All Tuesday we were bogged down with a missing thirteen-year-old girl. Monday morning she’d told her parents she was going to a chum’s after school, but when she wasn’t home by eleven p.m. they rang the other girl’s parents. Samantha wasn’t there, hadn’t been there, and she hadn’t been to school either. Nothing knackers the overtime budget like a vulnerable MFH. The nightshift, with some help from CID, looked into her background, friends, state of mind and everything else that might shed some light on her whereabouts. She had some strange acquaintances, and when I came on it was fairly certain that she’d run away. We’d have to go through the motions though, and the helicopter and the task force started an interim search of the local countryside.
We found her early in the evening, after somebody heard our appeal on Look North and put the finger on her boyfriend. They were drunk, in bed, at his council flat in one of the Sylvan Fields tower blocks. He was unemployed, thirty-eight, had four children elsewhere and normally slept with an eight-foot-long boa constrictor. He swore blind she’d told him she was seventeen and she said she loved him. We couldn’t afford any more overtime for the next two months.
I was in the shower when the phone rang, washing that man right outa my hair. It could have been anyone, and some folks don’t like talking to answerphones, so I dashed downstairs leaving soggy footprints on the Axminster. ‘Priest,’ I said into it.
‘Hi, Pissquick. How y’doing?’ came Mike Freer’s melodious tones.
‘You got me out the shower!’ I protested.
‘It comes with the training. Always strike when the opposition least expects it. That’s what we’ve just done. Since when did Drug Squad knock on anyone’s door at eight o’clock in the evening?’
‘Is there a point in this, Mike? I’ve stood here dripping so often I have flag iris growing in my hallway.’
‘And frog spawn?’
‘Buckets of it.’
‘OK. Well, put some in a jar and take it down to City HQ. I’m sure Michael Angelo Watts would appreciate something to amuse him as he sits in his cosy ten-by-eight.’
‘You’ve lifted him!’ I exclaimed.
‘’Bout an hour ago, in Chapeltown.’
‘Fantabulosa! What’s he saying?’
‘Would you believe: “Bring me my solicitor”?’
‘I believe it. Great. I wonder how soon Les Isles will let me have a crack at him?’
‘After everybody else, I imagine. Just thought you’d like to know. S’long.’
‘Thanks, bye.’
The water was running cold when I went back upstairs. I thought about walking to the local again, and ruining all their evenings, but decided they weren’t worth it. I settled for watching a science programme on Channel 4 and a reasonably early night.
The PC who’d tried to find my name and address from the DVLC said that a civilian had made an unofficial complaint to him about an E-type Jaguar being driven recklessly. He hadn’t taken the civilian’s name, but decided to look into it ‘just out of interest’. What he meant was that one of his shady friends had slipped him fifty quid for the information. The liaison officer asked him all about it, prompted by my DI colleague. A discreet eye would be kept on his future behaviour. I thanked my opposite number for his assistance and put the phone down.
Simon Mingeles was Michael Angelo Watts’ brief. He was in court on Wednesday morning, defending the AIDS virus against a crimes against humanity rap, so I had to wait until he was available to hold his client’s hand. It was almost three thirty when I spoke the time into the tape recorder, in one of City’s interview rooms.
Michael wore baggy pantaloons, some sort of ethnic top and an expression of bored arrogance. Mingeles had that glow that a two-hour lunch gives one.
‘Inspector Priest,’ Mingeles began, ‘my client has already spoken at length to DCI Makinson and Superintendent Isles. I really do not know what we can learn from more of these pointless conversations. Until my client is charged I am advising him not to answer any more questions. He will, of course, vigorously deny any charges made against him.’
‘Mr Watts is still under caution,’ I reminded them. ‘As it says, it may harm his defence if he does not mention, when asked, something which he intends to rely on in court. I’ve looked at the transcripts of the previous interviews and I’d hardly describe them as speaking at length, Mr Mingeles. Being downright evasive is more like it.’
‘Very well, go ahead’ he said, with a dismissive wave. Some would blame his assumed superiority and oily confidence on the claret he’d consumed with his lunch, but I knew he was always like this.
I turned to Watts. ‘Where were you at ten thirty, last Thursday night?’ I asked.
‘Mr Priest,’ Mingeles interrupted. ‘My client has already explained his whereabouts to your superior officers. Is it really necessary to go through all this again?’
‘We have senior officers, Mr Mingeles, not superiors. And while we’re on the subject of titles, by your client, I assume you mean Mr Watts. Don’t you think it more polite to address him by his name?’ This was becoming another hobby-horse.
Mingeles blinked, but came straight back. ‘I am touched by your concern for our relationship, Mr Priest, but that is something between us and nothing to do with you or your investigation. Could we stick to the business that brings us here?’
‘So where were you?’ I asked Watts again.
His big hooded eyes glared at me and gave a perfunctory flick towards his mouthpiece. Why not? He was paying him enough.
‘My client was at a private drinking club, as stated earlier, on more than one occasion,’ Mingeles said.
‘An illegal club?’ I wondered.
‘Awaiting a licence, yes.’
Like I’m waiting for a call from Steven Spielberg. ‘And where is this club?’
‘In Heckley.’
‘The address?’
Mingeles sighed. ‘Mr Priest. This information is on record, with me. It can be furnished to you if and when my client is charged. Until that time he prefers not to disclose the whereabouts of the club or the names of the witnesses who can vouch for his presence there.’
I said, ‘That’s bullshit, Mingeles, and you know it.’ The big PC standing at the door to make sure we didn’t attack each other shuffled his feet.
‘That is the position,’ the lawyer stated, with admirable restraint.
‘OK.’ I wanted Watts to speak, say anything, just to get his jaw working. Who knows? Once he started, he might not be able to stop. I rocked my chair back on two legs and asked him, ‘Do you remember me, Michael?’
The big eyes flicked from me to Mingeles, who extended his fingers in a gesture that told him to go ahead and answer. ‘Yeah, I met you. You fuckin’ Crazy Horse,’ he said.
Mingeles looked puzzled, wondering if I was having sex with the spirit of the Sioux chief. I smiled at the memory of the rhubarb run.
‘How much did that little venture cost you?’ I asked.
‘Don’t answer that,’ Mingeles insisted, placing a hand on his client’s arm.
‘So what is the street price of heroin?’
‘No comment,’ Mingeles snapped.
‘OK,’ I said. ‘Let’s try you with another one. How much is an ounce of gold, on the black market, these days?’
Mingeles jumped in again with ‘My client has no comment to make.’
I turned to the tape and said, ‘Accused opened his mouth to speak but solicitor intervened.’
‘This is disgraceful!’ Mingeles blurted out. ‘You are putting implications on this that are entirely fictitious. I demand that you withdraw the comment or it be stricken from the tape.’
I said, ‘No, Mr Mingeles. You jumped in because you assumed that your client might know the answer. I was merely underlining this.’
He turned to Michael and advised him not to reply again until they’d conferred.
‘What’s your date of birth?’ I asked.
Mingeles nodded with a sigh of resignation.
‘Third September, nineteen sixty-six.’
‘And your shoe size?’
‘We are not here to play games,’ Mingeles complained.
‘We found a footprint. What’s your shoe size?’
Nod of approval, followed by ‘Eight and a half.’
We hadn’t found a print, but I could play silly buggers just as good as them. I said, ‘So tell me how your fingerprints came to be on your father’s telephone?’
The tame brief chipped in again with the usual complaint that this had already been explored, mulled over, analysed and generally put to bed with Makinson and Isles. ‘I’d like to hear it for myself,’ I said.
Watts received the go-ahead. ‘I borrow it, and lose it somewhere. That’s all.’
‘Do you often borrow your father’s portable telephone?’
He looked sideways, and when the nod came said, ‘Yeah, all the time.’
‘Doesn’t your father mind about the bill?’
This time the glances were more urgent. ‘No…’ he began, cutting it off as a friendly hand fell on his arm.
‘Is your mobile the same type as your father’s?’
Mingeles nodded at him, he nodded at me.
‘For the tape, please.’
‘Yes,’ Mingeles chipped in. ‘My client has confirmed that his mobile phone is the same type as his father’s.’
‘Exactly the same?’ I insisted.
‘Yeah,’ Watts said.
‘A Sony?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Good. Thanks. So where did you lose it?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Can you remember where you went between the last time you used it, which was at three forty-seven on the Thursday in question, and noticing it was missing?’
‘My client told Mr Makinson that he believes he lost it somewhere in Heckley town centre,’ Mingeles informed me.
‘I’d like to hear it from him.’
Mingeles nodded. ‘That’s right,’ Watts confirmed. ‘I lost it somewhere in town centre.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
There was a long silence, until Mingeles said, ‘Fortunately, Mr Priest, what you believe is not important. Unless you have evidence to the contrary, my client’s word will be accepted by any court in the land. Now, if there are no further questions, I suggest we terminate this interview.’
‘Where did you lose the phone?’ I asked again.
‘My client has already answered that satisfactorily.’
‘I want to hear it from him.’
‘I fuckin’ tol’ you. In town centre.’
‘How well did you know Lisa Davis?’
He’d rehearsed that one. ‘Never heard of her,’ he replied.
‘So why was her number in your Filofax?’
Mingeles said, ‘Ms Davis’s agency is in the Yellow Pages. My client extracted the number for future use, in the event of his father needing any clerical assistance.’
‘And, of course,’ I declared, ‘she just happens to employ several very attractive young ladies. Some might say gullible young ladies, don’t you think?’
‘We wouldn’t know about that,’ Mingeles informed the tape.
I leant on the little table that separated us. ‘Listen, Michael,’ I said, ‘you’re going down for dealing. That’s as sure as Haile Selassie was an ugly runt. Makinson wants to pin a murder rap on you. Believe it or believe it not, I happen to think that you didn’t cut Lisa Davis’s throat. But you have a good idea who did. Right at this moment I am the only friend you have that you haven’t paid for. I’ll ask again: where did you lose the phone?’
Watts didn’t understand the Selassie jibe. He only joined the Rastas for the haircut. It’s a bit like joining the Young Conservatives for the table tennis. ‘You a fuckin’ joke, man,’ he told me for the second time. ‘You know fuck all.’ Mingeles silenced him by grasping his arm.
I leant forward, closer to him. ‘I’ll tell you what I do know,’ I said. ‘I could get you off a murder rap. But why should I? Tell me where you left the phone, and get yourself off.’
Mingeles looked puzzled, sat back and listened.
‘Where were you,’ I asked, ‘when you made those last calls on your dad’s phone and got three wrong numbers? You thought it was your own phone at first, didn’t you? You gave it a shake, then realised it was your father’s. What did you do? Pick up the wrong one as you left home?’
He glowered at me, leaving the question unanswered.
I went on. ‘So, you visited someone and left the phone on their hall table or the mantelpiece or wherever one puts a mobile phone. You had a discussion, maybe a little argument, and left in a hurry, forgetting to pick up the phone. That’s what happened, isn’t it, Michael?’
Sweat was dribbling from under his dreadlocks and his nostrils were flared, like he was halfway down the hundred metres track, or coming out for the third round.
Mingeles shuffled in his seat. ‘You appear to know a lot about my client,’ he stated. ‘Sadly, for you, it is entirely supposition.’ He lifted his briefcase and clicked the locks.
I turned to him. ‘Listen Mingeles,’ I said, ‘this is all good stuff. I know how many times your client shakes his prick after a piss and which finger he picks his nose with.’ I hooked a middle finger towards him and he shrank away. ‘He is protecting someone because that person is the key to continued wealth for him. If you want to be of real service to your client, I suggest you advise him that the gravy train is off the rails.’ I looked at my watch. ‘Interview terminated at…three fifty-four.’ I pressed the button and ejected the tapes.
Mugging is a high risk business. High risk for the offender as well as the victim. It’s an entry level offence, the first step on a pathway that usually leads to further, more violent, crimes. The mugger needs no tools, no training and no conscience. A fast pair of legs and an urgent desire for a few quid and you’re in business. Old ladies out shopping are the first targets, for our young thief has never heard of osteoporosis. But they don’t have much money, unless you catch them straight out of the Post Office on giro day. Male targets are often more prosperous, but might fight back, so he starts to carry a knife.
If he’s carrying a blade, he might as well use it to threaten the victim. And so it goes on. Rapists, especially the ones who attack their victims out of doors, usually started their careers as muggers.
We were having a plague of them, with two on Thursday morning. Thursday was pension day — laddo was on the learning curve. Maybe we could find a place for him on a residential course. The Davis enquiry was going nowhere, and I wanted this latest pimple in the figures squeezing out before it became a rash, so I put everyone I could spare out on the streets, including myself. For once the two victims gave good descriptions which, surprisingly, tallied. Wearing a Forfar Athletic Football Club jersey anywhere outside Forfar could be considered eccentric. In Yorkshire it was downright weird. We scoured the town and a patrol car spotted him coming out of a betting shop after the last race at Hamilton.
‘You’ve got to admit,’ Sparky said later through a mouthful of biscuit, ‘it makes the job worthwhile when you target a criminal like that and catch him so quickly.’
I took a well-earned sip of coffee and put my feet up on the desk. ‘He’s hardly John Dillinger,’ I remarked.
‘It’s one less scrote on the streets. That’s what counts.’
‘I’ll drink to that. Hopefully, when Mr Wood comes back we’ll be able to spend a bit more time on the Goodrich affair. Anybody know where Nigel is? I suppose we ought to call him off.’
‘He had a theory about someone up the Manchester Road.’
We were chattering away, pleased with ourselves, when my phone rang. It always does.
I swung my legs off the desk but Sparky beat me to it.
‘Who?’ he asked. His face screwed up in puzzlement and he said, ‘Dances with Wolves? No, there’s no one here called Dances with Wolves. Pardon… It’s a bad line, could you speak up, please. Dances with Anybody? Oh, you must mean Mr Priest. I’ll put him on.’ He reached out with the phone, saying, ‘It’s for you.’
Before I put my ear to it I could hear Nigel protesting. ‘I never said a thing! He’s making it up, boss.’
‘So that’s what you call me, behind my back, is it?’ I growled.
‘No, boss. Honest! I never said a word. He’s winding us up.’
‘So what do you call Dave?’
‘I don’t call him anything! What’s going on?’
‘Botulism Feet? Aw, Nigel, that’s not nice. That’s personal.’
‘I never said a word! You’re as bad as he is! Put him back on!’
‘And what else, did you say?’
‘Nothing!’
‘The what?’
‘NOTHING!’ he shrieked.
‘The Line Dance Kid? Sorry, Nigel. I don’t know what you mean.’
I glanced at Sparky who glowered back at me, slowly turning colour. ‘Bastard!’ he hissed.
‘Put him back on!’ Nigel insisted. He sounded hurt and confused, like a dog in a cactus garden.
‘He doesn’t want to talk to you. What did you ring for?’
‘Oh, flipping heck. Put him on, please.’
‘Sorry, Nigel. He’s shaking his head. We got someone for the muggings, so you can come back, now.’
‘So I heard. Is he annoyed?’
‘Well, he’s not pleased, stuck in a cell like that.’
‘I meant Dave.’
‘Oh, he’ll get over it. Thanks for those notes on ethics that you left me, Nigel. They look useful.’
‘That’s why I rang. I wasn’t sure if you’d found them. Good luck with the talk, if I don’t see you. Listen, boss. You are having me on, aren’t you?’
‘Having you on, Nigel? Moi?’
‘Ha! You nearly had me going, there. Good one. Any instructions for tomorrow?’
‘No, I don’t think so. I’ll leave the shop in your capable hands. You could always… Oh, never mind.’
‘What?’
‘I was going to say that it might not be a bad idea to put a little pressure on K. Tom Davis. Maybe go see him, ask a few innocuous questions; perhaps even suggest that Michael Angelo Watts might be released, for insufficient evidence; something like that.’
‘Great. I’ll try to do it myself.’
‘OK, but take someone with you. Give me a ring tomorrow night.’
The first-class rail warrant didn’t materialise, so I drove down to the staff college at Bramshill. The session on ethics was the last one on Friday, presumably put there to reinforce, or perhaps negate, everything they’d heard on the previous days. I rose with the sun and made it in time for lunch. It was the best meal I’d had since Annabelle went away, although the company was stuffy. They like to do things with decorum at the staff college.
The Assistant Chief Constable had supplied me with his paper on the subject, but I decided to personalise it, using a few ideas of my own and the notes Nigel had given me. There were about thirty-five people present when I rose to my feet, after being effusively introduced by someone I’d only met three minutes earlier. Some of the delegates were no doubt from overseas, but there was a fair smattering of what I took to be our top brass. Let’s see if I could make them squirm…
‘There was this high-ranking police officer…’ I began. ‘In fact, he was a chief constable. Being a chief constable he owned a very nice car — an extremely desirable vintage Rolls-Royce. There was nothing he liked more than swanning around in his Rolls, driving through town on a sunny Saturday afternoon, showing it off. One day, out of the blue, a young lady who lived a few doors away asked him if he would be kind enough to take her to the church for her wedding, the following weekend. She would, of course, be willing to pay him the going rate for his services. Sadly, while everybody was in the church, a lorry reversed into the Rolls-Royce and drove away, leaving over five thousand pounds worth of damage behind… Fortunately, the Chief Constable was insured…’
When I finished the story one or two of them were shuffling around uncomfortably. I like to think they were wrestling with their consciences, but it may have been boredom. I talked about how the miners’ strike had overturned our guidelines, and about more recent problems with animal-rights activists and road protesters. How do we balance the rights of protesters with the rights of those who earn a living exporting veal calves and horses? It must have all been highly bemusing to anyone from Nigeria or Saudi Arabia. With five minutes to go I asked for questions and sat down. Timed to perfection.
It was the accents, not the questions, that caused me problems. I muddled through, and the chairman helped out a couple of times with responses that caused me to wonder which of us had misheard. At fifteen seconds to four a swarthy character with a complexion like the dark side of the moon rose to his feet. General Noriega’s ugly brother. His voice was eerily light, as I imagine a torturer’s to be, and I craned forward, hand cupped over an ear, to catch his words. He seemed to be asking why we didn’t just shoot protesters, and cure the problem once and for all?
‘That’s an interesting point of view,’ I declared. ‘But unfortunately we haven’t enough time to explore it fully. Perhaps it will make a good topic for you to discuss over a drink in the bar, this evening. Thank you for listening, gentlemen — and ladies — and I hope you enjoy the rest of the course.’
They applauded, but nobody stood on a chair and waved. Several of them did ask for copies of the paper, which didn’t exist, so I promised to send it. The course director invited me to stay for dinner, but I declined and left as quickly as politeness allowed. I ate at the motorway services. It would have been cheaper at the Savoy, but I was on HQ’s expenses.
There were no messages on the answerphone when I arrived home, just after ten, and no mail waiting on the doormat. I made a pot of tea and sank into my favourite chair, exhausted. It had been a long, stressful day, and I felt in need of something to unwind me. Nigel’s phone call came as a relief.
‘Hi, boss. How did it go?’ he asked.
‘Oh, so-so,’ I told him. ‘Nobody threw money at me, but they applauded at the end. That’s all you can ask for.’
‘I bet it was the highlight of their week,’ he replied.
‘Well, naturally. I was top of the bill, after all. What about you? Anything interesting happen today?’
‘There’s a couple of things you ought to know about. I went to see Davis, but he wasn’t in. Apparently a pal had collected him and they’d gone for a game of golf. I had a fairly long talk with his wife and told her that Michael Angelo Watts might be freed soon, so no doubt he’ll get the message. Apparently they didn’t see much of Lisa, because Justin and K. Tom didn’t see eye to eye, which we already knew.’
‘Did she expand on the reason?’
‘I encouraged her to. She said it was just the normal stepfather thing. General resentment. She expressed her grief over Lisa but it was hard to tell how sincere she was. She certainly wasn’t overwrought about her.’
‘I’ll bet. So she didn’t say anything about her husband and Lisa having an affair?’
‘No. I asked how close they were and she said they had a business arrangement, that’s all.’
‘Mmm. Maybe we ought to be less circumspect with Mrs Davis senior, the next time. Did you have a chance to ask about her alibi?’
‘Didn’t have to ask. She said she went to bed with a migraine. K. Tom stayed in, watching TV. Lisa rang him twice; she said she heard him on the phone.’
‘Fair enough. What about the rest of it? Is everybody behaving?’
‘No problems. As I left K. Tom’s I wondered about leaving one of your bullbars stickers behind his wipers, but I decided it was inappropriate. There’s one other thing. I thought that K. Tom might try to skip the country, so I put out an APW on him. Is that OK?’
‘Yes. Good idea, except they don’t work, since we all became Europeans. Did you do it through the FIU?’
‘No. As you say, they’re not very efficient, these days. Jeff and I spent an hour ringing all the ferry companies’ security departments. They all promised to feed his details into their computerised booking systems. With luck, if he books a ticket they’ll let us know.’
‘Smashing. Anything else?’
‘No, that’s it. What are you doing tomorrow?’
Good question. Annabelle was due home, but I wasn’t sure if I was still an item in her life.
‘Oh, I’ll call in to the office for a couple of hours,’ I told him. ‘Make sure everything is nice and tidy for Mr Wood, on Monday.’
‘I can manage, if you fancy the weekend off,’ Nigel volunteered.
‘I had most of last weekend off,’ I reminded him.
‘Well, have another.’
It was tempting. ‘You sure you don’t mind?’ I asked.
‘Of course not.’
‘Right. Thanks. I’ll have a day out walking.’ They’d be calling me one of the ESSO boys, soon: Every Saturday and Sunday Off. Before I went to bed I recovered my hiking gear from the spare bedroom and studied the Ordnance Survey map for the north-west lakes.
Hard physical exercise, fresh air and a change of scenery are a good cure for most kinds of blues. And I needed some time to think. I was up with the sun again, but there were still plenty of cars on the verge at Seathwaite when I arrived. There’s always room for another, providing you don’t mind parking halfway up a drystone wall.
Great Gable is a proper mountain. There’s no need for ropes or anything at this time of year, but towards the top you can touch the rocks in front of your face and pretend you are on K2. First there’s the long drag up to Styhead Tarn to put behind you, with a fearful drop into a raging beck just a twist of the ankle to your right. Then the ground levels out and it’s decision time: Scafell or the Gables? I turned right, up Aaron Slack towards Windy Gap, which separates Green Gable from her big sister.
The rain spoilt it. I donned my waterproofs and from then on it was just a challenge to get to the summit. I ate my soggy banana sandwiches talking to a couple from Bolton, huddled behind the pile of stones, and accepted a square of mint cake from them. It rained all the way back to the car. I trudged on, carefully watching my footfalls, anorak hood knotted tightly under my nose. I was warm and cosy in there, and the going was all downhill. It was quality thinking time, but I didn’t answer any questions. Something Nigel had said was troubling me.
The Chinese restaurant in Skipton did a decent won ton soup, followed by duck in plum sauce. I arrived home about nine. I was outside, unlocking the door, when I heard the answerphone making its beeping noises. Annabelle, I thought. I made a cup of tea and collected the mail. My AA subscription was due, the dentist wanted to see me and someone was offering to make me rich if I made them rich first. Why doesn’t anybody send letters any more? I stuffed a custard cream sideways into my mouth, soggyfied it with a swig of tea and pressed the play button.
The electronic lady told me I had one message. There was a long pause, longer than usual, before a man’s voice said, ‘We got your car, Priest. Next we’ll get your woman. Then we’ll get you.’
I swallowed the mush in my mouth and let the tape rewind. The lady told me that the time announcement was off. I played it again then flicked the lid open and removed the cassette.
Annabelle didn’t answer the phone. I grabbed my leather jacket and drove straight round to her house. Her little car was parked on the drive for the first time in a fortnight, but she wasn’t in. The house was in darkness, all the curtains still wide open.
Next stop was Heckley nick. The duty inspector listened to the tape and arranged for a car to keep observations. I sealed the cassette in an envelope and obtained a new one from the pool while he rang the hospitals. Then I went looking for her.
A patrol car was there when I arrived back at her house, where the vicars of St Bidulph’s had once lived. I sat in with them for ten minutes, gave them her description and told them about the Jag being vandalised. They made concerned noises and assured me she’d be all right.
Villains don’t usually carry out their threats. They didn’t threaten Lisa and they didn’t threaten to do the car. They just got on with it. No warning, fait accompli, this is what we are capable of. Giving a warning is dangerous and pointless. I knew the theory, but it didn’t convince me.
I took the long way home, meandering round the streets of town, not really knowing why. When I arrived I left the car out in the road, under the street lamp, because I hoped I’d be using it again before too long. My outside light casts a black wedge of shadow down the side of the house. As I opened the gate I saw a pair of long legs, clad in jeans, jutting out of the darkness where the doorstep was.
Annabelle was sitting there, hands stuffed in her pockets, head back against the wall to avoid the drizzle.
‘You look frozen,’ I said, sitting on the step beside her.
She nodded, and agreed that she was.
‘How did you get here?’
‘I walked.’
‘It’s five miles,’ I said.
‘The map is wrong — it’s ten,’ she replied. She still had a sense of humour.
‘Why?’
She shrugged her shoulders. ‘I came out for a walk, to do some thinking. And my legs brought me here. That’s all.’
‘You have very sensible legs,’ I told her, putting my hand on her left knee. ‘You should listen to them more often. How long were you going to wait?’
‘As long as it took.’
I’m not usually lost for words. After a few seconds I said, ‘Thank you,’ and helped her to her feet. We went inside and I put the kettle on. Standing in the kitchen I asked her, ‘Did you hear about Lisa?’
‘Yes. It was horrible.’
‘It was me who found her,’ I admitted.
‘I thought it was.’
I folded my arms because I didn’t know where to put them and turned to face her. ‘You read about it in the papers?’ I asked.
‘Yes.’
‘I can explain. I…’
She interrupted me by placing her fingers across my lips and shaking her head. ‘You don’t have to,’ she said.
We carried our coffees through into the front room and pushed the settee closer to the fire. ‘Do you want something dry to put on?’ I asked.
‘No, I will be all right, thank you.’
‘Music?’ I suggested, leaning towards the CD player.
‘No. I want to talk.’
‘Oh. Right.’ I took a sip of my coffee. ‘I did Great Gable today,’ I boasted. ‘I wanted to do some thinking, too.’
‘I wish I’d been with you.’
‘So do I.’
‘Did you come to any conclusions?’
‘No. It’s all out of my hands. Did you?’
‘Yes.’ She sipped her coffee, looking into the pretend flames of the gas fire. We sat in silence for several long minutes, until she began, ‘When we were in Africa — Kenya…’ She stopped and tried another tack. ‘I want to try to explain why I’ve been so stupid, so difficult with you.’
‘I’m the one who was stupid,’ I confessed. ‘Insensitive. In this job you…’
‘No. It was me. When we were in Kenya…I left Peter. He had an affair, was unfaithful, so I came home, back to England.’
‘I’m sorry…’ Once or twice before there’d been hints that the perfect romance between the hard-working bishop and his young, glamorous wife had not been as blissful as the world had been led to believe, but I’d never dreamt it was this.
She continued. ‘There’s still the Happy Valley syndrome out there. Lots of bored women with nothing to do but gossip and drink gin. And have affairs with each other’s husbands. Did you ever see White Mischief?’
‘Mmm.’
‘Not much has changed since then. Well, not in some circles. An eager young clergyman was fair game to them. All the more fun if he had a naive wife they could be charming to, afterwards. At first I thought that was the worst part, the humiliation, the laughing behind my back. But it wasn’t. I soon forgot that. A chance remark gave him away, and suddenly lots of things fell into place. I caught the next flight home, left everything behind, arrived on Rachel’s doorstep carrying a duty free bag containing my allowance of booze. The worst part, Charles, was the sense of betrayal. That never went away.’
‘I know. And Peter followed you?’
‘Yes. He’d been ill with malaria, so he used it as an excuse to come back. We patched things up, in a way, kept up appearances like we were taught to do, and the rest, as they say, is history.’ She looked at me for the first time and gave me a little smile.
‘I’d…no idea…’ I began.
‘So, when this handsome detective appeared on the scene and swept me off my feet…’ This time the smile wrinkled her nose. Some women use tears, Annabelle wrinkles her nose and brave men fall at her feet.
‘You mean I’ve a rival?’ I said.
‘I owe you an apology, Charles. Can we try again?’
‘You owe me no apology. Don’t be too hard on him, Annabelle. The temptation was just too much. None of us can be certain how we’d behave under those circumstances, no matter how strong our resolve. Most men might have gone the same way, who knows?’
She tried to smile again, saying, ‘But you wouldn’t have been able to stand in your pulpit and quote the seventh commandment while keeping a straight face. I doubted you, Charles, because of something Peter had done. For that, I’m very sorry.’
I took her cup from her and walked into the kitchen with them. When I returned I stood behind her and placed my hands on her shoulders, rotating my thumbs against her neck muscles.
‘Mmm, that’s good,’ she said, rolling her head.
Over the fireplace I had an original painting of a World War II Halifax bomber that the squad presented to me when I made inspector and moved on. Every six months or so I rotate my pictures, and it was the Halifax’s turn to have pride of place. Not great art, but I love it. A gang of us had been walking, and we found the remains of wreckage on Brown Tor. We did some research, found out all about it. Vaguely, I could see the outline of my reflection embracing the four engines, with an RAF roundel where my eye should have been. When I spoke, I talked to the reflection.
‘When my wife — Vanessa — left me,’ I began, ‘I went a bit crazy. Nothing clinical, just hit the booze, you know. Did some silly things, took risks. One day, about a month after she’d gone, a letter came for her, in a Heckley General Hospital envelope. I wasn’t sure where she was, so I carried it about with me for several days, thinking I’d ask the force doctor to read it, decide if it was important. One day, I found it there and thought, what the hell, and opened it.’
A Halifax bomber had a crew of seven, average age about twenty. The chances of surviving ten raids were less than fifty per cent. The one we found had flown into Brown Tor on a training flight in bad weather — they didn’t even make the starting line. I’d never told anyone else about the letter, and I wasn’t sure if I could make the words come out. ‘It was from the ante-natal clinic,’ I went on, ‘fixing her an appointment. She was pregnant.’ My hands had stopped massaging Annabelle’s neck, but I left them on her shoulders. ‘I was fairly certain that she was living with a tutor from the art college. I went straight round there, gave her the letter, told her she had to come home with me. I wasn’t having my baby brought up by him. He was sitting on the arm of her chair, all protective. It was like talking to a bloody tableau. She read the letter, then passed it back to me. “You’ve had a wasted journey,” she said. “There isn’t a baby any more.”’
There, I’d done it. Annabelle placed her fingers over mine and twisted to look up at me. ‘Oh, Charles,’ she whispered, very softly, ‘I’m so sorry.’
I gave her neck a final rub and disentangled my hands. I walked round and flopped in an easy chair, facing her. ‘Now, I think it was for the best,’ I told her, with a dismissive wave, but the gruffness in my voice betrayed me.
After a silence I said, ‘Annabelle. I know you loved Peter, in spite of what happened between you. I don’t want to replace him or compete with him. Your time in Africa was an important part of your life, probably the most important part, and I like to hear you talk about it. But Vanessa means nothing to me, now. She was just part of the growing-up process. As far as I’m concerned, all that was just…something that happened to someone else, in the past.’ I stood up, not knowing how much more to say, how much to tell her about my feelings. I decided to leave it at that. ‘Come on, love,’ I said, ‘you’ve had a long day. I’ll take you home.’
Annabelle didn’t move, just sat there, looking at me. Her hair was nearly dry and some colour had returned to her cheeks. Little lines in the corners of her eyes gave her age away but only underlined her beauty, like the date on a bottle of wine confirms its quality. Hers had been a good year. ‘Charles,’ she began, ‘I want to stay here tonight, with you. If you’d like me to.’
We’ve been lovers for quite a while, but never slept overnight at either house. Annabelle has a fear of the tabloids writing scurrilous stories about the Detective and the Bishop’s Wife, put up to it by her neighbours after seeing me sneak away. Car engines don’t know how to be discreet at seven a.m. on frosty mornings, and editors don’t care whose lives they ruin, if it sells a few papers. We go away for weekends, or spend rainy afternoons in bed. I’ve no complaints.
‘Right,’ I said, vainly trying to suppress a smile. ‘In that case, I’d better show you where we keep the cornflakes.’
On the pretext of putting the car away I went outside and rang the nick on my mobile, telling them that Mrs Wilberforce had been found, safe and well. She wouldn’t need any protection, tonight. The information was received without comment, but no doubt knowing glances were exchanged at the other end.
We sat talking for a while, and I told Annabelle about the Jaguar and the threats, playing them down as much as I could. Staying here saved me the discomfort of camping in the car at the end of her street. She wasn’t afraid — a few Heckley villains were small fry compared with what she’d seen in Biafra — but her recklessness worried me.
At Christmas young Sophie had given me a compilation CD of popular classics — all the good bits from a variety of composers who were too inconsistent to achieve superstar status. When we went to bed I put it on the CD player and left the doors open so that the music infused the house with its melodies. I’ll never be able to hear the final movement of Respighi’s Pines of Rome again without a warm glow creeping through me, a tiny smile creasing the corners of my mouth, and whatever task I’m supposed to be engaged in slipping clean out of my head.