The Crooked Beat
Caffeine Nights Publishing
The Crooked Beat
Nick Quantrill
Fiction aimed at the heart and the head...
Published by Caffeine Nights Publishing 2013
Copyright © Nick Quantrill 2013
Nick Quantrill has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1998 to be identified as the author of this work
CONDITIONS OF SALE
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, scanning, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher
This book has been sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental
Published in Great Britain by Caffeine Nights Publishing
www.caffeine-nights.com
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN:
978-1-907565-57-1
Cover design by
Mark (Wills) Williams
Everything else by
Default, Luck and Accident
Also by Nick Quantrill
Joe Geraghty Novels
Broken Dreams
The Late Greats
Novellas
Bang Bang You’re Dead
Dedication:
For my mum, Sylvia Quantrill.
With thanks to…
Darren Laws, Sandra Mangan and Mark Williams at Caffeine Nights. Writing some words down is the easy bit. Turning them into a book is much harder.
Ian Ayris, Paul Brazill and Luca Veste for gamely reading the early drafts and offering help and advice without complaint. Fine writers one and all.
Andy Rivers at Byker Books for indulging me with the novella and short stories. Top man.
Nick Triplow for his entertaining and wise company on the motorways of Northern England. “The Humber Beat” is always available for bookings at libraries, bookshops, and pretty much anywhere you can hold a function.
Jason Goodwin remains a man of great patience and impeccable character as he digs me out of one hole after another with the website.
I’ve been fortunate enough to meet countless readers, writers, librarians and members of the press over the last three years. There really are too many to mention, but you know who you are.
Richard Sutherland for the use of his name…
Lastly, I wouldn’t be writing without the support, patience and love of my wife, Cathy, and my daughter, Alice. I’m very lucky.
Drop me a line:
The Crooked Beat
‘I’ll say it again, slowly this time, so you understand,’ Andrew Bancroft said. ‘I don’t want to talk to you, Don. I don’t like you. I think you’re a cunt.’
Ridley sat back in his chair. ‘It’s Detective Constable Ridley to you. Not Don.’ He paused for a moment. ‘And watch your mouth.’
‘I want to talk to Holborn.’
‘You’re talking to me. Detective Inspector Holborn isn’t available.’
‘Out doing proper work is he?’ Bancroft took a drag on his cigarette. ‘Not wasting his time talking to me in this shitty interview room of yours?’
‘I told you to watch your mouth.’
Bancroft repeated his request. ‘I want to speak to Holborn.’
‘Tell me about the money I found on you.’
Ridley waved the question away. ‘Won it on the horses, didn’t I?’
‘Right.’ Ridley placed the money he’d taken off Bancroft on the table. A mixture of notes - ones, fives and tens. ‘There’s about £200 here. Looks like the takings out of the pub’s till to me.’
Bancroft finished his cigarette, stubbed it out and stared at Ridley. ‘I like a bet, don’t I?’
‘You won it on a bet with the landlord? Is that what you’re telling me?’
‘When did it become illegal to have some money in your pocket?’
‘Depends how you got that money. Did the landlord just hand it over to you?’
‘Like I said, I like a bet.’
‘And you were collecting your winnings?’
Bancroft smiled and nodded.
‘We’ll see what the landlord has to say.’
Bancroft laughed. ‘You think he’ll speak to you?’
‘I saw you with my own eyes. You were taking protection money off the man.’
‘You saw fuck all, Don.’ Bancroft leaned back. ‘You can to do better than that, surely?’
Ridley rattled off a long list of convictions. ‘It doesn’t look good, does it?’
‘It doesn’t look good for me?’ Bancroft said. ‘What about you? You’re going nowhere, hanging around pubs, accusing innocent men like me. Anyone who knows what they’re doing is on Sagar’s team, trying to catch whoever set that house on fire. They’re not chained to the station making cups of tea for when they come back.’
Ridley lunged across the table at Bancroft and grabbed his coat. ‘Don’t forget who you’re speaking to.’
Bancroft smiled. ‘Be a good lad, Don, and take your hands off me.’
Ridley let go, sat back in his chair and took a deep breath.
‘What’s Sagar so wound up about, anyway?’ Bancroft said. ‘Everyone knows what that family are, bothering people all day and night, taking the piss.’
‘That’s not the point.’
‘The area will sort it out. That’s how it works. No one wants you lot poking their noses in where they’re not wanted.’ Bancroft stared at his fingernails. ‘They never bothered me, though.’ He smiled at Ridley. ‘But they wouldn’t, would they?’
Ridley banged on the table and raised his voice. ‘Children died in that fire. I gave up my Christmas for it, so don’t tell me what’s worth bothering with and what’s not. You’ve got no idea.’
Bancroft lit up another cigarette. ‘If you’re after a thank you from me you won’t be getting one.’
Ridley stood up and paced the small room. He stopped at the window and stared out. Relentless rain battered against it. A few miles west of Queens Gardens Police Station, the Humber Bridge was being constructed. It was a new beginning for the city in a new decade. He turned back to face Bancroft. ‘I didn’t even get to see my little girl open her presents this year because I was talking to people like you. People like you who don’t give a shit about doing the right thing. People like you who don’t care that kids died in that fire.’ He jabbed a finger at Bancroft. ‘Fucking scumbags, like you.’
Bancroft walked across the room to stand next to Ridley. ‘All that time away from home working, it sounds like your wife might be a bit lonely.’
Ridley slammed Bancroft into the wall. ‘If you so much as mention my family again, I’ll knock into next week. I don’t care how big you are or who you think you know.’
The men stared at each before Bancroft smiled. ‘You might need to watch that temper of yours.’
Ridley released his grip and walked back to the table.
Bancroft rearranged his jacket. ‘Like I said, Don, if you’re accusing me of something, I want to talk to Holborn, and I want to talk to him now. I think you’re a cunt.’
Niall only called me Joseph when he was in trouble. My brother didn’t need to ask me twice. I put my mobile in my pocket and picked up my car keys. I was still working out of the office space rented by Ridley & Son, Private Investigators in the Old Town of Hull. I wasn’t Don Ridley’s son, but it didn’t make the decision to close any easier. The lease still had a month to run, so it was a base for the time being. After that, I had no idea. I was now a former Private Investigator.
Niall rented a lock-up on a housing estate. It was out to the east of the city, but I made good time by weaving through the rat-runs I knew. I parked up outside and made my way in. The lock-up was basic with four concrete walls, a bare floor and a light bulb with no shade dangling from the ceiling. My brother was making furniture for friends and family. The lock-up was effectively a small workshop. After working in the caravan industry for so many years, he had the joinery skills. It had gone unspoken, but I knew it had kept him occupied during the long days before he’d decided to go into business with some of his mates. Starting again in his mid-forties was brave, but I wasn’t far behind that and had nothing. I took a step back and knocked on the door so he knew I was there.
He stopped work on the wardrobe he was putting together. ‘Thanks for coming so quickly.’
‘Not a problem.’ I looked at what he was working on. He was a craftsman, that much was clear. It was obvious to me that he took a lot of pleasure from his work.
‘Already got a buyer lined up for it,’ he said, following my gaze.
My brother only spoke in his own time. He had something to say, but I would have to wait for him to get to the point. He nodded at the framed rugby league shirts and photographs in the corner. I walked over and carefully flicked through them.