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  "That's more like it. Do all the checking you like, youth. That's what you're for, isn't it?"

  Trevor crumpled the piece of paper into the pocket of his tattered jeans and wiped his nose on his sleeve.

  "It'll cost you, Stones."

  "And I suppose your services come as expensive as usual?"

  "I've got a living to make, haven't I?"

  "Right. How much do you want?" I started to reach for my back pocket where the emergency roll lives.

  "It doesn't matter just now," he said, getting up from the bench. "I'll get my assistant to send you an invoice."

  As he walked out, the old couple gave him a curled-up nose look. The air freshened considerably as the smell of motor oil and chips receded with him. I walked part of the way after Trevor to watch him as far as the car park. He got into the passenger side of a gleaming new Vauxhall Senator with a smart blonde woman in the driving seat. He immediately chucked his smelly jacket onto the back seat and started to change into a suit.

  They don't make private detectives like they used to, do they?

  The mobile rang just as the old couple came out of the Rufford orangery behind me. When I answered it, they turned to look at me as if I was mad or a philistine or something.

  "Business," I mouthed at them. They shrugged at each other, convinced they were right the first time.

  "Yeah, Ralph? Brilliant. And he's not been charged? What was it all about then? Yeah, I heard it was drugs, but I didn't believe it - not Slow Kid. Where is he now? Right, thanks, Ralph."

  Lawyers can be the biggest crooks out, even worse than accountants. Did you know that? You probably did, if you've ever sold a house or gone through a divorce. This is the only profession where a bloke can get away with having his secretary type a letter, than charge you a couple of hundred quid for his valuable time. If I could do that, I'd be printing my own money by now. Have you heard the story about the solicitor's clerk? This poor bugger had to justify an account to a client that said: "For crossing the road to speak to you, £50. For finding it wasn't you and having to cross back again, £50." This is no joke.

  But they do have their uses, lawyers. In this case, Ralph Catchlock does the nudging and levering for me that sorts things out, like when Slow Kid gets himself in a cell at Mansfield nick. I could do it personally, use my own influence, but why bother when you've got the paid? In any case, I know a thing or two about Ralph Catchlock that would give the Law Society a fit. That gets me a discount.

  And so Ralph had come up with the goods. Slow Kid was free, and on his way back home.

  * * * *

  The Thompsons' house is at the far end of Top Forest. Away from the main road, there isn't much traffic noise on the estate at the best of times. Just an occasional White Arrow van delivering something from Reader's Digest, or the council dog warden cruising the streets looking for strays.

  They hang around here in packs - the dogs, I mean, not the wardens. Folk get these appealing puppies, you know, for the kids to play with at Christmas. Then, blow me, the puppies grow into bloody great Wolfhounds and Dobermans that need feeding and looking after and taking to the vets, and all that sort of effort. Who'd have thought it? We can't do with that, can we? So the mutts are turned loose on the streets to run wild with all the others.

  Come Tuesday morning, when the binmen head round this way, the local dog pack does a tour of the wheelie bins to see if there's anything worth getting to first. If your bin's a bit open, or there's a plastic bag left next to it, the dogs will get at it. Then your rubbish is all over the pavement, and the neighbours can see that you've been eating tins of Lo-Cost own brand baked beans every day this week and that you don't throw your knickers out until they're more hole than polyester. Not that your neighbours are any different, of course - but you don't want people to see that.

  And it's not only the dogs. Kids are turned loose on the streets the same way, when they get a bit older and raising a family turns out to be too much effort as well. Sod employment training. It's time somebody trained this lot to be parents.

  Round the back of one of the houses, somebody was turning over a starter motor, desperately trying to kick life into an ancient car engine. The starter was whining in protest, and soon the battery would be flat. The dog pack was barking on the other side of the estate, its baying competing with the shouts and screams of the kids. Nearer at hand, a radio was playing Roxy Music, probably some housewife reminiscing while she did the ironing. There was a predominant smell of washing and dog crap. But somewhere down the street a redundant pit electrician was endlessly trying to make the world a better place by creosoting his garden fence.

  Down there, behind the houses, is a canal. It always has a few multi-coloured umbrellas brightening the landscape where blokes are fishing. Round here, there's fishing and there's allotments. There aren't many options for hanging about all day without spending any money. Time is the enemy of the unemployed man. It's bad enough for the middle aged ones. But time bites so deep on the young lads who've never had a job that it's no wonder they turn to crime.

  Number 23 Beech Street is much like the other houses. The area in front has been concreted over and half a plank jammed against the kerb to make it easier to get a car across the pavement. But weeds are growing through the concrete, and a couple of elder saplings are quite well established. Soon they'll be causing trouble with the drains and undermining the foundations, but it won't be the council's responsibility any more, because they sold the house to the Thompsons, cheap. What an opportunity.

  I knew Slow's mum would be in, so I dusted myself down and straightened my belt before I knocked on the door. I wanted her to think I was fit company for her son. Mums are sensitive about this, especially when their little boy has just come back from the cop shop. Has Lloyd been keeping the wrong company? Is it that nasty, working class Stones McClure leading him into bad ways, scrumping apples, then knocking on doors and running away?

  "Oh, Stones," she said when she opened the door. "I'm glad you've come. He'll be pleased to see you."

  Actually, Angie Thompson isn't so bad. I think she has a soft spot for me, like most women. If I decide to exercise a bit of charm, I can twist them round my finger, no problem. Angie might be a bit old for me, but she's still susceptible to a bit of that McClure appeal.

  She was staring at me right now. "You owe him something anyway, for all this time he's spent down the police station. I know it's all your fault, so don't look so smug. He's in the front room."

  Slow Kid looked tired more than anything. Shifty, yeah, as if he'd let me down somehow, but not guilty. He was in front of the telly with a bottle of beer when I walked in on him. His feet were up on a coffee table, and he pulled them off quick when the door opened, thinking it was his mum. There was a game show on the telly. Celebrity Balls, or some such. Housewives' brain death.

  "Have you gone dirty on me or what, Slow?"

  "You know I ain't into drugs, Stones," he said, handing me a beer. "Me mum'd kill me."

  "Yeah, I know." I sighed. "So what was it all about, then?"

  "I honestly dunno. They kept asking whether I'd delivered a big load for someone recently. Shit, I just didn't know what they were on about half the time."

  "Was this Moxon?"

  "He was there, but there was some other guy as well. Big guy, not in a suit like the others, dressed in jeans. I didn't know him at all."

  "Drugs squad probably."

  "Yeah, well. If you ask me, they must have known about some delivery and just pulled in a load of drivers. I think I saw Danny Cross in there too."

  "Not Mick Kelk?"

  "I didn't see him. But there could have been others about somewhere."

  "So they don't really know anything. They're just chancing their arm? The usual suspects, they call it."

  "I'm not a usual suspect, Stones. Not for drugs, I'm not."

  "I know, I know."

  On the telly, some comedian I vaguely recognised was mouthing inanities at a
middle-aged woman contestant, who rolled about in hysterics. Even with the sound turned down, I could tell that his jokes weren't funny. You only had to look at his eyes. Deep down, he was the most embarrassed bloke I'd ever seen.

  "Did you pick anything up about this load, Slow? A where, a when, or a what? Did they let anything slip?"

  "It was around this area, that's all I got. They asked me about people I know."

  Slow hesitated, looking at me sideways around his bottle. I always tell people not to deny they know me. There's no point in lying when the cops know perfectly well it's a fib.

  "They asked about me?"

  "Yeah, they did. But they can't think you're dealing, can they? You've never done that, Stones."

  "No."

  This made me a bit thoughtful, though. It's too easy to fit somebody up for a drugs bust. All it needs is a few grams picked up in one place and then 'found' again in another. There's quite a few of the plods down the local nick that don't like me over much, let alone the top boys at Sherwood Lodge. Moxon, though? I doubted it. It's not his style. In fact, it's probably against his upbringing. But if he wasn't in charge of this business, I'd have to watch my back.

  "When they took you in, Slow, did they search the house?"

  "No. They didn't have a whatsit, a warrant, and I think my mum scared 'em off."

  "Have a quick look round anyway, whatever rooms they went in."

  "Do you think it looks bad, Stones?"

  "Maybe."

  Slow Kid thought about it, staring at a minor soap star giggling and shaking her tits on the screen.

  "How was business while I've been away then?"

  "Not good, Slow, not good. But I'll tell you about it later. Right now, I've got another job to do."

  He looked hopeful. "Anything you need me for?"

  "No thanks. This is something I've got to sort out myself."

  It was nearly half past five already. The TV game show was finishing, and I'd just made a big decision. Cue hysterical applause.

  * * * *

  "Metal, you pillock, what do you mean - you've still got it?"

  Metal Jacket shrugged and waved his hands in the air.

  "I couldn't think what to do with it, Stones. I mean, how do you get rid of a cop car?"

  "Metal, you're making me mad."

  "Sorry."

  I had to think. The last thing I needed was a hot pig-mobile sitting round in a workshop that I could be connected to. Not with Slow only just back from a cell. For all I knew, Moxon and his crew could be on their way here now with a search warrant. And today even my own uncle was threatening to shop me. I didn't like the signs. They all pointed downwards, into the brown stuff.

  "Get some plates on it," I said.

  "What?"

  "Plates. Any plates. And is that wreck over there driveable?"

  "Yeah, sure. You want it?"

  "I don't want it, Metal. We're going to use it to get you and me out of this mess, right?"

  "Okay, Stones."

  Metal looked relieved. He may be good at nicking motors, but when it comes to using his brain for anything else, he was happier taking orders.

  "You're going to drive the Citroen," I said. "Dave and me will be in front of you in the Morris. If you get pulled in, you don't know us, and we don't know nothing. Right?"

  "Right."

  "You drive normally, you don't break the speed limit. Don't do anything that will give 'em an excuse to stop you."

  "Right."

  "Get in the car, then."

  "Right. Er, Stones - "

  "Yeah?"

  "Where are we going?"

  "You'll see when we get there. And bring some wellies."

  In the south and east of the county there are lots of disused gravel pits. They're deep, these things, and after they're abandoned they fill up with water. One of the biggest, Attenborough, has been made into a nature reserve. Really, you'd never know what it was.

  I know a couple of flooded quarries that nobody has bothered with for a long time. There are signs to point out how stupid it is to go swimming in freezing cold water thirty feet deep with only gravel to get a grip on, but that's about all. People do need telling these things, but there aren't many of them who go out that way, stupid or not. Except us, occasionally.

  By now it was getting dark. I drove up the track first in the Morris with Dave, and Metal came up a bit behind us, his headlights bouncing all over the place in my rearview mirror. The Traveller was struggling, but the Citroen didn't do too badly up the track. That's the point of these hydraulic suspensions - you get a better ride.

  I parked near a gap in the fence, and we manoeuvred the Citroen through to the concrete apron on the edge of the quarry. When I switched on my torch, Dave gazed down at the green water far below and started to look dizzy. I pulled him back from the edge.

  "Careful. We need you to help push."

  "It's a long way down."

  "Yeah. We could make a really big splash here."

  "I don't like it out here, Stones," said Metal, coming out of the Citroen. "It's a bit spooky."

  "Spooky? There ain't no spooks here, Metal. Other than the ones haunting that chuffin' car."

  Metal eased the Citroen up to the edge, looking a bit nervous, maybe wondering whether we'd tell him to stop in time before his front wheels went over. I was annoyed with him, but not that annoyed.

  "Right, take the handbrake off. Have you got your wellies?"

  "I dunno what I need these for," he moaned as he swapped them for his trainers. "I'm not going in the water, am I? I feel a real yokel."

  "Just get on with it, Metal."

  We whipped the plates off and began to push. The concrete apron was pretty level, and the three of us soon got the car moving. Dave could have done it on his own. In a moment or two the front wheels slipped over the edge and the underside of the Citroen hit the concrete with a bang. Now the pushing was harder. The horrendous scraping of the metal against the apron sounded much too loud in the night air. But then the car reached its point of balance and started to tip. We gave one last heave and it lurched suddenly.

  So we all backed off quickly and watched as the back end of the Citroen reared into the air and disappeared. It seemed an age before there was a huge splash, and waves of spray flew over the edge, sloshing around our feet. Now Metal knew why he needed the wellies. The algae in that water was sheer poison. It would have ruined his Reeboks.

  I shone my torch over the edge. The boot and rear window of the Citroen were just visible above the surface. The car bobbed and settled, sinking a bit lower with each movement. The splash had stirred up all sorts of silt and rubbish that swirled around it like a shoal of piranha fish in a feeding frenzy.

  Finally, water filled the passenger compartment and forced out a spurt of bubbles. The bumper of the Citroen was the last thing to sink out of sight, cocking itself in the air like the arse of a Parisian tart.

  That's so typical of the French - arrogant to the last.

  14

  Next morning, Lisa was tapping her foot on the station forecourt when I arrived, her bags at her feet and a scowl on her face. I jumped out and put her luggage in the boot like some bleedin' chauffeur. I didn't even get a peck on the cheek. See how I'm treated?

  "Sorry I'm a bit late, sweetheart."

  "Oh?"

  "It was business."

  She said nothing, but turned her head away as I drove out of the station towards the A60.

  "I'm glad to see you back."

  "Thanks."

  This stuff is really hard work. I don't have to do it with Nuala. If I did, she wouldn't listen anyway, so I don't bother.

  "Was it a good course?"

  "Yes, excellent. We had another very interesting discussion in the bar last night."

  "Right. Optimising footfall?"

  "Customer interactivity. Mr Cavendish was particularly knowledgeable on the subject."

  Now she was trying to make me jealous. But this is Stones Mc
Clure she's dealing with. It doesn't work. Why should I be jealous of this hyphenated Cavendish plonker when I was already planning on getting shut of Lisa anyway? He was welcome to her. Let them get interactive together. I didn't care.

  Lisa turned towards me then, and smiled at something she seemed to find in my face. Women are supposed to be sensitive and intuitive, aren't they? But she obviously couldn't read what I was thinking at that moment, or she wouldn't have decided to be so nice to me suddenly. She leaned across the car and kissed me on the cheek. It was quite a long kiss to say I was only the chauffeur. And her hand rested on my leg too. This somehow put a different slant on things, and my thoughts began to turn to how we could fill in the time until I found the right moment to tell her she wasn't wanted any more.

  "Are we going back to your place?" she said.

  I nodded and put my foot down. The Subaru surged forward and we hurtled through Warsop at seventy miles an hour, which is always the best way to see it.

  "We also had a session on the one-to-one feel good experience," she said.

  "Now you're interesting me. I can manage that one."

  * * * *

  Barely more than three hours, Lisa later brought me a cup of coffee. I was still in bed trying to get my energy back from all the effort. My eyes were just about open, and as I drank the coffee I watched Lisa wandering about the bedroom. She seemed to be taking clothes out of her bags and putting them away in my wardrobe and drawers. She was moving my own stuff aside to do it, and tutting over the untidiness.

  This was such a bizarre thing for her to be doing that I thought I must still be asleep and dreaming. She'd left odd things lying about occasionally when she stayed overnight, but there's a line you don't cross when you aren't actually living with someone. You know what I mean, don't you? Chucking the other person's odd socks on the floor to make room for your knickers and tights is definitely over the line. Okay, the sex had been good, but it looked as though the crunch was coming. Lisa was pushing me too far here. It was time to have it out.

  "Where are you going?" she wanted to know when I started to get dressed. What was this, had I suddenly gained a nanny?