Fish 2 - POLLACKS! Chapter 2
By Albert-W
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Fish 2
POLLACKS!
Chapter 2
Brian Parker had had a reasonable morning. Higham police station was calm today; just how the forty-seven-year-old detective inspector liked it. For him, the quiet periods were best; even more so now that he’d finally made DI rank. The last time it had been really busy was on the night they’d mistakenly raided the solicitors’ office as a pusher’s den and set off a chain of events that ended with the Chief Constable's forced resignation, his wife dropping dead, the Deputy Chief having to be pensioned off through losing his scrotum, and the Mayor and a Salesian monk being hauled in on a gross indecency charge.
What a bizarre night that had been; never to be repeated Parker hoped, even if it had led to his promotion. A hotel manager topped himself, a PC was crippled and several police cars were written-off. He had even suffered the indignity of having to arrest his own teenage daughter for trespassing in the nude. No; he preferred the quiet. And now he would go for his lunch, take his time and enjoy it - maybe slope off early afterwards if there was nothing doing. Why not?
"Call for you, Guv," a fresh-faced constable stopped him on his way out.
"Give it here lad," the sharply groomed Parker tutted, snatching the receiver. "Detective Inspector Parker speaking," he announced grandly, his elevated title having so far lost none of its cachet. "What? who?.. oh really?"
"Something up?" asked the constable, even before the call was concluded.
"Don't interrupt!" Parker scolded with his hand over the mouthpiece. "What's that you say dear?" he returned to the caller. "He said what? He did, did he? Right; you leave it to me."
"Thanks sir," nodded the constable when handed back the instrument. "Sounded like there's something on."
"Look young man," the DI turned on him. "The next time you're present when I take a call, you shut your ears; is that understood?"
"Yes Guv."
"As it happens, that was one of my best narks. If she got wind that somebody was listening in she'd clam up, and I wouldn't get any more sniffs from her."
"With you," the PC grinned, somewhat unpleasantly for his superior’s taste. "Offered you a good sniff today, did she?"
Parker wasn’t quite sure if this was genuine interest or just downright impertinence. Whichever, the crack irritated him and he turned to leave.
"Mr. Parker;" the lad called after him, “your wife phoned earlier to say that Logan’s won't deliver her groceries unless you go in and settle the account. I thought that was her on the phone again just now; sounded like her but...” he paused to sniff deliberately long and hard, “obviously not."
The DI opened his mouth to speak, shook his head, grimaced and thought better of it. Instead, he stormed out.
"Hello old chap," a vaguely familiar figure accosted him on the steps. "Just coming to see you. How are you keeping?"
"What’s it to you," snapped Parker, still bristling and now obliged to rack his memory. "I know your face, but I can't recall your name. What did I do you for?”
"You didn’t do me for anything," said Hayward indignantly. “But you falsely arrested me and my partners when you invaded our offices. I’m Claude Hayward of Hayward, and Muglis..."
"Oh yes, the solicitor."
"Indeed."
"Well, that’s your problem. Good day to you." With that, Parker turned about and marched off up the road towards the Spread Eagle in Market Square where he now resolved to sink more than his usual one lunchtime pint.
Hayward stood with jaw sagging, stunned by the man's astonishing and unwarranted rudeness, then followed. He meant to have words with that policeman, which was his other reason for being in the station end of town today.
Business was brisk in the lounge bar. "It's paid for my love," Leslie the Spread Eagle’s ginger-toupeed barman told DI Parker, handing him his beer. "Gentleman at the end of the bar."
Parker looked guardedly along past the row of chattering faces, praying that some local lag wasn’t about to prime him for a favour.
"Cheers!" Claude Hayward was gesturing with his glass, as well as another of his disingenuous smiles, from the fruit machine area.
"Er... cheers," the policeman responded weakly, making sure that his mouth was well obscured by the pint pot before adding: "wanker!" He had hardly swallowed his first mouthful when the legal man was upon him.
"Glad I caught you," said Hayward." "I've been wanting to speak to you about Newlands Park; you remember, the estate where..."
"Don’t you remind me about that fucking place," Parker near choked on his ale, employing language that had only started to feature in his vocabulary since his exposure to Moira Maxwell. "It’s all I can do to forget it. Look here;" he took another swig, "if you've come to tell me that there's anything else about those sodding Maxwell people we didn't uncover, I suggest you think on. The spiteful old boy's pushing up the daisies, the insane daughter's doing life in a U.S. pen, and the loopy son's probably in a nuthouse by now. The only one I ever hear of is the son's wife - the depraved tart who calls herself a model. Bloody bitch lured my kid into the business. Christ, Jennifer used to be such a sweet little thing before that cow corrupted her. Now all we ever see of her is when some anonymous filthy-minded bastard sends us pictures of her baring her arse in Mayfair. Oh yes Mr. Hayman..."
"Hayward."
"Hayward then. Yes indeed; I can remember Newlands Park all right. But I don’t bloody well want to."
"It's important."
"Then tell the Super."
"It has to be you."
"Now look;" Parker stood his ground, "that case had a jinx on it from the start. People were injured and died. To us policemen it's a bit like the curse of Tutankhamen's tomb. Nobody wants to go near it again for fear of being struck down with some appalling disease - or maybe being revisited by that Moira Maxwell monster. As I said, I don't want to talk about it, hear about it or even think about it."
"Aha," a diminutive weasely-faced man cut across the conversation. "Just the person I've been looking for. This," he handed Parker a slip of paper, "is your outstanding account. If it's not settled by the weekend I shall be seeing my solicit... oh, hello Mr. Hayward,” he twigged all of a sudden. “What a coincidence you being here. As I told you the other day, this person," he agitatedly prodded Parker’s chest, "owes me for three-month’s groceries. I’ll be coming to formalise matters with you next week if he doesn't pay me. Good afternoon."
"Another drink?" the now beetroot-faced DI offered as a diversionary smokescreen, attempting to signal indifference. "There's obviously been some mix-up. The memsahib always settles the household accounts promptly."
“She’ll need to this time,” Hayward, smelling blood, went straight to work with his wooden spoon, proffering his empty pint sleeve for refill. “Logan’s a highly litigious character; like a dog with a bone over bad debts. Always goes for the jugular, that one.” To add to the man’s discomfort he loudly sucked in air through his teeth, shaking his head solemnly and tutting. "The courts are really cracking down on that sort of thing, you know," he further provoked. “And with you an officer of the law – setting the example, so to speak – well...”
There was a pause while Parker stared into space, considering his position. Maybe the solicitor had a point, but no way was he going to submit to the embarrassment of admitting it. "I told you," he insisted, "it's a mistake. I'll get Mrs. Parker to sort it out this afternoon. Ehm... on my tab," he instructed the barman with a dismissive hand flap when the fresh drinks were served."
"I’m very sorry ducks," Leslie apologised, "but the boss says you’ve been a naughty boy. It's already way over the top and he says I'm to insist on payment this time."
The policeman’s gulp was audible.
"Be my guest," Hayward came to the rescue with more than gallantry in mind. "And have one yourself barman," he added, brandishing a crisp fifty pound note for effect - one he was thumbing from a fanned-out sheaf of them that he purposely kept on display for the policeman’s consumption.
Leslie accepted the offer. "I’ll have a Babycham with you, and that'll make it nine pounds eighty. You don't have anything smaller do you sweetie? Oh, of course you must, seeing as I already changed a fifty for you on the last round."
"God; my memory’s not what it was," Hayward dug deep into his pockets, now piling a heap of loose fivers, tenners and assorted coins on top of the fifties to gild the lily. "Here, help yourself."
All the while, Parker's eyes had been out on stalks. Money! The stuff that he never seemed to have much of, despite his reasonable salary. The trouble was that his wife had been seriously affected by their daughter’s abandonment of St. Botolph’s Girl Guides, the Mid Sussex Youth Orchestra and a much coveted place at Trinity College in favour of lewd photographic antics, and had taken to afternoons of gambling at some backstreet casino in Brighton. Recently, he'd persuaded her to go for counselling, but that wouldn't make good the several thousand pounds of debts she'd amassed. People were getting impatient - like Logan the grocer; and he was just the tip of the iceberg.
"Damn!" Hayward cursed to feign scolding himself. “I’m such a butterfingers today.” He'd somehow allowed the whole impressive clutch of paper money to flutter to the floor. It was all over the place.
Parker instinctively dived after it, partly to ensure its safety, but mainly to have a good feel. "Here," he said as he got up again. "I should put this lot away if I were you. You never know who's watching. There are some very wide characters get in this pub; especially on market days."
"I will," nodded the solicitor, having correctly assessed the dire extent of the man’s reduced circumstances, deliberately taking his time to collate the banknotes by denomination to further prolong the exhibition, as well as Parker’s agony. "Well I'm sorry you won't talk about Newlands Park," he eventually reached his punchline, still casually waving handfuls of cash about as he spoke. "What I had to say was... perhaps I should have mentioned before... something on the lines of a private proposition. My clients were willing to pay handsomely for your services, but...”
- * * *
© Albert Woods (2014)
The full prequel novel to this yarn is available for Kindle or PC on Amazon
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