Chapter 14

The Number

Thurstan leant back in his chair and began to thumb through Lennie's notebook. Pages of seemingly unconnected times, dates and vehicle registrations lay alongside nonsensical comments, descriptions of people and occurrences the boy had thought needed to be noted. Two telephone numbers glared back at him, one of which he recognised: the now long-gone phone box. 

He showed the other to Gandalph who, deep in research, idly remarked, “It looks like a Lancs County number to me but it’s not the switch board, probably a direct line to an office extension, Boss.”

The DCI thought for a while then picked up the phone and dialled. Given the years gone by, he was prepared for it not to provide him with an immediate answer.

“IT Department, how can I help today?” The voice sounded weary.

He explained the nature of his enquiry, as best he could.

“Well, a bit convoluted and not really anything to do with IT and, to be honest, you could be anyone so before I tell you anything I’ll need to phone you back. Give us your extension number and I’ll call your main switchboard.”

Minutes later, the weary voice told him the number had obviously been reallocated some time ago and they had no idea who it would have belonged to previously. His best chance would be to call the Force archivist who, if he was lucky, might have some copies of old internal phone books. No, they didn’t know his phone number and weren’t at all sure the title given was actually correct.

He called the main switchboard operator who wasn’t sure either and put him through to someone who should know. They didn’t. Thus began a journey around the Force area.  After speaking to various people, some of whom tried to be helpful, Thurstan found the archivist.

He called and discovered in the process it wasn’t their only job description. His responsibilities were many and the accompanying job titles almost equalled the medals on a Russian General’s chest.

Introductions complete, when asked if it was possible to locate the extension number sought, his new friend replied, “I’d need the year this number relates to.” It sounded promising.

The man continued, in his slow, deliberate manner, “Now, I’m not being funny, but over the years we’ve reorganised quite a few times, so I’d have to go down the corridor to the far end of the building, find the right boxes, sort through them and perhaps discover an old directory matching your time scales. They’re not thin, you know, and I’d have to go through the whole thing page by page. Even then, it’s not guaranteed I’ll find it.” He paused for the enormity of the task to sink in. ‘Now, son, I’m not being obstructive, but I’ve many other things to do. However, you’re more than welcome to come over here and do it yourself. I’ll even make you a brew.”

And so it was, the following day, Thurstan set off for the bowels of Lancashire Constabulary HQ with instructions to ask for ‘Alf from room B36, in the cellar’. Apparently, all the receptionists knew him.

****

Lifts engaged and with patience at a low ebb, Thurstan took the stairs not realising the detailed directions he’d been given at Reception would no longer apply. After several wrong turns in the deserted corridors, he finally happened upon room B36 which, for some confusing reason, was opposite D55 and wedged between B33 and G10.

Alf listened to his problem whilst making them both a mug of tea, then took him down to the storage room and showed him what he needed to wade his way through.

The look on Thurstan’s face caused Alf to pause, thoughtfully. He put his mug on a box and said, “Look, you seem like a nice bloke and, truth be known, I’ve got some spare time so, maybe, if we both have a go at this, we could crack it fairly handy. You take that pile and I’ll do this one. The date when each directory was published is printed just inside the front cover. How about we isolate the right dates and take it from there?”

Half an hour later, Alf got a call and had to depart, leaving Thurstan with a small pile of directories which had been filtered out. A quarter of an hour later, he found it. Listed under Regional Drug Squad, Main Office, he had his number, along with several others.

He knew straight away Lennie wouldn’t have obtained that number from any telephone directory available to the public and, with no access to the Police internal system, it could only mean he’d been given it by someone who knew of its existence, which almost certainly meant drug squad officers. All he had to do now was find out who’d been working the squad at the time.

He could try the local Human Resources unit but some nosey parker running the place would probably want to know why a DCI from another force was making enquiries about their staff and might raise awkward questions and checks back in Liverpool. The last thing he wanted was some snitch of his Chief Constable alerting him to his extracurricular activities. Anyway, it was by no means certain they’d be able to find the information he required. He wasn’t going to take the risk.

Finished, he popped in at B36 with his mug. Alf not being there, he washed it in the little sink, left it on the tea towel covering the drainer and placed the key to the storage room on the desk. All he had to do was find his way out again.

He’d been round twice when he bumped into Alf who was backing out of a room with a large box.

Telling him what he’d left in his office, he asked, just on the off chance, if he might know anyone who’d worked at the old regional drug squad.

Alf thought carefully. “Well, no bobbies spring to mind but you might want to talk to Ron. He’s worked as a porter for the police for donkey’s years, been all over the place. He might know someone. I’ll give him a call.”

Moments later, Alf told him, “He’s outside at the back, having a smoke by the bins. Just go straight down, through the swing doors, pass the first set of stairs and turn left then right and take the next stairs which will bring you out at the rear entrance by the rubbish containers. Ron’s a skinny, little bloke. He’ll be wearing a fluorescent vest.”

****

Five foot four, pallid and stick thin, the man in the fluorescent orange tabard was on his third roll-up when Thurstan found him. Surprised at the vigour displayed in sucking on the cigarette, the DCI made his introductions whilst wondering where Ron mustered the energy and enthusiasm.

“Yeah, I used to empty their waste bins.” He took another deep drag on the remains of the cigarette, stubbed it out as he exhaled and began making another. “They were a mixed bunch. A few decent types, you know, them that would stop and chat with you but to the rest I was basically invisible. You know they disbanded them? There’d been some funny business going on.”

“Funny business?”

“Yeah. I don’t know the exact details, but it was to do with corruption. I assume some of them were taking backhanders from the drug dealers they were supposed to be arresting.”

“Do you recall any names, Ron?”

He inhaled deeply, thoughtfully, then said, “There was young Tim Beck. I liked him, he had time for me, asked after the family, that sort of thing. He didn’t stay long, left before the complaints and discipline mob scattered the office to the wind. He knew something. I bumped into him in the car park one morning, he was coming out with all his stuff, so I asked him why he was leaving. All he said to me was, there were things going on that shouldn’t be and he didn’t want to be part of it. He told me it would be best not to tell anyone he’d mentioned it, so I didn’t. You’re the first who’s asked, to be honest.”

Thurstan nodded perceptively over a pause then said, “Do you remember a couple of detectives called Dave and Ken? They worked together as partners. They’ve been described as a bit on the cocky side.”

Ron smiled. “I think you’ll be talking about Starsky and Hutch. These two started calling each other Dave and Ken and any car they were given they called Zebra Three. It’ll be Reg and Freddy. A bit cocky but they gave me a lift home a couple of times. Now, what was their surnames?” Deep concentration took over his face then he declared, “Nope, it’s not coming,” and stubbed out his cigarette.

Thurstan looked at his watch. “I must be going. Do you mind if I give you a call if I have anything else to ask which I think you might be able to help with?”

They exchanged phone numbers. As the DCI began to disappear back into the building, Ron, looking pleased with himself, shouted after him. “Reg Barker and Freddy Walsh!” Thurstan gave him a wave of acknowledgement.