Get Cartwright (13 page)

McClintock sank to his knees, and with the last of his strength thrust the fob watch towards Gould. It was a hopeless, pathetic gesture. His hand shook. Without hesitation, Gould came marching down the slope towards him. He reached out, grabbed the watch, and shoved it into McClintock’s mouth. McClintock fell back and lay there as Gould towered over him, a faceless silhouette backlit by a glaring sun. From under his jacket, he produced a long, lethally sharp blade. As the polished steel glinted in the sun, McClintock turned and reached out imploringly with blood-stained hands.

At that very moment, Sam felt a sudden movement beside him. Annie had jumped up from her seat and was rushing back up along the aisle, the beam of the projector flickering and flashing above her head.

Suddenly feeling wide awake once more, Sam went after her. He glanced back at the screen for a moment, but the film was just the film again. The gawky man with the moustache was back on the run across the open desert.

Sam barged through the doors, ran across the foyer, and caught up with Annie outside in the street, beneath the bright lights of the cinema facade. She was blundering about, disorientated, unsure where to go. When Sam approached her, she backed off, her face white as a sheet.

‘Hey, it’s me,’ said Sam. She stared at him, as if at a stranger. Gently, he said: ‘What happened? What did you see back there?’

‘Nothing. I – I … felt … like …’

‘Felt like what?’

‘Like somebody was grabbing me … like there was a hand reaching out and …’

She turned away. When Sam went to her, she shrugged him off.

‘Come home with me,’ he said softly.

She shook her head.

‘Please, Annie. I understand. I do.’

Again, she shook her head.

‘You’re not going mad. Annie, believe me.’

She sniffed heavily. If he could have seen her face, Sam would have seen tears streaming down her cheeks.

‘Annie …’

‘Things aren’t right, Sam.’

‘I know.
God,
I know! But I can help you. Let’s find somewhere to talk.’

‘I don’t want to talk, I just want to … to go home.’

And without a word, she marched off, making for the taxi rank. Sam watched her go, feeling helpless, silently willing her to stop, or at least glance back at him. But she didn’t.

Alone in his flat that night, Sam had rung Annie’s number four, five, six times. Eventually, she answered.

‘I can’t sleep until I know you’re okay,’ he said.

‘I just need some time to myself,’ she said in a faraway voice. ‘I just … need to think and …’

‘I’m always here, whenever you want me. No matter what, Annie.’

There was a long pause, during which he heard her sniffling. Then, at last, she said: ‘I know, Sam. I’m just so confused and … I have so much to think about. Go to sleep, Sam. I’ll see you in the morning.’

‘
You
sleep too.’

‘No,’ she said softly. ‘I won’t get a wink. Goodnight, Sam.’

And with that she put down the receiver.

Sam dug out his emergency bottle of whisky. He needed it. As the harsh booze burned his throat and worked its way down into his intestines like a hot coal, he recalled what he had seen on the cinema screen at the Roxy – McClintock on his knees, bleeding, holding the fob watch up hopelessly, as Clive Gould advanced on him in triumph. He recalled McClintock reaching out from the screen, and Annie’s sudden, horrified reaction. She had not
seen
anything, of that Sam was sure, but she had certainly
sensed
it.

McClintock promised to try and contact me if he got into trouble,
Sam thought, refilling his glass.
Was that what happened tonight? Did he go up against Gould
–
and did things go badly?

If that was so, then nothing now stood between Sam and the Devil in the Dark. He was next on Gould’s to-do list – and after Sam, it left only Annie.

He knocked back his drink, grimaced as it went down, and slopped out another. The only sense of hope he could derive was from his conviction that, as long as he was around, Gould would come for
him
before he went after Annie. She might be crying alone in her flat tonight, confused and afraid, but she was safe. Safe, at least, for now.

If what happened in the cinema was McClintock’s last, desperate communication, why did it reach Annie instead of me?
Was it a mistake? Or did McClintock know what he was doing?

There was no way of answering these questions, so they echoed round and round in Sam's skull, keeping him awake until the wee small hours when, at last, the raw whisky overwhelmed them and smothered him in a brief, dreamless sleep.

The next morning, Sam came to CID looking for Annie. But her desk was empty.

‘I sent her on a mission,’ Gene informed him. ‘The Co-Op. Teabags. Bourbons. A pack of panatelas for Uncle Genie.’

‘You bastard, Gene.’

‘A remark spoken out of ignorance, Tyler. I ain’t playing games and I ain’t being cruel. Quite the opposite. I’m acting in your bird’s best interests.’

‘By treating her like the tea girl?’

‘By keeping her busy with things she can actually
do,’
Gene snapped. ‘Don’t you pay attention to that lass? She looks like shite.’

‘She’s … got things on her mind,’ said Sam.

‘And the rest. I don’t know what the story is with Cartwright but I do know she’s gone from being a millstone to a fully fledged liability with a face like a slapped khyber. So – I’m keeping her on light duties until I can decide what the hell to do with her. God knows, she’s caused enough aggro already.’

‘Caused aggro? Because she unearthed corruption?’

‘Let’s not go over all that again. Your crumpet’s gone doolally, Tyler, and the last thing I need on my plate right now is doolally crumpet.’ Gene raised himself up and puffed out his chest. ‘I’m getting my department back on track, everyone gainfully employed; Cartwright’s keeping us topped up with goodies, Chris is out at the county coroner’s looking for Gould’s death certificate, I’m picking out my runners and riders for the two-thirty at Goodwood, and Ray is digging up leads.’

‘How? Where?’

Gene shrugged: ‘Last I saw of him he was headed for the Lost & Found Room.’

‘What the hell for?’

‘He didn’t say and I didn’t ask. He’s a Detective Sergeant, in case you’ve forgotten. I trust his judgment. I don’t need to keep tabs on him. He’s not likely to cause a God Almighty stink that leaves fellas dead and puts my job on the line … not like some round here, eh?’

Sam turned away and marched out. His instinct was to go after Annie, throw his arms around her, comfort her – but he stopped himself. She was starting to feel smothered by him, he could tell. His concern for her had become overbearing, at a time when her head was reeling with the recovery of memories long buried. She was starting to see the reality of her situation, starting to sense that the 1973 she lived in was
not
1973 at all, and it was overwhelming, disorientating, frightening. When she pushed him away outside the Roxy, it was not to reject him but just to give herself breathing space, some time alone to get her head around what was happening to her. The best service Sam could do for her was to leave her be. When she wanted company, she knew exactly where to find him. Until then, hard as it was, he would keep his distance.

But that thinking did
not
apply to DS Ray Carling. Sam headed straight to the Lost & Found Room, with its chaotic mounds of unwanted, unclaimed detritus amassed from all over the city. Abandoned suitcases, bicycles, household appliances and typewriters sat hugger-mugger with a bizarre array of curios: artificial limbs, wig blocks, an box of oversized plastic frogs, a wind-up music box that played 'Lara’s Theme' (as Gene had once demonstrated), an antique telephone, the complete works of Dickens translated into what appeared to be Norwegian. But for Sam, the stale, dusty atmosphere of the Lost & Found Room was associated not with mystery, but with violence, because it was here that Gene brought suspects for interrogation. How many terrified men had grovelled on their knees amid the shelves of junk? How much blood had been spilled on this floor? How many forced confessions had been signed at that table?

His emotions were already running high after his encounter with Gene, but the smell and feel of this room only served to sharpen Sam’s anger.

‘Ray!’ he barked. ‘You in here?’

Ray appeared from behind a set of shelves, his corduroy jacket and blue nylon shirt caked in dust, a battered cardboard box in his hands.

‘I ain’t mutton, Boss, no need to holler.’

‘What are you doing in here, Ray? You’re supposed to be out there looking for leads.’

‘And so I am.’ He plonked the cardboard box down on the table. ‘I’m busy working, Boss. Busier than
you
.’

‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’

‘It means I don’t like your manner, Boss. You’d not go round talking to your daffy bird like that.’

‘That’s because Annie wouldn’t be dicking around in here when there’s a killer on the loose outside.’

‘No. Maybe she wouldn’t. She’d save her dicking for round at your gaff, eh.’

Furiously, Sam lunged forward. Ray turned with surprising speed and threw a punch. Sam dodged, but the blow caught him hard in the shoulder. At once, Ray drew himself up, fists raised, fully prepared to see this thing through. But Sam backed off, seeing the idiocy of getting drawn into a full-blown punch-up.

‘What the hell’s your problem, Ray?’ Sam said, rubbing his aching shoulder.

‘Cartwright,
that’s
my problem!’ Ray snapped back. ‘Christ, Boss, the leeway you give that bird! And all because you’re led by your todger. You’d treat me a shite-load different if it was
me
you wanted to have it off with.’

Sam’s temper flared up again, but he kept control of himself. The Lost & Found Room had seen more than enough violence over the years without him adding to it now.

‘If I give Annie leeway then it’s because it’s not a level playing field for her,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘She’s an intelligent, diligent –’

‘Here we flamin’ go.’

‘– hard-working, honest police officer, and she puts up with a sack of crap from cavemen like you, Ray – a sack of crap, every working day of her life.’

Ray pointed left: ‘CID’s that way.’ He pointed right, ‘Kitchen and bedroom’s that way. There’s a reason them two ain’t put in the same place, Boss.’

‘You’ve just demonstrated my point beautifully. One day, Ray, blokes like you will get hauled up on a disciplinary for saying one fraction of the things you come up with. One day, the men of this world will grow up enough to be able to – stop the presses –
work with women
.’

‘Women in the Force?! It’s like women in the army, it’s against nature! You’ll have ’em bloody running the country next!’

‘You’re a dinosaur, Ray. You’re lot are dying out.’

‘Aye, Boss, maybe that’s the case,’ said Ray, nodding grimly. ‘But you’ll be crying out to have us back when you see what a pig’s ear them birds’ll make of it if we let ’em take over. Just look what’s happened right here in A-Division. It all changed when they let Cartwright in, Boss. Like bloody Yoko, she’s been.’

There was a tense moment as they eyeballed each other. Then Ray smacked clouds of dust from the sleeve of his jacket and said: ‘Anyway. Before you start up again accusing me of slacking – look at this.’

He indicated the cardboard box on the table.

‘What’s in it?’

‘Diaries,’ said Ray.

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Them files in the records office have been tampered with, right?’

‘Yes. And you know who we can thank for discovering that.’

‘Well,’ Ray went on, ignoring him, ‘if
them
records ain’t no good, we need to have a look at
other
records.’ He opened the box and held up a couple of leather-effect diaries. ‘DCI Carroll’s old desk diaries from the sixties. All stashed away, safe and sound.’

‘And how do you know those are DCI Carroll’s old desk diaries?’

Without a word, Ray angled the cardboard box so Sam could see it better. Written in biro on the side it said:
DCI CARROLL’S OLD DESK DIARIES.

Ray suppressed a smirk; ‘You’ve been in this Lost & Found Room plenty of times before now, Boss – didn’t you never notice?’

Sam shook his head.

‘There you go, then,’ said Ray. ‘What better place to lose something forever than in here? The stuff what comes here gets boxed up, labelled, stuck on a shelf, and forgotten. Not you, nor the guv, nor no one else ever gives this junk a second thought. Not even your super-cop bit of minge. Oh, but
one
bloke keeps his eyes open – you know, the department dinosaur who’s going extinct, the one who don’t know how to dress himself of a morning.’

‘How long did you know this box was here?’ Sam asked.

‘I didn’t. But what I
did
know was that there was boxes of old paperwork that got stored in here a couple of years back when they rearranged the offices. It was only meant to be temporary, but the skip never arrived and nobody could be arsed to find proper homes for this stuff, so it just sat here. You know how it goes. So, I took a punt that Carroll’s old diaries would be tucked away amongst this lot, and my hundred to one outsider romped home by a head.’ And then he added: ‘And while I’ve been in here digging up vital information, I believe Cartwright’s out stocking up our supply of chocolate biscuits. See how it all works best when it’s done that way?’

‘We need to go through these diaries,’ said Sam.

‘Don’t I get an apology first?’

‘Not a hope, Ray,’ said Sam. ‘Not a bloody hope. Now let’s get this stuff back to the office.’

The discovery of the diaries brought Gene out of his office. Ray emptied the box onto his desk, and Sam picked up the 1965 diary and leafed through it.

‘Anything juicy?’ asked Gene.

Sam turned page after page. It was almost impossible to make anything out at all, there were so many multi-coloured scribbles all over the place. Names and numbers criss-crossed over address details, barely legible beneath a spider network of sketch maps, doodles, drawings of breasts, reminders to get fresh milk in, jokes, shopping lists, and exhortations for United to win the Cup.