Faithfully: Chase & Halshaw #1 (14 page)

“Thirsty work, eh, Al?”

Chase looked up at the well-upholstered, balding man in a
blue Berghaus anorak who faced him across the brass-topped pub table. He
clutched a pint of Guinness in one raw-knuckled hand and a pint of lager in the
other.

“What is?”

“Thinking!” grinned the balding man, setting the glasses
down on the table and manoeuvring himself into the opposite chair. “You were miles
away just then.”

Chase downed the remaining inch of lager in his glass and
exchanged it for its successor. “Thanks Jim,” he replied. “How’s it going?”

“Not bad, thanks. You?”

“Had a bit of a week of it, to be honest. How’s Miriam?”

“Festering. The ritual Saturday night soak. Scented candles,
bath ballistics, the whole nine pampering yards.”

“So she’s OK, is she?”

“Course she is, mate. Think I’d have been allowed out
otherwise?”

Chase couldn’t think of an answer to that.

“Why don’t you come for a meal sometime? Sunday lunch,
maybe.”

“You know the answer to that question, Jim.”

Jim sighed. “God, Al! How many years has it been? Every
Saturday night, just as I’m on my way out to meet you, Miriam asks when you’re
going to come and visit. Every week without fail. She wants to see you, Al.
Honestly.”

And I want to see her too, Chase said to himself. So, so
much. “I just don’t think it’s a good idea, that’s all,” he said.

Jim looked at Chase intently as he took a long pull of his
Guinness. “So come on, spill ‘em,” he probed. “Why has it been a bad week?”

“I didn’t say that, did I?”

Jim laughed derisively. “How long have I known you, mate?
Miriam might think you’re inscrutable but I can read you like a bloody book.”

Defeated, Chase chuckled. “OK. It’s been a bad week in two
senses. First and worst is Ken.”

“Your work wife? What’s happened to him?”

“He got knocked down by a car while chasing a suspect.”

“Oh no! Is he OK?”

“He’ll live. He’s regained consciousness and he’s off the
critical list. But he’s still in hospital, and one of his legs is a right
mess.”

Jim grimaced. “How awful! When did this happen?”

“Tuesday night.”

“Were you together?”

“Yes. We were in my car. I was on the radio when it
happened. I saw the whole thing.”

“Was it deliberate?”

“No. Purely accidental.”

Jim shook his head slowly, and took a thoughtful pull of his
Guinness. “And the other thing?”

“I’ve let myself get talked into taking on more work than I
can handle. A-bloody-gain. I’m drowning in paperwork. And Royce is breathing
down my neck for results.”

“Which is why you’re sitting here with me, boozing, rather
than out their sleuthing?”

Chase smiled and quaffed some more of his lager.

“Have they found you a sub for Ken?”

“Yes. Remember when I was working on that murder case in Chipping
Abbas? Last autumn?”

“Oh yeah. You spent a couple of weeks swanning around the
countryside at the taxpayer’s expense, didn’t you?”

“Something like that, yes.”

Jim noticed something in Chase’s eyes. “Hold on a moment!
Didn’t you have a glamorous assistant while you were there?”

Chase nodded.

“And she’s Ken’s sub? You sly old dog, Al!”

“And you should be a detective, Jim,” Chase laughed. “What
gave it away?”

“The stupid grin on your face. What’s her name?”

“Lauren. Detective Constable Halshaw, as she is now.”

“Of course. How could I forget? For weeks afterwards it was
Lauren this, Lauren that, Lauren the bloody other. It was all you could talk
about.”

“It was not!”

“It was so! It got so bad, I was beginning to think you were
finally getting over Miriam.”

Chase sighed.

“OK. Sorry. Scratch that. So what are the chances of you
actually getting your leg over with the lovely Lauren this time?”

“Zero, I’m afraid. Her boyfriend’s come up to visit for the
weekend.”

“Not so fast, tiger. Who suggested this assignment?”

“It certainly wasn’t me.”

“Then it must have been her idea.”

“Her tutor’s, actually.”

“Same difference.” Jim downed the last of his Guinness.
“Drink up, Al,” he commanded. “It’s your round again!”

*

“What do you know about The Balfour Doctrine?” asked
Chase, once he had returned with the drinks.

“Wasn’t it something to do with the founding of the State of
Israel?” he frowned. “I vaguely remember learning about it from school.” Then
his frown cleared. “Want me to ask Miriam?” he went on, fumbling in the pockets
of his anorak for his mobile. “History’s her field, after all.”

Chase smiled. “No, that’s not what I meant,” he replied.
“There used to be a band called The Balfour Doctrine, didn’t there?”

Jim returned his phone to his jacket pocket. “Let me think.”
He took a long, slow pull of his Guinness. “Yeah, that’s right. Adrian and
Malcolm Balfour were brothers. Adrian played drums, Malcolm played bass. After
they left school they set up a band called The Bal Four, along with a couple of
blokes called Zac Houston and Steve Strongbow. Remember them?”

“The Flying Buttresses? How could I forget?”

“Half of them, you mean, Al. Half of them.”

Chase nodded and sipped his lager. “I thought Steve
Strongbow played bass,” he said.

“So he did, Al. So he did. Malcolm played guitar in The Bal
Four, along with Zac Houston. But Zac kept upstaging Malcolm, and Steve
regularly upstaged the pair of them.”

“So what happened?”

“After a while, Steve and Zac went off to form The Flying
Buttresses,” Jim continued. “That left Malcolm and Adrian up a gum tree, pretty
much. So they set themselves up as The Balfour Doctrine. Adrian on drums, of
course. Malcolm switched to bass. Pretty good, he was, too, though not quite in
Steve Strongbow’s league.”

As Jim spoke, he looked over Chase’s shoulder intently.
Chase twisted round in his seat and soon realised his friend’s attention had
been caught by a statuesque, dark haired young woman who had just bought a
glass of red wine at the bar. As he watched, she slipped off her short woollen
overcoat to reveal a vaguely Goth black lace dress, and began to thread her way
through the throng towards a cramped corner table on the far side of the room.

“Why do you want to know about the
Balfours
,
anyway?”

“It came up in a case the other day, that’s all,” replied
Chase, admiring her poise as she slalomed gracefully between the drinkers.

“OK,” Jim went on, still looking over Chase’s shoulder.
“Where were we?”

“The Balfour Doctrine...”

“Right. Over the next few years the brothers tried out
various singers and guitarists, without conspicuous success, although they did
release a couple of albums in the early seventies. They even got on Whistle
Test once, I seem to remember.”

“Have you got any of their albums?” asked Chase, absently.
The corner table was just within his field of vision, and he watched her greet
her friends with hugs and laughter, entranced by her luminous smile, her
dancing eyes.

“No. Long since deleted, I guess.” Jim wiped
Guinness froth from his moustache and upper lip with a none-too-clean
handkerchief. Then he chuckled. “You don’t get many of those to the pound, do
you?”

Chase spun round. “How d’you mean?”

“Don’t try to pretend, Al. I saw you staring at her tits.”

“I wasn’t...”

“Oh, don’t be embarrassed. I was too. A sight for sore eyes,
they are.”

Chase looked again, and noticed the girl’s opulent cleavage,
her pale skin framed by the low neckline of her black dress. She caught his eye
and looked at him quizzically. Abashed, he smiled awkwardly and quickly turned
away.

Jim chuckled as he took a pull of his Guinness. “She’s still
looking at you, Al,” he smiled. “Why’s that? Have you nicked her or something?”

“I’ve never seen her before in my life.”

Jim’s smile grew broader. “In which case, there’s only one explanation.”

“What’s that?”

“You’re in there, my son. Why don’t you go and ask for her
phone number?”

Chase shook his head emphatically, attempting to hide his
embarrassment behind his pint of lager.

“Oh, come on,” Jim insisted.

Chase shook his head again.

“Why not? She’s seriously fit, you have to admit.”

“That’s true,” he conceded, reluctantly.

“And you’re going to have to get back in the game some time,
you know.”

“I’ve never seen it as a game, Jim. Not like you.”

“Maybe that’s your problem, Al.”

“I know, I know. You’re right. But...”

“Oh of course,” grinned Jim. “I forgot. You’re on a promise
with the lovely Lauren, aren’t you?”

“No!”

“So what are you waiting for? Go and ask for her number!”

“I don’t know...”

Jim shrugged. “Your loss, mate.” He took another pull of his
Guinness. “What were we talking about, anyway?”

“The Balfour Doctrine. What happened to them?” asked
Chase, sipping his lager thoughtfully.

“She’s still looking at you,” grinned Jim.

“Who is?”

“The bird with the gorgeous jugs.”

“She isn’t... is she?”

“See for yourself.”

Chase twisted round in his seat again. The girl was deep in
animated conversation with her friends and paid him absolutely no attention. He
turned back to Jim. “You’re taking the piss, aren’t you?”

“I’m not, mate. I promise you. Now go and ask for her phone
number.”

“No chance. This is a wind-up, I know it is.”

Jim shook his head despairingly.

“Anyway, it’s you she’s probably after,” Chase added.

Jim patted his ample gut ruefully. “I doubt it, Al,” he
smiled. “I’m not the type who attracts beautiful women.”

“You attracted Miriam,” Chase retorted.

Jim looked startled for a moment. “Touché!” he chuckled.
“Where had we got to?”

“The Balfour Doctrine...”

Jim took another pull of his Guinness. “Right. They finally
jacked it in at the start of the punk boom,” he continued. “After that the
brothers concentrated on session work, and did pretty well at it, I think.
Malcolm played on the last Flying Buttresses tour, for example. And on
Redux
,
too.”

“You mean after Steve Strongbow was arrested?”

“Yeah. He’s out now, you know.”

Chase said nothing. The last thing he wanted on a Saturday
night was a harangue about the failings of the criminal justice system. “Where
are they now?” he asked instead.

“Adrian died after a drinking binge, a few years ago,
remember?”

“Oh yes. And what about Malcolm?”

“I vaguely remember reading at the time that he’d given up
music, married an Israeli girl, and gone off to grow figs on a kibbutz. Something
like that, anyway.” He downed the last of his Guinness and stared pointedly at
Chase’s pint glass, which was still three-quarters full. “You really shouldn’t
drink that fizzy muck, Al. It just fills you up with gas.”

Chase looked back at him silently. He knew exactly what Jim
was about to say, although it seemed to happen earlier and earlier in the
evening.

Jim smiled beatifically, as if struck by divine inspiration.
“Time to move on to shorts, I think,” he announced.

“Cheers, Darren!”

“Cheers, mate!”

Darren Hitchins stumbled out of the pub door, momentarily
blinded by the darkness after the bright interior of the pub. He wondered about
going for a kebab, but couldn’t be arsed to walk all the way over to Chiltern
Park station, and decided to head home instead. Maybe
Mum’ll
make me something, he said to himself. If she’s still sober enough, that is.

He tacked drunkenly across the car park. He had just rounded
the burnt-out Transit van when he heard a sound behind him.

He spun round.

In the shadow of the hulk of the van he could dimly make out
two figures. He squeezed his eyes shut and opened them again, but still
couldn’t make out their faces.

“Oi, Darren! Over ‘ere!” whispered one of them.

“Why?”

“Got somethin’ for you, that’s why.”

“What?”

“Over ‘ere!”

Cautiously, Darren stepped forward, peering into the
shadows. He was within a couple of paces of the van when he caught a glimpse of
something shiny swinging towards his head, just as it connected with the side
of his head with bone-crushing force.

The next thing he knew, he was lying on the tarmac in a pool
of blood and vomit. Agonising pain sliced through one side of his face. Two men
stood over him.

“What did you tell ‘em, Darren?” one demanded.

Darren attempted to reply, but only managed to vomit the
last of his lager on to the cracked and broken tarmac, along with the remains
of several teeth.

“I asked you a question, Darren. What did you tell ‘em?”

Darren looked up at the two men. One was heavy-set,
shaven-headed, and wielded a steel putter. The other was taller, his long dark
hair tied back in a ponytail.

“Tell who?” he managed to quaver.

Ponytail crouched down next to him.

“The law. Who else? What did you tell ‘em, Darren?”

“What about?”

“Me, you piece of shite. What do you think?”

“
Nothin
’, Dmitri! Honest! I
never...”

“Then we’d better make sure you can’t,” smiled shaven-head.
“What do you think, Dmitri?”

Dmitri frowned. “I guess you’re right,” he replied, slowly.
“Need a hand, Sven?”

Sven nodded curtly. Dmitri grasped Darren’s wrists in his gloved
hands and pinioned them firmly against the tarmac. Sven took up a stance next
to Darren’s head. He balanced himself on the balls of his feet, and feinted
once, then twice, before drawing back the club and executing an immaculate tee
shot.

Darren writhed and screamed, first in terror, then in agony
as the golf club smashed into his jaw.

Dmitri crouched down next to him again. “You won’t be able
to tell the law anything now, will you, Darren?” he said, gently.

Darren could only utter a series of muffled grunts through
his smashed mouth.

“He can still write a statement,” Sven pointed out.

“That’s true, I guess.”

“You want me to...?”

“Yeah. Sorry about this, Darren mate. Nothin’ personal.” He
turned to shaven-head. “You got it, Sven?”

“Help me get him inside. It’ll be more private. Then go and
fetch the car.”

Sven grabbed Darren’s wrists and dragged him around the back
of the van. He clambered inside, and began to haul a whimpering Darren up after
him. Dmitri lifted his ankles, and together they bundled him into the van. A
few seconds later screams began to echo around the car park.

By the time Dmitri had pulled up in the car park in his BMW
M3 convertible, all was quiet. Sven wiped the head of the golf club carefully
on a rag, which he tossed into the van. Then he stowed the putter into the boot
of the car, climbed into the front passenger seat, and the two men drove slowly
away.