The Crime Tsar Page 4

  As she sat she saw veins on her thighs that had not been there ten years before, lines on the backs of her wrists, a thickened toenail. Feeling herself on the cusp of self-pity she got up quickly and tried on the dress. It wasn’t a miraculous transformation but she knew she looked good in it. A pale turquoise, bias cut, almost thirties design, falling elegantly to below the knee. Shoes. Which shoes?

  As Lucy stood there, vulnerable, she heard her father, tutting: ‘Kipper feet. Pick them up, girl. Can’t you walk quieter than that?’

  Again the tutting. A sound that even years after his death could turn her back into a lumpen fifteen-year-old. The criticism, the sniping at her when no one else could hear. Suddenly she remembered an accident she’d had – ‘You should take more care. There’s no such thing as an accident.’

  He had taken her to hospital where they’d shaved her leg before dressing it. For the first time she had not allowed herself to be self-conscious, convincing herself that doctors handled people all the time, and that her body was all right, in no way out of the ordinary.

  She made the nurses laugh and came out of the cubicle a little triumphant. She had got through it and got through it well, without worrying her feet were dirty or her knees unwashed. He said nothing until they were in the car, then, ‘Sounded like they were shaving a pig.’ He didn’t say it with malice, he was smiling, unaware he was the mirror in which she saw herself.

  Lucy was pleased with the silk. She would buy hold-up stockings and wear the lace bra and pants she’d bought in the sales two years ago. She put the past away with the dress and went downstairs to make Gary’s lunch.

  Tom sat in his office. The morning had been taken up with a disciplinary hearing which resulted in an officer of twenty-five years’ standing leaving the service in disgrace. The Chief Constable gave the man no more thought after returning to his spartan office. He never ate lunch and so was working on budget sheets and crime figures.

  The office was large and his desk dominated the room from opposite the oak door. Past chief constables, stiff in their uniforms, looked out in varying stages of awkwardness from the walls. The desk itself was almost bare. A telephone and paperweight. Behind him a display cabinet containing his first helmet and little else. There were no photographs of Jenni or the children. Like Tom Shackleton the room was minimalist or bleak, depending on your opinion.

  Janet, his secretary, knocked discreetly and came in. She was a tall woman with an unexpectedly melodic voice. Always quiet, always protective of the Chief, she was also wary of him. When he first arrived one of the other secretaries had leaned over his shoulder to point something out to him. He had felt the weight of her breast resting on him, he had smelt her perfume, cheaper and lighter than Jenni’s. She was moved to traffic the next day.

  When he was Chief Constable in his fiefdom his asceticism verged on the monastic. Nothing that might distract him was allowed. His force likened his personal discipline to that of an SS officer.

  But he captivated most of those with whom he came into contact. He had a way of making people feel they were special, encouraging them to imagine intimacy, but any subsequent advance towards him was met with coldness and immediate rebuff. As his staff officer said, ‘Don’t get into bed with Tom Shackleton – he won’t respect you in the morning.’

  His force, a large one, generally disliked him for his lack of the common touch and his eagerness to be high-profile in the media. But the crime figures were good and his area was high in the league tables of excellence so beloved of the government.

  Janet came a little way into the room, not too close.

  ‘Mr Vernon’s here to see you – he says it’s important.’

  Vernon was his deputy. Not a very clever man but doggedly loyal. Shackleton liked him for that and his open good nature. Vernon was already in the doorway.

  ‘Jim, come in.’

  Shackleton got up and indicated the two wing chairs either side of the window.

  ‘Sit down.’

  ‘Thank you, sir, I’ll be brief. I think we’ve got a problem.’

  Jim Vernon spoke modified Hendon Police College, a flat sound littered with inappropriate words.

  ‘Flamborough Estate’s looking a bit suspicious.’

  ‘Not again.’

  Shackleton’s tone was one of weary resignation. The Flamborough Estate had originally been two estates, Elgin and Forres, but sprawling expansion and a gerrymandering moving of borough boundaries had brought them together to be renamed but not rebranded. The Flamborough was just twice as bad as its component parts and was unique in having two police forces unable to control it.

  The DCC scanned his face for the signal to continue. Shackleton gave a slightly irritated nod.

  ‘Yes, a bit… suspicious. The situation there, well, we thought we’d nipped it in the bud after that bloody storm. But, well, sir, it seems there’s history. The Sudanese kids and the Paki. …’ He hesitated, mentally reading the sub-sections relating to racism, and corrected himself. ‘Pakistani kids had a bit of a ruckus about three month ago, running battle through the estate, couple of cars wrecked and the Credit Union office burned out, nothing serious. Well, our lads went in, rounded up the ring leaders, scumbags – sorry, sir – and when the dust had settled, both sides complained of police brutality.’

  ‘Yes, I remember.’

  Vernon was irritatingly pedantic.

  Shackleton had gone on local television to defend his officers to a panel of irate elders from both communities. What they regarded as youthful high spirits had left two PCs with stab wounds and a WPC off ever since with post-traumatic stress disorder. But the People’s Chief Constable had charmed and promised his way through the confrontation. The matter was closed, until last night.

  ‘Right, well,’ continued Vernon, ‘we were called to the estate again – a Sudanese kid’s battering this Pakistani kid with a baseball bat and he’s slashing back with a machete – there’s about thirty youths standing round roaring them on. It’s like a bloody cock fight.’

  Tom was used to his deputy telling him what he already knew but then Vernon wasn’t used to chief constables who took an interest in police matters.

  ‘Our lads wade in – literally – that little female inspector played a blinder. The lads reckoned her period was due so she was well up for a fight.’

  Shackleton didn’t smile. He never encouraged sexist remarks.

  Vernon went on quickly. ‘The weather was bloody awful’ (as if Shackleton’s weather had been any different). ‘Anyway, we sling these two low life in the back of the van. Ambulance arrives and the Pakistani kid’s carted off with two PCs to keep an eye on him and we bring the other lad back to the nick. The Pakistani is declared dead on arrival at hospital and our boy, in the van …’

  Tom’s unreadable expression didn’t change – he just nodded for Vernon to continue.

  ‘He starts kicking up and was restrained by two of our lads, maybe a bit over-enthusiastically, and … he’s in a coma. On a life-support machine. We’re looking into it.’

  Shackleton nodded again. He could see where this was going.

  ‘The word’s got out on the street both lads are dead and it was the police that killed them. You can feel it on the estate – it’s going to go off tonight. They’ve been pouring in from London, Birmingham, all over. Problem is, sir, the Sudanese were dumped on the Flamborough in the middle of the Pakistanis but nobody had worked out the reason they were here in the first place was this bunch of Sudanese are not too keen on Muslims. Seems Christians are a bit of a persecuted minority over there. Rape and torture toughened them up. So there’s been trouble ever since they got here and we’ve been keeping the lid on it. Till now. They’re drawing up battle lines. A couple of bricks have gone through shop windows, usual stuff. They’ve had time now to get themselves sorted. We’re pretty sure there are firearms on the estate. Definitely petrol bombs and the usual stuff. If the weather stays fine I reckon we’re in for the big one.’


  He stopped, looking for Shackleton’s reaction. But Tom’s mind was on the inevitable battle.

  ‘I think,’ Tom said quietly, leaning on the length of his left hand and stroking his eyebrow with the tip of his little finger, as he always did when absorbed, ‘they’ll set up a fight between themselves again and we’ll be called in. Once we’re on the estate the lot of them will turn on us like they did last night, but this time we’ll have no way out.’ He paused. ‘Remember the ’85 riot?’ He went on quietly, not for Vernon or himself but because words gave the horror a dull reality. ‘Did you ever see the officer’s jacket? In the Black Museum. More than twenty machete cuts. He –’ Shackleton automatically corrected himself – both men knew who he was talking about. ‘They got away with it and the officer in charge was hung out to dry. For politics –’

  Vernon couldn’t resist adding his knowledge.

  ‘Yes, sir, but he was cleared. Court One of the Old Bailey. Same dock as the alleged killer.’ The emphasis he put on ‘alleged’ was anything but subtle.

  Shackleton continued; his voice remained quiet, unemotional. ‘I don’t want us caught like that again.’

  There was a short silence. The phone rang. Shackleton answered it.

  ‘Tom Shackleton … Hello, Geoffrey …’

  He glanced across at his deputy who immediately made for the door making signs he’d be in his own office if the Chief wanted him.

  ‘Tom, we’ve got a nasty one here, I think. A Sudan versus Pakistan war on our border. Not what we need, is it?’

  Geoffrey Carter’s tone was, as always, light, almost amused.

  ‘I think it’s more likely to be them versus us,’ Shackleton replied.

  ‘Any ideas, Tom?’

  Tom wondered if he’d picked up the habit of endlessly repeating the name of the person he was talking to from his sabbaticals in California.

  Carter continued without waiting for Shackleton’s reply.

  ‘Look, I’ve got meetings all afternoon but my deputy’s going to keep me informed. Why don’t we talk around six? And we’ll see where we can go from there.’

  ‘Fine,’ Tom said and put down the phone.

  He sat behind the desk absolutely still, completely focused on the problem. His face took on the blank intensity of a hunting animal when it first sees its prey. Geoffrey Carter was the politicians’ favourite, the great administrator, but Tom Shackleton was the strategist, the fighter, the shark. He pressed the intercom, Janet replied.

  ‘Janet, make sure I get hourly reports on the Flamborough situation, more if necessary.’

  Then, like a chess player, he sat and worked out every set of moves they might make and every option open to him, both offensive and defensive. This was as close to pleasure as Tom Shackleton allowed himself.

  Jenni had arrived at Shepherd’s, the politicians’ lunchtime refuge, late. She wasn’t flustered, she had intended to be late. To make him wait and also to be sure most other tables would be occupied so her entrance would be seen by the maximum number of eyes. She was gratified to see their table was on the far side of the restaurant so she had to pass through a sea of admiring glances and waved greetings. She acknowledged them with a fey, other-worldly smile. But she had to maintain her ethereal expression when she saw he wasn’t there. She sat down alone and ordered a vodka tonic. She had calculated everything so she would be in control of this situation and this small defeat, the fear of looking silly, the fear of being stood up, left to read the menu so as not to see mocking glances, started the coils of anger in her stomach writhing.

  Before she could decide to leave with what dignity she could command, he arrived. She was pleased to see he looked apologetic and was rushing across the room to her, ignoring the smiles and greetings of everyone. Behind him was a tall man, made taller by the Gnome’s smallness. Her irritation evaporated when she saw it was the Prime Minister’s personal adviser.

  ‘Jenni, I’m so sorry. Can you forgive me? You know Jeremy, of course.’

  She was gracious.

  ‘Only by reputation. How lovely to meet you.’

  She held out her hand and the alleged power behind the throne took it with visible appreciation.

  ‘Mrs Shackleton. How do you do. I must say, Robbie here didn’t exaggerate when he said he had to get away to have lunch with an angel.’

  It was outrageous but she loved it.

  ‘I just had to come and see for myself. We got held up by Robbie here helping some old woman who’d passed out under Churchill’s statue. By the time he’d loaded her into a taxi and paid her fare home to Bromley he’d qualified for a Nobel prize and a serious telling off from you. I hope you’ll be gentle with him. He’s always been a terror for lame ducks.’

  Jenni was completely charmed. She gestured to the Gnome to sit.

  ‘I quite understand. Really. Will you be joining us?’

  Jeremy’s attention was already wandering.

  ‘Mmm? No, no. Ah, there’s my table over there. Not nearly as interesting as yours but… lovely to meet you, Mrs Shackleton. I’m a great admirer of your husband.’

  And he was gone, pressing flesh and waving, to the other side of the room.

  Jenni turned the full beauty of her smile on the now forgiven Gnome. Almost immediately his leg sought hers and clamped itself along her thigh.

  ‘I’ve missed you,’ he whispered loudly an inch from her face. The sweet, gentle, ugly face had changed, as if it was a mask passed to another wearer.

  She could smell his breath. She expelled the air though her nostrils and turned away prettily, as he thought, demurely. Jenni produced from her bag a notebook and gold pen.

  ‘Ah …’ he said, sitting back in the banquette seat. ‘Business lunch, eh?’

  ‘What else? We can leave pleasure until Thursday. Dinner.’

  He smiled and there was the most extraordinary transformation. The ugliness disappeared and was replaced by the face of of the saint again. The black-bearded face with its big, fish-shaped eyes, brown eyes that, looking up, seemed to be praying. It was his smile that made the observer feel they had created beauty. It was his smile that had won him the hearts and votes of a massive majority of his constituents, despite his wealth and unprepossessing physique.

  ‘Oh yes, I’m looking forward to that. Pairing me up with the cleaning lady, didn’t you say?’ He looked at her, detatched for a moment. ‘I mustn’t tease you, must I, Jenni? I always forget, you have absolutely no sense of humour.’

  Under the tablecloth his small, long-fingered hand grasped her knee.

  ‘But you have so much else to offer …’

  Jenni, despite her revulsion, was fascinated by him. He had never been short of women, though physically he was barely on the acceptable side of repulsive. His beautifully cut suits and obsessive care of his appearance couldn’t disguise his misshapen body or odd features.

  It was often conjectured in the Red Lion’s bar and those of the Commons itself that he was achondroplasic. But to the tabloid hacks, calling a spade a shovel, he was a dwarf. Not a short man with a chip on his shoulder. A dwarf. A Nibelung. He knew only too well the litany of names for his condition. They were like a quiver of darts always ready to be thrown at him. But whatever people’s opinion of his looks, he was fearsomely intelligent, and the more power he accrued the more women found him attractive.

  For him each conquest was a small act of revenge, for the years when the only female comfort he could find had to be paid for, in cash, and usually beforehand. Now he had Tom Shackleton’s fine-boned wife to look forward to.

  Jenni was aware of him watching her, his eyes almost closed.

  ‘Penny for them?’

  She accompanied her question with an unconscious movement of her mouth that he found very exciting. He took her hand and gently pulled it under the cloth.

  ‘That.’

  He smiled at the brief flicker of horror on her face as she touched his penis through the expensive wool of his suit. It made him want to have he
r more, knowing she found him as revolting as all the others. He always enjoyed the wives of handsome, successful, men – and Tom Shackleton was nothing if not handsome and successful. The devil was wearing the mask again.

  ‘I’m not quite sure why you want me to come on Thursday, Jenni. Can’t live without me?’

  ‘Oh … I just want you to get to know Tom, that’s all. It’s important for you to know who your best people are, don’t you think? For the future?’

  ‘Your husband’s achievements are hardly a secret. But yes, you’re right, it would be good to get to know him. Hear his ideas.’

  They were interrupted by the waiter. They started to chat, nothings about items in the news, while the menus were handed to them and the specials explained. Jenni put her menu down, having decided.

  ‘Now,’ she said. ‘I really do have to interview you. I’ve got a commission to do an in-depth on you – oh, are you all right to have your photograph done? It’ll be huge, you know, double page with the photo across the centre.’

  ‘One of those grainy black-and-white jobs that show up the hairs on your nose?’

  Stung by his accusation of having no humour she laughed.

  ‘Yes, that’s the one.’

  ‘Speak to my secretary.’

  Jenni put a small Dictaphone on the table. He looked surprised.

  ‘Do we need that?’

  ‘Oh it’s just because I don’t have shorthand. I’m a hopeless journalist.’ She said this with a disarming smile.

  Again he wondered how versatile that mouth would prove.

  Jenni saw quite shockingly clearly the desire on his face and not for the first time was surprised at the power of sex.

  For Jenni full penetrative sex and all the peripheral fumbling around it were, at best, aerobic exercise, at worst an uncomfortable, unhygienic scrum. But it had proved a useful tool now she had learned how to use it sparingly… She hoped she could get what she wanted from this man without having his fingers on her and in her. She shuddered delicately.