Then came the icing on the cake. As I strolled out of the main entrance I recognised the back of DCI Makinson, briefcase in hand, ogling the scarlet torpedo parked in the chief constable’s place.
‘Good morning, Mr Makinson,’ I said as I walked round him and unlocked the door. I drove away without giving him another glance. I was having a magnificent day, and it was still early. Enjoy it while you can, I thought. It won’t last.
At the supermarket I stocked up with bananas and cornflakes and purchased an aerosol of car polish. I looked for some white ribbon, but couldn’t see any, and they didn’t have any Occam’s razors, either, so I settled for Gillette. The wedding was scheduled for three. I had an early lunch, then waxed and buffed the Jag until my fingers ached and my eyes were burning from the glare. I was determined the bride wouldn’t regret that the Rolls-Royce people had let her down.
I put my best suit on and went to collect her with plenty of time to spare. For a few minutes it looked as if the car would steal the show, but when she appeared from her old home for the last time she looked beautiful. It struck me that she wasn’t much older than Sophie.
Her father folded himself into the back seat, ruining the creases in his trousers, and we went to the church the long way, via a few laps of Heckley town centre. I did a final flourish down Annabelle’s cul-de-sac when we reached the church, but her car wasn’t there. I hadn’t expected it to be.
I sat in the Jag for the service, and afterwards posed, hand on door, for the photographer.
‘Are you sure you won’t stay for the reception?’ the bride asked, as I drove her and her new husband to the Masonic Hall. ‘It’ll be no problem to fit you in.’
‘We’d like you to stay,’ the groom added.
‘No,’ I insisted. ‘It’s kind of you, but I’ve a few things to do.’
‘Then what about the disco, tonight?’ he asked.
‘Yes!’ the bride enthused. ‘Then you can dance with Aunty Gwen. I think she’s taken a shine to you.’
I couldn’t think of a reason to refuse. Annabelle was incommunicado and the bride’s father was a great storyteller. He was a rep with Armitage Shanks, which made you smile before he started. It was either the disco, the local, or stay in. One of the bridesmaids was attractive. ‘What time does it start?’ I asked.
After I’d eaten, carefully checking the list of ingredients on the side of the packet for garlic, I showered and floppped on the bed for a nap. I felt relaxed for the first time for ages, and fell asleep. When I awoke it was nearly dark and I was under the duvet.
It was half past nine when I arrived back at the Masonic Hall, still in the Jag because I’d forgotten to swap the cars round again. I had to park it in the alley round the back.
‘We thought you’d changed your mind,’ the bride’s father told me. ‘You missed some great speeches at the reception. What’ll you have?’
He bought me a pint and propelled me towards the buffet. It looked as if a bomb had hit it, but I found some chicken drumsticks and little sausage rolls. I leant on the wall, plate balanced in one hand, watching the dancers.
They were probably the bride’s old schoolfriends, boys and girls. I was always tall for my age. These days, I’d be considered average. Junk food must be good for you. The girls wore baggy T-shirts that reminded me of those sheets they drape over new models in car showrooms, hiding, but hinting at, the bodywork concealed underneath. One wore fishnet tights, and her legs were so long they resembled twin, if upside-down, Eiffel towers.
My free hand was in the pocket of my leather jacket, and I fingered the keys of the finest bird-pulling car God ever invented. I did a little calculation and smiled, wistfully. Biologically speaking, and possibly legally, too, I was old enough to be her granddad. I let go of the key and reached out for my glass.
Aunty Gwen hit me as I finished my last drumstick. She was too much of everything. Too much Estee Lauder, too much make-up, too much…Aunty Gwen.
The group was playing seventies stuff, so I allowed myself to be dragged on to the dance floor and pretended to enjoy it. Twenty minutes later the sweat was running down Aunty Gwen’s face like a flash-flood in the Kalahari and she begged to sit down again.
That’ll learn her, I thought, and went back to my wall, collecting an orange juice on the way.
I stayed a polite hour, wished the happy couple all the best and turned to leave. The bride’s father followed me. At the door he said, ‘Er, Charlie. Thanks for stepping in like you did. It was good of you. Made her day. A hundred and twenty, was it?’ He pulled a roll of notes out of his top pocket and offered them to me.
‘Don’t be silly,’ I said. ‘Call it a wedding present.’
‘Nonsense. You can’t be expected to do it for nothing.’
I took the roll from him, peeled the first twenty-pound note of it and popped the rest back in his pocket. ‘That’s fine,’ I said, waving the twenty.
‘Are you sure?’
‘I’m sure. It was a good excuse to polish the car and it’s been a bit of a change for me.’
‘Smashing. I’ll say the rest’s a present from you, eh?’
‘Good idea.’
‘Oh, and, er, sorry about our Gwen.’ He laughed.
It was drizzling outside. I turned up my collar and walked between the parked cars out into the main road and up the side street, lined with the overspill. The trees still had leaves on them, blotting out the feeble street lights. As I turned the next corner the sound of the group inside came through an open window as they started playing the hokey-cokey. Thank God I’d left. Trouble was, I was wideawake. Blame it on the afternoon nap, the music, those legs. Eggs, chips and a pot of tea on the motorway sounded inviting, so I decided to take the Jag for a burn-up.
Several other late-comers had parked behind me, and the E-type is so low you don’t see it until you’re there. As it came into view it seemed to be leaning. The camber must be bad, I thought. And it wasn’t shining like it should be.
It was like a fist in the stomach. I stood and looked at it, gasping for breath. My lungs were empty, but I couldn’t inhale. I dropped the keys and sat on the low wall, forcing my head down, trying to drag the cold night air into my chest.
It had been done over. They’d slashed three of the tyres, poured a gallon of brake fluid on it, smashed the driver’s window and razored the leather seats.
I forced my breathing: in, out, in, out; until I’d calmed down. ‘It’s only metal and rubber,’ I said over and over to myself.
The glove box is lockable, so they hadn’t been in there. I retrieved my portable and rang Heckley nick. I needed Jimmy Hoyle and his breakdown truck, fast, but didn’t carry his number around with me. They passed the message on and told him it was urgent.
‘How about the SOCO giving it a going-over,’ the sergeant asked.
‘Not here,’ I told him. ‘I want it away before anybody else sees it. No point in ruining everybody’s day. It’ll have to be at Jimmy’s, in the morning.’
Jimmy Hoyle and I played in the same football team, a long time ago. We were in a cup final against Halifax Town juniors, who we regarded as professionals. Jimmy scored what should have been the winning goal in the last period of extra time, but I let in a penalty in the closing seconds. We were thrashed, four-nil, in the replay.
‘Chuffin’ ’ell!’ he exclaimed when he saw the Jag. He’d done most of the restoration, so it hurt him as much as me. ‘Aw, Charlie, you must be gutted.’
‘It’s only metal and rubber,’ I asssured him, without conviction. ‘Just get it away, quick as pos.’
We winched it aboard his truck and fifteen minutes later left the Masonic Hall behind us, the strains of the Gay Gordons filtering through the ventilators. I realised what I was missing and didn’t feel too bad.
Jimmy said he could manage to unload it, so he took me straight home. All the neighbours peered through their curtains as I jumped down from the cab and waved him off, his yellow flashing light washing the fronts of the houses with waves of jaundice.
Sleep was impossible. I watched a movie on TV, followed by a couple of CDs. Then I turned the lights off and stared into the fire until the birds started singing. It wasn’t the car. That could be repaired. Earlier in the day, twelve thousand miles away, Justin Davis would have been getting off a plane, or maybe the highway patrol pulled his car over. A stranger’s hand would have fallen on to his arm in a show of sympathy. ‘Could you come with us, sir,’ they’d have said. ‘I’m afraid we have some bad news for you.’
How in the name of evil do you tell a man that his wife was found in the bath, dead, with her throat slashed?
Superintendent Isles released Dominic Watts and circulated an APW for his son, Michael Angelo Watts, backed by a warrant for his arrest. We’d do him for drugs, if not murder. I spent the rest of Sunday on household chores and gave my little patch of grass what I hoped was its last cut of the year. I had a key to Annabelle’s, so I took my mower there and gave her a short-back-and-sides, too. I removed the mail from behind her door and came home. It had only been an excuse to see if she was back. I don’t fool myself, most of the time.
On Monday morning Mr Isles admitted that no forensic evidence to link either of the Wattses with Lisa had come to light. Her telephone number was in Michael’s Filofax, that’s all, and he could have dropped the telephone anywhere. Information was coming through that he was hiding in Chapeltown, Leeds. Makinson had interviewed K. Tom and Ruth Davis. K. Tom claimed Lisa rang him about her agency and problems she was having with her VAT payments. He did her tax returns for her, he said. She’d rung back later to confirm a figure. Ruth had gone to bed early with a migraine, and Makinson reported that their relationship appeared strained. How jolly astute of him.
‘Did he ask what the VAT figure was?’ I wondered.
‘What, and cast doubts on the man’s integrity?’ Les answered sourly. ‘He couldn’t do that. Today we’re interviewing Lisa’s agency girls,’ he continued. ‘That should be interesting. Might even do them myself. DCI Makinson can talk to Michael’s friends.’
‘Ha! Good idea,’ I agreed. ‘If I can get away I might have a ride over to Brid. See if I can find this Jimmy the Fish character that went to see Cliff Childs.’
‘It was Childs who lifted the Hartog-Praat bullion?’
‘That’s right.’
‘OK. Give it some priority, then, Charlie.’
‘Will do.’
‘Have you seen the papers?’
‘Not yet. Is she in them?’
‘You’re in for a treat,’ he sighed.
Most of the troops were out. Several of them collect a morning paper on their way to work, for the football results, the pin-ups and a lightning resume of the news, in that order. Their choices are depressing. I wandered round their desks, collecting a small forest’s worth of bumfodder, and took them into my office.
One or two had done the crosswords, presumably while waiting at the traffic lights. I refolded them all and spread them out, front pages uppermost.
The UK News set the tone, as usual. The headline was only two words, but it covered well over half of the page. It said, ‘B LOOD B ATH ’.
Underneath, it told the reader that the beautiful wife of daredevil motorcycle ace Justin Davis had been found naked in the bath with her throat cut. Presumably many of their readers didn’t realise it was customary to remove one’s clothes before taking a bath.
What was it that Phineas T. Barnum said? Nobody ever lost money by over-estimating the bad taste of newspaper proprietors? I turned to page two, as instructed, where it revealed that her body was found by an off-duty CID inspector who was making a ‘social’ call. The inverted commas were their shorthand for nudge-nudge, wink-wink. I scanned the others, but Yuk! News said it all. I gathered them together and dumped the lot in the WPB.
Commander Fearnside had given me Jimmy ‘the Fish’ McAnally’s last known address and details of where his shop was, so I awarded myself a day at the seaside. It was a bright but blustery morning and the sun was in my eyes as I joined the procession of HGVs on the M62, heading towards Hull. I slipped into the fast lane and hit the local radio button for the news and traffic information.
I learnt that the police were looking for a man in connection with Lisa’s death, and that her husband was coming home from Australia. All traffic was flowing normally, they said, but the champion jockey had taken a heavy fall at Newmarket and been rushed unconscious to hospital. His condition was stable.
At the end of the motorway I took the North Cave Road, through Beverley. I caught up with a line of traffic and dropped in behind them. After a few miles the young woman in the car following me pulled out and made a death-or-glory bid to overtake us all. A lorry heading the other way loomed out of a dip in the road and blazed his headlights at her. She hit the brakes, blue smoke puffed from under a wheel and she squeezed back into line. Hanging in her rear window was a sign that said ‘Baby on board’, and I could see the top of the child’s head over the seat. The poster might have been more effective pinned to her steering wheel.
I parked on the south promenade, about half a mile from the town centre. It was pay and display down one side, so I left the car on the other, with everybody else’s. Bridlington was much as I remembered it, but huge signs and a compound filled with earth-moving plant indicated that changes were coming in the off-season. Bringing the place into the twentieth century would be a good idea, before the rest of us hit the twenty-first. Unless, of course, that meant more fast food outlets, amusement arcades and soopa-loopa rides. On second thoughts, leave it as it is.
The place was busy. The boarding houses and hotels extend the season by offering ridiculously cheap rates, and senior citizens take advantage of them. They wandered along the prom in couples and little groups, raincoats buttoned against the breeze, waiting for the next mealtime or cup of tea to come around. I looked for a suitable pub and memorised its name. The gulls hovering over the harbour or perching on the masts of the fishing boats were enormous. These were proper seagulls.
Jimmy the Fish’s lock-up was in the harbour wall, along from the museum, the candyfloss stall and the fishing tackle shop. I knew it was his, because it said ‘Jimmy the Fish’ in big letters over the open front. It’s in the training.
He specialised in little packets of shellfish and dressed crabs, with white fish available from a cold cabinet at the back of the shop. The man himself was small and wiry, with a weatherbeaten face and tiny, twinkling eyes. A woman was behind him, her back to me, busy at some task that involved running water and a big knife.
I eat mussels occasionally, so I opted for a change. ‘Winkles, please,’ I said, after making an inspection of his wares.
He said, ‘Well blow me darn wiv a fevver duster, me old cock sparrer. One tennis racket of all that twinkles coming up. Get them darn yer hat an’ coat, mister. They’ll put rabbits on yer shirt an’ vest, no tin-lidding.’
No he didn’t. He said, ‘Certainly, sir. Help yourself to vinegar.’
I gave him a pound coin and the winkles a quick squirt of acetic acid. None of them cringed in agony, so they must have been dead. Vinegar apart, it was a bit like eating the contents of a puncture outfit. I threw the paper bag into his bin and wiped my hands and mouth on serviettes from the dispenser he had thoughtfully provided. Mrs McAnally was hacking at something with a hatchet. McAnally served a tall elderly gent with ‘his usual’, and when we were as alone as we’d ever be I flashed my ID at him and said, in a low voice, ‘I want a word.’
‘Jesus Christ, I knew it!’ he hissed and dropped the tray of crab sticks he was fitting into his display.
I leant across his counter. ‘The Marquis,’ I told him, ‘in twenty minutes.’
His eyes had lost their sparkle. ‘Right,’ he croaked, with all the resignation of a man whose past had caught up with him.
I was halfway down my orange juice and soda before the taste of vinegar went away. The Marquis is the type of pub I prefer to avoid: all pool tables, slot machines and loud music. The only consolation was that they were playing Hendrix’s ‘Hey Joe’. There was a small snug, just inside the front door, so I settled in a corner and waited.
I didn’t recognise him in his cap, without the white coat. He poked his head furtively round the corner, then limped over and sat opposite me. I’d forgotten about his leg.
‘Jimmy McAnally, I presume?’ I said.
‘Yeah, that’s right.’ His hands were shaking.
‘DI Charlie Priest, East Pennine CID. Want a drink?’
‘No fanks. I’ve told the wife I’m putting a bet on. Best not go back smelling o’ beer, know what I mean?’
‘Fair enough.’ I decided to go for the jugular, pretend we knew he’d liaised between Childs and K. Tom Davis. If I’d asked him and he denied it, I was wasting my time. If we were wrong, then we’d lost nothing. I said, ‘I’ve been doing some work on the Hartog-Praat bullion robbery, in conjunction with the National Criminal Intelligence Service. They have a file on you thicker than prison gravy.’ Might as well remind him of what he was missing. ‘They tell me that you carried messages between Cliff Childs and a man in Yorkshire called K. Tom Davis. I want you, Jimmy, to tell me all about those messages.’
I could almost see the cogs going round. He’d come prepared to deny everything, but I’d jumped in first with half the story. ‘I d-don’t know no T-Tom Davis,’ he blustered.
‘You mean you don’t know the name of the man you carried the messages to? One about eighteen months ago, two more not long after Childs was sentenced? I’ve got the dates, if that would help.’
‘No, yeah. I mean, I don’t know.’
‘You’ve got me confused, there, Jimmy. Are you saying you didn’t know Davis’s name?’
‘Yeah, that’s right.’
‘So how did you contact him?’
‘I had a telephone number. I’d to ring him, local call, and we met at a pub. That’s all’
‘Can you remember the number?’
‘Nah. It was a long time ago.’
‘So what did he look like?’
He looked around for inspiration. ‘Big feller. Prosperous, if you know what I mean. Bit similar to the landlord here.’
‘That sounds like Davis,’ I admitted. He was carrying a rolled-up copy of one of the tabloids, racing page outermost.
‘Read the headlines, Jimmy?’ I asked, nodding towards it.
‘Headlines?’ he repeated unfolding the paper. There was a photo of Lisa there, in a bikini and a professional pose. ‘Yeah. What about it?’
‘That’s Davis’s daughter-in-law,’ I said. ‘She was found with her throat cut. Some of us are wondering if it was a warning to him. We reckon he’s looking after the Hartog-Praat gold for Cliff Childs. Maybe he’s been dipping his fingers in. What do you think?’
The paper was shaking as he read it, amplifying his nervousness. ‘Mother o’ Mary,’ he whispered, turning to page two for the rest of the story. ‘I don’t fink noffing, Mr Priest,’ he replied, clumsily refolding the pages.
‘Well, I do, Jimmy. I think plenty. First of all, I think you’d better tell me the contents of the messages you carried between Childs and Davis. So let’s have it.’
He stared at the Formica table top for a while, then said, ‘I’d like that drink now, if you don’t mind.’
He was playing for time, trying to calculate how much would satisfy me, how much he could keep concealed.
‘Uh uh,’ I said, shaking my head. ‘Later. You’ll enjoy it a lot more.’ I drained my glass and pushed it to one side, waiting.
‘Yeah, you’re right,’ he conceded. ‘I was inside, got a message from Childs to come up to Yorkshire as soon as I was free and ring this number. Somewhere near Wakefield, he said it was. Told me there might be a bob or two in it for me, one day. So I did.’
‘And what was the message?’
‘Noffing much. Davis had to ’ide the stuff somewhere-’
The stuff?’ I interrupted.
‘Yeah, that’s right.’
‘Did he say what it was?’
‘No. Just the stuff.’
‘But you had a good idea what he meant?’
‘I knew what ’e was inside for, Mr Priest.’
‘OK. Davis hides the stuff. Then what?’
‘He’d to give me half of the ’iding place. Childs was scared that Davis might snuff it while he was inside, but he didn’t want anybody else to know where it was. I took ’im half of it, someone else took ’im the other half.’
‘Who was the someone else, Jimmy?’
‘Lord ’elp me, Mr Priest, I don’t know.’
So that was it. McAnally only knew half of the story, so there was no harm in stringing me along. And the other guardian of the holy grail — Morgan — was already safely dead. McAnally had nothing to lose. I picked up my glass, realised it was still empty and pushed it away again. ‘I’m not interested in you, Jimmy,’ I told him. ‘I knew the dead girl, Lisa Davis. This is personal. I want to find that gold before anyone else finds themself breathing through their larynx. You’d better tell me the rest of it.’
‘I’m sorry about the girl, Mr Priest, I really am, but blimey, I’ve told you everyfing I know, so ’elp me.’
‘Well, for starters, you could tell me your half of the hiding place.’
He waved his hands in the air, agitated. ‘It didn’t make sense, Mr Priest, honest it didn’t.’
‘Jimmy,’ I said. ‘All this “Mr Priest” is making me feel old. Call me Charlie. Don’t read too much into it — I’m still the cop and you’re still the cheap ex-crook, but call me Charlie. OK?’
‘Right. Fanks, Charlie.’
‘So what was it?’
‘Like I said, it didn’t make sense.’
‘Go on,’ I urged.
‘It was just…St Sebastian, that was it. The martyrdom of St Sebastian. Crazy, innit?’
‘The martyrdom of St Sebastian?’
‘Yeah.’
‘You’re right, it doesn’t make much sense. Maybe if we knew the other half…’
‘Yeah, well, that’d be different. We’re only singing off ’alf the hymn sheet, ain’t we?’ He leant forward on to the table and smiled for the first time. A load was off his shoulders, and he hadn’t disclosed anything worthwhile. He’d confirmed what we’d guessed, and given us a cryptic clue that was about as much use as a Teflon flypaper.
I hit him with, ‘Tell me all about Johnny Morgan.’
He slumped backwards in shock, as if a sniper across the street had taken him out. ‘J-J-J…’ he stuttered, then shut up.
‘Johnny Morgan,’ I reminded him. ‘The two of you shared a cell. I’ve heard that you can become quite close, banged up like that. Happen with you and Johnny, did it?’
‘Johnny’s dead,’ he whispered. ‘You brought a ghost up, that’s all.’
‘He was the courier for the other half of the message.’
‘Was he? I didn’t know. Anyway, he’s dead.’
‘He’s dead and you lost a leg in a car accident. Any chance the two are linked?’ I asked.
He shook his head. ‘Nah, no way. He was knifed by a Paki in a pub brawl. I got ’it by a young bird in a Lada. She was Brahms and Liszt. Just the luck of the draw.’
‘You’re probably right,’ I conceded. ‘But I don’t believe you’re being straight with me, Jimmy. Look at it from my point of view. Two old pals, you and Johnny, have the key to a ton and a half of gold. All you have to do is go and dig it up. Then you could live in luxury, anywhere in the world, for the rest of your naturals. Are you seriously asking me to believe that you didn’t compare notes? Pull the other one, Jimmy.’
‘Johnny’s story died wiv ’im, Mr Priest. I swear it.’
‘And I’m the Princess of Wales.’
We sat watching each other across the table. The landlord came and took my empty glass, giving us a look that said, ‘If you aren’t drinking, piss off.’
‘Can I go?’ McAnally asked. ‘I’ve work to do.’
‘How old are you?’ I said.
‘Fifty-three.’
‘Fifty-three and still dreaming of the big time, Jimmy.’ I waved a hand round. ‘This is it, Jimmy. This is reality. You’re as far as you’ll ever get, and so am I. I’ll retire soon, make do with my pension. You’ll sell your fish for a few more years, then retire to your little bungalow with Mrs McAnally. Surely that’s better than living on the Costa del Crime or somewhere, drinking yourself to death, never sure when the knock’s coming on the door. It’s time to abandon the pipedreams, Jimmy, and accept your lot in life. I’d say it wasn’t a bad lot. Plenty I know would be glad of it, and I’m talking about policemen.’
‘Yeah, you’re right. I got a good ’un when I married the missus. We weren’t evil, Charlie. It was a way of life if you were born where I was. I did a bit of fieving, some receiving, that’s all. I’ve paid me debt. Never had noffing to do wiv Hartog-Praat, I swear it.’
‘So what was Morgan’s half of the message?’
‘I told you. It died wiv ’im.’
I hadn’t wanted it to go this far. I fingered a beer mat, wiped the wet circle my glass had left. When the table was as clean and dry as it would ever be I said, ‘N-CIS have you down as the driver, Jimmy. That makes you an equal partner.’
‘Oh no,’ he groaned, his face whiter than the cod fillets his wife had been preparing.
‘A twenty would make it unlikely you’d ever come out again. As long as Childs knows where the gold is and keeps shtoom it’ll be full terms for everyone. Like I said, your file is mighty thick. I’ll tell you something, though.’ I leant forward. ‘N-CIS are always on the lookout for bigger premises, just because of all the paperwork. You know all about the price of property in London, I imagine. A big file like yours, they’d just love to lose it. A little bit of cooperation, Jimmy, and I could ask them to stamp NFA on the front cover. Next time they had a clear-out, it’d be thrown in the skip. I can’t guarantee someone wouldn’t find it on a rubbish dump near the Epping Forest, but it couldn’t hurt you anymore.’
‘NFA? What’s that?’ he asked.
‘No…further…action.’
A little bit of the old twinkle came back. ‘And that would be…that?’
‘No promises, but I can’t see why not.’ Especially as we didn’t have anything on him. The fat file I’d told him about was half a line in Cliff Childs’ curriculum vitae.
Through the open door I could see the landlord polishing glasses. ‘Fancy that beer now?’ I asked.
‘Yeah, please. Pint o’ bitter.’
I fetched two while he did some thinking. Sometimes it pays to give them no time, keep the questions coming, pile on the pressure, but Jimmy was a professional. His instinct would be to clam up completely. I wanted him to realise that he had nothing to lose by talking to me.
I placed the glasses on beermats on the table. ‘Thought you lot drank light and dark, or some other muck,’ I said, sitting down.
‘Nah. ’Aven’t you heard? We got Tetley’s now.’
‘Civilisation has reached you,’ I declared, taking a long appreciative draught. ‘Cheers.’
‘Cheers.’
‘So what was the purpose of the third visit, eighteen months ago?’ I asked him.
‘He got in touch wiv me,’ he began.
‘Childs?’
‘No. This bloke you say is called Davis. I really didn’t know ’is monicker.’
‘But he knew where to contact you.’
‘Yeah. That was part of the deal.’
‘And what did he want?’
‘I’d to fix up a visit to see Cliff Childs. Tell him that this bloke in Yorkshire could offload some of the stuff at a good price. Cliff had to phone him, and when he did, any numbers mentioned would be pounds per ounce. That’s all.’
‘And you assumed they were talking about gold, not drugs?’
‘Yeah, it was gold all right.’
‘So you and Morgan didn’t find it?’
He chuckled and lifted his glass. I watched the level fall as his head tilted back, the froth sliding down the inside. ‘Nah,’ he said, licking his lips. ‘Didn’t stand a friggin’ chance.’
‘So what was Morgan’s half of the message?’
‘Uh!’ he exclaimed, a faraway smile on his face as he realised he was about to relinquish a dream. ‘Five yards in, at five yard intervals. That’s what it was.’
‘Five yards in, at five yard intervals?’
He nodded.
‘And the other half was the martyrdom of St Sebastian?’
‘Yeah.’
‘So where did you look?’
‘Where didn’t we? We rang directory enquiries until they recognised our voices. “Not friggin’ you again,” they’d say. St Sebastian didn’t have many churches named after him, fortunately, and no pubs, but we could have been talking about anywhere between London and Yorkshire. It was hopeless. Then this happened.’ He raised his gammy leg. ‘Bit later, Johnny was killed. I decided I’d just ’ave to be patient, see what they offered me for being their running boy.’
‘Or what your cut was for being the driver,’ I suggested.
‘I wasn’t on the job, Mr Priest,’ he insisted.
‘If you say so. Do you reckon there are a few people out there, waiting to get their hands on the stuff?’
‘I wouldn’t know.’
‘Are you happy that Johnny’s death and your accident weren’t related?’
‘Yeah. This bird what ’it me was coming up a slip road the wrong way. You couldn’t plan anyfing like that.’
‘Mmm. Probably not,’ I agreed, lifting my glass and draining the last of my pint.
‘So what ’appens now?’ he asked. He sounded scared. I’d revived too many ghosts.
‘I’ll go home,’ I replied. ‘Type up my report. I’ll have a word with N-CIS suggesting your file be quietly disposed of, as you have been very cooperative, and hopefully, we’ll all live happily ever after. You’ve got it made here, Jimmy,’ I told him. ‘You’ve got it made. Why don’t you accept it?’
‘Yeah, you’re right, Mr Priest. Trouble is, the grass is always greener at the other side of the wall, innit?’
‘That’s because of all the shit that’s there.’ I took a CID card from my wallet and signed it, saying, ‘If you think of anything else, let me know. Thanks for your help, Jimmy, and look after yourself.’
The original plan was to eat in Brid but I wanted to get back, so I skipped lunch. It might be the seaside, but experience had taught me that their fish and chips are not as good as ours. The fish has still been frozen in a factory ship, somewhere off Cape Farewell, and they cater for a passing trade. I listened to Classic FM on the journey back to Heckley, and thought about Jimmy and his cryptic clues. They were meaningless to me, but he could have been bullshitting. I had a suspicion that he would quietly sell his little business and sneak away to fresh pastures, without his name over the door. That’s what I’d have done, in his shoes.
Maud was coming down the stairs as I went up them. ‘Hi, Maud,’ I greeted her. ‘Looking for me?’
‘Hello, Charlie. Yes, I’ve left you a note with Sparking plug.’
‘You mean old Grumpysod? Coming back for a coffee?’
‘No, if you don’t mind. I want to be off early. We’ve identified all the Jones boys accounts, so I’ve left you a breakdown. Oh, and while I was at your desk I took a message from a PC Young. He’s our new DVLC Liaison Officer. Could you ring him, please?’
‘Oh, right. Wonder what he wants.’
Sparky was sitting at the word processor, typing a report. ‘Hello, Dave,’ I said. ‘Where’s this message from Maud?’
‘I left it on your desk,’ he replied. ‘Can I have a word, Charlie?’
‘Sure.’ This was Sparky at his most formal. I hung my jacket behind the door and pulled a chair out, alongside him.
‘I, er, heard about the car, the Jag,’ he said.
‘Yeah,’ I replied. ‘I nearly cried when I saw it, but I soon put it in perspective. That reminds me — I need to collect a claims form. Don’t suppose you’ve heard if the SOCO has had a look at it, have you?’
‘It was Sophie’s fault, wasn’t it?’ he said.
‘No, of course not.’
‘It was,’ he insisted. ‘She must have told the photographer at the Lord Mayor’s parade who the car belonged to. That’s how someone knew it was yours. I’ll have a word with her, Charlie.’
‘No, you won’t,’ I told him. ‘They’re growing up fast enough as it is. It’s not Sophie’s fault that some maniac has a grudge against me.’
‘Well, I’m sorry.’
I thumped his knee with my fist. ‘Let’s have a look at these figures from Maud,’ I said.
The gist of it was that the seven Joneses, whoever they were, had deposited between two and three thousand pounds each with Goodrich, nearly every week, for just over two years. That amounted to the tidy sum of?1.78 million.
Four hundred thousand had gone into diamonds, and therefore down the drain; and another eighty-eight thousand was safely deposited in legitimate investments. That left nearly?1.3 million unaccounted for, possibly converted into something else, like, she suggested, gold. Her footnote commented that seven bank managers were heading for a bleak Christmas.
Not long ago a mugger stabbed a pensioner in Heckley for fifty pence. There was no shortage of candidates who’d kill for a share in a million and a bit.
PC Young’s number was written on the bottom of the report. I dialled it.
‘Hello, Mr Priest,’ he said, after I’d introduced myself. ‘I’m the DVLC Liaison Officer. I understand you own an E-type Jaguar, licence number…’
Any enquiries about car numbers and owners have to be directed through each force’s liaison officer, who then talks directly with the licensing centre in Swansea. ‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘Want to buy it?’
‘Sorry, but no. Maybe if it had been a Ford Escort… According to Swansea you have a block on your number.’
‘Yes, and I’ve instructed all my staff to do the same.’
‘That makes sense. What I rang for is to tell you that the West Pennine Liaison Officer took a call from one of their PCs this morning, asking for the name and address of the owner of your Jag. I just thought you’d like to know about it.’
‘You bet I’d like to know about it!’ I declared. ‘Did he give it to him?’
‘No, of course not.’
‘Good. Thanks. It might be legitimate: maybe he’s seen me speeding somewhere — not that I do, you understand.’
‘Wouldn’t dream of suggesting it, sir.’
‘I should think not. Look, on Saturday night someone trashed the Jag for me. Slashed the tyres and seats, poured hydraulic fluid over everything else. I’m afraid I’m going to have to follow this up. Can you find out the name and number of the PC for me, please?’
There are informal ways of dealing with situations like this. We go on courses, get drunk together, stray over into each other’s territory, and slowly build up a network of inter-force contacts. In my case, with my service, it’s more like a labyrinth. I rang a DI in West Pennine that I once shared a park bench with when we were locked out of the academy and asked him to do some nosing around.
I wanted to write my report on the meeting with Jimmy the Fish, but the telephone wouldn’t stop ringing. We grumble at Superintendent Wood, but miss him when he’s not there to field all the calls that come down the channels. The chief constable’s secretary rang from Force HQ for our projected figures for crimes of violence and burglaries, needed for a meeting he was attending tomorrow.
‘Ah!’ I improvised. ‘Haven’t they arrived, yet?’
‘No, I’m afraid not,’ she replied in her snootiest voice. She rarely addresses anyone as low in the pecking order as me.
‘Right. Well, I can’t remember the actual numbers, and the computer’s playing up, but crimes of violence are expected to rise by, er, three per cent, and burglaries by, er, four per cent. If you have the last figures there, could you work them out, please?’
She said she would, but wasn’t pleased about it. Tough Tipp-Ex, I thought. Reports, I’m keen on. I give every member of the team plenty of time to do their reports, and sometimes we catch a criminal through them. Statistics are for politicians. All they catch are votes. We were really hoping for a decrease in crime, but it wasn’t in our interest to admit it. I slammed the phone down, grabbed my coat and fled before it could ring again.
Jimmy Hoyle helped me fill in the claims form I collected on the way home. We surveyed the Jaguar in his garage, walking round it with glum faces, as if it were the last, dying specimen of an endangered species, which, in a way, it was. It looked as if it had been engaged in a monumental struggle against an ancient enemy, fought to the death. And lost.
‘It’s all superficial,’ Jimmy assured me. ‘It’ll put right.’
‘Of course it will,’ I replied with forced enthusiasm. It was hard to believe, looking at the wreck they’d left me with.
‘Don’t mention the wedding,’ Jimmy advised as I read out a question about the purpose of my journey.
‘Why not?’
‘Because you’re not insured for it. It’s called hire and reward. Just put pleasure.’
‘Right. So what do you reckon, about?’
‘Oh, thick end of four grand.’
‘Blimey.’
Jimmy wanted to go for a pint, but I declined. Once he gets in a pub he believes it’s bad manners to leave before closing time. Driving home I thought about our conversation and one I’d held earlier in the day with Inspector Adey.
I’d seen him in the washroom at the station, wearing his full uniform, and asked him what the celebration was. He was handing out cautions to juveniles, and the uniform was to impress them with the gravity of the situation. He’d just done the first three. One had consumed a Mars bar and a can of Coke while pushing an empty trolley around the supermarket. He fell into the poverty trap: unemployed, but too young to claim benefit. Said he was hungry. Another had paddled in the koi carp pool in the shopping mall and the last one stole all the garden gnomes on the Barratt estate and lined them up across the road.
They’d have criminal records until they were eighteen. And here was me, plotting to sting an insurance company for four thousand pounds, knowing there’d be no comebacks. It was a so-called victimless crime, but it was still fraud. To he that hath, it shall be given; or to put it another way, life’s a bitch.
I typed my report of the day trip to Bridlington on my own word processor, in the spare bedroom-cum-office. I checked it, made some alterations and ran off a copy for our files and another for Fearnside. It would be easier to transmit it electronically, or send a disk, but it’s forbidden. That’s how you spread viruses. I talked to his office and a few minutes later he rang me from home.
I’ll say one thing for him: he’s a good listener. ‘Tell me the messages again,’ he asked, when I’d finished.
‘McAnally’s was, “The martyrdom of St Sebastian”, and Morgan’s was, “Five yards in, at five yard intervals.”’
‘Mmm. Sounds bloody nonsense to me. Do you reckon he was having you on?’
‘It had crossed my mind. Oh, by the way, I suggested that we might lose his file, if he cooperated. Is that OK?’
‘He hasn’t got a file.’
‘I know, but I said he had a whole drawer to himself, that you thought he was the driver. Actually, he didn’t bust a gut denying it.’
‘Didn’t he, eh? Suppose we could lose him, providing this is good information. What do you reckon, Charlie?’
‘I really don’t know, but in the absence of anything better…’ I let it hang in the air.
‘Right. You’re not going to suggest that I domicile myself in the British Museum and swot up on the lives of the bloody saints, are you?’
‘No,’ I replied. ‘That’s for Hollywood. It’ll be something more obvious than that. They had the right idea, looking for a pub or a church.’
‘The simple explanation — Occam’s razor, eh?’
‘Took the words right out of my mouth, Mr Fearnside.’
‘Splendid. Well, you keep on with it, Charlie, and let me know how it goes. I’ll put some of our brainboxes on to these messages. One or two of them time their soft-boiled eggs by doing The Times crossword. Maybe they can put their efforts towards something useful for a change, eh?’