Tom Graham - Life on Mars - Get Cartwright

Without warning, Annie leant forward and slammed her fist into the Cortina’s car horn.

‘Come on !’ she cried.

Gene’s expression changed. His cheeks flushed red. A cold, hard light glittered in his eyes. He threw away his barely smoked fag, stomped furiously over to the Cortina, and flung open the rear door.

‘Out!’ he barked.

‘Oh, let’s just get going, Guv,’ Sam urged him.

‘I said, out !’

Annie glared up at Hunt, and for a moment Sam thought she might suddenly launch herself at him in a ferocious attack. But no. She angrily clambered out of the car and threw her leather handbag down hard on the ground.

Gene stared into her face and said in a low, dangerous voice: ‘You honked my horn …’

He flexed his hands, making his black leather driving gloves creak ominously.

Annie stared right back at him, her mouth pulled tight, her eyes narrow and enraged. Then she picked up her bag and strode away.

‘Annie!’ Sam called after her, but her only reaction was to rip aside a cordon of blue police tape as she went.

Gene watched her go with an expression like a very pissed off lion – then, slowly, clambered into the driving seat next to Sam. Without saying a word, he fired up the engine, brushed a speck of imaginary contamination from the horn, and hit the gas.

The Cortina howled to a stop outside the bungalow at 57 Streeling Street. There was a patrol car parked by the front drive, inside which a WPC could just be seen, comforting a distressed woman. A PC lurked at the front of the bungalow, licking the tip of a tiny pencil and making notes.

Gene sat behind the wheel for a moment, staring ahead.

‘What’s the story with her , eh, Tyler?’ he asked.

‘Annie’s got things on her mind,’ Sam replied, refusing to be drawn into details.

Gene snorted in contempt: ‘Got things on her mind ?! She’s a bird – minds don’t come into it!’ And before Sam could spring to her defence, he added: ‘Do me a big favour, Tyler. Get her sorted.’

‘She’s her own person, Guv.’

‘In her own little head maybe, but not in my department. Stompin’ about, telling me to get a move on, honkin’ my ruddy horn ...!’ A flame of indignation flickered anew at the memory. ‘I don’t know what her problem is, and frankly I don’t give a stuff. But if you don’t rein your tart in, Tyler, I’m gonna throw her over my knee and give her a damned good slippering. And I may not be speaking metaphorically.’

‘Just give her some space, Guv. She’ll be okay.’

‘It’s my horn, in my motor!’

‘I know, Guv.’

‘ And I’m the boss! And it’s bloody Sunday and I’m missing The Big Match ! Don’t my feelings count for nothing round here?’

‘I’ll have a little chat with her later.’

‘Do that, Tyler – before I have a little chat with her. And you know how my little chats tend to pan out.’

And with that, Gene threw open the car door and clambered out. Sam sighed and followed him.

They crossed to the patrol car. A toothy, rather ineffectual-looking WPC got out.

‘I’m trying to comfort Mrs Walsh,’ she whined. ‘But she’s gone a bit crackers.’

Gene had a look inside the car and was confronted by Mrs Walsh’s face, contorted and mascara-streaked, a bubble of mucus burgeoning in her left nostril as she blubbered and howled.

‘Holy Moly, somebody call an exorcist,’ Gene growled out of the corner of his mouth.

‘What happened here?’ Sam asked the WPC.

‘Mrs Walsh had been away for a few days, visiting her poorly Auntie Janet in London. She came back this morning on the Intercity and found the bungalow wrecked and no sign of her husband. And now she’s panicked and gone mental.’

Mrs Walsh suddenly banged on the inside of the car window and howled. There was lipstick smeared chaotically over her wrinkled mouth and a stalactite of thick snot wobbling from the tip of her long nose.

‘Sprinkle her with holy water,’ suggested Gene. ‘It’ll buck her up or melt her – either way, it can only be an improvement.’

Hunt marched up the little garden path towards the bungalow, Sam striding along beside him.

‘Anything to report?’ he asked the PC at the door, flashing his ID.

‘Bit of a mystery, Sir,’ the copper said. He indicated the front door, which was lying flat in the hallway. It had been ripped clear from its hinges. ‘ Somebody came in here full wallop. And it’s no better inside. The place has been trashed.’

‘And what about Pat Walsh?’ Sam asked. ‘No clue what’s happened to him?’

‘Not that I can find,’ shrugged the PC. ‘His missus ain’t being much help, squawking away like that, but to be honest I don’t think she knows nowt anyway.’

Sam stepped inside the bungalow, walking across the wrecked door to reach the hall. Broken glass crunched under his feet. Pictures had been flung from the walls, windows had been smashed, lampshades hung in shreds about shattered bulbs.

‘It’s like a feckin’ whirlwind tore through this gaff,’ muttered Gene, peering about at the wrecked furniture and scattered debris. ‘Or else it was the boys from forensics on one of their piss-ups.’ With the toe of his loafer, he nudged at a carriage clock that lay amid the ruin, its face smashed, its hands twisted. ‘Whoever turned this place over must have been desperate.’

‘Yes, Guv – but desperate for what ?’ Sam said, pointing into the bedroom. Mrs Walsh’s earrings and necklaces lay discarded all over the bed and floor. ‘Since when did burglars leave the jewellery behind?’

‘And what about these?’ Gene said, bending down to scoop up the playing cards scattered about all over the floor. ‘What sort of bloke would break in and leave treasure like this lying about?’

‘Playing cards, Guv?’

‘Not just any playing cards, Tyler.’

Gene presented them for Sam to inspect. They were porno cards, each one graced with its very own topless, spread-legged angel. It was all hitched-up denim skirts, brown suede boots, and glossily pouting lips.

‘Well I don’t think they belong to Mrs Walsh,’ observed Sam.

‘I can’t see that crabby mare putting up with these charmin’ lovelies,’ said Gene, perusing the cards one by one. ‘Gotta be Pat’s contraband, eh. His private stash. Fodder for a crafty J Arthur when the missus is off down the Wavy Line. Can’t blame him for that, a fella needs to stay sane. I mean, be honest, there’s no way he’s going to get the horn looking at her dried-up Boris Karloff boat race every night.’

‘Guv, you give whole new depth to the term ‘ungentlemanly’, did you know that?’

Gene suddenly thrust one of the cards towards Sam’s face. It was the four of clubs, depicting a young woman with straight blonde hair sucking her finger whilst unbuttoning a very tight pair of orange corduroy hotpants.

‘Here’s a question, Tyler – and tell me straight: if this bird were your sister … would you be tempted?’

Sam looked flatly at him for a moment and then said: ‘Guv – have you ever thought about being psychoanalyzed?’

Gene perused the card: ‘Got a better set of lungs on her than your Flatty Cartwright. Just think what you’re missing.’

‘Do you think there’s any chance we could conduct this investigation like professional police officers?’

‘Perhaps it’s you what needs his head shrinking,’ Gene said under his breath as he pocketed the cards. ‘A real fella would show at least a scrap of interest.’