Long Running Police Drama - Part 1

He had been a popular mayor. He would regularly be found beaming from the front page of the local paper, with jumbo cheque in hand or arm around a local sportsman. He was of the town and had something about him which spoke of the best it made of itself. It wasn’t Linholme, but it was prosperous and self-confident and youngsters could make the commute to Linholme if they fancied it. Tom had done plenty of business in Linholme himself, but he had made his money in the town, in Linshields.

That that was a clear source of pride to him did him no harm with his neighbours. They liked shopping in his three shops, and they knew he owned other property in the town, and when they ate in a restaurant in a building he owned they would say conspiratorially, ‘Tom Howard owns the building you know.’

Since retiring as mayor and councillor, he and his wife Sylvie had holidayed for most of the year. Son and daughter lived away. Daughter, married, in London, in retail. Son, in college in Glasgow. There was some talk of the son in trouble, but no one would have suggested that that would be it.

# # #

DS Maria Wisdom put down the Linholme Advertiser and Gazette and looked up, ‘What?’

‘I said come on Norman we got a deadie. Linshields.’ He was stood in the doorway.

‘Fuck off Raymond.’

‘Genuine. Get your coat on, come on.’

‘Fuck off.’

‘Honest. Get your coat on.’

‘Fuck off Ray.’

She put the newspaper aside and went back to the stack of typed reports. He was still there, now leant against the doorframe, hands shoved deep into his pockets. She ignored him as he watched him. She shuffled through the papers. Eventually she said, quietly, ‘Fuck off Ray,’ whilst still reading a report.

‘’Safucking career case, them bent cars. A genuine telly case.’

‘Fuck off.’ She made a careful note, shuffled back through, found an earlier detail, made another careful note.

‘They say that’s how Columbo got his start, bent cars.’

‘Fuck off, Raymond.’

The phone rang, she gave Raymond a pitying look as she picked it up, ‘DS Wisdom. Sir. I see sir. I see, yes sir. I won’t sir. I will. Yes guv, I understand. Yes sir. Thank you.’ She gathered the papers together, shook them straight against the desk.

‘We’re going out,’ she said as she stood, ‘Get your fucking coat on Ray.’

# # #

He held the plastic cup in two hands in front of him on the table, and gave a quick little smile and looked up and across at her. She didn’t like him much, but he usually managed to know more about what went on than she managed to.

‘They always know the killer.’ He gazed back down into his coffee, and smiled more broadly.

‘If you know something you should let me know.’

He looked back up at her, bit his bottom lip, then put his pudgy little fingers either side of his nose.

‘This was envy,’ he said.

#

Three days later, above his byline, the headline ran: ‘Police progress in Howard killing: reclusive neighbour held’.

#

And then two days after that, again in the canteen, he leafed through his notebook then looked at her dismissively, ‘Detective Sergeant,’ he said, ‘if you do not help me, then why should I help you?’

‘You can help us or you can not help us, that’s entirely up to you.’

‘I only want a little word with him.’

‘You can’t interfere with an enquiry, and he’s only a suspect anyway.’

#

She watched the duty sergeant take him down towards the cell, then turned to the suspect’s solicitor.

‘I give up, honestly.’

The solicitor turned to Wisdom. ‘It was one of your lot who passed him the note. You just wait until I speak to the CPS.’

# # #

‘Fuck off Raymond.’

‘Honestly.’

The wind blew through the park, they sat next to each other on a bench under a leafless tree. A starling landed a little way off, bobbed along then stared at a patch of earth.

‘Hmmh.’

‘Your fucking lucky day though innit.’

‘Maybe.’

‘Says he’ll cop to the how to you.’

‘Fuck off.’

‘You’re back on.’

‘Hmmh.’

‘I wouldn’t fuck this up, though.’

#

She got another round. The horrible lanky self-righteous superior fey twat had gone down like ton of bricks when he went. She’d never felt anything quite like it, that moment when his sardonic disdain had folded into snot and impotent reproach and then mute rage. She had stolen his self-reagrd, just in that instant; or it captured her, jumped in her belly. She flared her nostrils.

Raymond bought a round. He might have said he was ready to disburden himself, but what he was actually ready to do was load her with as much contempt as he could muster. Clearly he had availed himself of as much of the reporter’s knowledge as the reporter had of his. He questioned her career, her homelife, her thoughts and feelings about life. He was careful to let her know that he found her home life less impressive than her career, and her thoughts and feelings least impressive of all. And in between all this, she slowly put that last evening together.

She got another round. Envy was what drove it, born of intense solitude. She realised that solitude would be what broke him down. Ultimately, he wanted to share, he wanted to brought home by confession. When he finally opened, she would rather have felt compassion. She wanted to feel compassion, but what she felt, briefly, was ugly triumph, and then remorse.

Raymond bought a round.

# # #

She with the great stack of paperwork before her. Lifted two stapled sheets from the top.

Raymond put his head around the door, ’That reporter bloke is downstairs,’ he said.

#

‘What if you got it wrong? You only put it on him because I pointed you that way.’

‘He was right about one thing anyway. You are a fat little cunt.’

He turned the plastic cup in his hand. ‘You kept your job, though. Didn’t you?’

#

Later, as she pulled down another pair of stapled pages, she said to Raymond, ‘They sacked him, did you know? From the paper. For that bollocks he pulled here.’

The Great Golden Ships

The lines of the yacht drifted off into the distance, somehow abandoning the eye. Because it was so large it seemed to move very slowly. Its surface dully reflected the land below. Beneath it, the savages paused in their battles, their foraging and rutting; they woke from their sleep as it roared silently above them. They gazed up and hunted after the huge sound they could not quite hear. Within the yacht, the yachtsman came to. He tilted his head and breathed out gently through his nose. By instinct he trimmed the great star engine with gentle movements and the yacht drifted on the dance of the breeze.

#

On the ground, two savages gripped each other in a final embrace, the tip of a spear just piercing a muscular abdomen, the owner of the spear pushing down on the owner of the abdomen, the two of them grunting in a reversed tug of war, sweat and blood glistening on the blade of the spear and down the ridges of the tummy whose owner's arched brows twitched with effort as he lay contorted on his back, as he catches site of the great yacht as it smoothes over head and frames the head of his enemy. It looks like a pointed, golden crown.

The spearman notices his enemy's distraction and, discombobulated by this absence in the final moment, turns and stands and looks up at the yacht. His enemy stands besides him and the two of them stare upwards at the yacht. It slips overhead, slow and frighteningly quick, a great dissembling mass disguising its scale.

#

Before long the yachtsman had them brilliantly organised. Their brutishness made gratitude difficult for them, but there was certainly a hopeful watchfulness in the way they bent beneath the yacht. It had founded in the side of a long range of craggy hills. His instinctive, telepathic-seeming control of the thing had in a single instant deserted him utterly and it had dipped into the earth with a great yawning sound. Shortly after he had regained consciousness for the first time he had spotted the first of them, far off, peering out from a stand of bracken and thorn. He had tried to lift himself where he had been thrown, but he slipped into unconsciousness once more. When he awoke again there was a mass of them around the yacht. They smelled terrible, dressed in rabbitskins and armed with sticks and knives. He felt bitterness rise in the back of his throat as they touched the yacht, smearing their filthy hands down its silver flanks, but his instinct was to befriend them. He had fine wine and delicious food in the hold, he now recalled.

#

After a number of years a group of young savages, whom the yachtsman had seen born and was distantly fond of, were caught stealing from the hold. This diminishing supply was very strictly rationed to rare occasions of high reward and he sensed a general anger towards the thieves amongst the savages. His own anger grew over the days he deliberated over the suitable punishment of the young thieves. They had, in their haste and terror at being apprehended, dropped a particularly fine bottle which he had been saving for himself. He became increasingly irritated that the savages should presume to share his loss. What was lost was not theirs, it was his. He could give a little of it to them now and then or he might not, but they did not have a right to it. He could have chosen to have landed his craft anywhere, but they had come to view the items in the hold as theirs as much as his.

#

The great stone stood at the heart of the dismantled yacht. The once pure silver and gold flanks were tarnished. They were laid out fan-like from the heart of the crash site, and the brutes lived amongst these shards in shacks and lean-tos constructed from skins and wood and bits of the broken yacht. On the great stone was carved: 'Endeavour is Goodness'. The yachtsman sat busily next to it, tirelessly directing the labour of those about him.

#

One of the brutes struck him as disturbingly watchful, and his grunts and ticks seemed to be beginning to carry increasing meaning to his fellows. This developing communicativeness was in its way quite useful, because he had only to succeed in conveying an instruction to this one and it was disseminated quickly and effectively to the others, which saved him much time and effort. But on the other hand it worried him because it meant he would lose control of an instruction the moment the fellow had it. This had already lead to one disaster.

He had spent a morning patiently gesturing to this developing savage that he wanted a heavy section of the yacht swung across the hill somewhat. It would provide shelter to a group of them and also keep them downwind of his own quarters within the heart of the yacht. He spent several edifyingly patient hours putting across the requirement, the other fellow shaking and dipping his head and frowning and beating the earth in frustration. The yachtsman had spotted the problem the moment strolled back to his own quarters. Another, even larger piece of the ship was resting precariously against the first. No amount of arm waving and shouting could stop the message now and the larger piece fell on seven of them, killing five outright by crushing them and pinning two, who keened and wailed and pleaded. The other savages ran uselessly around them and beat at the great silver slab. The one who took instructions flayed his own hands against the yacht as he attempted to save his fellows, but they died also. From then on, whenever he was required to receive instructions the communicative savage concentrated with an even greater intensity. This intensity disturbed the yachtsman.

#

The yachtsman's resentment of this watchfulness grew. Every other fleeting glance he received seemed to be accusing, or doubtful, or fearful and he missed the admiration and hopefulness that was now frequently absent. He found himself singling out the most regularly accusing ones for more strenuous work, and in turn they began to cower as he approached. The communicative savage bellowed at them when they did not immediately respond to their instructions, gesturing to those around them. Some of the most put upon ran away.

#

The punishment he decided upon for the young thieves was this: none, not one of the savages would be allowed to enjoy the provisions in the hold, ever again. This ruined the young thieves amongst their own.

Deprived even of the possibility of sharing in the provisions within the hold, the savages became feckless and unmanageable. Though now he dreaded the sight of them, and had determined to cut himself off from them, their increasingly unruly behaviour demanded ever more of his time lest anarchy take over. His punishments became more and more severe as he lost any sympathy with them. He felt his own tyranny gnaw at him. They gave him looks when they thought he couldn't see, cowed and hateful.

#

In the end he left them to it, retired deeper within the broken heart of the ship, and drank wine, became drunk; in a short time he died. The savages lived amongst the wreckage, and for as long as he survived in living memory, they awaited the new yachtsman. Eventually the memory of him faded from day to day life.

#

Eventually, the savages began to prosper, and they grew knowledgable and successful; they learned how to manipulate their land, and how to divide it up. The wisest of them put their children to sleep in great golden ships, and sent them off into the sky.

<<<<>>>>

Station

It felt a little like getting drunk when you know you shouldn’t: accompanied by the vague certainty that current activity would at some point in the future beget discomfiting flashbacks, nonetheless, once earnestly embarked upon, it was hard to stop. Having rung the silver bell as instructed, I let the door close gently behind me.

‘Tom Northgate?’

He eyed me suspiciously. ‘That’s me,’ he said.

‘I was on platform six waiting for the ten forty-two to Cleethorpes.’

He began to rise from behind his desk, then stopped, ‘Yes?’

‘Your colleague told me it was delayed by about ten minutes, but it was leaving from platform six.’

‘Oh yes.’

‘I was still there at eleven o’clock.’

‘Yes?’

‘Your colleague made a phone call and then told me it had left from platform eight.’

He was still trapped between sitting and standing behind his desk. He sat, then reluctantly prodded a few keys on his terminal. ‘It didn’t go from platform six you see,’ he said.

‘Your colleague told me that I was on the right platform, that it was just going to be delayed by ten minutes.’

‘Yes.’

I sized him up. It said ‘Station Manager’ on his plastic lapel badge. His eyes were moist.

‘When I asked her again, she made a phone call, and then she told me that the platform had been altered.’

‘Yes.’

‘There’s not another train for an hour. I’ve come from London. I’m going to miss my meeting. It will have been a wasted day.’

He prodded a few more keys. ‘It went from platform eight, you see. There’s another one in an hour.’

‘That really isn’t good enough. I’d like to, how do I go about having my ticket refunded? My whole day has been wasted.’

‘But you were on the wrong platform, there’s nothing I can do you see.’ He held his palms out to say: look at my hands, they are empty.

‘The platform was changed.’

He sighed, then picked up the telephone, dialled, waited. ‘Hiya. Alright. It’s Tom. Yeah alright thanks. Yeah. Yeah, alright thanks. Yeah. It is. Yeah. Yeah. I know. Yeah. Yes. Anyway, reason I’m ringing is, the Cleethorpes train… did it? Oh, was it? Oh, right. It did. I see. You made an announcement. Oh right. I see. Yeah. But you made an announcement? Yeah. Yes. Oh, right. Okay then. But you made an announcement. Good. You made one. Yes. Yeah, that was all really. Yeah. Yeah. No. I know. Right. Thanks, you. Bye. Yeah. Bye. Bye, bye.’ He put the phone down.

‘They made an announcement,’ he said.

‘I’ve missed my connection. I’m going to miss my meeting. It’s a waste of a whole day.’

‘There’s nothing I can do I’m sorry. That was the signal box. They made an announcement. You see. They make the announcements, the signal box.’

‘There wasn’t any announcement.’

‘They just said, they made an announcement. There’s nothing I can do I’m sorry.’

‘I was stood on the platform.’

‘Yes.’

‘I asked your colleague about the train to Cleethorpes.’

‘Yes.’

‘Who was on the platform as well.’

‘Yes.’

‘The platform for the ten forty-two to Cleethorpes.’

‘Right.’

‘She told me I was on the right platform.’

‘Yes.’

‘Afterwards, she had to ring someone up to find out there had been an alteration.’

‘That’ll be the signal box, she would have rung the signal box.’

‘After it had gone. I was on the platform waiting for the train.’

‘Yes.’

‘I didn’t know about the alteration.’

‘Yes.’

‘Your colleague on the platform didn’t know about the alteration.’

‘Yes.’

‘You didn’t know about the alteration.’

‘Well, no.’

‘There was no announcement.’

‘They said they made an announcement.’

‘There was no announcement.’

‘Well everyone else managed to catch it.’

‘What?’

‘Everybody else managed to catch the train.’

‘I’m sorry, what?’

He primped a little. ‘Everybody else managed to make that train.’

I felt my heart rate increase, that giddiness, that cusp of abandon, ‘How do you know?’

‘How do I know what?’

‘That anyone else managed to catch the train?’

‘Well they’re not here, they’re not complaining, are they?’

I heard the door open behind me. ‘For the money you charge,’ I said to him, ‘You offer pisspoor service.’

I turned. A pasty guard with a goatee beard and clear enthusiasm hair products was holding the door open with a look of distaste.

I swayed through onto the icy platform, and he let it close behind me.