Corruption

By Michael Brookes

Bob Beaumont, retired from the Royal Military Police, is running his own detective agency from offices in Burcastle, a town in the North West of England. His PA, Liz Parker, has aspirations of becoming a detective despite her disadvantaged upbringing.

Bob's routine investigation of a marital infidelity case leads to evidence of an associat

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michael Brookes
• Release date: Apr 5, 2021
• ISBN: 9781802270068

Book preview

Chapter 1

The rain started collecting on the windscreen in tiny spots and then to run in rivulets down the glass. The light from the downstairs window of the house fifty yards ahead was fragmented by the drops and rivulets into myriads of yellow and white beads, their brilliance set off by the black of the surrounding night. As an amateur artist Bob Beaumont was fascinated by the patterns and the colours in front of him. Suddenly the patterns changed and he refocused on the house. The downstairs light had gone out and an upstairs light had come on.

‘Look! I’ll bet they’re at it now,’ said Liz in her warm Lancashire accent. ‘I’ll make a note.’ She spoke excitedly into a small recording machine. ‘Monday, 10 November, 11pm. Subject with single lady in house at 14 Lime Close, Wilton Estate, Burcastle. Downstairs lights put out. Bedroom light put on.’

Bob yawned. Unlike Liz, he was tired and bored and wanted to be in bed. He disliked this marital snooping but it filled the gaps between more interesting cases and it helped to earn a crust. With changes in divorce laws in more recent years, there wasn’t so much of this kind of work these days. Most of his work came from break-ins that the police couldn’t solve or else lacked the capacity or perhaps even the interest to pursue. In a northern town such as Burcastle, which had long ago lost its main ‘raison d’être’ as a cotton town, there was much poverty and plenty of crime.

He’d opened his detective agency five years previously after leaving the Royal Military Police and taken on Liz Parker a year ago as his PA. She’d suffered from a poor comprehensive school education but since then had been to evening college to learn English, typing and office procedures. When initially interviewing her, Bob had recognized that she was bright, positive and enthusiastic. He’d also later discovered that she was well organized and extremely detail-conscious.

He particularly liked her sense of honesty. At present she could at times be too direct and that needed to be smoothed off with a more subtle approach, but not at the expense of her honesty. He also liked her hard work ethic which seemed to know no bounds and she was keen to learn. All in all he’d made a good decision but now, having organized his office, she was more interested in detective work than in administration.

‘Do you think she’s a chippy or just a regular frau?’

In her enthusiasm to be a private investigator, Liz had started to study the hard-boiled slang of the trade, most of it American. She felt this gave her more authenticity.

‘I neither know nor care about her moral stance. We’re being paid by a wife to keep an eye on her husband. We’ll give him another half hour and if there’s no further movement we’ll assume he’s spending the night and go home. I see the light’s gone out now.’

‘While we’re waiting boss, how do you think I’m getting on in the job? I mean, do you think I’m up to scratch?’

‘It depends on which job you mean. I employed you as a PA and you’re doing well at that, apart from your written English, which we both agree needs to sharpen up. If you mean as a detective, then you’ve got much to learn, although you’re keen enough I’ll grant you that.’

‘Well I went to the local comp. I didn’t go to a posh school like you and that’s why I don’t write so well. But I’m improving, aren’t I?’

‘Yes. Since you started at the College your English has improved, but you’ve a long way to go yet. And incidentally, I didn’t go to a posh school. I went to a State grammar school.’

‘Did you have to pass an exam?’

‘Yes. The eleven plus.’

‘And what happened if you failed?’

‘Then you went to a secondary modern school.’

‘Were they any good?’

‘I suppose some might have been but I think many were poor. But if you’re asking me if the scheme was perfect, then no, it wasn’t. It was unfair to many children who failed the eleven plus and who never fully recovered from the experience. But the political solution to the problem was worse than the problem itself. The government of the day chose to destroy the best elements of the system, the grammar schools, on the altar of equality. The result was a general lowering of standards across the country in the form of comprehensive schools such as the one you went to. The few remaining grammar schools are in great demand.’

‘The comps can’t all be bad.’

‘No, I’m sure they’re not, but too many are.’

‘Well you keep on telling me that I shouldn’t criticise something unless I could come up with a better idea. What would you have done?’

‘You’re quite right. I’d have left the grammar schools alone and created technical schools. In fact, the government did create some but not nearly enough. I’d have had no secondary modern schools. The technical schools, and there would have been more of them than grammar schools, would obviously have covered trade training. But more than that, they would have encouraged children to take GCEs at ‘O’ and ‘A’ level so that more students could have gone on to Polytechnics and universities. I would have envisaged more money going in to the technical schools than the grammar schools because of their greater need for a range of high-quality workshops and laboratories. The children would have benefited and so too would the country. I would have retained selection at eleven but on the basis of aptitude rather than on so-called intelligence and I would have had easy transition arrangements for subsequent transfer between the two types of schools. Given the right investment, I think many children would have preferred the technical schools to the grammar schools. Some children can pick up the theory better when they can see an immediate practical application. Others are fine with just the theory.’

‘Perhaps you should have been a politician.’

‘No thanks. I once worked at the Ministry of Defence and that’s a close as I wish to get to political life. Well now we’ve sorted out the country’s education, I think we should call it a day. I’ve had enough. I’ll drive you home’.

Home for Liz was a flat in town which she’d just started renting. Until then she’d been living in the family council house with her mother, father and brother. She was still only twenty-two but hoped eventually to get enough money together to put down a mortgage on a small house. Bob liked her sense of independence and her ambition.

He dropped her off but instead of going home went to the George Hotel. Even at this hour there were usually a few people in the residents’ bar, which was at the back of the hotel and accessible from its own external door. Of course, legally he was out of order but the bar staff knew him and turned a blind eye. After all, he was clearly working on a case.

In one corner a couple were having a deep conversation. There was one other man at the bar, sitting on a stool. He was big, broad-shouldered and wore a trilby, which made him look smart but rather old fashioned, and a black overcoat. He turned and raised his eyebrows as Bob entered.

‘If you’re not a resident I’ll have to arrest you for drinking after hours.

‘I haven’t had a drink yet,’ replied Bob.

‘Fred, give Mr Beaumont a whisky and then I can arrest him’.

The comment was addressed to the elderly barman who nodded a greeting at Bob and smiled.

‘Will you join Chief Inspector Fletcher in a whisky, Sir?’ Fred asked Bob.

‘Churlish to refuse’, replied Bob. ‘And what brings you here at this hour?’ he asked Bill Fletcher. ‘I suppose you’re working on a case?’

‘I certainly am. I’m keeping an eye on you. Why are you here?’

‘Oh, I’m just helping the police with their enquiries.’

‘Well in that case we’re both gainfully employed’.

They sipped their drinks quietly for a moment before Bob added an observation.

‘I hope you don’t mind my saying so, Squire, but you look a bit morose.

‘Pissed off would be more accurate’, and then, turning to Fred added. ‘Fred, would you leave us for a moment.

‘Certainly, Sir’, replied Fred. Fred was a barman of the old school: always courteous but assured in his own realm and never subservient. He disappeared round the back of the bar.

‘I am pissed off with my revered leader, Superintendent Charles Smith’, said Bill.

‘I thought you quite liked him’.

‘In some ways I do quite like him but he’s typical of his breed. He’s a liberal lefty with an inbuilt belief in his right to rule and a mind-set that makes it difficult for him to listen to opposing points of view. He’s also rather pompous and detached in his approach.’

‘But what in particular has he just done to drive you to drink.’

‘We’ve got a big problem brewing with young girls, mainly young white girls, being groomed for prostitution. Most of the gangs are Pakistani but Charles in his wisdom keeps pointing out that there are men of all ethnic groups responsible and he’s technically right, but since the overwhelming majority are Pakistani I think we need to say so and do something about it. How can we solve the problem if we don’t recognize the facts? It’s political correctness gone mad.’

‘He’s supposed to be quite bright isn’t he?’

‘Well, yes, he is in some respects. He can normally do the Times crossword in half an hour but when it comes to practical day-to-day issues he seems to put his brains on stand-by.’

‘I don’t think there’s anything new there’, added Bob. ‘Do you remember that little nest of communist sympathisers at Cambridge in the 30s? Burgess and McLean were the main ones but there were others. Here was a group of intelligent intellectuals who were so imbued with left wing dogma that they preferred Russia to the West. It’s as though they were taken over by a form of group think, exactly the opposite of what one would expect from people who are more than capable of thinking for themselves. And it’s much the same today.’

‘It’s strange, isn’t it,’ added Bill, ‘but I know what you mean. America’s bad; Europe’s good: when comparing Britain with other countries, double standards are applied and Britain’s always seen in a worse light: pride in Britain is nationalistic but other countries’ pride in themselves is deemed to be patriotic: despite a thousand years of independence, compared with 43 years of subservience to Brussels, Britain is no longer capable of governing itself.’

‘Yes, it’s an odd mind set for the so-called ruling intelligentsia but they’re not all the same any more than we are. Generalisations are always suspect, although I think you’re right about some of the general trends. I suppose being intelligent doesn’t necessarily make one well informed or wise. Let’s change the subject.’

‘You’re right. How’s that girl of yours getting along?’

‘She’s got great promise, despite a rotten start in life. Reading between the lines, I think her father was a drunk and her mother was on the game. After that she survived a poor education.’

‘At least she knows something about the down-side of life from first-hand experience. That could be useful in our work.’

‘The remarkable thing is that she doesn’t seem too bruised by her background. She’s full of optimism and raring to go.’

‘But how about you?’ asked Bill. ‘You don’t seem full of optimism and raring to go this evening.’

‘Oh, I’m all right. Just a bit hacked off that’s all. I’ve just spent two hours sitting in the car watching house lights going on and off. That’s why I came in for a nightcap.’

‘Do you miss the Army?’

‘Well, in some ways yes.’

‘The swanky dinners in the mess, I suppose?’ suggested Bill.

‘Probably least of all those. I think most of all it was the sense of purpose and belief that we were doing an important job and doing it well: that and the camaraderie, the sense of humour, and the teamwork - and of course the complete absence of political correctness.’

‘But you don’t really dislike your work now, do you?’

‘In the main I enjoy it very much. Like all jobs it has its ups and down and this evening was a down – but tomorrow, who knows?’

Bob and Bill went on to talk about rugby and about Manchester United, both shared interests. In the past Bob had practised martial arts and played rugby. Now he played squash and golf. They stayed for another half hour and then left.

On his way home Bob continued to think about Bill. He liked him and not just because they shared a love of rugby and football. Bill was a big, strong man but at the same time gentle, thoughtful and intelligent. Although he was also more a man of action than an academic, he read widely. He could make it to the top but if it didn’t it would be because he wasn’t sufficiently political or perhaps politically correct.

In many ways Bob and Bill were similar. They were roughly the same size physically, although Bob was somewhat slimmer than Bill, they had a shared interest in sport and they had a good sense of humour. Some people found their sense of humour macabre but perhaps they didn’t understand that such humour was essential to those in work that involved some of the more unpleasant aspects of life. It was a safety valve.

Bill, unlike Bob, showed no interest in trying to paint, but he loved classical music and particularly opera, which came as a surprise to many people until they found out what a many-sided person he was. One thing they shared was an implicit trust in each other which had developed during the time Bob had had his agency and they’d been involved together in a number of cases. There was a strong bond between them which they both recognised and valued.

As he arrived home, Bob wondered what tomorrow would bring and hoped for something more exciting than another marital snooping job. He’d forgotten the old maxim: be careful what you wish for.

Chapter 2

In the morning, following on from their work night before, Liz filled in an investigation form that Bob had designed; Bob checked it and corrected it and Liz typed it out.

‘That’s the best report you’ve done, Liz. Well done.’

‘Well I hope that dude gets what’s coming to him, chasing chicks like that while ‘er indoors is keeping his pad nice for him’.

Bob winced. ‘If you must carry on like a third-rate gangster movie, or was it Minder, at least promise me that you won’t talk like that in front of clients.’

‘No, Sir. I shall speak just as though I’d been to a posh grammar school. I’m not completely stupid you know’, said Liz, putting on a fake 1950s BBC accent, throwing back her long hair and smiling at him rather fetchingly.’

‘I couldn’t accuse you of that but perhaps you should have been an actress.’

‘They’re all actors now you know, men and women. There are no more actresses.’

‘And for God’s sake please don’t bring that politically correct nonsense in here. I prefer the slang. There’s more than enough PC outside. Surely the office can be one small island of sanity. Anyway, I’d better get on. I’m due at Weston Brothers in 15 minutes.’

Weston Brothers was a tool hire firm that had been broken into so many times that the brothers had only just managed to find insurance after the last break-in. They’d called Bob in after the police had eventually visited and advised them to install a higher fence without showing much interest in trying to find the perpetrators. In fact Bob’s investigation had resulted in the apprehension of the thieves. Consequently, Brian and Geoffrey Weston now wanted Bob to advise on their security arrangements, which is something Bob did in addition to conducting investigations.

Liz was glad to be left alone for a little while. She had a few administrative matters to sort out and several calls to make. However, she’d been on her own for only ten minutes when there was a knock on the door. She opened it to find a slim woman, probably in her mid-forties, waiting anxiously outside.

‘Please come in and take a seat’, said Liz beckoning the woman to take the chair in front of her desk. ‘How can I help?’

‘Are you a detective?’

‘No, I’m Mr Beaumont’s personal assistant. Mr Beaumont is out at present and won’t be back for a couple of hours. Would you prefer to make an appointment to see him or is there something you’d like to discuss with me?’

‘My name is Mrs Marsden, Mrs Helen Marsden. I suppose I should have telephoned to make an appointment.’

Liz noticed a look of nervous apprehension and a tiredness and dampness around the eyes suggesting the woman had recently been crying. After a year working in the agency, she was used to dealing with a range of emotions, most of them negative.

‘Would you like a cup of tea? I can at least take down a few details and make an appointment for you to see Mr Beaumont in the near future.’

‘That’s very kind. Yes, I would like a cup. A little milk and no sugar please.’

Having made the tea, Liz took down the woman’s name and contact details but avoided asking any questions about the nature of the problem.

It struck Liz that Mrs Marsden was almost certainly an attractive woman under normal circumstances. She was slim and elegant with a shade of hair colour, somewhere between auburn and deep red, and compelling blue-green eyes. But right now she was stressed and worried and drawn into herself. Her hands moved nervously and she watched Liz attentively, struggling to come to some kind of decision. She drew a deep breath.

‘May I speak to you confidentially?’ she said.

‘Pretty well everything we do here is confidential, Mrs Marsden. If you feel able to speak to me I can assure you that our conversation will be in the strictest confidence.’

Liz was good with people, because she had a natural warmth and empathy with others but in view of her limited background Bob had taken her through a range of possible situations and advised her on what to say and how to react.

‘It’s about my husband. I believe he may be having an affair’.

For the poor woman the declaration, probably her first to any other person, was an ordeal. To Liz it was a routine matter.

‘I had thought of going straight to a solicitor but I thought I’d come here first. I want to be sure I’m right in suspecting him.’

‘Yes of course, I understand Mrs Marsden. I suggest we make an appointment for you with Mr Beaumont and he can take it up with you from there.’

****

When Bob returned to the office, Liz told him about the visit by Helen Marsden.

‘Oh God, here we go again; another marital snooping job. I suppose you’re going to point out that it all helps pay the bills.’

‘I am and it does.’

‘What did you make of her?’

‘She’s neat, tidy, speaks well, middle class, not like us poor workers.’

‘Speak for yourself’.

‘Oh, don’t worry. I am’.

‘Did she explain why she’s suspicious of him?’.

‘No, she didn’t and I didn’t push it. I’m not a detective as you keep pointing out’.

‘Quite right.

Bob scanned the details Liz had written.

‘Anything else?’

‘Well, I’m not sure but I don’t think she’s a pushover.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘It’s only an impression but I think she’s more than just a poor woman who’s been ill-treated. She was very upset but underneath I think she’s a bit of a tough cookie. She didn’t look or sound like the helpless type.’

‘Good. You’re learning’.’

Bob had been teaching Liz that facts were ultimately vital to the business and that action had to be factually based. However, investigations needed a sense of purpose and direction before the facts could be obtained. This is the preliminary area in which imagination, possibilities, general awareness, sensitivity, feelings, and ideas come into play. In interviews body language is often as important as the words used. What is not said is sometimes as important as what is said. The way in which something is said is often a vital clue as to where the truth lies. Leads could sometimes be followed up immediately in an interview but at other times it was wiser