November Uniform or the Wagers of Sin Read online

  CONTENTS

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Epilogue

  Copyright

  Once Upon A Time, not THAT long ago …

  PROLOGUE

  It has to be admitted that there can be more appealing places than a betting shop in an out-of-season seaside town on a blustery early afternoon in late autumn. But the old man on the stool near the door of one such premises seemed quite content to be where he was.

  In front of him, on a plastic topped shelf, lay a well-thumbed copy of the day’s racing paper. And any ‘nosy parker’ leaning over his shoulder unnoticed might have seen the betting slip with its neat ticks against three selections, the fourth – and last – as yet unmarked.

  A race was in progress on the bank of television monitors that lined the wall nearby and the old man’s eyes were fixed on them. As the race ended, his eyes were gleaming brightly, but except for a slight shaking of his hand as he ticked the last selection on his betting slip, there was no sign of anything untoward.

  Methodically, he folded the betting slip into a small square as if in a personal ritual long indulged. But then something seized his frail body in a vice-like grip and shook it, and his gleaming eyes glazed over in agony. His hands dropped to the stool in a desperate effort to support his jerking body, scrabbling at the seat for a grip. For long seconds, he fought to stay upright until, with an audible groan, he slid slowly to the floor, his hands gradually relinquishing their life or death hold on the seat.

  He wasn’t dead at that moment but he soon would be.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Whenever any hapless new probationer constable – egged on by other more experienced comrades – was unwise enough to enquire of Sergeant Moe if he remembered where he was the day Kennedy was shot, Moe would fix the impertinent importuner with a ‘basilisk’ stare, chew ruminatively on a much-chewed ball pen and consider his revenge.

  But he could see how ancient he must appear to them in all the hope and expectations of their very first year of a thirty-year career, whilst he was coasting contentedly through his last. Staring back at the soap-shiny faces under their bucket helmets (was the fire brigade designing them now?), it amazed him to think that he had been just like them once. But, by God, hadn’t it been fun? And like police officers everywhere, he would never forget his first arrest.

  Under the paternal supervision of a craggy old sergeant doing his best to keep a straight face, Moe had searched his prisoner, a very drunk, foul-mouthed seaman who made it perfectly plain that he would have much preferred the attentions of WPC Bliss who peeked at intervals around the charge room door and fluttered her eyelashes in mock horror.

  “They hide their matches everywhere,” the canny old skipper had warned. “I don’t want an immolation in my cells.” Immolation. That was a word Moe hadn’t heard before. He had made a mental note.

  PC Grant, a youth with the countenance of a choirboy on cornflakes and the build of a sprinter on steroids, interrupted Moe’s reverie, his wide-eyed innocence bringing home to Moe the tyranny of time.

  “So who was Kennedy?” he asked.

  Moe groaned. Was this for real? But worse was to follow when one of the relief’s regular comedians couldn’t resist responding in kind, his saucer eyes and earnest tones an uncanny send-up of the unfortunate young Grant.

  “One of your mates, wasn’t he, Sarge?” Loud guffaws drowned out the possibility of a snappy reply.

  Feeling like Methuselah, Moe sentenced both to school crossing duty at the dreaded Horace Barnett Secondary Modern, a seat of learning that, if the behaviour of its occupants was anything to go by, took as its role model one of the less approved, approved schools.

  Moe glowered over the top of his clipboard at the row of helmets. They really were pretty pathetic. Suddenly, he felt something like sympathy for their wearers. At least in his day one had a head start by looking the part. Being the part could always come later.

  Soon after discovering immolation, Moe had encountered another word that had left its mark. It had been uttered by a graduate entrant – an embryonic senior officer if ever there was one – by the name of Charles Cholmondely, or Chumlee as he insisted on it being pronounced.

  It had always cracked Moe up that an anti-social pillock like Cholmondely should have had a degree in sociology of all things. But he was the product of the buzzword school of belief that someone with a degree, however obscure, was destined for higher things. And if, by any chance, that included some athletic ability, a state approaching divinity in the force was assured.

  Moe had come to view the whole scenario as a form of competence in reverse. And as a lowly but happy sergeant all of his service, he had seen little to persuade him to change his opinion.

  He had started an argument with ‘Chief’ Cholmondely, as the latter had been perceptively dubbed very early on, by observing po-faced that a qualification in dentistry was of far more use to police work than any qualification in sociology. Moe just enjoyed the wind-up and as usual Cholmondely rose to the bait.

  Nostrils flaring contemptuously, he had challenged Moe over such heretical reasoning, whereupon Moe had replied quietly that, “in dentistry you could at least extract the tooth, the whole tooth and nothing but the tooth”.

  Good-natured groans had greeted this nonsense but not from Cholmondely. Rising to his feet, he had almost spat at Moe.

  “I might have known. An ironist in disguise!”

  Whatever it meant, it sounded appalling … obscene even, like one of those words employed by Sunday newspapers when exposing errant politicians or lecherous vicars. Moe felt uncomfortable … vulnerable even.

  For all his pretensions, Cholmondely possessed that unnerving characteristic that marked him out for higher things, the impression of knowing more than he did, something that others did not. Moe actually felt himself blushing. But he was saved by the fact that it was his turn to buy the teas and he hurried to the counter, grateful for the inconsequential banter of Ada, the garrulous old counter hand. And he was even more relieved to find on his return that the conversation had moved on, along with Cholmondely. Gulping down the viscous varnish that passed for tea in police canteens Moe had legged it to the adjoining section house library. It was a part of the single officers’ accommodation that wasn’t visited often by him but this time he had a reason. Judging by its mint condition, the dictionary wasn’t used much.

  It had been a matter of some relief to discover that it wasn’t that sort of word. Cholmondely must have had sarcastic sod in mind but was much too smarmy to use such words. But Moe rather liked ironist. And he reasoned that being an ironist had some advantages over being a sarcastic sod any day. He liked to imagine his sergeant’s response to an irate complainant.

  “Oh, you mustn’t mind PC Moe, sir. He’s an ironist, you know.”

  And so, at the tender age of nineteen, Moe had resolved that henceforth that was what he would be.

  The passing years hadn’t brought much improvement in the tea. Moe took tentative sips from a large mug embossed with the legend ‘I LOVE DEVON’ and grumbled under his breath as he ch
ecked a careless driving report from PC Grant. He was about to scribble a note to the lad that motorists did not circumnavigate a bollard, no matter how large, when the door of the sergeants’ office swung open and the bulky figure of Chief Inspector (Ops) ‘Wild Bill’ Hickox blotted out the light from the corridor. Moe stood respectfully. He liked Hickox.

  “All correct sir.”

  “Got a moment, Arthur?”

  Hickox jerked his head in the direction of his own office. Without waiting for a reply, he led the way. A perplexed Moe followed on. What was this about? No one had lost any prisoners lately; nobody had died in the cells.

  “Close the door, would you?” Hickox sank into his chair and waved Moe to the empty one on the opposite side of his desk, leaning to one side to heave at a draw. It seemed stuck. Moe gazed idly around at walls covered with charts and maps peppered with brightly coloured pins, each colour designating a type of crime and traffic incident. They were maintained in an effort to determine trends in local policing.

  As the CI (Ops) at East End Central, Hickox needed to keep abreast of such things and pass them up and down the line. The draw banged open. Hickox dumped the recalcitrant object on the top of his desk.

  “Bloody thing. Like a virgin’s knickers. Resistance all the way, then bingo! surprise surrender!” Hickox smiled weakly and began to rummage around in the draw. To Moe’s astonishment, a bottle of half-decent scotch and a brace of tumblers stood on the desk while the draw was returned with less effort to its usual place. Hickox poured two generous measures, avoiding Moe’s curious gaze.

  “Bad news, Arthur.” The chief inspector finished pouring and edged one tumbler towards Moe. “I’m not much good at this, but we’ve known each other a long time and it was thought best that I should be the one to tell you.”

  Moe’s brain raced through the possibilities. His young relief meant well but they possessed that dangerous mix of youthful enthusiasm and inadequate experience. Time would iron out most problems but meanwhile they had to learn. It was all too easy to lay blame, but they were only trying to do as they had been told by the book. They were desperate to prove themselves and measure up. Moe braced himself for the expected grief. When it came, it was worse that he could ever have imagined.

  “Arthur, I’m sorry. Your father is dead.”

  The words hung in the air, uninvited, unwanted, like dialogue from a soap. Unreal yet horribly convincing. Hickox was staring unhappily into his glass and Moe felt the strange sensation of wanting to put the chief inspector at ease, even as his mind struggled to take it in.

  His father dead? There had to be some mistake. They had only spoken on the telephone the previous day. Maurice Moe had been his usual chirpy self, banging on as usual about the horses. He lived for his racing, did his dad. Moe was painfully aware of the past tense. Dead? No … it was impossible. It had to be!

  Hickox spoke quietly. “Heart attack apparently. Ambulance got him to hospital but it was too late.”

  Moe took a gulp of his drink, the spirit fiery in his throat. He gasped, unable to speak even if he’d wanted to, which he didn’t. Tears pricked his eyes and he looked up and away. Then the spirit settled and its much-needed warmth saw off the chill in his body.

  His father had always played his cards close to his chest … close to his heart … all his life. Never ill, never mentioning illness. Moe realised that he had never dared to think that his father could ever be sick … ever die. Not him. He was all he had.

  “Another?” Hickox reached over and poured. Moe slumped. How many times had he … or Hickox … taken tragic tidings to others … to strangers? Too many. Standing awkwardly by as the suddenly bereaved struggled to come to terms with the awful finality of death, the loss that savaged their humdrum lives. Hickox spoke from a long way off.

  “I know this is a terrible shock for you. The chief superintendent would have told you himself but he had a prior engagement at a local neighbourhood watch meeting. You know how much Mr Cholmondely values P.R.” Moe nodded wearily. He knew … only too well. There was a discreet cough opposite. “I have authority to grant you extended compassionate leave … to get things sorted out. Decide your future.”

  Unexpectedly, he leaned across the desk and gripped Moe’s arm, kindness glinting in washed-out eyes that had seen too much. The half-decent scotch gurgled comfortingly into Moe’s trembling glass.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The rain-streaked board gleamed. ‘welcome’ in three languages. The weather asked ‘why bother?’ In a flash of dribbling fluorescence, the big and brash Euro style town sign flew by to vanish into the night.

  Welcome to Baytown! Bienvenue …Wilkommen …

  Moe whistled softly in time to the thud of the windscreen wipers, trying to maintain some semblance of normality in the face of what was to come. It was with a start that he found himself whistling Beethoven’s ‘Ode to Joy’. That damn sign! He stopped abruptly and turned one wrist. Two minutes to nine. It seemed like forever since he had left the sprawl of the London suburbs. Already the main road into Baytown was virtually deserted, a stark contrast to the ceaseless hustle of London’s November streets. The contrast between the out of season coastal resort of his birth and the vibrant city that had been his home since his youth was never more marked… never more poignant. Moe wished he could turn his watch back twenty-four hours.

  His dad’s voice was in his ear, chattering about their shared enthusiasm for racing. Moe couldn’t recall when his father didn’t bet on the ‘gee-gees’ as he called them. His circumstances in retirement had kept him in check financially, but his skill in choosing the occasional long priced winner hadn’t diminished with the years.

  Moe had always encouraged him in his hobby, well aware that many retired men soon seemed to lose interest in life without their work to drive them on, and he would slip him tips from ‘Screwy’ Naylor and have a small punt himself. He knew enough to do that. They always seemed to win.

  Old Screwy and his dad would have got on like a house on fire. But hundreds of miles and two different lives – and Moe’s failure to do anything about it – had conspired to ensure they never met.

  Screwy was an ex-docker Moe had got to know after finding the old man’s wife collapsed and in a bad way one long-ago afternoon. His good deed had never been forgotten and a friendship based on gratitude on the one side and a growing respect on the other had been forged between the two men.

  The first of many unannounced appearances at the station desk brought a sealed envelope containing a barely legible tip for a horse running that day. Moe had forgotten and was distraught to discover that it had romped home at odds of ten to one. Thereafter, he had given Screwy’s envelopes proper respect, even if the frequency of the docker’s visits were something of an embarrassment at times. In due course, Moe learned that Screwy had a part-time job portering at a block of flats in the West End – a world apart from the dockland they knew. One of ‘his’ residents was a ‘reg’lar duchess’ – a real one who owned horses. Moe didn’t enquire further.

  He had begun passing Screwy’s tips to his dad who had been pleasingly grateful, apparently as much for the calls as for the tips. Screwy had unwittingly brought father and son closer together across the miles that separated them. Now Moe found himself musing over the distance that had kept them apart … two ships that had never got near enough to pass in the night. Damn and blast! Too late now – the story of his life.

  The rain drummed with increasing force against the windscreen and Moe flicked the wiper switch to fast, peering miserably out along the tunnel of light from the headlamps.

  Now road signs began to spring at him out of the darkness with bewildering rapidity. ‘Bay Ring Road’ … ‘Higher Town’ … ‘Town Centre’ … ‘Sea Front’. Moe indicated conscientiously to an otherwise empty road and took the lane to the Town Centre. From there it was a minute to the seafront and a journey down memory lane, then home – of a sort. His, not his dad’s. He couldn’t face going there … not in the dar
k, alone. He would go in the morning when there was light and life to keep him company.

  Moe nearly lost it when the two girls ran at him out of nowhere, their silly grins trapped in the glare of his headlamps. Moe swore and twisted hard on the steering wheel. The little Astra slid sideways over the greasy tarmac and the faces vanished. Moe could hear their high-pitched squeals of laughter – shrill, nervous. Crazy daredevils.

  The Astra griped against the kerb like chalk on a blackboard and stopped. Moe thrust the gear lever into neutral and yanked at the handbrake. He was sweating and stone cold at the same time. Bloody stupid kids! What the hell did they think they were doing? He jerked around but they were gone. Suddenly Moe felt very tired.

  Thumbing the heater switch, he sank back. He should have taken a break. No way to finish a journey like this. Two Moes for the price of one. .. get your bargain funerals here! He smiled grimly at the idea. At last, taking a deep breath, Moe slipped into gear and pulled away.

  Down he went, down the streets of his boyhood, homing in on the pier, the beach – and the sea. Little had changed and he was a boy again, being carried down those same streets forty years before, yelling out from the little family Ford, his mother and father beside him, chiding gently, lovingly, his childish exuberance. Happy, happy days.

  Moe swung on to the seafront, the little Astra an echo chamber for the raucous top of the lungs bellow from a long lost childhood. “HI-YO SILVER AND AWAY!”

  What Moe didn’t see was the jam sandwich tucked sneakily out of sight under the approach to the pier. Inside, two of Baytown’s uniformed finest looked up from their lottery tickets and then looked at each other in the torchlight, drawing a dim blank twice over.

  “D’you hear that?” The driver, a florid, forty-something frowned and leaned forward to stare after the Astra’s receding rear lamps.

  “Heap sure thing, Kemo Sabe.”

  The wireless operator liked to think of himself as a bit of a wit, an opinion only partially shared by his driver who knew him to a ‘t’. But they had to live together for eight hours. It was sometimes a requirement above and beyond the call of duty. But now the operator was leaning forward to follow his squint.