Only a Game (11 page)

Jim wanted to ask the man opposite him to take off his dark glasses, but knew he must not do that. He had never had to negotiate with anyone behind shades before; he was surprised how difficult it made it to see what a man was thinking when you could not see his eyes. The sheikh looked at him for a few seconds, so that Jim thought he was going to question these arrangements. Then he gave a curt nod and said, ‘My representative in the UK may need to bring certain queries to you when we have perused the figures. It will speed up the process.'

‘Of course. Would you like to give me his name and telephone number?' Capstick produced his diary and silver-cased ballpoint.

‘That will not be necessary. He will contact you in due course if we have queries.'

‘Very well. Is there anything more we can do today?'

‘Nothing at this stage, Mr Capstick.' He pronounced the strange name carefully, as if it was important to him to fix it in his memory.

‘Then I shall fly home tonight and give the necessary orders to my staff.'

‘Excellent. You have a seat reserved?'

‘Yes.'

‘Very well. I look forward to doing business with you.'

‘And I with you.' Capstick hesitated, then thrust forward his hand. He thought he caught a sharp intake of breath from one of the men at the table, but after a second the sheikh took his hand and shook it firmly.

He had an hour to get to the airport. He took a shower and changed his shirt for the flight, finding the one he took off wet with sweat. The shower relaxed him; he had not realized quite how tense his muscles had become. He picked up the phone and had a call put through to his home. The tone buzzed six times in his ear before it was answered.

‘Brunton eight-three-seven-two-zero-five.' The voice was not that of Helen but of Wally Boyd. Calls went through to the driver's flat over the garage when they were not answered in the main house.

‘It's me, Wally. I'm about to leave the hotel in Dubai. My flight is due to land at Ringway at four twenty a.m.'

‘I'll be there, sir.'

‘Bloody unsocial hour. I'm sorry about that.'

‘Can't be helped, Mr Capstick. I was expecting it. Won't be much traffic, at that time. Let's hope you land on time.'

Jim paused for a moment, then said as casually as he could, ‘Mrs Capstick out, is she?'

‘Yes, sir. Left this morning, sir. Didn't give me any idea of her plans for the day.'

‘Do you think she's gone to the same place?'

‘Couldn't say, sir. I couldn't ask her where she was going, could I? I hoped she'd drop something casually about her destination, but she didn't.' He paused, picturing his employer's face, trying to estimate the degree of anxiety at the other end of the line. ‘I could check the mileage on the Mercedes, sir. I have the figure that was on the clock when Mrs Capstick left here.'

‘Do that, will you? And try to get her story about where she's been, if you can do it without raising suspicion.'

‘I will, sir. It's easy to check the mileage clock, once she puts the car in the garage. And if she's in the right mood, Mrs Capstick often volunteers information about where she's been.'

Wally Boyd rang off and looked at his watch. It must be nice to be really rich, like Jim Capstick. It gave you fast cars and people to meet you at the airport in the middle of the night and a glamorous, younger wife. But it obviously brought problems with it, as well.

In Dubai, Jim Capstick was thinking grimly that his chauffeur-bodyguard could also add spy to his job description.

DCI Peach left the two young men in the separate interview rooms for fully ten minutes before he moved to interview them. ‘Which of these two beauties do you prefer?' he asked DS Blake.

Lucy shrugged. ‘Whichever one you recommend. I don't know either of them.'

‘I'll take Ahktar, then. He's the bugger who came at me with the knife. You take Malim. Take Brendan Murphy in with you and give him a verbal bashing. You know the situation?'

‘Yes. We hope they don't realize it, but there isn't going to be a court case against them. I gather Peter Forsyth was a bit too keen for his own good and went looking for evidence where he shouldn't have.'

‘He did. I gave PC Forsyth a mild rebuke about it yesterday.'

Lucy Blake, who had bought coffee for the limp and shell-shocked Forsyth in the police canteen, smiled grimly and forbore to comment. ‘I'll see what Brendan and I can get out of Malim.'

‘And the big lad and I will see what we can get out of Ahktar.' Peach glanced at his watch. ‘Right. Let's go!'

Wasim Ahktar was as apprehensive as Peach had hoped he would be after his wait in the interview room. He looked up in nervous anticipation as the man he had attacked ten days earlier bounced like a rubber ball into the room. ‘You remember me, no doubt: DCI Peach. And this is DC Northcott.' He nodded happily at the man who was sitting down beside him.

Ahktar's anxiety was doubled rather than diminished. Peach had not exaggerated when he called his companion ‘the big lad'. Clyde Northcott was six feet three, tall and lean, and gave the impression that all was bone and muscle beneath a tightly stretched skin. That skin was a very deep shade of black. Ahktar, who had previously thought that if things got really tough he would play the race card, now felt that even that rather desperate option had been removed.

Peach had the air of a rather hungry lion approaching a tethered goat. ‘Good of you to come into the station voluntarily to help us with our enquiries, Mr Ahktar. The cooperation of the public is always appreciated.'

‘Voluntarily? I never—'

‘No more than the duty of a good citizen, of course, but appreciated nevertheless. Especially from someone as deep in the doo-dah as you are.'

‘Now look, I don't—'

‘I always like to assist someone who recognizes his public duty and wants to help us. But there is a problem. The question I have to ask myself is whether I can do anything useful for someone who caused an affray, pulled a knife on me, and tried to cut my throat. Would you think there was anything useful, DC Northcott?'

‘Nothing at all, sir, that I can see. We could perhaps visit him in prison in due course, but that wouldn't do him any good with the rest of the men in there.'

Percy shook his head in sad agreement. ‘You're probably right. Nasty sort of men you get in these long-term prisons, nowadays. In that case, I wonder if we could do anything for this lad before he gets there. Whether we might even keep him out of the can altogether.'

Northcott was well used by now to being Peach's straight man. He pursed his lips thoughtfully and said doubtfully, ‘I can't see how that's going to be possible, sir, with the serious charges you have detailed. I have to say that I think you're being a little too charitable in this case, sir.'

Wasim Ahktar felt both threatened and bewildered by this strange pincer movement. He said desperately, ‘I didn't pull a knife on you, Mr Peach! Not on you personally. And I'd never have cut your throat!'

‘Really? Well, that hasn't been fully explored in court yet, has it?'

‘And I hope you'll remember you nearly broke my bloody arm on that night.' Wasim rubbed the forearm in question with the fingers of his left hand and winced at the memory.

‘Did I really, Mr Ahktar? Just shows the danger I felt I was in at the time, doesn't it? Good thing for you it wasn't DC Northcott here. Just between you and me, he's a bit of a hard bastard, is DC Northcott.' He glanced sideways at his colleague, who dutifully shifted his chair a little nearer to the small square table and stared down aggressively at the brown face which was now no more than two feet from his.

Wasim said wretchedly, ‘I don't see how I can be of any use to you.'

‘Well, perhaps I could help you there, then.' Peach looked ruminatively towards the ceiling for a moment and then appeared to make a decision. ‘We don't do plea bargaining. We leave that sort of stuff to the lawyers; I'm sure in this case those buggers will think they have a cast iron case so won't be interested in any deals.' He shook his face regretfully at this iron element in the English law. ‘But it's just possible that, if you were able to offer me a little help, I'd be able to argue to my senior officer, the man in charge of this CID section, that you'd been co-operative and thus deserved lenience. Chief Superintendent Tucker is a hard and ruthless man, but I would do my very best for you.'

Clyde Northcott's lips had threatened to twist into a smile with the description of Tommy Bloody Tucker as a hard and ruthless man. He now added hastily, ‘You would do well to listen to DCI Peach, if he sees any way out for you.'

Ahktar was by now thoroughly bewildered. He said dully, ‘What is it that you want of me?'

Peach gave him a disarming smile. ‘A little information, Mr Ahktar. In exchange for which, I shall do my very best for you.'

Wasim stared at him suspiciously. He hadn't much experience of pigs, but everyone said you shouldn't trust them an inch. ‘And what can you offer me in return? We've already been remanded to the Crown Court. What are you going to do for us there?'

Percy nodded thoughtfully. ‘Good point, that, Mr Ahktar. Once we're in the hands of those damned lawyers, there's very little we can do to affect the course of justice. The only real possibility would be to avoid going to court altogether, don't you think, DC Northcott?'

Northcott's stern, hitherto unrevealing features were transformed with consternation. ‘We surely couldn't do that, sir, not with charges as serious as these and police witnesses lined up to attest to them.'

Percy nodded regretfully. ‘DC Northcott may well be right. My impulse to help people in trouble often unhinges my judgement, I'm afraid. The penalty for even carrying a knife was recently increased to four years, Mr Ahktar. And you were not only carrying a knife. You attempted to use it against a senior police officer who was attempting to enforce the law of the land. Maybe I was wrong to raise your hopes. Maybe we should just leave things as they are.' He shut his notebook firmly in front of him, as if setting aside temptation.

‘What was it you wanted? What information?'

Peach was studiously low-key. ‘Details of the people who were behind this affray, I think. The people who supplied you with knives and sent you out for this rumble with the British Nationals and their supporters.'

‘They had knives too, you know. And they'd threatened us.'

‘I can believe that, Mr Ahktar. But we'd like the details, you see. Then perhaps we can do something about making sure you don't get yourselves into trouble again.'

The frightened young man on the other side of the table was already receptive; the mention of the British National Party was the carrot he needed. Wasim gave them the names of the ringleaders among his enemies, the men who organized violence and sent others out to do it. Then, more reluctantly and in response to a mixture of threats and cajolery, he gave them the names of his own ringleaders, most of whom had not been there on the night in question. The majority of them were names already known to the police, but there were three significant new ones, one of them a recently elected member of the Town Council.

When he was certain that he had everything that was to be had, Peach stared down uncertainly at the notes he had made. ‘Well, it's not much for me to make out a case for you, Mr Ahktar. But I promised that I would try to help you, and I shall certainly attempt that. As I have told you, Chief Superintendent Tucker is a severe and ruthless man. But perhaps, if I can catch him in one of his rare benevolent moments, I can make out a case for you. Don't get your hopes up too high, but if DS Blake is able to confirm to me that Mr Malim has been equally co-operative in the room next door, I might even try to get the charges against you in the Crown Court dropped.'

‘We'd be very grateful if you could do that, Mr Peach.' Ten minutes later, a bewildered Wasim Ahktar and Fazal Malim left the station full of gratitude for the tolerance and understanding of the Brunton police.

Edward Lanchester felt very old as he moved out of the house and into the light north-east wind which was ruffling the leaves of the burgeoning daffodils.

He was very stiff and the usual ache at the bottom of his back was worse today. He would have warmed up quickly if he had had something more vigorous to do in the garden, but the man who had helped him for years had done all the routine work and left the place as tidy as usual. Edward's purpose was to decide exactly where to site the new camellias they were going to plant next week. Global warming meant that you could grow camellias even in north-east Lancashire, nowadays, if you chose a sheltered spot in the garden. Global warming felt a long way away on this cold late-March day.

Edward made a couple of decisions, then gave up and drove down to the golf club, where he settled down with a warming whisky in the bar. He was cheered when Ronnie Quigley, the man who had captained the Rovers and England when he was chairman, came in after a round of golf and spotted him. Ronnie came over and sat down at Edward's table. ‘Good win the other night, Mr Lanchester.' He was twelve years younger than Edward and had never been able to break the habit of giving him his ‘Mister', even in the golf club, where all were ostensibly equal.

They agreed on what a fine player the local lad Ashley Greenhalgh was becoming: not many nowadays came up through the ranks from the youth teams, as Ronnie had done in his time. The academy, as it was called now. Very soon, the two men were reminiscing about the old times, the implication being that things had been so much better then. Ronnie Quigley certainly thought so, though he had been quite modestly rewarded, even as England captain. Edward was pleased when it was Ronnie who eventually put that thought into words, rather than himself. Youth lends an inevitable enchantment to the past, but neither of them acknowledged that mundane thought.