Fiona Page 13

  “NO! I’m n…….”

  Leyton just marginally controlled her own cool. Looking for the right words she tried it a better way.

  “Why don’t you let me tell you a little story here… okay? Right. Now, when I had reached seven, my mother had already taught me all about the values of tidiness and organisation of one's own house. So much that I was more in charge of keeping the living room spick and span than either her or dad.”

  “Just what's that got to do with this?”

  “Well,” Leyton realised she’d tailed off from her point slightly “One day, I saw she had left her glasses sitting face down, next to her lunch. She was having soup, and in true Janet Leyton fashion, had filled the bowl to a millimetre from the rim. I knew what would happen, if those two things were to make contact, so I took the saintly liberty of folding into their case, safely out of harm’s way. You'd have thought my mum would appreciate the gesture, now wouldn't you? I ended up being rewarded by way of a well smacked backside and bedroom confinement for the afternoon. I learned from it that ‘Don’t touch mummy's glasses’ applied without any exception whatsoever; also at that same very time, I can to realise how misunderstandings happen when you try do something with the intent of pleasing someone

  “I still don't see how that's supposed to encourage me return to that road, and encounter that woman again, fa... face to face.” She was almost letting her emotions set foot in it again but appeared to rescue them in time.”

  “If you let me finish, magic-lips... seven weeks or so after, I received a dazzling report from my teachers. I was so spellbound, that I just couldn't wait until after school for my parents to see it. I went home for dinner, and as I did, took it home with me. Do you know what happened?”

  “No.”

  “I got taken to ‘Legoland’ the week after. What was more, I was allowed to invite my best friend along as well.”

  “I still don’t get what this is to do with Fiona going ape on me all the time.”

  “I really need some assurance over this insecurity you sense in her. If I could get to spend just a morning in her company myself that might straighten things up.”

  “What if she knows you’re a cop?” Becky was either quibbling obstacles as usual here, or she was attempting to talk her way out of approaching Fiona's address ever again.

  “Does she know?” Leyton tried treating the question as if it were properly meant.

  “Well I’ve not told her.”

  “There you go. I’ve already laid it to you on a plate, you great narna.”

  Leyton just managed to hide her mounting irritation.

  “I can’t go back up there, Jo.” Becky, bursting into tears again, pleaded. “Don’t make me do it.”

  “Just try to smooth things over as best as you can; apologise if necessary, and if she does accept, talk sweetly to her about inviting me up for a coffee and a chinwag one morning – tomorrow by all means, if that's possible. Let’s look at maybe doing something that gets you firmly into her good books, before you pop the suggestion.”

  “Do you think she’ll go off on one again? Suppose she gets the idea I’m asking too much?”

  Hearing this, Leyton found it hard not to chastise Becky for another ridiculous question.

  That musical chorus then came from underneath, again.

  She patted about her own coat, pulling out her phone.

  There was no incoming caller on the screen.

  “Looks like it’s yours.” Leyton nudged her, warmly. “Are you up to answering?”

  “I think so,” Becky smiled. She sounded vaguely composed again.

  She drew out her own mobile, and gave it nervously to Leyton, to check.

  “Right, here you g…. oh oops, seems you said that too late.” The tone had stopped to be replaced by a ‘missed call’ message.

  “It’s OK, Jo.” Becky was checking it “It’s a text… shit, it’s from... from HER.”

  Becky had already touched the ‘read’ icon.

  “’Got 2B out again 2night, sweet. RU free 5.30-11?’”

  “See? You’re still hired. There’s hope yet.”

  “I’m sorry if I took her tantrums to heart. Just it’s...well I’ve not had to suffer that, since during my Uni days.”

  “It’s alright, Becks. I’d still say we’d do that get-together, though, just so I can confirm things from my perspectives. Anyways, I’ll let you get off back - you’ll obviously need time to consort with Fiona in person.”

  “Thanks, Jo.” Becky sounded ready to stand back up and face the world once more. She smiled shyly at Leyton. “Nice to see you’re still on my side after all.”

  “What are friends for….and police officers?” Leyton acknowledged, comically. “Shall I come with you, down to the lights? I would have escorted you the full way but I’m without the wagon, again.”

  “No problem, honestly. You’d better get back to them. The last thing I want is you being in trouble for neglect.”

  “Becky, my only neglect is that I haven’t already mentioned I’m their Acting Detective Superintendent - so there won’t be too much danger of that.”

  “Heh, heh, heh. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Becky moved off merrily, away up towards Firth Park again. She sounded like a carbon copy of her old self, fearless and confident.

  Leyton headed back across the road, aiming for the nearest bus stop. Although decidedly relaxed, it was difficult not to wonder if the last hour had actually happened.

  (ii)

  Garstone hated going back to the station when he wanted to study little bits of paper without distraction, although he also dreaded to think what could happen, if he left Leroy Armitage alone to process the evidence.

  McGanlon’s Merry Wine lodge sat on the corner end of a retail quarter half way up West Street. Garstone had heard that a Pay-and-Display car park previously owned the spot; just a row of plush dining outlets plus a supermarket now sat in its place, along with a tram stop at front. He felt forced to take a photographic eyeful of the world outside before they entered their regular haunt. The trendy venue swallowed everyone into a leather-saturated sea of red. Dark, low-lit corners, seemingly kept as so for seedy effect, did not exactly welcome police officers supping a quiet non-alcoholic half while on the job, but at least they were out of the way of the window, plus the odd prying eye.

  The tables stood in a civilised spread, never closer than a comfortable seven feet apart, while a secluded pool & darts area at the rear barred anyone especially below eighteen from browsing. Gruesome techno-trance music claimed just one redeeming factor from their otherwise-tranquil solitude.

  A look at the menu was murder to avoid but as work kept them here for a while, that Maple Torte Mighty-Flan tormented Garstone with its temptation. He strained to resist it as he sat poring over the paper from Saddleworths.

  He strained hard to resist, as he sat poring over the paper he’d pinched from the scrapyard. He looked up just occasionally at Armitage but didn’t let him see. ‘

  “You going to get on wi’ yer discovery?” Armitage badgered him to explain, as an over-sized chocolate fudge cake was lowered in front of him. “Meant no disrespect pal, it’s just I didn’t get thee a Coke so you could sit gandering at some chuffin’ paper.”

  “Here.” Garstone yielded, handing it across. “Just begging you, not one slight smear of chocolate near it.”

  “For chuff’s sake.” Armitage showed him his still spotless hands, at which he duly gave it over.

  “Remember,” Garstone sharply advised, “You’re looking for the detail, NOT her dating line.”

  Looking to avoid wishful thinking, Armitage pushed his glasses up again, and proceeded to look at the picture beneath the headline.

  “Ey up, that ain’t her from the shopping centre, is it?” Armitage, began reciting the article.

  “‘Strathclyde police have passed on details to other forces across England and Wales in the hope of tracing a young single mother of one…’�
�� He was looking half up at his friend as he did.

  Garstone just beckoned Armitage to continue - he needed him to know exactly what he did.

  That dainty young face no longer looked like the lady to die for, although somebody else had evidently done her that duty in the past. The whole story obviously sent Armitage agog, once he’d read it. He shunted the paper right away from him again.

  “Alive and well, and appearing exclusively at Meadowhall this week.” Garstone acknowledged that at least one penny had dropped.

  He danced across to the bar, rather smug at having taught Armitage something.

  Gavin, the young bar worker, and regular acquaintance of the officers, seemed unable to resist enquiring. Given the sawn-off jeans and scarlet red sweater, he was celebrating a dressing-down day.

  “What are you so happy about?” he asked Garstone, whilst grabbing a glass from the above rack “Gone a whole morning without gaffers giving you agg’?”

  “Should learn to keep it down, kid.”

  Garstone gave the boy a discreet lowdown on Superintendent Hargreaves’s situation of late. In return, Gavin gave him a hefty high-five, followed by drinks on the management, before disappearing to the back with his mobile.

  Keeping his second achievement today behind his teeth, Garstone returned to the table.

  “Tha sounds chuffed.” Armitage looked up as he sat back at his seat.

  “You did, until you read up on your dream lady’s life to date.”

  “Here’s one that’ll knock it off your face.” Armitage stopped for more cake, and then spoke.

  “Saddleworth’s gaffer said the Corsa that came in were a ‘W-thirty-two’.”

  On this, Garstone almost threw his glass right across the table at him.

  His mind moved back to the morning in question.

  The ‘Magic white Corsa’ from Meadowhall Rd, reportedly shows up at Saddleworth’s some 20-odd minutes afterwards - the same time it would take him getting from A to B, in average traffic. A day later, there’s a car just like it lying on someone’s drive; an address situated SLAP between those two places. And just to top it all the assumed owner’s currently on his toes

  “Nice of you to tell me sooner,” he grunted, getting out his laptop. He checked the battery level then lifted it slowly across to Armitage. “Ok, bring it along…and try not to drop the bastard.”

  Garstone called Gavin to keep an eye on the table, then led his friend out the side door to the Passat. He unlocked Leyton’s boot and lifted the bag out. Having shut the lid again, he took his appliance back from Armitage and propped it carefully on top. He then pulled his jacket back on, as the adverse afternoon climate claimed grip.

  Donning the green gloves, Garstone slid out the seven plates and laid them on the pavement.

  “W522... W421... W337...” He read out each one.“W531... V835...W225... W128...tell me Leroy, old sport, do you see ‘W-thirty two’ anywhere amongst the exhibits?”

  “Suppose not.”

  “Suppose not?!” Garstone picked up the ‘W522’ and threw it against the wall. “Didn’t you notice all these have got TRIPLE numerals? Plus on top of which, that fourth one’s a sodding V-reg!”

  He opened his laptop and looked up the 'Fife St' hit-and-run frame; its thumbnail was still the hardest to distinguish, out of that and the ‘Meadowhall Rd’ one, also on the same menu.

  Garstone's bugbear for now was, if the registration had been ‘W32’ entering Saddleworth's, then what the hell had this guy hidden it with? Whichever way it worked, the hit-and-run crunch confirmed one thing; this scumbag had no intention of mowing Mr Summers down - he had just done some serious homework to stop his new registration being seen.

  Major clouds of uncertainty looked set to rain down at this stage. The same landscape that Leyton claimed she dreamed up in her disillusionment - that desolate, wintry field of withered trees and wire-bereft telegraph posts seemed to reach Garstone at last.

  Only one man he knew could get them out of this hole.

  He drew his mobile out aggressively and attacked the ‘Midelson’ shortcut.

  “Will!” He tried to remain polite as possible towards PC Thompson. “Will, are you there, pal?”

  “Here indeed, Greg.” Thompson’s innocent-sounding voice slurred up. “All well in your world?”

  “Have you still got those Fife St snaps at hand, or are they in the bin with the bread?”

  “I've gone one even better - like, the full movie cleaned up, AND complete with a good half of the Corsa’s front plate.”

  “Really?”

  Our friend in the Toyota, takes off ahead, just as the Corsa ventures off-side. We do catch the reg, but it's only the very, very spilt second before this wonderful Pickfords van blocks the show.”

  “Try and do a grab on that!” he held the line, smiling hopefully at Armitage. “Just remember, I’m not expecting a ‘W32’

  “You might not be getting it...” Thompson added “Okay-y, here we go. Whiskey Nine Two...possibly a Charlie . That’s certainly a nine though. Verified.”

  “Just leaves us the end letters.”

  Garstone had his elbow against the car, like in some American eighties film

  “Any more fish you can fly the rod at?”

  “Zoomed all the way in, I’m afraid. I might try and make that other blotch become a ‘C’.”

  “You superstar - see it done!”

  Garstone cut the conversation and just in time. Armitage seemed to be meddling with the reg plates, as if bored. He was stacking them in playing card-like arrangements.

  “You about to tell me I missed something?”

  Garstone hoped the excitement wasn’t about to turn to angst.

  “Just summat don’t add up.” Armitage was pointing the plates out to him. “If he were in for a phoney reg, how come he took another one that’s around half same as his first one?”

  “I’d guess it was recklessness. Saddleworths' already told us he shot in and back out again, like a man who’s bottoms were about to blow up.”

  “But take a look at them ’uns. Most of them have either a three or a two.”

  Garstone seized the first two plates to his eye, examining them like a prudent pawnbroker. He mentally singled out the digits that did match, while trying to dim his right eye to the rest.

  He’d now swallowed it.

  ‘W-blank-2’, ‘W-3-blank’…either would attract an officer’s attention, if on the lookout.

  It echoed his father's story of the Austin Ambassador he had once intercepted, after an armed hold-up at Durham Station. Sgt Gerry Garstone had pounced on the lone peach-brown saloon at an A1 layby, eight miles shy of Leeds, that lonely dark night, thirty years ago. Although the driver and his colleague both looked respectable enough, with their road map and glasses, their attitude had failed to stave the Sergeant away.

  All of the first four figures, on the registration plate matched; it was almost the perfect catch. His dad had got the two occupants standing at the side of the car in handcuffs, when a call came through. A fresh witness statement had failed to corroborate the remaining two characters, so the driver and his passenger were released into the night, with only a little advice about their rear light use.

  Six weeks later, the same Ambassador would be discovered, incinerated in woodland south of Chesterfield - charred remains of one of the occupants in the front. The denouement would be written in the real number plate, found beneath the partly melted fake. Commonly organised crooks were renowned for using a deliberately similar plate, so as to enable rapid elimination from enquiries, should they find themselves stopped. Double jeopardy laws certainly were a bitch in his father's day and age yet they were teaching Greg Garstone valuable lessons today.

  “Seems I’ve just realised what the bastard’s at.”

  Garstone thanked Armitage, having appreciated the depth. He felt things falling into the right holes. Somehow, it occurred that between them they could do the work their absentee superior was
supposed to have, instead of seeing to some old lady-friend who’d just slithered out of the wilderness.

  He kneeled to pick up the other plates but then noticed there were only six. The missing W225 re-appeared, lowered back by a youthful looking hand.

  “Haven’t I had a word about police business, already?” he asked, taking the plate from Gavin.

  “Ought to let you have this then.” he said, passing Garstone a cordless receiver “It’s your Detective Superintendent, she wants a word with you.”

  “Cheers.” He took the receiver, ready to ply his ‘innocent’ voice a la PC Thompson. “Heya, ma’am.”

  “I wondered where you might end up with the radios off.” came Leyton’s sly but suspicious tone “Spick-spock, then - discovered what, have we?”

  “A tasty bit, thanks to el Thomsono’s help... possibly a bit more on the way.”

  “I already gather... having just arrived back in the office.” she could be heard to feebly conceal a laugh.

  “I take it you heard the plate business’s sorted, more or less?”

  “Hold on...” she spoke off phone, probably addressing Thompson.

  “Greg!” Thompson came pelting up the line again “That ‘Nine’. It’s not. It’s a ‘Five’!”

  “Fucking kidding.”

  “I’ll send it along.”

  Garstone grabbed the email the second it showed. Trawling over the ‘improved’ Fife St frame, he deciphered the mistake. The top-right side of the ‘nine’ figure no longer looked like part of the digit - in fact he was sure he was actually looking at one of the mounting bolts.

  He used ‘PhotoSet’ to remove the crotchety dot that was disfiguring the number.

  It left a perfect ‘five’ behind.

  “Goosed him good and proper, like.”

  He now realised where Saddleworth’s idea about a ‘two-and-five’ registration came from.

  Massively proud of himself, Garstone opened a clean document to type up the confirmed information. Turning round, he saw Armitage mouthing something. He ignored it at first, trying to conjure up something more important, but then suddenly twigged what it was.

  “Shit. Yeah.” he got on to Thompson again “Will, did you manage that grab on the hub cap?”