sides of his mouth in a fish-faced grimace of utter disgust and declared: ‘Brynner ain’t no cowboy! He talks like bloody Brezhnev and looks like a squeezed dick with a Chinky’s face painted on the bell.’

Looking suddenly deflated, Chris said meekly: ‘I … I thought you liked Westerns, Guv.’

‘Westerns, Chris! Westerns! That abortion showing in the flea pits out there ain’t fit to wipe the arse of a decent Western! You think John Ford would crank out some shite about wind-up toys getting porked by stockbrokers in a theme park?’

Ray’s ears pricked up at that: ‘Oh aye? I didn’t know there was porking in it. Do you get to see much?’

‘You see a bit,’ Chris said, turning to Ray. ‘There’s this bird, right, and she’s a robot-like but you wouldn’t know it, it’s not like her tits are made out of foil or nuthin’, but her eyes do go a bit silver at one point. Anyway, this scrawny fella with a ’tache is getting the right horn with her, so he …’

‘I’ll have no more talk about Westworld in my department!’ Gene bellowed. ‘Yul Brynner ain’t no cowboy – end of. John Wayne! Randolph Scott! Saint Gary of Cooper! Them’s cowboys, Christopher, them’s bloody cowboys, not that slappy-skulled Ruskie mincing about with two Evereadies up his arse and a scrote-sack full of fuses! Robots?! In Stetsons? I’ve shit ’em!’

He stomped furiously to his office, flung open the door, and disappeared inside. A moment later, his voice roared out: ‘Tyler! Cartwright! You are summoned!’

Without a glance at Sam, Annie got to her feet and strode briskly towards the Guv’s office. Sam sighed and followed her.

They found Gene prowling about, agitated and enraged.

‘Bloody robots …’ he growled. ‘Bald bloody robots, with slitty eyes. Oh, how our days have darkened, Tyler, how they have darkened!’

Gene glanced round at Sam and Annie, swallowed down his indignation at the state of seventies cinema, and plonked himself heavily into his chair. He planted his feet up onto his desk.

‘Right, enough of that, I’ve got a city to police,’ he said, appraising them both critically. ‘I take it, Cartwright, that in relation to your behaviour the other day DI Tyler has dished out a suitable bollocking – or whatever the female equivalent is … a “fannying”, if that’s a word. Well? Has he?’

‘Yes, Guv,’ Annie muttered.

‘And have the pertinent lessons been absorbed?’

‘Yes, Guv.’

‘You could at least pretend to sound like you give a toss, Cartwright.’

‘Yes, Guv.’

‘Okay then. I’ll say no more about it. But what I do want to discuss is what you’re up to.’

‘Guv?’ Sam and Annie asked in unison.

‘WPC Knicker-Elastic has been conducting some sort of private investigation,’ Gene clarified. ‘I want to know what it’s about, and I want to know right now.’ He waited for an answer, and when he got none he raised an eyebrow and said: ‘Well?’

‘It’s not easy to explain,’ Sam suggested.

‘Then let dopey-tits have a go.’ Gene narrowed his eyes and stared at Annie. ‘Come on, ducks, I’m a busy man. What are you up to with all them old police files?’

‘It’s … personal, Guv,’ said Annie.

‘Oh, cobblers it is!’ Gene suddenly barked at her, sweeping his feet from the desk and looming up out of his chair. ‘What’s “personal” in this place? We’re coppers, you drippy mare! All of us – even you! So start behaving like one!’

‘Oh aye?’ Annie shot back at him. ‘By banging on about some stupid cowboy film?’

‘Yul Brynner ain’t no cowboy!’ Gene bellowed. ‘And don’t try and change the subject. What’s in them files, eh? What are you after? And what about these ex-coppers on that list of yours? Have you been knocking on their doors asking for a chat?’

To Sam’s utter amazement, Annie simply turned on her heel, strode out, and slammed Gene’s officer door behind her.

For a few heartbeats, Gene watched the empty space where Annie had been standing, then he turned the full force of his gaze into Sam. Silently, he waited for an explanation.

‘She’s upset, Guv,’ Sam said.

‘So am I. Bloody robots!’ And then, looking intently at Sam, he added: ‘What’s going on with her, eh? Why’s she got the hump like this?’

Sam ran a hand through his hair. Damn it, this was a tight corner. How the hell could he explain?

Gene sank slowly into his chair, placed his hands carefully upon his desk, and drummed his fingers. Without warning, he suddenly stopped. Whatever thought process had been going through his head was evidently completed. The Gene Hunt mind had cogitated – and now it was made up.

‘She don’t belong here, Tyler,’ he said. ‘She ain’t made of the right stuff. Take her off my hands, will you.’

‘Take her off your hands?’

‘Give her something else to do. Dick her senseless. Marry her, if you can face the prospect. Stick her in the kitchen. Get her pushin’ a pram. Sell her to a brothel and piss the proceeds up a wall. Frankly, I don’t give a wet fart in the deep end of the swimming pool what becomes of her, just so long as she’s not cluttering up my nice, clean shiny department no more.’

‘Guv? What are you saying?’

‘I’m reviewing her suitability as a copper.’

Sam took a step forward: ‘You can’t do that, Guv.’

‘On reflection, Tyler, I think you’ll find I can.’

‘Just because she honked your stupid horn and walked out in a huff?!’

‘There is nowt stupid about my bloody horn!’ Gene bellowed. And then, calming down, he leant back in his chair and said: ‘I ain’t made a final decision yet. The ball is still in play. But if I get wind of any further abuses of police records, or conducting interviews without my say-so – or if she so much as glances at my horn – I will have her suspended and investigated. She can lose her job. She can go to prison.’

‘Oh, don’t be so stupid!’ Sam scoffed.

‘Gross misuse of official police records! Using her standing as a police officer to conduct private affairs! That ain’t just a slap on the wrist, Sammy boy, that’s the full disciplinary. Now – I think you’d better go out there and get them files off her. Put ’em all back on the shelves where they belong and forget all about them. Tell her to chuck that list of ex-coppers in the bin. And get her doing something useful round here, like dusting that plant with the big leaves outside the canteen – have you seen it? It’s a state.’

Sam threw up his hands: ‘You’re mad, Guv! Annie’s one of the best coppers you’ve got! And you’re going to flush her and her career and her life down the pan just because …’ He broke off, furrowing his brow, thinking hard. Almost to himself he said: ‘Wait a second …’

‘Don’t bother trying to change my mind on this, Tyler. Cartwright’s been a disruption in this department from day one. Her recent behaviour’s just the final straw.’

‘Wait, wait, wait a second,’ said Sam, realization dawning on him. ‘This isn’t just about Annie’s behaviour. It’s about what you’re frightened she’s going to dig up in those files!’

Gene stared at him, unblinking, fierce. In a menacing voice, he said: ‘There are dogs out there, Tyler. Big ones. Big, bastard ones with bad teeth, bad breath, and bad manners. And right now this very moment, them big, bad bastard dogs are fast asleep and dreaming of bunny rabbits – and whilst they’re asleep, so are all their grubby secrets, you see?’

‘You know there’s a cover-up in those files, Gene,’ said Sam, looking him straight in the eye.

‘Of course there’s a cover-up in them files,’ Gene answered in a low voice. ‘Hundreds of ’em. This is CID, what do you ruddy expect? But whatever Cartwright’s digging up is ancient history. It’s done with. So let’s leave them big, bad doggies snoozing, yes? Coz if some ’erbert steps on the wrong tail and wakes one of ’em up, then somebody somewhere’s gonna get bit. ’Orribly. Where it ’urts.’