I dial -
It rings -
He answers -
I say: ‘Is Deirdre there?’
‘What?’
‘It’s Mike. Can I speak to Deirdre?’
‘You got the wrong number, mate,’ says Bob Douglas and hangs up.
I dial two numbers again:
No answer at the Dawsons -
None from Cook.
I go through my address book:
Mark Gilman at the
Neil Hartley in Cheshire heard Cook was looking into some dodgy finances -
John Jeffreys heard something about heads rolling -
Big Heads, that’s all.
I pick up my coat and go back down to the car, parked in the wrong space.
Bob Douglas lives in a detached house in the nice part of Levenshulme, the part on the way out to Stockport.
I walk up the drive and ring the doorbell.
Douglas opens the front door -
He’s put on weight and lost some hair and his clothes give him the look of a short and guilty man on his way to court.
‘Morning,’ I say.
‘Mr Hunter,’ he smiles.
‘We need to talk.’
‘I thought you might say that.’
‘You going to invite me in then?’
Bob Douglas holds open the door and sees me through to the lounge.
I sit down on a big settee, the smell of a roast in the house.
‘Drink?’
‘Cup of tea’d be nice.’
‘I’ll just be a minute then. Wife’s not in,’ he says and leaves me alone in his lounge with its unframed Degas print, the Christmas cards and tree, the photos of his wife and daughter.
He brings in the teas and hands me mine: ‘Sugar?’
‘No, thanks.’
He sits down in one of the matching chairs.
‘Nice looking lass,’ I say, nodding at a school portrait.
‘Aye. Keeps me young.’
‘How old is she?’
‘Be seven in February.’
‘You’re a lucky man.’
Bob Douglas smiles: ‘Is that what you came to tell me?’
‘No,’ I shake my head. ‘No, it’s not.’
‘Go on then.’
I tell him: ‘I saw Richard Dawson last night.’
‘At the Midland Ball?’
‘Yes. Although he wasn’t exactly having one.’
‘Upset was he?’
‘Yeah, but I reckon he’s feeling even more upset right this minute.’
‘You heard then?’
‘His wife called mine first thing. He call you?’
‘No, but I reckoned it’d be this morning.’
I take a sip of my tea and wait to see if he’s going to say any more -
He takes a sip of his and says nothing.
I say: ‘What’s going on, Bob?’
‘What did he tell you?’
I put my tea down on one of his coasters, one of an etching of a famous golf course, and I say: ‘Sod what he told me. I’m asking you.’
He’s sat forward now, his hands on his knees, looking nervous.
‘Spit it out,’ I say.
‘All I know is Roger Hook, he’s heading up some operation into Richard Dawson. Been on the cards a while like, but someone…’
‘What kind of operation?’
‘He’s bent isn’t he? Everyone knows that.’
‘I didn’t.’
‘Well, that’s it, isn’t it? It was just going to be taxman, but then they heard Brass might be in for it, so Smith stuck Hooky on it. Dead hush-hush. Get it sorted out.’
‘They heard? Heard from who?’
The front door opens -
Child’s feet, a woman’s voice following -
The lounge door bursts open -
I stand up.
The girl freezes, thin and skinny as a tiny toy rake.
‘Hello, love,’ I say.
The girl looks at her Daddy -
Her Dad smiles: ‘Come say hello, Karen.’
But the girl goes back behind the chair.
Bob Douglas’s wife comes in, rain in her hair, and then stops dead.
Her husband says: ‘Sharon love, this is Peter Hunter. The Assistant Chief Constable.’
‘Yeah?’ she says, shaking my hand but looking at him.
‘We’ll be finished in a minute,’ says Douglas as casually as he can.
I nod and smile.
His wife takes the girl by the hand, her face anxious. ‘Come on, Karen. Let’s get the dinner on,’ she says, closing the door on us.
I sit back down.
Douglas is white.
‘Who?’ I smile.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Fuck off,’ I hiss. ‘You do.’
‘I don’t.’
‘Another copper?’
He’s looking down at the carpet, the big flowers and birds, shaking his head: ‘I don’t know.’
‘But they’re saying it’s me. I’m dirty.’
He looks up and nods.
‘Saying this started because of me?’
‘Someone tipped them…’
‘Who tipped them?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘But you’d tell me if you did, right Bob?’
