The Only Game. Reginald Hill
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sex life. Not even a domestic one. He searched diligently for drugs, both prescribed and proscribed, anything which would suggest nerves stretched close to breaking point, but found nothing more than a bottle of paracetamol and a child’s cough mixture. There was flour in the flour jar, tea in the tea caddy, talc in the talc tin, and nothing at all on top of the wardrobe, in the lavatory cistern or under the kitchen sink. There was no alcohol in the flat nor any tobacco. She had a small portable television set and a radio tuned to Radio Two. Her small tape collection was mainly soul and folk. There were quite a lot of books, mostly paperbacks. Her taste in fiction was for chunky historical romances, though he did find a couple of Booker nominees which she was either still reading or, on the evidence of the hairpin bookmarks, had abandoned at page seventeen and page thirty-two respectively. There were two PE manuals, one on athletics coaching, the other on sports injuries, both inscribed Jane Maguire, South Essex College of Physical Education. There was also a beautifully bound edition of Blake’s Songs of Innocence and Experience. It was inscribed, To Jane, going out into the world, with love and best wishes, Maddy. He opened it at random and found himself looking at a poem called ‘The Little Boy Lost’.
‘Father, father! where are you going?
O do not walk so fast.
Speak, father, speak to your little boy,
Or else I shall be lost.’
The night was dark, no father was there
He closed the book abruptly and sat down in an old armchair which creaked comfortably, and tried to think like a copper. He had found nothing remarkable, nothing incriminatory. The only oddness was an absence, not a presence.
There was no mail except the usual junk addressed to the occupier which he’d found in the kitchen pedal bin. But there was nothing to suggest that anything either official or personal had ever come addressed to Mrs Jane Maguire.
And there was nothing either which referred to her dead husband, Oliver Beck.
He closed his eyes and played through what he had got, but it came out blurred and distorted with too much interference from other channels.
He’d told Parslow that Maguire’s Irish background was no problem, and he’d meant it. But then his eyes had been wide open and he’d been able to blot out the mental image of a tall, graceful woman with huge green eyes and hair aflame like a comet’s tail …
He opened his eyes abruptly and found to his surprise that he had rolled and lit one of his capillary cigarettes.
There were no ashtrays. Maguire didn’t smoke, probably didn’t like the smell of tobacco in her home. He experienced an absurd guilt, told himself she wasn’t going to be back here soon enough to notice, and felt guiltier still.
He went into the kitchen and flushed the butt down the sink. Then he put the kettle on and made a cup of very strong coffee.
As he drank it Johnson returned.
‘You’ve been quick,’ said Dog.
‘I’ve not been on house to house,’ said the constable defensively. ‘Just the other flats, and at half of them I got no answer, and as good as none at a lot of the rest. I only managed to raise three who admitted ever having noticed Maguire. First was an old lady called Ashley who is more or less confined to the flat beneath. Didn’t know Maguire by name but says that she’s heard a child crying in the flat above on several occasions and the mother shouting angrily, after which the crying died to a whimper. She says she got so concerned last week that she rang the council’s Social Service department and reported it.’
‘Any action?’ asked Dog.
‘She says someone came round on Saturday morning but couldn’t get any answer from Maguire’s flat. But later she claims she saw Maguire putting the child into her car and driving away.’
‘I thought she didn’t get out of her flat?’
‘Her window overlooks the front. She spends a lot of time there.’
‘What about this morning?’
‘She didn’t get up till half past nine.’
‘Pity. OK, what else?’
‘Number Fourteen, Nigel Bellingham, would-be yuppie, driving a Sierra until he can afford a Porsche …’
‘For Christ’s sake!’
‘Sorry, guv, but it’s relevant, sort of. He doesn’t notice people, this joker, but he notices cars. It’s all resident-permit street parking round here, and those with regular habits usually end up at about the same spot. Maguire was very regular, and her car hasn’t been in its usual spot since Saturday morning.’
‘Why should he notice her car in particular?’
‘Cars equal pecking order in his tiny mind. Maguire’s banger was right at the bottom of his league table.’
Dog considered this, nodded, and said, ‘OK. I’ll buy that. What about the third witness?’
‘That’s Mary Streeter, Number Six. She’s got a little girl, takes her to that park across the shopping precinct most Sundays to feed the ducks and usually sees Maguire there with her boy. They’re not friends. I got the impression Mrs Streeter wouldn’t have minded being closer but Maguire wasn’t having any. Anyway, she says Maguire definitely missed the park this Sunday, and it was a fine afternoon.’
‘So she was away for the weekend,’ said Dog.
‘So she went away after the social worker called and she didn’t answer the door,’ corrected Johnson unnecessarily.
‘So what?’ said Cicero. ‘Would you let a social worker into your house?’
The door bell rang.
The two men exchanged glances. It wasn’t likely to be either Maguire or the alleged kidnapper. On the other hand it was silly to take risks.
Dog moved quietly to the front door and squinted through the peephole.
Nothing.
Motioning Johnson to one side, he gently turned the handle of the Yale lock. Then he dragged the door open and leapt out into the corridor.
An arm like a steel bar caught him round the throat, his right wrist was seized and his hand forced high up between his shoulder blades, while his left shoulder was thrust with such force against the wall that he screamed out in pain and felt his left arm hang paralysed. He tried to lash back with his heel but his assailant was ready for that and he kicked feebly into air while the pressure on his neck redoubled.
Then a voice said, ‘Tommy, what are you playing at? Put him down at once. This is my old mate, Dog Cicero. Dog, how’ve you been, old son? Long time no see. We’ve got ever such a lot to talk about.’
‘Funny old thing, life,’ said Superintendent Toby Tench.
Dog Cicero said, ‘Can’t argue with that,’ leaving the sentence hanging uncertainly over Toby or sir.
Tench had never lost his stoutness. At nine it had given him the bulk to back up his claim to be pack leader in the school yard. A rival had started picking on the slight, sallow, silent Italian kid and Tench had taken him under his wing to affirm his primacy. Then puberty, the great equalizer, had got to work, turning Dog into a darkly attractive young man, academically able and athletically outstanding, while it marooned Tench in a podgy, spotty, undistinguished adolescence. Their ways seemed to have parted forever when Tench left to become a police cadet and Dog stayed on to qualify for entrance to Sandhurst.
He recalled their last encounter. He’d just come from saying goodbye to Father Power at Holy Trinity. Tench, looking like the stout constable of the comic books, was walking past the church yard gate.