suddenly revealed his true identity, that he was more – much more – than a comic relief barman with a line in extravagant Jamaican banter.
‘It’s all a metaphor!’
Nelson had told him.
‘The crimes you solve in this place, they mean something more than they seem.’
‘What do they mean, Nelson?’
Sam had asked him.
‘Just keep doing your job, Sam. Keep nicking them bad guys,
’ Nelson had replied with a laugh. And then his smile had faded, and he had said very seriously:
‘Just do your best, Sam. It’s important.’
He had a job to do. An important job. And here, in 1973, that job would always manifest itself in the form of a criminal investigation, a case for CID. So as Clive Gould’s spirit built itself up, feeding like a vampire on the corpses of the coppers who had once been on his payroll, all this would appear to the world of 1973 like an old villain was back in town, ensuring the silence of three retired detectives who could spill the beans on him. That’s how it would seem to everyone else, to CID, to Gene. But Sam knew the secret meaning behind the appearance. And Annie was starting to understand it too.
‘I got a name, Guv,’ Sam said, and he found he had instinctively dropped his voice.
‘Yeah, I know – Pansy-Bollocks Tyler, it’s written on your ID.’
‘A
suspect
name, Guv. A prime suspect.’
‘Is this another little bon-bon your crumpet’s picked out of the jamboree bag?’
‘If by that you’re referring to what Annie’s been unearthing in those corrupted files then yes, Guv.’
Gene fixed him with a look that was neither pleased nor friendly. But he said nothing, just waited.
‘Gould,’ Sam said, and he was whispering now, as if just uttering that name would summon the Devil in the Dark right there in the corridor. ‘Clive Gould.’
Gene’s expression did not change. He flickered not so much as an eyelid. But it was that very lack of reaction that told Sam the Guv knew that name – knew it, and did not like it.
After a long pause, Gene said slowly, ‘Do you remember what I said before, Tyler? About sleeping dogs?’
‘Yes, Guv. And it’s as much a pile of bullshit now as it was back then. You’ve heard of Gould, haven’t you?’
‘This isn’t the place to discuss this, Tyler.’
‘You’ve heard of him. You know what an influence he had on CID back in the sixties. You know how corrupt this department was back then.’
‘I said, this isn’t the place.’
‘Guv, he’s the one we need to find,’ Sam said, his voice tight and urgent. ‘Believe me. Don’t ask too many questions. Just take it on trust. Clive Gould’s our man. He’s our man, Guv!’
But at that moment, their privacy was broken by the sudden appearance of a man ambling towards them along the corridor. Tall, thin, dressed in a long raincoat and sporting a trilby worn at a cocky angle, the man reeked of neat spirits and Turkish cigarettes. He grinned; a shifty, gap-toothed grin like Terry-Thomas. Sam had no idea who he was – but judging from Gene’s suddenly defensive reaction it was clear that the Guv had crossed paths with this man before.
‘Jack Sargood,’ Gene sneered. ‘Saucy Jack, the perma-pissed hack. You ain’t still employed, are you?’
‘Most gainfully, as it happens,’ replied Jack Sargood. His well-modulated, educated accent was slurred, and his eyes were not quite fully focused. It was clear that although he had once perhaps been a man of some refinement, he had long since lost his way via the bottle. Dishevelled, inebriated, ragged but unbeaten, he maintained a degree of dignity through his permanent haze of lunchtime Scotches and pre-yardarm vodka and tonics. ‘I’m crime reporter at the
Evening Gazette,
filing hard-hitting stories about …’ He waved a hand airily, looking for the right expression. ‘… about bad men doing naughty things. All very exciting.’
‘The
Evening Gazette
!’
said Gene. ‘I thought they
booted you out after that to-do
‘It’s all a metaphor!’
Nelson had told him.
‘The crimes you solve in this place, they mean something more than they seem.’
‘What do they mean, Nelson?’
Sam had asked him.
‘Just keep doing your job, Sam. Keep nicking them bad guys,
’ Nelson had replied with a laugh. And then his smile had faded, and he had said very seriously:
‘Just do your best, Sam. It’s important.’
He had a job to do. An important job. And here, in 1973, that job would always manifest itself in the form of a criminal investigation, a case for CID. So as Clive Gould’s spirit built itself up, feeding like a vampire on the corpses of the coppers who had once been on his payroll, all this would appear to the world of 1973 like an old villain was back in town, ensuring the silence of three retired detectives who could spill the beans on him. That’s how it would seem to everyone else, to CID, to Gene. But Sam knew the secret meaning behind the appearance. And Annie was starting to understand it too.
‘I got a name, Guv,’ Sam said, and he found he had instinctively dropped his voice.
‘Yeah, I know – Pansy-Bollocks Tyler, it’s written on your ID.’
‘A
suspect
name, Guv. A prime suspect.’
‘Is this another little bon-bon your crumpet’s picked out of the jamboree bag?’
‘If by that you’re referring to what Annie’s been unearthing in those corrupted files then yes, Guv.’
Gene fixed him with a look that was neither pleased nor friendly. But he said nothing, just waited.
‘Gould,’ Sam said, and he was whispering now, as if just uttering that name would summon the Devil in the Dark right there in the corridor. ‘Clive Gould.’
Gene’s expression did not change. He flickered not so much as an eyelid. But it was that very lack of reaction that told Sam the Guv knew that name – knew it, and did not like it.
After a long pause, Gene said slowly, ‘Do you remember what I said before, Tyler? About sleeping dogs?’
‘Yes, Guv. And it’s as much a pile of bullshit now as it was back then. You’ve heard of Gould, haven’t you?’
‘This isn’t the place to discuss this, Tyler.’
‘You’ve heard of him. You know what an influence he had on CID back in the sixties. You know how corrupt this department was back then.’
‘I said, this isn’t the place.’
‘Guv, he’s the one we need to find,’ Sam said, his voice tight and urgent. ‘Believe me. Don’t ask too many questions. Just take it on trust. Clive Gould’s our man. He’s our man, Guv!’
But at that moment, their privacy was broken by the sudden appearance of a man ambling towards them along the corridor. Tall, thin, dressed in a long raincoat and sporting a trilby worn at a cocky angle, the man reeked of neat spirits and Turkish cigarettes. He grinned; a shifty, gap-toothed grin like Terry-Thomas. Sam had no idea who he was – but judging from Gene’s suddenly defensive reaction it was clear that the Guv had crossed paths with this man before.
‘Jack Sargood,’ Gene sneered. ‘Saucy Jack, the perma-pissed hack. You ain’t still employed, are you?’
‘Most gainfully, as it happens,’ replied Jack Sargood. His well-modulated, educated accent was slurred, and his eyes were not quite fully focused. It was clear that although he had once perhaps been a man of some refinement, he had long since lost his way via the bottle. Dishevelled, inebriated, ragged but unbeaten, he maintained a degree of dignity through his permanent haze of lunchtime Scotches and pre-yardarm vodka and tonics. ‘I’m crime reporter at the
Evening Gazette,
filing hard-hitting stories about …’ He waved a hand airily, looking for the right expression. ‘… about bad men doing naughty things. All very exciting.’
‘The
Evening Gazette
!’
said Gene. ‘I thought they
booted you out after that to-do
Similar Books
