Life on Mars: Get Cartwright. Tom Graham

wrapped the chain around it, and held it out to McClintock.

      ‘It’s yours, Mr McClintock,’ he said. ‘It came here with you. Take it.’

      McClintock hesitated.

      ‘If … If one of us gets into trouble,’ he said, his voice so low it was almost inaudible, ‘if there’s … difficulty of some kind … then we should try to get a message to the other. Any way we can. Even if we’re far apart.’

      Sam nodded: ‘Agreed. We’re in this together. We’re brothers in arms, Mr McClintock.’

      McClintock thought for a few moments, then reached out with one of his scarred hands and took it. He sighed, and said: ‘Taking that watch from you makes me feel like …’

      ‘Like what?’

      McClintock gave a wry smile: ‘Like the sheriff in a Wild West movie, pinning on his tin star before heading out to face the bad guys alone …’

      ‘Gary Cooper,’ said Sam. ‘High Noon.’

      ‘Aye, it might well have been.’

      ‘He had a little help, but he got the bad guys in the end. All of them.’

      ‘I’m sure he did, Detective Inspector Tyler. But he was Gary Cooper.’

       CHAPTER SIX: HUMAN REMAINS

      Broken buildings. Rubble. An industrial wasteland in a rundown part of town. A row of ripped posters fluttered in the chill wind, advertising the attractions of a nearby stock car rally, with 'big-name' racers like Dougie Silverfoot, Tarmac Terry, and three-time medal winner Duke of Earles.

      The Cortina came to a violent halt, throwing a cloud of dust across the posters. Gene emerged, planting his off-white leather loafer manfully on the shattered masonry that lay scattered everywhere. He reached into his inside pocket, pulled out a hip flask, and swigged it dry.

      Sam appeared from the passenger side, peering about. ‘And what, precisely, are we doing here, Guv?’

      ‘Following up a lead,’ announced Gene, hunting for a second hip flask. ‘That chimney –’ – he indicated with the flask towards the one vertical thing in this otherwise flattened location – ‘– is due to be demolished by that grease-monkey.’ And he indicated towards the short, round steeplejack standing a dozen or so yards away. ‘Only, aforesaid grease-monkey reckons he’s found human remains.’

      ‘Do you think it could be Walsh?’

      ‘Well, we won’t find out standing here yacking, will we, Tyler? Now let’s see what’s what before plod starts swarming in.’

      They strode over to the steeplejack. He was a round-bellied man with filthy hands, dressed in filthy overalls, a filthy cloth cap perched on his filthy head. He stared through thick-lensed spectacles which were as filthy as all the rest of him. Sam was sure he’d seen this man before.

      ‘Yes, we’re the fuzz,’ announced Gene, striding up to the steeplejack and waving his ID about. ‘Okay, so what did you find?’

      ‘A dead fella, all mushed-up like, at base o't'chimney,’ the steeplejack explained, pushing back his cloth cap to scratch his brow with a permanently oil-stained hand. His voice, with its rich, warm Lancashire accent, was even more familiar to Sam than his appearance. ‘Nigh on ’ad ’eart attack when I copped sight o’ that!’

      ‘Base of the chimney, you say. If we have a poke around, is that thing going to come down on our bonces?’

      ‘Nay, lad, it’ll stand there till doomsday if I don’t light kindlin’,’ the steeplejack assured him. ‘’Ave no fear, you poke an’ prod to your ’eart’s content. Just don’t ask me to clap eyes on that poor fella a second time!’

      ‘Leave it to us, we’re used to it,’ said Gene, jutting out his jaw in a manly, unshockable way. He wrapped his camel hair coat about him and marched towards the chimney.

      But Sam hesitated before following him. He looked sideways at the steeplejack, frowned, squinted.

      The man grinned at him. ‘You all right, lad?’

      ‘Excuse me, but … is your name Fred Dibner?’

      ‘Aye, tha’s right. We met, a’ we?’

      ‘No, no, I remember you on the telly.’

      ‘I nowt been on’t telly, lad, not wit’ face like mine!’

      ‘No. No, of course not. I meant that … you should be on the telly.’

      ‘As what? One o’ Pan’s People on’t Top o’ t’ Pops? Give over! I’d look like right tit, prancin’ wit’ ’em lasses.’

      ‘Well, if one day somebody comes knocking from the BBC … just have a think about it,’ suggested Sam, and then he followed Gene over towards the chimney.

      ‘You think that bloody thing’s really gonna stay up while we have a snoop?’ asked Gene, sizing up the chimney. Close up like this, it looked huge. Huge, and precarious. The bricks at its base had been mostly hacked out and replaced with stout wooden props, then heaped with kindling; a fire, once ignited, would burn through the props and bring the chimney crashing down upon itself.

      ‘It’ll be okay, Guv. The steeplejack said it would be okay.’

      ‘Mmm. I ain’t so sure that pot-bellied inbred knows what the chuff he’s doing. Smacks of a ’erbert, to me.’

      ‘Fred Dibner? Gene, I assure you – he is the man.’

      Gene shrugged: ‘Well then – since you got such faith in ’im ...’

      He indicated that Sam was to lead on.

      With dignity, Sam pulled his jacket straight and ran a hand nonchalantly through his hair: ‘Certainly, Guv – seeing as you’re chicken.’

      Sam strode up to the base of the chimney and peered in between the wooden props. Inside, half obscured with rubble and brick dust, was a mangled corpse. Its skin had been so shredded that its face was an anonymous red mask. It was impossible to tell what was ripped flesh and what was torn clothing, the two had become so matted.

      ‘My God …’ Sam muttered.

      ‘What is it, Tyler? A stiff?’

      ‘What’s left of one.’

      Sam crawled gingerly through the gap and stood upright. Glancing up, he saw the chimney rising up above him, the grey sky forming a bright circle a hundred feet up.

      All at once, the severe, looming perspectives seemed to overwhelm him. He felt trapped, like a man stranded at the bottom of a deep well. For a moment, Sam experienced a giddy sense of vertigo, as if the chimney were swaying. Shutting his eyes tight, he took a slow, deep breath.

      ‘What you doin’ in there, Tyler?’ Gene barked through the gap in the bricks.

      ‘Just having a moment of metaphysical angst, Guv,’ Sam replied, placing a hand on his chest and willing his heart to slow down.

      ‘Is that the same as Bombay bum?’

      ‘The symptoms are curiously similar, Guv … It’s okay, I’m fine now.’

      Pulling himself together, Sam approached the corpse. Its red, fleshless face stared back at him with empty eye sockets, grinning a ghastly, deathly grin.

      ‘Frisk him, Tyler, he won’t mind,’ Gene urged him.

      Wincing, Sam reached his hand towards the body. He touched the chest – it was cold and damp and encrusted with brick dust. Lifting a soggy mass which might have been the remains of a jacket,