David Belbin - Bone & Cane

‘The end’s in sight, that’s all. Did you dig out those cuttings for me?’

‘Straight to business, as ever,’ Brian sighed. He handed Sarah a folder and she flicked through the contents. The Evening Post of 1990 hadn’t covered the crime in enormous detail. There was barely any mention of Ed Clark. He was the youngest member of the gang and the police hadn’t been able to prove that he was part of the robbery. He had been charged with receiving stolen goods, for which he received a year’s sentence and received six months.

‘It doesn’t explain how they got caught,’ Sarah pointed out, after speed-reading a week’s worth of pieces. ‘I reckon there’s something the police are keeping back, something that won’t be in the court records.’

She tried to think of a way to bring Polly Bolton into it without mentioning what Eric had said. Then she noticed something that wasn’t there.

‘Why did Ed kill Terry Shanks rather than any of the other officers who arrested him? Terry Shanks isn’t even mentioned in these reports. It doesn’t sound like he can have played a big part in the arrests. He wasn’t even proper CID, was he? He was only attached to them for a few months.’

‘You’d have to ask the sister-in-law that. Polly something. Only one left alive.’

‘I don’t think she’ll talk to me.’

Brian thought for a moment. ‘I’ll bet the husband knew the score.’

‘Polly’s ex? Think you can find him for me?’

‘I shall use the full range of my reporter’s skills,’ Brian said, rising unsteadily from his seat, ‘but we will need to move to the snug. They keep my most useful tool behind the bar in there.’

Sarah followed him into the bar on the right, where Brian ordered another pint for himself and a second gin and tonic for her, though she’d barely started the first.

‘And can I borrow your phone book?’ he asked the barmaid. He handed the directory to Sarah. ‘Know the guy’s first name? Be your own detective.’

Sarah trawled her memory. She should recall Polly’s husband’s name. He had left her, not long after the murder, not long after the couple were landed with two Shanks kids on top of their own two. She remembered Polly cursing him, saying he didn’t keep in touch, even though he didn’t live far off. MPs had to be good with names. Phil. She was pretty sure that was it.

She looked for a Philip Bolton in the Nottingham area. There were five with the initial P in the book. No Philip or Phillips. None lived in the city. One was in Arnold. Another in West Bridgford. That was nearest, so she tried it first, using her party mobile. No good. The ‘P’ stood for Peter.

‘What are you trying to find out?’ Brian asked, plonking her drink in front of her, spilling a few drops onto the table as he did so.

‘I’m not sure,’ Sarah said, punching in the Arnold number. ‘There’s something I’ve not been told and, without it, I’m at a disadvantage.’

‘A disadvantage in what?’ Brian asked, but Sarah knew better than to answer. Brian was voluble when pissed and gave an impression of oafishness, yet retained a trained reporter’s memory and the curiosity that went with it. A male voice answered the phone.

‘Is that Philip Bolton? I mean, Phil . . .’

‘Speaking.’

‘You used to live in Basford, with your ex-wife, Polly.’

‘Yeah. What’s this about?’

Brian was hanging on her words. Sarah decided that she couldn’t do this over the phone. It was too risky, even, to reveal who she was.

‘It’s something I can only explain in person.’

Joe’s birthday meal ought to have been a treat: Caroline was a good cook, but working over a hot stove was no job for a heavily pregnant woman, so Nick volunteered to do the honours. They were having roast chicken, the Sunday dinner that was Joe’s favourite meal. Nick followed Caroline’s instructions on making bread sauce, but the result was lumpy and tasted too strongly of cloves. Joe tried to help with an extra dish, something complicated concerning mustard seeds and cabbage.

The roast potatoes, when they came out of the oven, were hard enough to remove prison fillings. The chicken was over-cooked. At least the gravy was all right. Nick was good at gravy.

‘He passed, by the way,’ Joe said, as he put on the peas.

‘You what?’

‘Ed Clark passed his knowledge test. I’ve put him on the books, officially.’

‘I see.’

‘How much longer do you plan to drive for?’

‘A week at most,’ Nick said. His resolution to stop at once had wilted.

‘Probation come up with anything?’

‘Silly jobs. Shelf stacking. Industrial cleaning. Applied for a couple and wasn’t even called for interview. Didn’t put in too convincing an application, mind. I’ll find something else.’

Caroline ignored the bread sauce and carefully scraped the soft part out of the hard potatoes. She was tired and conversation was strained. Nick began to describe the debate on Tuesday night.

‘You used to go out with this woman?’ Caroline asked.

‘We lived together for two years while we were at university and just after.’

‘Why did you split up?’

‘She joined the police,’ Joe pointed out. ‘That’s what you told me.’

‘I don’t think it was the only reason. We were – what? – twenty-two. At that age you think you know everything and there’s bound to be another soul mate just round the corner.’

‘Only there wasn’t,’ Caroline said.

‘Nah. There was Clare. She sort of moved in with me for a few months the following year, but she wanted to settle down with someone and said I wasn’t over Sarah. Then I went out with Nazia for nearly a year.’

‘I thought Nazia was great,’ Joe said, picking up his chicken leg and crunching into the skin.

‘You’ve got a thing for Asian women,’ Caroline told her husband. ‘But you’ve never been out with one. Why’s that?’

‘I asked Nazia to marry me,’ Nick confessed, when Joe didn’t answer. ‘She said yes. We knew her family wouldn’t have it, not in the mid-eighties, but Mum and Dad were both alive then and I was going to take her to meet them. She bottled out at the last minute. Then she dumped me for a dentist.’

‘Any idea what happened to her?’

‘Married the dentist, at a guess. He was from the same caste as her.’

Nick wondered again if his brother was screwing Nas at the office. Did Caroline suspect, hence her jibe about Asian women? She knew Joe hadn’t been entirely faithful before they were married and she’d still walked down the aisle with him. It was none of Nick’s business.

‘What about now?’ Caroline asked, pushing round the peas on her still full plate. ‘Are you seeing anybody?’

She had carefully moved the conversation to this point, Nick realized. A week ago, he might have mentioned Polly, but not now.

‘Not seriously,’ was all he said.

‘What about Sarah?’ Joe asked. His voice took on a schoolboy snigger. ‘Still interested?’

‘The last thing an MP needs is to be seen chumming up with an ex-con,’ Nick said. ‘If she loses next Thursday, I’ll see her.’

‘How gallant,’ Caroline said, putting down her knife and fork to signal that she had given up on the meal.

Soon Caroline went upstairs for a sleep while the two men dozed through the afternoon match on Sky. After the game, Nick borrowed Joe’s bike to get home. Joe had bought the bike to ‘keep fit’ but never used it. Nick’s Canning Circus flat was only a two-mile ride, but he chose a round-about route, one that took him past Polly’s. He cycled slowly, still full from dinner. He’d had a couple of glasses of wine and the memory of his last visit to Polly’s made him horny. But the other night was a one-off. They were over. He was going to see Polly out of friendship, to warn her about Ed, suggest she start using a different taxi firm.