Night Worker: an extract, by Peter Morford

He stumbled over something in the alley.  It was a man lying across his path, his head to one side, eyes open. Ben crouched down and shook him. Slapped his face; checked for pulse in wrist and neck.  No pulse, skin cold, dead.  The man looked about 50. He was wearing a dinner-jacket and his bow tie was undone. There was no sign of injury, as far as he could see.  Instinctively, naturally and professionally, he reached inside the jacket for identification.  A small wallet contained a Maestro Card in the name of Charles Spencer, credit cards for John Fortune and Henry Jessop, and a couple of £10.gambling chips. There was no driving licence and no address. Ben knew the type. The dregs of humanity.

In the other inside pocket he found a gold propelling pencil and a wad of used twenties, bound in a paper band.

What to do now? I should call the Police and ambulance, he thought. But why? This obviously suspicious character was dead; nothing could be done for him.  Ben really didn’t want the bother, not with his churning stomach and early sign of influenza. Then he did something he had never done before.   He pocketed the cash, except for a couple of £20.notes, and replaced the wallet.  He looked carefully around. He was alone and he knew there were no cameras in this alley. He walked quickly for the half-mile back to his car.    He had decided to go  home. 

After five miles he stopped on a layby because he wanted to check the cash.  Above all, he wanted to think.  The first time he counted £960.  Then it was £980.  Check again, right first time.  The dead man must have had a good night in the casino. He was probably a worthless gambler using stolen credit cards, laundering his illegal gains. Ben wasn’t to be fooled by the fancy suit and vaguely distinguished appearance.

He looked back on his own life.  He had always played to the rules.  No crook had ever succeeded in bribing him.  There had been times of course, when it would have been easy to falsify a bit of evidence or accept a favour. In that very Casino a few years ago his Inspector had mysteriously aborted a raid only to be able to take a rather expensive holiday a few weeks later.   Plenty of his colleagues had bent the rules to get their man or protect another.  But he had always played it straight. Which was, he thought, why he had retired as a sergeant when less able men had left him far behind. 

And now here he was, sitting in his car, riffling through the wad of notes, wondering why he had even thought of taking them. It’s not that I need the money, he thought.  What with the pension and the job, and Sheila’s business we do well enough. The kids are gone, the mortgage paid, this nice new car, all paid for… why do I need the best part of a K?

There was the sound of a car door slamming. He looked up and saw the car, nose to nose with his own.  A man got out, hurried over and tapped on his window.