Dewhurst's suntan was rapidly losing the struggle to keep some colour in his face. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead and an eyelid developed an involuntary twitch. He said: "I don't know what you are talking about."
"It's called infanticide, Mr. Dewhurst. I'm suggesting that you murdered Georgina."
"You're mad." He spat the words at me.
I expanded on my accusation: "You'd planned the whole thing for a long time. We know all about your financial situation and the love nest in Todmorden. The ransom notes were made well in advance of the deed. To make them you bought envelopes, notepad and glue from Woolworths. What you didn't use you discarded, probably by simply placing them in a litter bin or skip whilst on your travels. You murdered Georgina on the Sunday night, giving her a massive dose of your mother-in-law's sleeping tablets and helping them along with a plastic bag over her head. You carefully opened the roll of bin-liners you had previously purchased and tore off the first one. You hid it at Capstick Colliery, with Georgina's body inside. The rest of the roll was placed between the front seats of the Nissan and you disposed of them sometime on the Monday."
Wylie was sitting bolt upright, his eyes switching from me to his client and his mouth hanging open.
I pressed on: "To give yourself an alibi for Monday morning you faked the puncture. That was when your luck ran out. Mechanics in general have a bad reputation. Unfortunately for you, the one at Ashurst's is very conscientious. The spare wheel he removed was filthy with dirt from the road. When he put the other wheel back under your vehicle he remembered seeing the roll of bin liners between the front seats. He carefully removed the next bag from the roll and used it to wrap around your spare, replacing the remainder of the roll back where he'd found it. I removed that bag from under your Nissan Patrol four weeks later."
I turned to Nigel and gave a jerk of the head towards the shattered figure sitting opposite. Nigel said: "Miles Jonathan Dewhurst; I am arresting you for the murder of Georgina Alice Dewhurst. Do you wish to say anything? You are not obliged to say anything, but what you do may be put in writing and given in evidence."
We should have noticed the warning signs earlier. Dewhurst hunched his shoulders forward and I briefly saw that his lips had turned blue. Then he clutched the front of his shirt and pitched head first on to the table.
"He's having a heart attack," I cried, and heard myself ordering an ambulance for the second time in two days. Nigel dashed out while I loosened Dewhurst's collar and supported his head. Within seconds the room was filled with helpers. The uniformed boys have more experience at this sort of thing than we have, so I let them take over. The tape was still running. I said: "Interview terminated at… twelve minutes past five," and flicked it off.
The custody sergeant didn't share our euphoria. He said: "Aw, bloody 'ell, Charlie!" when I told him that the invalid now on his way to Heckley General had just been arrested for murder and that I wanted him charged. "Do you know what this means?" he protested.
"Well, let's see," I replied. "He'll need round-the-clock guarding, more for his own protection than anything. Then you'll have to comply with the requirements of PACE: read him his rights; arrange a solicitor; allow him to phone a named person; give him a copy of the code; ask him his eight favourite records… That's about all, isn't it? Should make for a touching bedside scene."
"All! All! Where do I get the staff?"
"Look on the bright side," I answered. "He might die." I probably meant it.
Walking through the foyer I saw a hunched figure heading towards the doors. I called after him: "Mr. Wylie?"
He stopped and turned. As I approached he looked to have aged ten years in the last hour. We faced each other in silence for a few moments, then I said: "This must have come as a terrible shock to you."
"Yes, Inspector, it did." His voice trembled as he spoke.
"There was no other way we could do it," I told him. A more clued-up brief would have frustrated my line of questioning. I'd taken advantage of him because he couldn't believe that his client could do such an evil deed. His only consolation was that he hadn't impeded justice.
"You did your job, Mr. Priest, and did it well. I, on the other hand, cannot profess to have represented my client to the best of my abilities."
"You couldn't have known…"
He stopped me, raising a manicured hand that had never done anything heavier than lift a conveyance. "It's all right," he said. "I don't mind. I really don't mind." There was the merest trace of a smile on his face as he turned to the door. He'd lost a case, but he'd be able to sleep at night.
"Goodnight, Mr. Priest." "Goodnight, sir."
It was hand-shaking, back-slapping time in the office. We interrupted Gilbert's meeting so that he could break the news to most of the top brass who weren't at the conference. The press office released a statement giving as little information as possible: a man was helping with enquiries… Dave Sparkington had gone to Ashurst's to take Mr.
Black and the mechanic to their local nick and record their statements.
It was after seven when he returned with the tapes. Gilbert arrived while we were playing everything through for the custody sergeant, so we had to play the first one again. They agreed that we had enough to charge him; the only cloud was whether the bin-liner from under the Nissan was admissible. I'd retrieved it without the help of a search warrant.
"It still proves he did it," I claimed, 'even if he does get off on a technicality."
"I doubt if he will," Gilbert reassured us, 'but we'll let the CPS legal boys worry about that." He looked at his watch. "I reckon we've just about time for a celebratory snifter down at the club, eh?"
Sparky, surprisingly, was the first to object. "Not for me, thanks. I said I'd try to be early tonight. Can we make it tomorrow?"
"It's, era bit awkward for me, too, Mr. Wood," said Nigel.
Gilbert looked at me. "Tomorrow then. Eh, Charlie?"
I said: "Yeah. Let's have him charged first. If he survives. Then we'll have the full team in the club, tomorrow."
They drifted away. Dave said: "You coming, Charlie?"
"Not just yet, Dave," I replied. "You go. I just want to tidy up."
I watched out of the window as they left. We are on the first floor, the main body of the station being downstairs. One by one their cars paused at the exit before pulling out into the sparse traffic and heading home. The streets were quiet, partly because of the rain, partly because Tuesdays in Heckley have never been a rival to Mardi Gras.
Some of my best thinking is done alone in the office, with everybody's light off except mine. The building creaks and whispers as it settles down for the night. Outside, a siren warbled as a Traffic car left the yard to witness someone's misery.
I picked up the phone and tapped the numbers. From memory. I'd remembered Annabelle's number from the very first time I dialled it.
Not bad for someone who never mastered the Lord's Prayer. Wonder what the wife of a bishop would make of that?
She answered immediately, repeating the number in her warm, rounded vowels.
"Oh, hello Annabelle, It's Charlie," I stumbled.
"Hello, Charles. This is a pleasant surprise."
"Glad you think so. How are you keeping?"
"Very well. And you? How is the crime-fighting going?"
"It's going well. I was wondering, Annabelle… if you are not doing anything, would it be all right if I popped round to see you?"
"Of course it would. Are you coming now?"
"If you don't mind. I'm feeling a bit… what's the adjective that means anticiimaxed?"
"Fed up?"
"That's it. I wish I had your way with words. I feel a need for some TLC
"You poor thing. Come and tell Auntie Annabelle all about it."
"Half an hour?"
"Fine. Shall I bring a bottle of gin up from the cellar?"
"A cup of Earl Grey will do."
"I'll put the kettle on."
"Bye."
And now I felt happy. Like Father Christmas must do at the end of his round.
The batteries in my razor were flat so I retrieved Nigel's toilet bag from his bottom drawer and swapped batteries. His weren't much better but I scraped most of the stubble from my face. My aftershave had congealed to a jelly so I borrowed that from Nigel, too. When I looked at myself in the mirror I wasn't sure that visiting Annabelle was such a good idea. Ah well, what you see is what you get. I rinsed my face and dried it on the roller towel. The aftershave smelt like Culpepper's dustbin.
Annabelle looked really pleased to see me. "Come through into the kitchen," she said. "The kettle won't take a moment." As she turned away I gazed appreciatively after her. Hungrily and longingly, too.
She was wearing a white blouse and black trousers, with no jewellery.
As she filled the kettle I wished I knew her well enough to go up behind her and slip my arms around that waist.
We sat at opposite sides of the refectory table. I waffled something about her kitchen being nice.
"Yes," she agreed, "I'm very lucky to live here." She went on: "So, what's the reason for this deflated feeling, or are you not allowed to tell me?"
I said: "It'll be common knowledge by tomorrow. We've just arrested Miles Dewhurst for the murder of Georgina."
Her face darkened. "Her father?" she gasped.
"Yes."
"But… but that's monstrous. Who on earth would have thought he did it?"
"Well, I did," I replied.
After a pause she asked: "How do you know it was him?"
I said: "I've known right from the beginning. Well, from the second day, when we had the TV appeal."
"I saw that," said Annabelle. "The poor man looked devastated. I can't believe he was acting."
"I don't suppose it was all a sham. But just before we went on the air I saw him go to the gents' toilet. I thought I could do with one myself, so I followed him in. He wasn't having a pee, though. He was fixing his hair; running the comb under the tap and inspecting his reflection in the mirror. Hardly the behaviour of a grieving parent.
When I came out I decided to perform a little experiment with Gilbert.
Use him as a control group type of thing. I told Gilbert that his hair was sticking up and he ought to go and comb it. He nearly bit my head off. Not exactly enough to convince a jury, but it made me think. We had to wait until we found the body for the proof."
"I read about that," she said. "Somewhere up in County Durham, wasn't it? What led you to it?"
"He sent us a note with various instructions. He thought he'd got away with it, and was impatient to tie up the loose ends; put it all in the past and start his new life. I just followed the instructions."
"You, Charles? Are you saying you found her?"
I nodded.
Annabelle reached across the table and put her hand over mine. "Oh Charles, that must have been horrible. That poor little girl," she sighed. She looked across at me, a new determination illuminating her face. "And poor you," she said. "I wouldn't normally have commented, Charles, but you look a wreck. I bet you're not sleeping, are you?"
"I don't need much sleep."
She studied my crumpled shirt and realisation struck her. "Have you come here straight from the office?" she demanded.
Another nod.
"Without eating?"
Nod.
She jumped to her feet. "Charles, you can't go on like this. It's bad for you. What would you like? It won't take a moment to rustle something up."
"Sit down, Annabelle. A cup of tea and a biscuit will be fine. Most of all I just want some pleasant company. I feel as if I've been living in a sewer lately."
She sat down again. "It's all getting to you, isn't it?" she said, quietly.
"Yes," I replied, "I think it is. It must be something to do with growing older. Or else I'm getting sensitive. Either way, I think the time is coming for the police force and Charlie Priest to part company."
"Maybe it's something to do with being a human being," she replied, adding quite firmly: "There is some home-made soup in the freezer and I am going to heat a bowl for you. Understood?"
I smiled and said: "A bowl of your home-made soup would be extremely welcome."
She rummaged in the deep freeze for a few moments before emerging with two plastic containers. She frowned as she looked for labels on them, her nose wrinkling with concentration. "This one," she pronounced, 'is soup dujour. This one is soup de la mais on Any preference?"
It was chunky vegetable with lamb and a few secret ingredients. The alternative had been carrot and orange with coriander. They both sounded delicious. Annabelle cut me a huge chunk of bread and gave me a cup of tea for support while the soup defrosted in the microwave. I nibbled the bread and had a sip of tea.
I said: "Is this bread home-made?"
"Yes."
"It's wonderful. Can I order two loaves per week, please." Now I felt ravenous. I could easily have eaten the whole loaf.
Annabelle said: "The soup will be about ten minutes. I wish you would let me make you something more substantial."
I shook my head. After a few moments of silence I said, right out of the blue: "Tell me about Peter."
She looked taken aback for a second, and I wondered if I'd dropped a big one, but she said: "Peter? What would you like to know?"
I decided I wasn't walking on broken glass after all. "Everything," I said.
"Where shall I begin?"
"Where else? How did you meet? No, before that. First of all tell me about yourself. Dispel the mystery that surrounds this beautiful lady I know as Annabelle Wilberforce, while I… finish this bread."
She blushed and settled back in her chair. After inspecting her fingernails for a few seconds she took a deep breath and it all spilled out: "I was born in a little village in Oxfordshire. Father Daddy, as we called him was something in the City. I can't be more specific than that. I have an older sister and a younger brother, Hugh. He's an engineer, somewhere in India I believe. We don't have much contact. My sister, Rachel, is married to a Harley Street charlatan. I have no contact with her at all. At first, things were idyllic, although you don't realise it at the time, do you?"
Now her gaze was fixed on the top right-hand corner of the ceiling. She went on: "Then, when I was about eight, it all turned sour. Daddy vanished. Years later I learned that he ran off with a female colleague. First the pony had to go. I changed schools and we moved to a smaller house. Mummy hit the bottle. We'd come home from school and find her drunk, with the house like a refuse heap. The day after I passed my eleven-plus she took an overdose of painkillers and died."
I'd been nibbling the bread. Now I pushed the plate away and listened.
"The three of us were spread amongst relatives. I went to live with Aunt Grace, in Cheltenham. At first it was much better there, and I was sent away to school, which I enjoyed. Then one Christmas I came home to find that Aunt Grace had married again. He was called Alec.
Uncle Alec. He seemed to take a shine to me. He… took me for walks, to the pictures, bought me special treats. I thought he was wonderful." She paused. I saw her swallow before she took up the story again: "One night, in the dormitory, the girls were talking. The older girls were telling us about… well… about sex. I suppose it was all invented, the product of girlish imaginations, but suddenly I realised that Uncle Alec's affection wasn't as innocent as I had believed."
Annabelle had drawn up her knees and was embracing them with her arms, still staring at the ceiling. She continued: "After that it was horrible. Once he realised that I knew what he was after and had not told Grace, he became crude and persistent. I hated going home for the holidays. I would make excuses and stay behind for an extra week, and always went back for the new term a few days early. Half-term holidays I stayed at school. I visited as many friends as I could. I became quite a proficient little liar, I'm afraid."
"Understandably," I said.
She put her feet back on the floor and looked at me. "The net result was that I did well at school. I was determined to, so I could get away from them as soon as possible. I was accepted for Lady Margaret Hall when I was seventeen. They suggested I do a year's voluntary work, so I packed my rucksack and went to Biafra. It was quite a shock to a little girl from the Home Counties. But Peter was there to help me. He was thirteen years my senior and I fell hopelessly in love with him. I thought he'd hardly noticed me, but towards the end of the year he was transferred to Kenya and asked me to go with him."
The microwave beeped four times. Annabelle jumped up and served the soup. "Would you like some more bread?" she asked.
I shook my head. "No thanks, but I'd like you to continue the story."
After serving the soup she resumed her seat and began again. "Kenya was wonderful. You must go, sometime. Peter insisted I continue my education, so my degree certificate says Nairobi University. Not as prestigious as Oxford, but more colourful."
"Mine says Batley College of Art," I admitted between mouthfuls.
"We married when I was nineteen and stayed in Kenya for another eight years. I've been back a couple of times." She was smiling now, a faraway look in her eyes. "I miss Kenya. Those were probably the happiest days of my life."
"So why did you leave?"
"Peter was taken ill. Malaria, a particularly persistent strain. He regarded it as God's will and we came back to England. He threw himself into his ministry and the rest, as they say, is history."
"You never had children?"
The clouds came back. "No. It wasn't to be. Something else that Peter put down to God's will. Understanding what is willed by God and what isn't is a science known only to a few."
For the first time I detected that things had not always been sunshine and roses between the bishop and his lady. "What happened to him?" I asked.
"Cancer. He wouldn't see the doctor because he thought it was the malaria and it would just run its course. When he did go for tests it was too late. It took him two painful years to die." She fixed me with her blue eyes. "My faith was never as strong as his, Charles.
What I experienced in Biafra saw to that. But I'll never forget how brave Peter was; right to the end. If faith can do that I wish I had more."
It was my turn to reach out and place my hand over hers. She turned her hand over so that our fingers intertwined. I couldn't help comparing her childhood with my own: an only child of doting parents who took exaggerated pride in my modest achievements. "You've had some rough times," I said. "It hasn't all been bedtime cocoa and Winnie the Pooh, has it?"
"No. Did you think it had?"
"Yes," I confessed. "I probably did."
"C'mon," she said, rising to her feet. "Let's go where it is more comfortable."
We went through into her sitting room. It was a tasteful amalgam of the modern and the traditional; bold prints and lots of dark wood. I sank into the settee while Annabelle searched for a CD.
"Any requests?" she asked.
"Something light and breezy," I suggested.
"Vivaldi?"
"Perfect."
She came to sit alongside me and we waited for the first crystal notes to fill the room.
It wasn't really a Zen experience. Exactly the opposite, I suppose, but the feeling was similar. All of my senses were switched off except my hearing, as if I were floating in a bath of liquid so perfect that I couldn't feel its presence. Maybe my eyes were closed, or perhaps they were open but there was a complete absence of light to trigger the optic nerve. This was the state of grace that drug-takers and religious fanatics crave. The music was Mozart.
I appreciated him as I had never done before. Perfection. Maybe he was the master after all. But why Mozart? I thought. Where am I?
Ought I to be going somewhere? Has the alarm gone of? Surely it was Vivaldi a minute ago.
Oh Carruthers! I remembered where I was. It's at unguarded times like this that the real inner you expresses itself. I sat up and blurted out: "I fell asleep!" Not very bright but it could have been a lot worse.
Annabelle clutched her sides with laughter. She was sitting in one of the easy chairs. I held my head in my hands and said: "Oh God, what must you think of me?"
"I think you must have been exhausted," she said, still giggling at my discomfort.
I looked at the clock. It was nearly midnight. "I'm sorry, Annabelle.
You must think I'm dreadful company. I just felt so relaxed and…"
"Don't worry about it, Charles." She'd regained her composure. "You were tired. Actually, it was quite nice to have a man snoring on the settee again." The giggling erupted once more.
"I didn't snore!" I exclaimed in horror, adding: "Did I?"
"Mmm just a little."
"Oh no! It gets worse." I slipped my shoes back on, not remembering having taken them off, and rubbed the fur from my teeth with my tongue.
"Would you like a drink before you go?" She was in full control again.
"No thanks, Annabelle. I've already overstayed my welcome. It's been a lovely evening for me, if not for you." I retrieved my jacket from the kitchen and we walked towards the front door. I said: "Annabelle, I'd like to see you at the weekend. There's a few loose ends to sort out in the office, then I want to change my priorities; sort out my life. May I see you?"
"Yes, Charles. I'd like that."
"Saturday? I'll book a table somewhere."
She shook her head. "No. I'll cook us something. You bring the wine."
"That sounds nice," I said. It was my entry for the Understatement of the Millennium competition. We were at the door. "Thanks for putting up with me."
"It should be me thanking you, Charles."
"For what?"
"For asking about Peter."
She'd opened the door slightly, allowing a blast of cold air into the hallway. I pushed it shut again and took her in my arms. I could feel the heat of her body as it moulded to mine. She was so slim my arms easily encircled he rand her ribs were a gentle ripple beneath my hands. Her lips were strong and mobile… and she took them away far too quickly.
"You smell nice," she whispered. "What is it?"
"Oh, it's er, called… Nigel's," I croaked, tracing her spine with my fingertips. "Nigel's aftershave."
"I think you ought to go, Charles," she sighed.
"Me too," I lied, adding: "Saturday," as I gave her a farewell peck on the cheek.
The rain had stopped. Or maybe a blizzard was raging — I forget. I drove away from the Old Vicarage as quietly as I could. At the end of the street I mixed up the gears and stalled the engine. Then I switched on the wipers when I tried to indicate.
The wind and rain had scrubbed the air clean, so you could see for ever. All the lights of the valley were stretched out below, prickly bright against the blackness of the night. Just above the horizon, barely broken free from the earth, was the slenderest arc of a new moon I had ever seen. It was red, like the imprint of a thumbnail dipped in blood. The thumbnail had belonged to a madman called Purley, the blood to the late Michael Ho. Bad memories came pressing in, trying to dislodge the good ones, but I didn't let them.