Get Cartwright (5 page)

‘If there are
any
developments at all – anything – I want to be informed at once. Understood, cowboy?’

‘Yee hah, Boss,’ winked Chris, giving a jaunty Yankee Doodle salute.

‘Understood, Ray?’ Sam added.

‘Nope,’ Ray muttered. ‘
I
don’t even understand how to get dressed of a morning.’

‘Oh, stop sulking,’ Sam said, striding past him. And mischievously he added: ‘Sometimes, Ray, you’re worse than a bird.’

‘Shoot him for that, Ray!’ Chris urged, and he fell back into his gunslinger stance.

Getting clear of all this idiocy, Sam headed over to Annie who was sitting off by herself, hunting through masses of old police files and making scribbled notes. She barely acknowledged him as he approached.

‘I promised the Guv I would have words with you,’ Sam said gently, half smiling. ‘You overstepped the mark yesterday: you honked his horn. And he was not well pleased. In fact, he was livid, and the only way I could stop him coming after you like a rabid Rottweiler was to promise him I would officially reprimand you for your behaviour. So. There you go. Consider yourself officially reprimanded.’

He grinned at her, but Annie didn’t look up. Her face was serious and intense as she pored over her files, ran her finger down a page of typescript, paused, then made a note. Sam’s smile faded.

The more she looks into those files, the more she starts to see of her forgotten life. It’s coming back to her – slowly, and in fragments, but it’s there.

‘Listen, Annie,’ he said in a whisper. ‘I know you went to see Carroll, that you spoke to him. I haven’t said anything to the Guv about it – in his current state of mind, I think he’d hit the roof. I understand that you feel compelled to find out more about PC Cartwright, but you’ve got to be careful. You’ve got to try to –’

‘I think he was murdered,’ Annie cut in suddenly, without looking up.

‘Who? PC Cartwright?’

She nodded, keeping her head down as she thumbed her way through yet another file.

‘PC Anthony Cartwright died while off duty,’ she said. ‘DCI Carroll compiled the official report on what happened. The report says that DI Patrick Walsh and DS Ken Darby were witnesses to what happened. Together, they testified that they had gone drinking with Tony Cartwright, and that he had admitted to owing hundreds of pounds to a loan shark to pay off gambling debts. Heavy pressure was being put on him to pay back his loan plus yet more hundreds in interest, but he simply didn’t have it. According to Walsh and Darby, Tony Cartwright got drunker and more despairing, until at last he staggered off, distraught. They hung about for a bit and then went after him. They saw him throw himself into the canal, but it happened too quickly to stop him. It took
two weeks
to start dredging the canal.’

‘Two weeks? Why so long?’

‘There were no qualified divers available, apparently. Eventually the body was found and hauled out. Walsh and Darby testified to what happened, and DCI Carroll signed off on it. Case closed. But look here, Sam … The coroner’s report for Anthony Cartwright. It says that the body was identified by Walsh and Darby,
not
by Cartwright’s wife. She never saw the body. Carroll wouldn’t let her. According to his report, it was to spare her the trauma because the body was badly decayed. But, Sam, look …’

She shoved the coroner’s report at Sam and jabbed at it with her finger.

‘The name of the doctor who carried out the autopsy,’ she said.

‘Dr F. Enderby,’ Sam read out. ‘That name’s important?’

‘Only because there
is
no Dr F. Enderby who ever worked as a police coroner or anything else – not here, not in the Midlands, not in London, nowhere! If there
was,
then he’s done a brilliant job of removing every trace of his existence from the CID files. His name isn’t mentioned anywhere else, not once. Not
once,
Sam. When I get the chance I’m going to go down the county coroner’s office and see if there’s any mention of him there, but I’m not betting on it.
Two weeks
to get a diver in, by which time the body’s in too bad a state to be seen by anyone but this non-existent coroner. That ain’t right, Sam. And look at this. It’s a file of bank statements for Cartwright’s current account and building society account at the time of his death.’

Annie thrust the file into Sam’s hands. He opened it.

‘It’s empty,’ he said.

‘The statements are marked as “mislaid”,’ said Annie. ‘No proof that he was ever in debt. And the last person registered as taking this file out of the records office –’

‘– was DCI Carroll,’ Sam finished her sentence for her.

‘And here’s a statement from a man called Terrence Fitch, arrested less than a week after Cartwright’s body was recovered. He was a money lender, a loan shark. In this statement he admits to lending seven hundred pounds to Cartwright at some ridiculous rate of interest, and then threatening to kill him and his family when the repayments stopped.’

‘In fairness, doesn’t that corroborate the official story?’ said Sam.

‘Fitch was arrested by Walsh and Darby, and interviewed by Carroll. His statement was put into the Cartwright file, and after that Fitch disappeared from the records. Completely. No word of him.’

‘Are you saying he didn’t exist?’

‘If he
did,
he had the same talent for vanishing as the mysterious Dr F. Enderby. Look at all this stuff, Sam – it stinks of a cover-up. Files going missing. A dodgy coroner’s report. A miraculously convenient suspect interview that just happens to confirm the official story. And those same three names cropping up time and again: Carroll, Walsh, Darby.’

‘It certainly feels all wrong, Annie. But …’ He hesitated, fearing that the ears of Ray and Chris were flapping in their direction. Lowering his voice to a murmur, he said: ‘Why is it so important to you to find out what happened to PC Cartwright? Do you feel … close to him in some way?’

Annie paused, chewed her lip, and said: ‘I think so. I’m confused. Why does all this stuff feel so personal?’

‘Has the name McClintock turned up in those files?’ Sam asked. Here in this otherworldly 1973, McClintock was House Master of Friar’s Brook borstal. But, in life, he had not only been a serving police officer at the same time as Tony Cartwright, but he had died right alongside him on that awful night when Gould’s garage went up in flames.

‘Mr McClintock?’ Annie asked. ‘The House Master from Friar’s Brook borstal? I’d remember if I’d seen his name anywhere.’

‘No mention at all? That’s strange. Or maybe it’s not strange at all, given the way names come and go so freely in those files.’

‘This much I know, Sam – PC Cartwright died and his death was covered up,’ Annie said, her voice tight and constrained. ‘And the main culprit for that cover-up was DCI Michael Carroll.’

‘Well, at least we know exactly where he is and what he’s up to right now,’ said Sam. ‘Unlike your other suspect, DI Pat Walsh.’

‘And then there’s DS Ken Darby. We need to track them
all
down, Sam. We need to know exactly what happened, how they were involved, and why they covered it up.’

‘
You
need to know,’ Sam gently corrected her.

And now Annie looked up at him, her face drawn and pale, her eyes slightly bloodshot as if she had been crying.

‘Yes!’ she hissed at him. ‘
I
need to know. I need to know who I am and why all this is so damned important to me and what the hell’s going on!’

‘Shhh!’ Sam glanced over his shoulder at Chris and Ray, both of whom were pretending to do paperwork whilst in fact they were flagrantly ear-wigging. Drawing closer to Annie, Sam said in a low voice: ‘We need to talk.’

‘Well I don’t want to talk!’ Annie suddenly snapped at him. ‘I want to find out what’s going on and I want to do it my way!’

‘I did it
myyyyy waaaaaaaayyyy
!’
Chris suddenly bawled out.

Sam hurled a stapler at him. Chris shot him a threatening, dead-eyed, Yul Brynner look, and seemed ready to challenge him to ‘draw’ once again. Ignoring him, Sam turned back to Annie and urged her to keep it down.

Annie glared at him and said in a low voice: ‘I want to do it
my
way because I don’t like
your
way!’

‘What are you talking about?’

In the background, Chris was putting the hurled stapler back together again whilst burbling under his breath: ‘
Regrets … I’ve had a few …
like that curry after the film. Stone me, I’m regretting
that
!’

‘
Your
way, Sam, is all about keeping things from me, and not telling me what you know,’ Annie hissed. ‘You’ve known things … about me, about … about
everything
! But you haven’t said.’

‘Annie, keep it down, this isn’t the time or the place.’

‘How can I trust what you say, Sam? You’ve kept secrets from me! You knew things – important things – but you didn’t tell me!’

There was a deep, chesty rumble, and the sound of congealed phlegm being grunted out. Gene Hunt strode into CID, a fag smouldering in his gob.

‘Morning, my lovelies,’ he intoned.

‘Draw!’ Chris challenged him, squaring up for a gun fight. ‘I said, Guv.’

Gene stopped dead in his tracks, looked Chris over like he was made of freshly dropped shit, and then said in low and menacing voice: ‘If that’s Brynner from that bloody kiddies’ flick you’re doing, Skelton, then I’m giving you precisely one second to pack it in.’

Chris responded by drawing his imaginary revolver and pow-pow-powing the Guv with it.

Gene turned down the sides of his mouth in a fish-faced grimace of utter disgust and declared: ‘
Brynner ain’t no cowboy!
He talks like bloody Brezhnev and looks like a squeezed dick with a Chinky’s face painted on the bell.’

Looking suddenly deflated, Chris said meekly: ‘I … I thought you liked Westerns, Guv.’

‘Westerns, Chris!
Westerns
!
That abortion showing in the flea pits out there ain’t fit to wipe the arse of a decent Western! You think John Ford would crank out some shite about wind-up toys getting porked by stockbrokers in a theme park?’

Ray’s ears pricked up at that: ‘Oh aye? I didn’t know there was porking in it. Do you get to see much?’

‘You see a
bit
,’
Chris said, turning to Ray. ‘There’s this bird, right, and she’s a robot-like but you wouldn’t know it, it’s not like her tits are made out of foil or nuthin’, but her eyes do go a bit silver at one point. Anyway, this scrawny fella with a ’tache is getting the right horn with her, so he …’

‘I’ll have no more talk about
Westworld
in my department!’ Gene bellowed. ‘Yul Brynner ain’t no cowboy – end of. John Wayne! Randolph Scott! Saint Gary of Cooper!
Them’s
cowboys, Christopher,
them’s
bloody cowboys, not that slappy-skulled Ruskie mincing about with two Evereadies up his arse and a scrote-sack full of fuses!
Robots?! In Stetsons? I’ve shit ’em!
’

He stomped furiously to his office, flung open the door, and disappeared inside. A moment later, his voice roared out: ‘Tyler! Cartwright! You are summoned!’

Without a glance at Sam, Annie got to her feet and strode briskly towards the Guv’s office. Sam sighed and followed her.

They found Gene prowling about, agitated and enraged.

‘Bloody robots …’ he growled. ‘
Bald
bloody robots, with slitty eyes. Oh, how our days have darkened, Tyler, how they have
darkened
!’

Gene glanced round at Sam and Annie, swallowed down his indignation at the state of seventies cinema, and plonked himself heavily into his chair. He planted his feet up onto his desk.

‘Right, enough of that, I’ve got a city to police,’ he said, appraising them both critically. ‘I take it, Cartwright, that in relation to your behaviour the other day DI Tyler has dished out a suitable bollocking – or whatever the female equivalent is … a “fannying”, if that’s a word. Well? Has he?’

‘Yes, Guv,’ Annie muttered.

‘And have the pertinent lessons been absorbed?’

‘Yes, Guv.’

‘You could at least
pretend
to sound like you give a toss, Cartwright.’

‘Yes, Guv.’

‘Okay then. I’ll say no more about it. But what I
do
want to discuss is what you’re up to.’

‘Guv?’ Sam and Annie asked in unison.

‘WPC Knicker-Elastic has been conducting some sort of private investigation,’ Gene clarified. ‘I want to know what it’s about, and I want to know right now.’ He waited for an answer, and when he got none he raised an eyebrow and said: ‘Well?’

‘It’s not easy to explain,’ Sam suggested.

‘Then let dopey-tits have a go.’ Gene narrowed his eyes and stared at Annie. ‘Come on, ducks, I’m a busy man. What are you up to with all them old police files?’

‘It’s … personal, Guv,’ said Annie.

‘Oh, cobblers it is!’ Gene suddenly barked at her, sweeping his feet from the desk and looming up out of his chair. ‘What’s “personal” in this place? We’re coppers, you drippy mare! All of us – even you! So start behaving like one!’

‘Oh aye?’ Annie shot back at him. ‘By banging on about some stupid cowboy film?’

‘
Yul Brynner ain’t no cowboy
!
’ Gene bellowed. ‘And don’t try and change the subject. What’s in them files, eh? What are you after? And what about these ex-coppers on that list of yours? Have you been knocking on their doors asking for a chat?’

To Sam’s utter amazement, Annie simply turned on her heel, strode out, and slammed Gene’s officer door behind her.

For a few heartbeats, Gene watched the empty space where Annie had been standing, then he turned the full force of his gaze into Sam. Silently, he waited for an explanation.

‘She’s upset, Guv,’ Sam said.

‘So am I. Bloody robots!’ And then, looking intently at Sam, he added: ‘What’s going on with her, eh? Why’s she got the hump like this?’

Sam ran a hand through his hair. Damn it, this was a tight corner. How the hell could he explain?

Gene sank slowly into his chair, placed his hands carefully upon his desk, and drummed his fingers. Without warning, he suddenly stopped. Whatever thought process had been going through his head was evidently completed. The Gene Hunt mind had cogitated – and now it was made up.