Diamond in the Blue: D.I. Simpers Investigates
Read Diamond in the Blue: D.I. Simpers Investigates Online
Authors: Phil Kingsman
Diamond in the Blue
First published in two parts as Simpers at Sea
Phil Kingsman
PUBLISHED BY:
Phil Kingsman
Copyright © 2015
www.philkingsman.co.uk
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be copied, reproduced in any format, by any means, electronic or otherwise, without prior consent from the copyright owner and publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, names, places and events are the product of the author's imagination or used fictitiously.
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Diamond in the Blue
'Why are you doing this, you've no right. I have to get home, can't you see the state my mother's in?'
'Not my problem, luv, you're parked on private land, so I have to clamp you – just doing my job.'
A powerful man of around forty-five towered over the young woman. He had all the menace of a bear sizing up its prey before deciding which side of the neck to strike.
'So how much do I have to pay you then... please, you don't understand…, I have to get my mother home, now.'
'Hundred and twenty-five quid, cash.'
'Where do you think I can get that sort of money from?' the woman shrieked in a combination of frustration and fear.
'Is this your nice young man, dear,' the old lady whispered as she opened the car door. As she did so, she lowered her slippered foot into a shallow puddle.
'Looking at the size of his crotch, I bet he could give you a good seeing to if the mood took him, Sandra. I knew a young man once who was always in the mood, dear. Didn't give me a minute's peace…'
'Mum, please, get back into the car. Oh look, Mum, your foot's soaked through – you'll catch your death.' Sadness became etched across her face as she watched the old woman stare without concern at her drenched foot. The sight made her think about her late father. He was the only man her mother had ever known; he had looked after his ailing wife until the day he died. They had been inseparable from the day they'd met, everyone said so. Always holding hands, Dad making sure Mum was on the inside of the pavement to keep her safe.
The young woman turned her attention back to the clamper. 'Can't you see she's not well and I can't spend time arguing with you about money I don't have.'
The old lady twisted herself back into her seat, slid the seat belt over her shoulder then looked at the buckle, not knowing what to do with it. Instead, she rested it in her lap and stared with a blank expression into the distance before holding a one-sided conversation with some imaginary confidante in an ever quieter voice.
The clamper carried on his unpleasant business without acknowledging either woman.
'So that'll be £120 in cash – now, or I call for the tow truck and your car gets lifted. If we tow, you'll owe us another £125 on top and sixty quid a day storage fees. Oh, and a £55 storage release fee.'
'Go on, dear, give your young man a cuddle, you know what he wants,' offered the old lady from the half open window. She gave a hand gesture more suited to the football terraces than the current situation.
The young woman turned towards the car once more. She saw that her mother's face had returned to its all too familiar vacant gaze as she looked straight ahead into some distant place.
'Oi, Harry no-hair,' Detective Inspector Simpers announced with an air of quiet, well-practiced authority. 'What's the problem here then?'
The clamper turned towards the voice and looked Simpers up and down with ill-conceived contempt. The man ran a grubby hand across his shaved skull in an involuntary reaction to the detective's barbed comment. He then turned his attention back to the young woman.
'What's it to you – you 'er dad – or you 'er fancy man, are you? I don't care which one of you pays, it's all the same to me – or do I call the tow truck?'
Throughout the exchanges, Simpers had been strolling around the clamper's van. He had parked it in a dark corner of the derelict lot. Simpers took a small torch from the inside pocket of his barber jacket, shining its narrow beam onto the windscreen. He wiped ribbons of iced water away with the edge of his gloved hand.
'…Clampers have special permission to display their tax disc upside down, do they?'
The clamper looked puzzled, glanced at his windscreen, then shot a menacing glare back to Simpers.
'Who the Fu–'
'Police,' responded Simpers. Taking his time to remove his gloves, Simpers dug his warrant card from a deep side pocket. With an expert flick of his wrist he encouraged the black leather cover to open, causing his badge to glisten in the half light.
'Tut, tut, let's not have any foul language – that's an offence, that is – Section five public order; know what I mean, Harry?' Simpers' eyes narrowed and the smile he had been wearing vanished in an instant.
'That tax disc is legit and clamping is a civil offence, so it's nothing to do with you lot. Know what I mean, copper?' The clamper grinned at Simpers, thinking he was back in control of the situation. 'And me name's not Harry.'
'That's as maybe, Harry, but it isn't displayed proper-like, know what I mean? So how's a Bobby just going about his business supposed to read it – as if we haven't got enough to do… Harry.'
Simpers shook his head from side to side in mock admonishment. He threw the clamper a razor-sharp look that bore into the man's forehead. The clamper returned Simpers' look, before abandoning his challenge.
Simpers took his lucky pebble from his suit pocket and ran it between his fingers. The action unsettled the clamper still further.
The detective shone the torchlight from wheel to wheel. 'And then there's these tyres. One, no look, two of them. Knackered they are.'
'What's your game, then, she's got to pay up, or she and the old woman stay here all night for all I care. We'll get our money whatever happens.'
'My game? I don't play games with the law, my friend, not like some people,' Simpers replied in danger of over-egging the point. He lifted his head, as if to sniff the air for villains.
'Now, I know you've got a home to go to, and we are all wet through. Being wet and cold always puts me in a bad mood. This being a democracy and all, and it being near Christmas, the choice is yours. Since I can't see any sign saying that you're authorised to clamp. Also, your van is in such a shocking state of repair. So you either take the clamp off this nice young lady's car, or you get nice and dry in my police station as you wait for me on this busy yuletide afternoon to interview you under caution.' Simpers' lips curled again as he finished speaking.
The man thought for a moment, then scanned the grubby piece of land for a clamping notice.
'It's not right, this isn't, you're trying to rip me off,' the clamper replied, unaware of the irony of his protest.
'I just don't know how to thank you, officer – I'd only popped into…'
'Not to worry, madam, it's time for us all to get ourselves home, don't you think?'
The young woman smiled at Simpers, opened the driver's door and settled herself into the car. She checked the still-motionless old lady with a tender, but sad, glance. Her mother continued to stare unseeing into the distance. The young woman stroked her mother's silver hair with a tender touch, then rested her open hand on her cheek. Who was the parent now, she thought, before driving away into an uncertain, but well trodden future.
Simpers thought for a moment on how fragile life was. Turning, he walked back towards the entrance of the derelict site while reminding himself why he liked his job so much. As he did so, the movement of his huddled frame revealed a small, mud stained sign, nailed onto the stump of a rotting post at a jaunty angle. It read 'No parking, clampers in operation'.
As he rejoined the throng of Christmas shoppers on the packed pavement, his mobile rang.
'It took you long enough to answer. I suppose you were listening to that bloody
Lark Ascending
ring tone again, were you?'
'Not at all, boss. Much as I like
Ralf Vaughn-Williams
, when I see your name on the display, I answer straight away.'
'Cut the crap, Simpers, and get yourself into my office tout suite. Something has come up that'll keep you out of trouble for a couple of weeks. So, ten minutes, my office, right?'
Before Simpers had chance to answer, the line went dead. Superintendent Pimlico wasn't known for idle chat at the best of times. From the tone of his voice, Simpers concluded this was far from the best of times.
'A boat, boss. You know I get sea-sick filling the bath.'
'It isn't a boat, it's a cruise liner, and it's about time you left all that water heebie-jeebies nonsense behind. It's been a long time and you need to let it go, understand?'
Simpers stiffened as a familiar warm, nauseous sensation washed over him. He thumbed the rounded pebble in his trouser pocket and gazed at a waste-paper bin in the corner immediately behind Pimlico.
'Bloody hell, are you going into one of your trances again?'
'Trance, boss? I don't know what you're talking about.'
'Bollocks. Now leave that bloody stone alone and listen up.'
We've received intelligence that confirms an attempt to steal those bloody gems that have been all over the papers. The palace want it stopped, so do as you're sodding told and get it sorted.'
Detective Inspector Simpers wasn't a happy copper, but he knew it was no use arguing with the boss. Superintendent Pimlico was not a man to fall foul of. As fortune would have it, Simpers had a deep respect for the man.
His management style made Simpers think of how a samurai sword to the neck might feel; painless until you attempted to nod your head. What had he done to deserve the best part of two weeks bending over a toilet bowl shouting for Hughie, he thought. His plan was to crack the case tout suite and jump ship at the first port. Bobbing up and down on salt water, and making useless conversation with geriatrics playing deck quoits didn't constitute proper policing in his mind.
'…And will I have the pleasure of a detective constable for company?' asked Simpers.
Pimlico turned from his subordinate, batting the question away with a nonchalant wave of his hand.
'You're the one that moans like hell if ever I put anyone with you, so don't start complaining now. Anyway, I want your presence on that ship kept as quiet as possible. One pair of Mr Plod's feet will be quite enough on this occasion.'
'Well, I wasn't asking…'
'Simpers, I don't give a shit what you were, or were not, asking. Some people neither you nor I want to get on the wrong side of, want this dealt with diplomatically – understand? So it goes without saying… but I'm saying it anyway, make sure you wind your neck in as far as arguing with the gold striper's on board. Woe betide you if you upset anyone with a posh voice who happens to be wearing a pinstriped suit…'
'Pinstriped suits and… gol…?' Simpers retorted.
'Less of the stupid look, fella. I might put up with your insubordination when the mood takes me, but if you upset them upstairs for the fun of it again, I'll have your balls toasted between two slices of bread. Do you understand?'
'To be honest, boss, I haven't a clue what you're talking about,' replied Simpers with a shrug of his shoulders. He brushed away a piece of imaginary fluff from his tired waxed jacket before making for the door.
'You know exactly what I mean, my little ferret fancier. Have a mind to what I say. Now push off.'
Had anyone but Pimlico used a stereotypical term for anyone, like him, originating north of the M25, he would have bitten. Anyone else and he would have told them to 'chuff off', or worse.
***
Simpers glanced back into his office as he opened the half-glazed door. Unsure if he had locked the drawers to his fake mahogany desk, he moved his dog-eared swivel chair and rattled the top drawer yet again. Content all was secure, the beginnings of a smile crossed his weather-beaten face. He liked to be tidy and distrusted those of his colleagues who heaped file upon file on their desk. He didn't buy the 'paper equals busy' theory some of his contemporaries employed. They knew, he knew, they weren't up to the job.
The detective had worked hard not to let anyone get too near him. Life had taught him that to do so almost always ended in trouble. It wasn't that he thought himself better than anyone else. More that he preferred his own company. He tended to rely on his instincts and trust to his experience – something that didn't go down well with 'the sixth floor'.
When Simpers joined the service, PC described his rank and what he did for a living. Now, it seemed to him, it personified the triumph of ignorance if not outright bigotry, over common sense and he had no time for it. To others, Simpers appeared to have an easy charm and dry wit, if a little acerbic at times. He also had a reputation for being a workaholic, loyal and as honest as the day.
He would be the first to acknowledge that his outlook on life had its drawbacks. There had been times when, faced with a risky situation, he'd welcomed the help other officers had given him. Deep-down, though, he couldn't understand why they did so.
***
Simpers walked down the concrete stairs of the 1960s force headquarters with his hands in his pockets, as usual. As he did so he caught his left shin bone, not for the first time, on one of the 'feature' convex paint-chipped steel balustrades. Simpers cursed its architect. He supposed the bloke had won some prize or other for designing a testament to the school of post-modernist brutalism.
He winced, let out a stifled cry, and rubbed the afflicted bone as if he was trying to make fire. He looked around to check no one had observed his misfortune and moment of emotional weakness. Limping across the foyer and still cursing the balustrade, Simpers reached the glass entry doors. As they slid open, he glanced outward and upwards with a shiver, flipped his collar and hunched his neck tight into his shoulders. Simpers traced flakes of wet snow as they fell from a leaden sky of a late December afternoon. They fell onto a mass of sodden Christmas shoppers, scuttling along the crowded pavement like a Lowry painting. He gave a silent vote of thanks to the internet for taking trial-by-shopping away from him. A half-smile of self-congratulation washed his face. He thought his habit of buying the same tin of chocolate covered biscuits for the few people in his social circle was common sense.
As he passed through the open entrance to the station, two young officers passed him in the opposite direction. They saluted Simpers as they did so.
'Aye aye, Cap'n,' they offered in unison, while averting their gaze. Simpers cursed the speed at which news of his assignment had got around the building. He turned to challenge them, but before he had time to think of a suitable response, the glass doors shut. He pressed his face against the glass to the side of the entrance. He felt like a Victorian street urchin watching toffs eat their fill in a Dickensian tea shop. Hair wet and nose dripping from the sleety deluge, Simpers glowered at his sniggering colleagues. He turned, and made off down the slush covered street towards his car.
Simpers moaned inwardly at the volume of traffic as he made his way home. Christmas shoppers and holiday makers made for a hedonistic mix that he didn't find attractive. It wasn't that he held any principled objection to either. He just wished they were somewhere else. Simpers lived in a one bedroom flat on the outskirts of Westbay, which he'd bought for its concierge service and no animals policy. It also had an ample range of nearby fast food outlets.
The flat was neat, tidy, and furnished in a style that did little to hide his passion for art nouveau and all things Rennie Mackintosh. Simpers hadn't always lived alone. Like many a copper, his marriage hadn't survived the demands of the job. But that was a long time ago and his ex-wife was happy with her new life. At least she now had the kids that they had both wanted, had stopped throwing things at him, and could hold a conversation with him using words of more than one syllable.
He lifted a medium sized suitcase down from the dust free top of a wardrobe and placed it on the bed. Simpers couldn't understand why so many men made such a thing about packing. He would be away for twelve days. This meant pairs of socks and underwear in numbers equalling the days of travel. By the same token, shirts equal to duration times two and work suits and ties, two for the use of. Simpers also packed his favourite pair of slippers. Although having seen much better days, they were comfortable. Just right for those afflicted with in-growing toenails, to which Simpers was a martyr.
This left only a toiletry bag to assemble, plus his lucky pebble. He knew that if all else failed, the stone would protect him from the heaving of the waves. Being a cautious sort, he decided to call in at the local chemist to buy an ample supply of travel sickness tablets. He also bought a copper wrist-band, plus an acupressure bandage as back-up remedies. Better safe than sorry, he thought. Job done, house locked – and checked, three times, Simpers was on his way.
Twenty minutes later he drove through a pair of ornate Victorian dock gates. As his eyes adjusted to the harsh industrial lighting that lit the docks, he could just make out the mountainous silhouette of the MV Sir Francis Drake. While doing nothing for his vertigo, the ship would at least transport him to warmer climes for a few days, he mused. Even so, Simpers decided to avert his gaze from the vessel. He knew it would shortly be to blame for the nausea that was to come. This concerned him far more than the small matter of a the villain, or villains, he supposed would be on board.