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The following morning he sloped into his DI’s office, closed the door and told him about the phone call.
“Unfortunately, we’re going to have to start the hotel enquiries again. He’s staying somewhere and his previous M.O. says that’s the best place to start but we also need to get eyes on his parent’s house. He may well feel he needs to give them a visit after all this time.”
A tense and preoccupied Degsy wasn’t happy. “Gandalph and Taffy can do the hotels, I suppose, but we haven’t got the resilience for the obs, certainly not without overtime and we’ve nothing left in the pot at the moment.”
“When’s the next meagre ration due?”
“Next month.”
“What if we just do it?”
“Thurstan, you clearly haven’t got a clue how some things work. You just can’t do that!” He stared back at his boss.
Thurstan faked disappointment. “There you go with the bad news again, Derek! It’s hard to stay enthusiastic. Always the bad news.”
“Well, someone has to keep a steady eye on these things, manage the money for instance.” He threw his pen on the desk.
Thurstan realised he’d wandered into the office equivalent of a minefield from which he needed to extract himself, and Derek, carefully and quickly but could only come up with, “Jeez, Derek. You used to be so much fun. What happened?”
He saw the comic look on Thurstan’s face and relaxed a little, even raising a slight smile. “Three kids, a huge mortgage and a wife who can’t live without a kitchen extension.”
Thurstan relented. “I’m sorry. I hadn’t realised it was getting to you so much. Listen, I’ll have a word with Stephen and Taffy and leave the overtime with me. I’ll speak to the Chief’s secretary and find out what kind of mood he’s in, see when it’s safe to raise the matter direct.”
Ten minutes later, he managed to pick the phone up and call her. “Missus Byrne, Thurstan. I need a favour. I’m going to have to ask the Chief for a temporary boost to our overtime budget and before I do, it would be handy to know what mood he’s in?” He paused as she spoke. “Really! Sounds good. In that case, could you find me a spot in his diary when it would be convenient for me to call him about it?” She thumbed through the book in front of her. “Certainly! Tomorrow would be great. Eleven. Ok. Yes, no problem, just tell him it’s about Mister Nickson. He’ll understand.” He walked away from the phone, rubbing his hands together as he headed for the kettle.
****
It was a typical British suburban street, tree-lined, wide enough for parking either side. A mix of Edwardian homes through 1930s builds to a couple of more recent additions further down. Semi-detached heaven. The sort of place where upper-working-class and lower-middle-class felt at ease with life and each other. In May, every year, its serenity was enhanced by the cherry blossom.
The courier van, parked further along the street, had a good view of Nicks’ parents’ house. Tomorrow it would be replaced by a plumber’s.
They’d watched his Dad leave at 11 am and now, three hours later, he returned.
“I wonder where he went?” Chewy said, not looking up from his book.
Trigger threw him a glance. “Well, he’s got a passenger so I’d say Manchester airport judging by the time and the case he’s taking out of the boot.” He lifted the camera to his face. “ You want to see this! She’s a cracker! Very tasty. Must be a relative.” The camera rapidly whizzed through the images. “I’ll get some close-ups.” Chewy peered over his shoulder.
The front door opened then closed and the street was quiet again.
Old man with dog, old man without dog, postman, attractive middle-aged woman unloading shopping from her car, unattractive middle-aged woman laden with bulging carrier bags struggling to walk, groups of boisterous teenagers from the local comprehensive and a mother with pram; screaming kid dragging behind. They’d seen it all and they’d see it again, same thing, different people.
They reminisced simply to keep boredom at arm’s length.
“Remember Jimmy what’s his name? Prolific car thief.” Chewy searched his brain.
“Jimmy O’Rourke?” Trig offered.
“Yeah, that’s him. One-man crime wave. I remember when he creamed himself in that Cosworth, the black one that hit the bridge. We sent a wreath, with a card, to the funeral. It said, ‘Sadly missed from all at Lower Lane nick’. God, we earned some overtime on his account. His Mum stopped in the street one day shortly after and thanked me. She was always ok. When we locked him up she never gave us any grief, knew what he was like. She told me he always spoke well of us at the nick because of the way we treated him. It made me feel guilty about sending the bloody wreath.”
Trig felt he needed something with a sense of poignancy to equal Chewy’s offering. “I remember going to one that had misjudged a bend and hit the shops. The guys dragged them out of the wreckage. They weren’t well. It’s a wonder they weren’t dead, to be honest. Somebody had stuck one of them on top of the other while they waited for the Ambo. When I got there they were taking the piss, saying the bucks should ‘get a room’. The lad underneath, legs all twisted, looked up and gave them the finger.” He shook his head. “Tell you what? I had to have respect for him.”
Time dragged on. Sandwiches eaten, coffee all drunk, a half-empty bottle of lemonade discarded on the floor.
“I need to piss.” Trigger looked forlornly at Chewy. “My bladder isn’t as strong as yours. Don’t you need to go?”
Chewy glanced back. “No.” He reached down and threw him an empty two-litre green plastic bottle. “Recycle that and for fuck’s sake put it somewhere out of the way when you’ve finished. I don’t want to be drinking it later on.”
Trig undid the top and asked, idly, “Have you ever played golf?”
Chewy stared out the window. “Actually, I have. It was a few years ago though”
“What’s your handicap?”
Repressing a smile as he wiped the glass with his sleeve, he replied, “Well, I haven’t got any clubs, if that’s what you mean.”
“No, that’s not what I meant.” Trigger paused while he manoeuvred himself, and the bottle, into position. “Don’t blame me if any of this goes on the floor. Where did you play?”
“Llandudno. I can’t remember the actual name of the place.”
“North Wales Golf Club ring any bells?”
“No, I don’t think it was called that. It was a little place on the sea front. It had little castles and lighthouses. That sort of thing.”
“Crazy golf?”
“Yeah, the kids loved it.” He picked up the binos. “There’s a guy here going door to door. He’s got a high viz vest on.”
“I saw him before. He’s been invited into a couple.”
“How long did he stay?”
“Don’t know, didn’t clock him coming out. He was working the other side when I saw him. Maybe he’s a meter reader.”
“I’d better make a note of it. Take a couple of snaps.”
A minute later, Trigger screwed the top back on the bottle. “I’ve wedged it down between the seat and the toolbox. How come we don’t get those piss packs where it all turns to jelly?”
“We’re not elite enough, I suppose. Probably only for the likes of Firearms and the DSU.”
He hesitated. “He’s going in now. Let’s see how long he takes.”
Within five minutes ‘High Viz man’ left Nicks’ parents house with a casual wave, checked his watch, readjusted his clip board and strolled down the street in the opposite direction.
They looked at each other. Chewy spoke first. “What do you reckon? About usual for a meter reader?
Trigger nodded. “I think so. Anyway, he looked nothing like Nickson according to the pics the Boss gave us. Too smart. Suit and tie, shaven head, no beard. We’ll mention it when we get back, though.”