Get Cartwright (2 page)

Sam loved the place.

‘Morning, Joe,’ he said as he strolled in, enjoying his brief inner-glow of happiness. ‘Any news on that Michelin star yet?’

Joe grunted wordlessly back at him. He was shoving meaty objects about in a pan, presumably preparing them for human consumption. From the portable transistor radio balanced above the stove came the strange, melancholy strains of Elton John’s ‘Goodbye Yellow Brick Road.’

‘I’ll have a skinny Fairtrade latte to drink in please,’ said Sam. ‘And a peach and blueberry muffin, and a bottle of still mineral water. Actually, come to think of it, I’ll go for the deep-fried heart attack and a cup of black stuff so gloopy I can stand the spoon up in it.’

Joe looked at him like he’d spoken in Norwegian, so Sam clarified: ‘The full English and one of your unique coffees; quick as you like.’

A jabbed finger and a grunt told Sam that he was to take a seat, so he settled himself facing the door, waiting for Annie and his breakfast, whichever arrived first. He had suggested meeting her here partly because his own place was such a tip that he was ashamed for her to see it, but mainly because Joe’s Caff was the sort of place that cheered you up. It was hard to stay too depressed when you were pumping ketchup out of a plastic tomato. And it was clear that Annie needed a little light in her soul at the moment. Since the riot at Friar’s Brook, and their close shave with knife-wielding borstal boy Donner, she had become withdrawn and preoccupied. Long-buried memories were returning to her; memories of her life before this one, of her father, of an Annie Cartwright very different from the one she was today. It was all still hazy, but she was starting to suspect that all was not as it seemed here in 1973, and that Sam’s strange stories about her past and her family might be more than just fantasies.

I’m going to explain everything to her,
Sam thought, watching the door.
It won’t be easy – for either of us – but it’s the right thing to do. And with Clive Gould breathing down our necks, she’s got no choice but to understand.

Through the open doorway, Sam could see the church across the road. The wheezing music had stopped, and a straggle of worshippers was now wandering in. Sam watched the desultory handful of OAPs as they headed through the graveyard and in through the church door. It was a typical Sunday-morning turn out. And yet, the sight of it tugged at Sam’s heart. He was hardly a religious man, but that plain, threadbare, C of E church with its leaky spire and unkempt graveyard and its smattering of a congregation spoke to him of Life and Death, of worlds beyond this one, of higher purposes and plans played out in mysterious ways. It reminded him that 1973, like Lieutenant Columbo, was only a shambling mess on the
outside
: behind the ruinous façade, wheels were turning, great forces were at work, high stakes were being placed.

‘Ee-yar,’ grunted Joe, and he slammed down a plate of runny eggs, fatty lumps of meat, and fried bread glistening with grease.

‘Is this my breakfast or something you just coughed up?’ Sam asked. And as Joe turned away he added: ‘Hey, before you disappear, tell me – do you know anything about old watches at all?’

‘Wrote the book on ’em,’ said Joe sourly, and he peered down at the gold-plated fob watch Sam had rested on the table. ‘Antique, is it?’

‘I have no idea.’

‘Take it down the market, see if someone stumps up a couple of bob.’

‘I’ve no intention of selling it,’ said Sam, closing his hand protectively around the watch. ‘I’m not parting with him, Joe. There’s something very special about it.’

‘You want to get the case replaced. Looks like somebody’s sat on it.’

‘Nobody sat on it,’ said Sam. He ran his finger over the dent that Donner had made with his kitchen knife when he’d lunged at Sam. It had saved his life once already. Maybe it'd do it again.

Utterly disinterested, Joe plodded back to his greasy pots and pans and joylessly started frying a few eggs.

Annie suddenly appeared in the open doorway, dressed in a wide-collared, canary-yellow shirt under a brown suede coat. She paused and looked in. Sam could tell at once something was wrong. Her face was pale, her eyes wide and anxious. When she sat down across from him, she said nothing, just folded her arms defensively.

‘Hi,’ smiled Sam. But Annie just frowned worriedly at him. ‘You’re very tense. Has something happened?’

Annie shrugged.

Thinking of the shadowy ghost that had confronted Sam outside the cinema, Sam asked anxiously: ‘Have you … seen something?’

‘I’m just not feeling right,’ she said.

‘Are you ill?’

‘I don’t know. I just know I’m not right.’

‘Let me order some revolting food for you,’ Sam suggested. He indicated the congealed filth on his plate. ‘You want to join me in a full English? It’ll take your mind off things. Not in good way, but it
will
take your mind off things. Go on, have a dip with one of my soldiers.’

But there was no response from Annie. She was not in a joking mood. Now that Sam looked at her more closely, she seemed shell-shocked.

‘Talk to me,’ he urged her gently.

‘I’ve been digging into the old police files from the sixties,’ said Annie.‘I needed some information, but the files were in a mess, so I started trying to sort ’em out, get ’em in order. God knows, nobody else in that place is going to do it.’

‘Well ain’t
that
the truth.’

‘So, I started going through it all. Everything was all filed badly and mucked about with. At first I just thought it was just the usual thing, people being careless, sticking reports in the wrong folders and not bothering to label things right. But then I noticed there were gaps, Sam – gaps like there were things missing on purpose.’

‘You’re saying those files have been tampered with?’

‘I’m sure of it, Sam. Somebody’s been covering things up.’

Sam nodded: ‘There were a lot of coppers on the payroll of villains back then, far worse than today.’

‘And I think I can name a few of them. There’s the same characters who keep cropping up, all of them in CID, all of them in relation to those gaps in the files or with reports that don’t quite make sense. I’ve got their names.’

She placed a sheet of paper on the table.

Sam read it out: ‘DCI Michael Carroll, DI Pat Walsh, DS Ken Darby. Any of them still serving in CID?’

‘No. They’re all retired now,’ Annie said.

‘The corrupt ones
always
retire. Mmm – these names don’t ring any bells for me.’

‘Nor for me, Sam. But I wonder if the Guv remembers them?’

It was possible. DCI Gene Hunt must have been working his way up through the ranks of CID at the same time as these men were around.

‘I wrote these names down so I wouldn’t forget,’ Annie went on. ‘But there’s one name I can hardly forget – the name of a uniformed copper working at the same time as these three.’

‘Let me guess,’ said Sam. ‘Cartwright. PC Anthony Cartwright.’

Annie looked at him with wide, confused eyes, and then dropped her gaze and nodded.

PC Cartwright. Annie’s father. Sam had seen him, met him, spoken to him – and then watched him die at the hands of Clive Gould, the villain who had all these coppers and detectives on his payroll. Sam had seen it all, though it had happened ten years ago. He had been there.

Choosing his words carefully, Sam asked: ‘What can you tell me about Anthony Cartwright?’

‘I looked him up,’ said Annie. ‘He was a uniformed officer, quite young. Something happened to him, and he died. I think there may have been some sort of a cover-up.’

‘But the
name
,
Annie. What does it mean to you?’

‘I … I don’t know what it means to me, Sam. When I saw it, I tried to think if I had any relatives with that name. Uncles, cousins. But … I couldn’t think of any, Sam. I mean, I couldn’t think of
any
,
no names at all!
I couldn’t remember nothing, Sam! Not me mum’s name, not me dad’s – nobody! I tried, but my mind was a blank. It was like I was going mad.’ Annie ran a hand over her forehead, and let out a shaky breath. ‘I got really scared. But then, looking at the name again – PC Anthony Cartwright – it played on my mind …’

‘Did memories start coming back?’

‘Not
memories
as such, just … impressions. Feelings. Echoes of things. God, I don’t know, I can’t explain it.’

The same thing will happen to me if I stay here long enough,
thought Sam.
This place – this 1973 us dead coppers find ourselves in – it takes us over eventually, erodes our memories of the life we used to lead, makes us forget everything except the here and now. But those memories of what we used to be are still in there somewhere – buried deep – waiting to be unearthed.

‘I’m really confused, Sam,’ Annie muttered.

‘Believe it or not, I completely understand you,’ Sam replied.

Annie looked at him intensely: ‘Yes. I think you do. You know things, don’t you.’

‘Yes. I know things.’

‘Something’s going on, isn’t it. Something weird.’

‘Pretty weird, Annie, yes.’

‘Then help me,’ Annie urged him. ‘Tell me why I can’t remember nothing. And tell who you are. And who
I
am! And where the hell we are!’

Sam hesitated. It was a long story – long and mysterious, and full of things he didn’t understand and dark corners where real horror lurked. Where to begin?

Slowly, he took a deep breath, preparing himself for an explanation he had no idea how he was going to phrase. But he only got as far as one word.

‘Well,’ he said. And then, without warning, he was on his feet, staring past Annie through the open door of Joe’s Caff. ‘Oh my God …’

‘Sam? What is it?’

‘A fella …’

‘A fella?’

‘With a gun. I've just seen a fella with a gun.’

‘What? Where?’

‘Right there! Walking into the church! I just seen a fella with a gun walking straight into that church!’ Sam ran for the door, shouting: ‘Joe! Dial 999!
Now!
’

Joe stood and gawped, slow-witted as a Neanderthal, so Annie shoved past him and grabbed the phone as Sam raced out into the street. He heard Annie’s voice calling after him –
Don’t go, Sam, stay here, wait for back up!
– but he couldn’t stop himself. His instincts had kicked in.

Is this the final showdown?
Sam wondered as he sprinted across the street and through the little churchyard.
Was that Gould I saw? Is he ready now? Is this how we’re going to finish this business between us – in an armed stand-off in a church? So be it, then. If that’s what he wants, let’s do it. Let’s do this thing! Let’s finish it once and for all – right now!

He reached the arched entrance of the church and flung the doors open before he could talk himself out of it.

Sam dashed into the church and skittered to a halt. Dotted about in the pews were various elderly people, old ladies mostly, waiting for the service to begin. But Sam’s attention was fixed on the man who stood at the very back of the church, just inside the main doors, only feet away. He was in his sixties, dressed in a denim jacket, orange nylon shirt, and beige corduroy slacks. He had a hard face, square-jawed and deeply lined. His hair had receded to a collection of wiry, grey curls about his ears. Motionless and silent, he stood at the end of the aisle and glared fiercely ahead.

He’s certainly not Clive Gould. So who the hell is he?

Sam looked down, and saw the revolver gripped tightly in the man’s white-knuckled hand. His finger flexed repeatedly on the trigger.

This guy’s right on the edge. He’s all nerves. Is he deranged? Is he high on something?

‘Hey there,’ Sam said softly. He edged carefully forward. ‘You look strung out.’

The man ignored him. His jaw muscles convulsed.

‘Maybe I can help you,’ Sam said. ‘It’s okay. I’m not going to try anything. My name’s Sam.’

There was a flicker in the man’s eyes, and he turned his head suddenly to turn that furious gaze upon Sam.

‘Sam?’ the man grunted. ‘Sam Tyler? DI Sam Tyler?’

Oh God, have I nicked him in the past?
Sam thought, trying to place the man’s face.
Has he got a grudge against me? Should I just grab that gun off him and pin him down before he makes a move?

‘Yes, I’m DI Tyler. Have we met?’

‘So … it’s you …’

An old lady turned round in her pew and shushed angrily.

Sam inched closer to the man: ‘Listen, why don’t you give me the gun and we’ll talk outside. There’s a café just across the road. I’ll get you breakfast.’

‘SHHH!’

The vicar had appeared, a small, round-shouldered man with pebble glasses. He took his place at the lectern and perused his Bible short-sightedly, oblivious to the drama playing out at the back of his church.

The man with the gun was shaking, his jaw muscles clenching, eyes glaring. Whatever he had come here to do, he was on the verge of doing it. Sam had to get him out of there right now. He’d give it one more go with the softly-softly approach but if that failed, he’d wrestle the gun from him by force and keep him pinned till back up arrived.

‘You don’t need that thing,’ Sam whispered, and he held his hand out for the gun.

‘It’s all because of you, DI Tyler …’ the man muttered.

‘I don’t know what you mean. Give me the gun and we can straighten everything out.’

‘It should be you not me …’ His voice was almost inaudible now. ‘You’re the one he wants … It should be
you …
’

‘The gun. Give me the gun. We can’t talk properly until you give me the –’

At once, the man raised the gun – and thrust it against the side of he own head. His eyes were wide and round and bloodshot. A livid vein pulsed along his temple.

‘Don’t do it!’ Sam yelled.

‘SHHH!’ hissed half a dozen old ladies.

The vicar peered up, mole-like.

‘My name is Detective Chief Inspector Michael Carroll,’ the man with gun declared, speaking loudly and clearly like he was giving a public address. ‘I worked for Manchester CID. I served this city for twenty-five years. I arrested villains. I made the streets safe. I am a
good
man!’