Specials: Based on the BBC TV Drama Series: The complete novels in one volume

10

Still in uniform, Anjali Shah walked up to the door of the modest terraced house where she lived. Retrieving the key from her shoulder bag, she unlocked the door and went in.

In the sitting room, her brother Sanjay was playing carom – a form of table billiards – with several of his ‘friends’. One strong main light was beaming down on the playing surface, so that several of the players’ faces were in deep shadow.

When Anjali removed her coat in the doorway, her Specials uniform was revealed. From the corner of her eye she noticed that the sudden sight of her uniform made some of Sanjay’s nervous ‘friends’ scatter their winnings across the board, in effect ruining the state of play.

Sanjay was livid. ‘Look what you have done, Jelly Baby! Go to bed.’

A trifle amused at his attitude, Anjali stopped a moment to look around the table. One face moved out of the shadow into the light. It was the young man, the young thief, she had earlier seen on the other side of the perimeter fence at the engineering works.

Sanjay turned to his ‘friends’ to apologize for his sister’s presence. ‘I have a snoop for a sister, you know.’

Her face hardened, as a sneering smile played around the lips of the young thief. Without another word she left them and went into the kitchen.

While she was making herself a cup of coffee, the young thief opened the door, came in then closed the door behind him. From the sitting room, she had heard one of the others call him ‘Dev’.

This Dev moved alongside Anjali. He picked up a sharp piece of cutlery and played with it, perhaps trying to appear more menacing.

‘So the little police lady is Sanjay’s sister,’ he began slowly. ‘Don’t you think that’s funny? I think it’s funny.’

‘I’m sure Raj finds it very funny in hospital. He broke his leg,’ she replied calmly.

Dev seemed unperturbed, and still fingered the cutlery. ‘He’s a good kid. He’ll keep his mouth shut.’ A sneer curled his lip. ‘Just as you will, Jelly Baby. Is that what Sanjay calls you?’

She tried to remain unruffled, continuing the task of making her coffee while contradicting his assumption that all was well. ‘I wouldn’t bank on it,’ she warned.

Dev moved closer to her. ‘Listen, police lady. All I need do is ask your brother to say I’ve been here all night.’

Deliberately the young thief began to stroke Anjali’s hair. Although she was immediately alarmed, there wasn’t a thing she could do about it, which Dev obviously realized, so he continued. For the time being, she told herself, she would have to suffer and endure the indignity.

‘What do you do then?’ Dev asked. ‘Have the police bring your own brother in for questioning? You’re not that stupid, are you?’

11

At five minutes past nine, Viv Smith rushed in through the front door of the small suburban branch of the Bromsgrove Building Society, late for work again. As she quickly hung up her coat, out of the corner of her eye she noticed Maynard, the manager, holding his office door ajar, watching her. He checked his watch with a jaundiced look.

She was just settling into her position at the counter and unlocking her till when she felt someone touch her shoulder. It was only Madge, the young trainee.

‘There’s a call for you, Miss Smith,’ she said politely, yet with a bit of a frown. ‘A Miss Brownlow. From Social Services?’

‘That’s right. Thanks, Madge.’

Viv stood up and walked back to the telephone with the young trainee. Meanwhile Madge’s face was assuming a pained expression.

‘Mr Maynard told me to tell you about personal calls during office hours.’

Her duty done, Madge melted away. Viv reached for the waiting phone.

‘Miss Brownlow. It’s good of you to call …’

The voice on the other end of the line was businesslike, yet personal and friendly as well.

‘You’ve traced the mother of the two children? That’s great.’

Lost and found. Viv sighed with some sense of relief, despite still wondering what kind of mother would set her children adrift in a supermarket trolley.

‘Where? She was in Wales?’

This new development was unexpected, but Viv had to confess to herself that she was becoming ever more cautious.

‘Of course I’m surprised,’ she admitted to Miss Brownlow. ‘Yes … of course I’ll meet her.’

At that moment, Maynard was crossing the office and passing behind Viv. ‘Staff on phone means a customer gone,’ he admonished her in an adolescent singsong voice.

She made an obscene gesture behind his back.

‘Today?’ Not today, she wanted to protest. ‘Lunch-time?’ Not lunchtime, not today. ‘I guess I could.’ She didn’t know how in hell she could. ‘Okay, I’ll wait for you here …’

Maynard was still keeping a wary eye on Viv. Yet immediately after ending her conversation with Miss Brownlow and replacing the receiver, she picked it up again and dialled another number. When the connection was completed, she tried to speak softly in a low voice to the love of her life (or, at least, of the moment).

‘Ginger? It’s Viv. About lunch …’

It was obvious he guessed what she was going to say, so she didn’t have to suffer through it.

‘I’m sorry. You’re a love.’ She blew him a wet kiss. She doubted whether its sensual texture, let alone moisture, would survive the transmission to reach his ear, but gave it all she had anyway. ‘Mwah! Sweetie.’ She would have to demonstrate first-hand what she meant sometime later when they were alone together.

In a hurry she replaced the receiver and turned around – only to find Maynard standing behind her, open-mouthed, in a state of shock.

Mrs Shah hovered around the stove figuring how to look busy with nothing much left to do, while her children, Anjali and Sanjay, finished their late breakfast. Though at times concerned about her son, she was always worrying about her daughter.

‘It is ten o’clock, Anjali,’ she cautioned, making a conscious effort not to sound too abrasive.

Anjali questioned her mother’s memory with a gentle reminder. ‘Ma? Tuesday I have a late start at the hospital.’

Observing her brother nonchalantly half-eating his breakfast and half-reading his newspaper, Anjali decided the time was appropriate to approach him lightly.

‘I see you’ve got a new friend.’

Sanjay put down his newspaper and looked up slyly at his older sister.

‘You mean Dev? I thought I saw the two of you in the kitchen together.’ He winked at her. ‘Fancy him, do you? He’s a good-looking fellow. But you’re much too old for him, Jelly Baby.’

He took another couple of sips of coffee before continuing. ‘Anyway, he’s up here visiting his uncle for a week or two, then he goes back to London.’

Speaking casually, Anjali tried to disguise the extent and purpose of her interest. ‘How did you meet him?’

‘He came along with Bati,’ Sanjay replied, then looked to his mother. ‘Ma? I need more coffee.’ Mrs Shah complied without hesitation. He switched his glaring eyes to Anjali. ‘You know, you’re sounding more like a policeman every day,’ he said sarcastically.

Their Uncle Ram, brother of their mother and adopted ‘father’ of the family of three, wandered into the kitchen. Apparently feeling stiff and sore at the old age of 60, Ram tried a tentative stretch of his tired limbs. As usual, his mood was cranky first thing in the morning.

‘Don’t all get up, it’s only your Uncle Ram,’ he mocked.

Sanjay needled Anjali at the earliest opportunity. ‘You’re just in time, Uncle. Anjali is giving me the third degree.’ He glanced at his sister to see if his jabs were getting to her. ‘About a friend of mine. I think she’s lusting after him.’ That should do it.

‘What a nonsense!’ Anjali muttered.

But Uncle Ram was suddenly interested, mildly rebuking her. ‘I will decide if it’s a nonsense.’ He turned to young Sanjay.

‘What boy are you speaking about? Do I know him? What is his family?’

An unfeminine and unbecoming grunting noise indicated Anjali’s irritation, but Sanjay was only too happy to respond.

‘He’s visiting from London. His name is Dev Patel. You know his uncle – Prem Ghai, the one who sells spice.’

Uncle Ram flattened his lips, clearly impressed. ‘Prem Ghai is a very major businessman.’ His calculating look at Anjali suggested he might have underestimated her.

‘You are a slyboots,’ he told her, ‘and no mistake.’

Anjali was unimpressed. ‘Uncle, look at me, and watch what my lips say. I have no interest in this boy. I do not wish to be interested in this boy. This boy is of no account.’

Just then the doorbell rang. Mrs Shah was relieved and thankful for the chance to answer the door and escape another family squabble.

His mother now beyond hearing him, Sanjay’s eyes narrowed. ‘Then why ask these questions? Are you prying into my affairs again? Is that it? You see I have a new friend? So you snoop. Now you’re in the police you think everyone is a criminal.’ Angry and disgusted, he stormed out of the kitchen.

Uncle Ram flapped his hands helplessly. ‘He is right.’

‘He’s nothing of the kind,’ Anjali answered sharply.

‘There you go! I say something, and you contradict. You have no respect. I am the head of the family now that your father is no longer with us. You would do well to heed my advice.’

In the brief silence that followed, Mrs Shah returned to the kitchen from answering the doorbell.

‘It’s Mrs Patel,’ she announced. ‘She’s in the other room.’

Uncle Ram checked his watch. ‘I am late already, but tell her I can spare a few minutes.’

Mrs Shah shook her head. ‘No, no. It is Anjali she wishes to see.’

12

In the office of Cougar Coaches sitting opposite Bob Loach was a young man of 16 by the name of Kevin, about to be taken on as the new grease monkey. Loach looked at him and smiled, then turned his gaze to Noreen, who was checking Kevin’s references.

‘Fantastic!’ Noreen proclaimed. ‘He got a C in Woodwork.’

Loach winked at Kevin. ‘I’m not taking him on to give a lecture in French, you know, Noreen. He’s just an apprentice.’

Noreen intercepted the male club wink, abruptly deciding to examine callow Kevin a bit more closely. It was hardly a pleasant errand given his unwashed hair, unshaven face and the sweatmarks under his armpits.

‘True,’ she reluctantly concurred with her husband. ‘But I think Kevin has a lot to learn about personal hygiene. Haven’t you, Kevin?’ She paused for a brief moment, to see if he understood what she meant. ‘Beginning with what it means.’

Loach glowered at Noreen. ‘All right, lad, go see John Barraclough. Tell him you’re hired.’ He offered a last word of advice. ‘Remember, Kevin. We all have to pull our weight here.’

Noreen returned the references to the boy. ‘In other words, luv, the only passengers we carry pay to get on the bus.’

Kevin nodded, getting to his feet while mumbling his thanks, then stopped at the door. ‘Hope your thumb gets better, Mr Loach.’

Noreen jumped in before Loach could reply. ‘I’m sure Jack Horner will watch where he sticks his thumb next time.’

His expression unsure, Kevin made a quick exit.

When he was gone, Loach turned on Noreen.

‘Look, Noreen …’ he grumbled.

But she was already back at work and didn’t bother to look up.

The mother of Raj Patel was not crying; she was weeping. For her there was little comfort in surroundings of the Shah home decorated to resemble an idealized memory of Bombay. For her there was nowhere to hide from being treated as an alien untouchable in a pervasive and powerful class society. For her son she felt powerless, helpless, terrified.

All this convulsive anguish Anjali could feel as well, holding Mrs Patel’s hands and trying to calm her.

‘My boy is a good boy,’ she sobbed. ‘You work with the policemen. You tell them that. My Raj could never do what they say he did. You tell them they have made a mistake.’

Anjali wasn’t sure whether it was a good sign or a bad one that his mother could believe no evil of her son, but she knew it was natural, and she shared Mrs Patel’s heartache. What was more difficult for Anjali was to be professional, and dispassionate.

‘Mrs Patel, I know Raj is a good boy …’ That was as much reassurance as she should offer, in her official capacity. ‘I’ll do what I can with the police,’ she promised, although she was honour-bound to state the pertinent facts as well.

‘… but he was there, so they may not listen.’

In the yard at Cougar Coaches, John Barraclough was launching Kevin’s shakedown cruise, showing him how to check for problems hidden under the bonnet of one of the coaches.

‘These oil levels are very important, Kevin. Any questions, lad?’

Kevin’s brow furrowed, ostensibly he was thinking hard, trying to make a good show with an intelligent response.

‘That Noreen. She doesn’t half give the Boss a bit of stick.’ He made a visible effort to figure it all out. ‘You’d think they were married.’

‘They are.’ Barraclough informed him, then followed with an advisory observation. ‘There’s marriages what are made in Heaven, lad; and there’s Noreen and Loach’s what are made out of barbed wire.’

Before he could elaborate, there was a roar behind them, and as they turned to look a dazzling new Porsche screeched to a stop. By now they were intrigued, and sallied forth to see which wild and decadent aristocratic personage had taken a wrong turn and nearly crashed into the garage.

As the passenger door opened, a pair of polished women’s shoes and well-turned ankles were exposed, immediately succeeded by shapely calves swinging out, smooth stockinged legs that seemed to go on forever, with no outer garment yet in sight.

They were a glory to behold, and Barraclough had beheld them once before. As much could not be said for poor Kevin, whose jaw dropped.

Out of the Porsche climbed the long, lovely, endless legs – Michelle’s, Dicky Padgett’s latest ecstasy. Finally, to top it all off, Kevin dropped his toolbox with a clatter. The lad was unhinged.

When Michelle made her appearance at the door of the office, she gave Mr Loach and the book-keeper what Dicky referred to as her ‘devastating smile’.

Loach was devastated. Noreen favoured him with a calculating stare.

‘Uh … this is Michelle,’ he quickly improvised. ‘Michelle … this is Noreen. She’s the one you’ve to talk to.’ There – it was out.

‘Talk to me about what?’ Noreen snapped. She faced the intruder with a harder smile. ‘I’m his wife.’

‘Michelle completely slipped my mind …’

Her smile softened for her husband, and she knew he would understand. ‘Michelle slipped your mind?’ She was careful not to allow any hint of glee in her eyes. ‘Come on, Loach …’

Loach was flustered and flushed, and resented her outmanoeuvring him before he could begin to explain. ‘Listen to me. Dicky wanted to sign up Michelle for the Stratford tour. You know – the one we’ve got booked in for the end of the week.’ He didn’t dare tell her yet that Michelle was also here to ask for an advance.

Unpredictable, Noreen had a glint of danger in her eyes as she turned her own devastating smile on Michelle. ‘Let’s try and establish something, shall we, Michelle?’

‘Sure,’ Michelle aped her smile with cheerful enthusiasm.

Noreen spoke to her slowly and carefully, as if to a child. ‘Have you ever been to Stratford?’

‘No,’ Michelle answered blithely, guilelessly, completely unaware of the freight train now headed straight down the track where she was standing.

‘Well …’ Noreen began, closing in for the kill, ‘when you do a courier job, Michelle, it’s vital that you can answer any question that a tourist on the coach may ask.’

‘Sure. I know that,’ chirped Michelle, glad to be tossed an easy one.

‘For instance …’ Noreen suggested – plainly divulging to anyone with even the slightest sensitivity that she was setting a trap, ‘what do you know about Shakespeare?’

At last there was a spark of recognition behind Michelle’s empty eyes, and she nodded vigorously.

‘You mean the wine bar up on the Marlow Road.’

Even Noreen was taken aback. ‘What?’

Michelle was unfazed, finally finding herself in familiar territory.

‘The William Shakespeare,’ she expounded. ‘You don’t want to go there. He’s got hands like an octopus, the owner. They’re everywhere!’ she pouted. ‘I only worked there for two weeks and my bum was black and blue!’

Hopeless, Loach concluded. What a crying shame.

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