Trickery Read online

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Writin’ books is OK,’ he said. ‘It’s what I call a skilled trade. I’m in a skilled trade too. The folks I despise is them that spend all their lives doin’ crummy old routine jobs with no skill in ’em at all. You see what I mean?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘The secret of life,’ he said, ‘is to become very very good at somethin’ that’s very very ’ard to do.’

  ‘Like you,’ I said.

  ‘Exactly. You and me both.’

  ‘What makes you think that I’m any good at my job?’ I asked. ‘There’s an awful lot of bad writers around.’

  ‘You wouldn’t be drivin’ about in a car like this if you weren’t no good at it,’ he answered. ‘It must’ve cost a tidy packet, this little job.’

  ‘It wasn’t cheap.’

  ‘What can she do flat out?’ he asked.

  ‘One hundred and twenty-nine miles an hour,’ I told him.

  ‘I’ll bet she won’t do it.’

  ‘I’ll bet she will.’

  ‘All car makers is liars,’ he said. ‘You can buy any car you like and it’ll never do what the makers say it will in the ads.’

  ‘This one will.’

  ‘Open ’er up then and prove it,’ he said. ‘Go on, guv’nor, open ’er right up and let’s see what she’ll do.’

  There is a roundabout at Chalfont St Peter and immediately beyond it there’s a long straight section of dual carriageway. We came out of the roundabout on to the carriageway and I pressed my foot down on the accelerator. The big car leaped forwards as though she’d been stung. In ten seconds or so, we were doing ninety.

  ‘Lovely!’ he cried. ‘Beautiful! Keep goin’!’

  I had the accelerator jammed right down against the floor and I held it there.

  ‘One hundred!’ he shouted … ‘A hundred and five! … A hundred and ten! … A hundred and fifteen! Go on! Don’t slack off!’

  I was in the outside lane and we flashed past several cars as though they were standing still – a green Mini, a big cream-coloured Citroën, a white Land Rover, a huge truck with a container on the back, an orange-coloured Volkswagen Minibus …

  ‘A hundred and twenty!’ my passenger shouted, jumping up and down. ‘Go on! Go on! Get ’er up to one-two-nine!’

  At that moment, I heard the scream of a police siren. It was so loud it seemed to be right inside the car, and then a policeman on a motor-cycle loomed up alongside us on the inside lane and went past us and raised a hand for us to stop.

  ‘Oh, my sainted aunt!’ I said. ‘That’s torn it!’

  The policeman must have been doing about a hundred and thirty when he passed us, and he took plenty of time slowing down. Finally, he pulled into the side of the road and I pulled in behind him. ‘I didn’t know police motorcycles could go as fast as that,’ I said rather lamely.

  ‘That one can,’ my passenger said. ‘It’s the same make as yours. It’s a BMW R90S. Fastest bike on the road. That’s what they’re usin’ nowadays.’

  The policeman got off his motor-cycle and leaned the machine sideways on to its prop stand. Then he took off his gloves and placed them carefully on the seat. He was in no hurry now. He had us where he wanted us and he knew it.

  ‘This is real trouble,’ I said. ‘I don’t like it one bit.’

  ‘Don’t talk to ’im any more than is necessary, you understand,’ my companion said. ‘Just sit tight and keep mum.’

  Like an executioner approaching his victim, the policeman came strolling slowly towards us. He was a big meaty man with a belly, and his blue breeches were skintight around his enormous thighs. His goggles were pulled up on the helmet, showing a smouldering red face with wide cheeks.

  We sat there like guilty schoolboys, waiting for him to arrive.

  ‘Watch out for this man,’ my passenger whispered. ‘’Ee looks mean as the devil.’

  The policeman came round to my open window and placed one meaty hand on the sill. ‘What’s the hurry?’ he said.

  ‘No hurry, officer,’ I answered.

  ‘Perhaps there’s a woman in the back having a baby and you’re rushing her to hospital? Is that it?’

  ‘No, officer.’

  ‘Or perhaps your house is on fire and you’re dashing home to rescue the family from upstairs?’ His voice was dangerously soft and mocking.

  ‘My house isn’t on fire, officer.’

  ‘In that case,’ he said, ‘you’ve got yourself into a nasty mess, haven’t you? Do you know what the speed limit is in this country?’

  ‘Seventy,’ I said.

  ‘And do you mind telling me exactly what speed you were doing just now?’

  I shrugged and didn’t say anything.

  When he spoke next, he raised his voice so loud that I jumped. ‘One hundred and twenty miles per hour!’ he barked. ‘That’s fifty miles an hour over the limit!’

  He turned his head and spat out a big gob of spit. It landed on the wing of my car and started sliding down over my beautiful blue paint. Then he turned back again and stared hard at my passenger. ‘And who are you?’ he asked sharply.

  ‘He’s a hitch-hiker,’ I said. ‘I’m giving him a lift.’

  ‘I didn’t ask you,’ he said. ‘I asked him.’

  ‘’Ave I done somethin’ wrong?’ my passenger asked. His voice was as soft and oily as haircream.

  ‘That’s more than likely,’ the policeman answered. ‘Anyway, you’re a witness. I’ll deal with you in a minute. Driving-licence,’ he snapped, holding out his hand.

  I gave him my driving-licence.

  He unbuttoned the left-hand breast-pocket of his tunic and brought out the dreaded book of tickets. Carefully, he copied the name and address from my licence. Then he gave it back to me. He strolled round to the front of the car and read the number from the number-plate and wrote that down as well. He filled in the date, the time and the details of my offence. Then he tore out the top copy of the ticket. But before handing it to me, he checked that all the information had come through clearly on his own carbon copy. Finally, he replaced the book in his tunic pocket and fastened the button.

  ‘Now you,’ he said to my passenger, and he walked around to the other side of the car. From the other breast-pocket he produced a small black notebook. ‘Name?’ he snapped.

  ‘Michael Fish,’ my passenger said.

  ‘Address?’

  ‘Fourteen, Windsor Lane, Luton.’

  ‘Show me something to prove this is your real name and address,’ the policeman said.

  My passenger fished in his pockets and came out with a driving-licence of his own. The policeman checked the name and address and handed it back to him. ‘What’s your job?’ he asked sharply.

  ‘I’m an ’od carrier.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘An ’od carrier.’

  ‘Spell it.’

  ‘H-O-D C-A- …’

  ‘That’ll do. And what’s a hod carrier, may I ask?’

  ‘An ’od carrier, officer, is a person ’oo carries the cement up the ladder to the bricklayer. And the ’od is what ’ee carries it in. It’s got a long ’andle, and on the top you’ve got two bits of wood set at an angle …’

  ‘All right, all right. Who’s your employer?’

  ‘Don’t ’ave one. I’m unemployed.’

  The policeman wrote all this down in the black notebook. Then he returned the book to its pocket and did up the button.

  ‘When I get back to the station I’m going to do a little checking up on you,’ he said to my passenger.

  ‘Me? What’ve I done wrong?’ the rat-faced man asked.

  ‘I don’t like your face, that’s all,’ the policeman said. ‘And we just might have a picture of it somewhere in our files.’ He strolled round the car and returned to my window.

  ‘I suppose you know you’re in serious trouble,’ he said to me.

  ‘Yes, officer.’

  ‘You won’t be driving this fancy car of yours again fo