Читать книгу The Only Game - Reginald Hill - Страница 9

The sign was brash and new: FAMILY FUN HEALTH CENTRE in big black letters on a white ground strewn with cameos of families having fun on exercise bikes, in a sauna, under sun lamps.

Dog Cicero had been here before. He knew if you removed the sign above the entrance you would find chiselled in the granite lintel: SHELL STREET YOUTH CLUB, OPENED MAY 1921 BY ALDERMAN CALDER DSO JP.

Last time he had stepped through these doors, he’d been fifteen, and memory programmed him to expect peeling olive green paint, worn linoleum, bare bulbs, a smell of damp wood, the stridency of punk guitars.

Instead he found pastel shades, carpet tiling, strip lighting, an odour of embrocation oil and the bounce of James Last.

Someone had turned Shell Street Youth Club into a place fit to get fit in.

Not that the woman sitting at a small reception desk looked much of an advertisement for the service. If fat was still a feminist issue, here was a profound political statement.

‘I’m looking for Granger,’ said Dog.

‘He’s in the gym. Can I help? I’m Mrs Granger. Was it one of our courses you’re interested in?’

‘No.’ He produced his warrant card. ‘Just an enquiry.’

She didn’t look surprised. Or worried.

‘Come with me,’ she said.

She led him through a door into a corridor. A willowy blonde looking like the after to the older woman’s before came towards them. Mrs Granger said, ‘Suzie, watch the desk for a minute, will you?’

There had been something euphemistically called a gym in the youth club. This too had changed; sprung floor, white pine, and enough gleaming implements to delight an Inquisitor’s heart. A couple of youths were pushing and pulling at steel levers, watched by a burly middle-aged man who came to the door in response to a gesture from Mrs Granger.

‘George, this is Inspector Cicero,’ she said. ‘My husband, Inspector.’

‘Cicero? There was a chippie called Cicero’s.’

‘My father’s. Mr Granger, if you can spare a moment, I’d like to ask about a member of your staff. A Mrs Maguire. Mrs Jane Maguire.’

The Grangers exchanged glances.

‘So what’s she been saying?’ demanded the woman.

‘Is there somewhere we can talk? If you’re not too busy.’ He glanced into the quiet gym.

‘We fill up later on,’ said Granger defensively. Dog looked at his watch. Ten to five. He recalled what Maguire had said.

Granger led the way to a small office. Three was very much a crowd in here, especially when two were built like the Grangers. He had clearly eaten at the same table as his wife even if he had been rather more successful in preserving the fat–muscle ratio.

‘Right, Mr Cicero, let’s hear it.’

There was an edge of something there. Aggression? Anger? Defiance? Endo said, just keep dealing the cards, son, and sooner or later they’ll tell you what they’re at.

He asked, ‘What time did Mrs Maguire get to work this morning?’

Another exchange of glances, this time puzzled. Then the woman said with remembered indignation, ‘Ten to ten. I had to start her aerobics class.’

Dog thought of Maguire’s lithe athletic figure and nodded gravely.

‘And did she leave at her usual time? That’s two-thirty, I believe.’

‘No!’ exploded Granger. ‘She did not!’

‘You mean she left early? Why was that?’

‘She left early because I fired her! That’s why she left. What’s she been saying, Inspector?’

‘You fired her?’ said Dog. ‘For being late?’

Again he got the bewildered reaction.

The woman said, ‘I think you’d better tell us why you’re asking these questions, Inspector.’

‘No,’ said Dog equably. ‘I think you’d better tell me why you’re giving these answers. Why did you dismiss Mrs Maguire, Mr Granger?’

He looked at his wife. She nodded permission. He said, ‘I sacked her because there was a complaint. I’d asked her to give one of our regular clients a massage. It was about midday. Some little time later I heard her voice raised in the treatment room and then she came out. I went in to see what was the matter and the client made a very serious complaint which left me no alternative but to sack her.’

‘What exactly was this complaint?’

Granger said hesitantly, ‘Well, he, the client, accused Mrs Maguire of … making an indecent suggestion.’

‘I’m sorry?’ said Dog.

‘For heaven’s sake, George,’ interrupted Mrs Granger impatiently. ‘She offered to jerk him off. For twenty-five pounds, Inspector!’

She sounded more indignant at the price than the proposal.

‘And what did Mrs Maguire say when you put this to her?’ said Dog to the man.

‘She told me it was her business. She said she was only offering what these men really wanted. And when I told her she was fired, she became very abusive and said if it was the Centre’s good name I was worried about, I’d better forget it, because by the time she was finished with me, it would stink.’

‘And then she assaulted him,’ said Mrs Granger.

‘What?’

Granger looked embarrassed.

‘It wasn’t anything.’

‘She punched you in the stomach,’ retorted his wife. ‘He was doubled up with pain. I wanted him to call the police. If it had been a man he would have done, and in my book a violent woman’s just as dangerous as a violent man.’

‘It would have made me look silly and not done the Centre’s reputation any good,’ said Granger. ‘The same about the other thing. Sacking her and letting the whole thing drop seemed the best course.’

‘And your client went along with this?’ said Dog.

‘Oh yes,’ said the woman. ‘He’d got a name to protect too. Mud sticks.’

‘And what is this name he’s protecting?’ asked Dog.

The man said, ‘I daresay you’ll know it, Inspector. It’s Jacobs. Councillor Jacobs. So you see, Mrs Maguire picked the wrong man when she picked on him!’

They were right. Councillor Jacobs was the amplifier through which the still small voice of God was heard plain in Romchurch. The scourge of corruption, the trimmer of budgets, the guardian of the public purse and, as chairman of the Police Liaison Committee, the answer to the Chief Constable’s prayers.

He asked a few more questions then left. On his way past the desk, he paused and smiled at the skinny blonde. She looked about twenty and had a cheerful, open face. He said, ‘Do you know Mrs Maguire?’

Her expression lost its openness.

‘Who’s asking?’ she said guardedly.

He told her and she said, ‘Is it about her getting the boot?’

‘That’s right,’ he lied easily. ‘Were you around?’

‘No. I had to go out at lunchtime. I had a dentist’s appointment.’

She opened her mouth as though inviting him to check. He looked in and she ran her moist pink tongue along her upper teeth and grinned as he looked away.

‘Is it right she belted old George in the gut?’ she asked.

‘Did you know her well?’

‘No. Hardly at all. She was a bit stuck up, know what I mean? But she’ll be OK, won’t she?’

Dog said, ‘Any reason she shouldn’t be OK?’

‘No!’ she asserted strongly. ‘Not as if she hasn’t got someone to take care of her, is it?’

A boy friend, you mean? I thought you said you didn’t know her socially.’

‘That’s right, but I know a dreamboat when I see one. I could have eaten him for supper, numb gums and all.’

‘What are you talking about?’ demanded Dog.

‘Her boy friend, of course! He was looking to meet her after work this afternoon, only he wasn’t to know she’d got the heave, was he? So he came in when she didn’t come out at half two like she usually does, and asked where she was.’

‘And what did you tell him?’

‘Nothing at first. I just played him along to see how well attached he was. We were getting on fine till I told him she’d left early, then he took off pretty smart so it must be serious, worse luck.’

‘Describe him.’

‘Well, like I say, he was gorgeous.’ Seeing from Dog’s face that more was required, she went on, ‘Like Tom Cruise, know what I mean? Only really blond. And he had this sexy accent, Scotch or maybe Irish, they all sound the same, don’t they? And his name was Billy.’

That was it, but it was enough. In a lot of child abuse cases there was a boy friend on the scene, not the child’s father. Maguire had denied having a man in her life. Another question mark. Sometimes you couldn’t see the answers for the questions.

Sometimes you didn’t want to see the answer.

He walked twice round his car, got in, set off back to the station. The evening traffic was building up, smearing light along the wet roads. He got stuck at the roundabout outside Holy Trinity. They’d got the Christmas lanterns up in the old yew tree by the porch. He leaned across to peer at them. This church and the Shell Street Youth Club had been the poles of his boyhood world and the next turn left would take him past its centre, the old shop.

He wouldn’t make the turn. Church, club, shop, they belonged to another country, another time. Another person.

The person he was now had only one concern. What had happened to young Oliver Maguire? What odds would he recommend to WPC Scott now?

His radio crackled into life with his call sign. He responded and the metallic voice said, ‘Message from WPC Scott at City General Hospital. Maguire has absconded. Repeat, Maguire has absconded.’

‘Shit,’ said Dog. The traffic started to move. A gap opened in the outside lane. Engine snarling in protest, he forced his way into it, got one wheel on the central reservation, crowded the van ahead of him over to the nearside and swept round the front of the line onto the roundabout with emergency lights flashing.

Behind him, pressed back against the oak door in the shadowy porch of Holy Trinity Church, Jane Maguire watched him drive away.