I drew a question mark next to ABC on my list and memorised Eddie Grant's address. The case weighed a ton. Lugging it down the stairs, three people asked me if I was going on my holidays. I wished I'd told Maggie to meet me in the car park.
I showed my ID to the gate man at the hospital and asked if he'd look after the case while I parked. It would save me carrying it about quarter of a mile. He suggested I park inside the grounds, so for once I abused the privileges of power.
Annabelle was propped up by pillows. "Twice in one day," she croaked.
"I am honoured."
I kissed her forehead. "Is your throat still sore?"
She nodded.
"Well, don't try to speak." I refilled her glass with juice and passed it to her. I nodded towards the case. "I asked Margaret Madison, one of my WPCs, to help me with the clothes. I think she'd like to borrow some of your outfits."
"She's welcome…"
I interrupted her: "Unfortunately she's slightly broader across the beam than you are."
It was more comfortable for both of us if I sat on the edge of the bed.
I could see her and she didn't have to crane sideways to watch me. She took my hand and said: "Charles?"
A puzzled expression was on her face.
I put my other hand over hers. "What is it, love?"
"I… I was shot, wasn't I?"
I nodded. "Yes, you were."
"Who did it, Charles?"
"We don't know. There's a maniac loose; some sort of religious fanatic' "Will he come back?" She sounded frightened.
I squeezed her hand. "No, he won't come back. There's a guard in the corridor, but he won't come back. I know how his mind works, and I promise he's not after you any more. You're completely safe here."
She relaxed, and I stayed with her until she fell asleep. The sister told me that she was tired, after being out of bed for a couple of short spells, but was making good progress. She estimated another three weeks in hospital if there were no setbacks. Apparently Rachel had suggested that Annabelle stay with them to convalesce. I reluctantly accepted that it might be for the best.
Eddie Grant lived at 23, Chesterton Court, in the Towncroft district of Leeds. I plotted my route in the A to Z and set off. There was a hold-up in the tunnel section of the inner ring road, so traffic was heavy. Away to the right the sun was shining on the massive bulk of the NHS building, but it only illuminated its ugliness. I wondered if the architect had ever heard of the Parthenon. Stalin would have loved it.
Towncroft isn't one of the areas of the city that civic visitors are shown around. Unemployment, drugs and lethargy have taken their toll.
I stopped on one corner, looking down a hill, and wished I had my camera. The street was littered with broken bricks and a burnt-out car sat at the edge of the road. The detached house facing me had recently been one of a pair of semis. Its partner had been demolished, or blown up, leaving a jagged line where the join had been. It was like a scene from Bosnia, and I was Kate Adie.
I trickled along in second gear, reading the street names, steering round the litter and scavenging dogs. Dickens Avenue. Kipling Drive.
Tolstoy Grove. Tolstoy? How did he get in here?
There it was Chesterton Court. Number 23 was marginally better than the average: the gate worked, the windows were made of glass and grass managed to exist in the garden. A few broken kids' toys were scattered about.
A heavily pregnant girl answered the door. I said: "Is Eddie in?"
She looked scared. "I dunno, I'll see," she said, starting to close the door.
"Are you Marie?" I asked.
"Er, yeah. Who are you?"
"Inspector Priest. I arrested Eddie six years ago. Met you then. Let me in, love."
Eddie was slumped in an armchair, watching a black American woman tell her shrieking audience about the time she was date-raped by the spiritual leader of the Mississippi Morons. A little girl aged about six was sitting next to him. He looked up as I entered.
"Hello, Eddie. Charlie Priest. Nice place you have here." It was reasonably tidy inside.
"What do you want?" he grumbled morosely.
"Mind if I sit down? Just a little chat. Could we have the telly off, please?"
Marie followed me in and sat protectively alongside him, as if she were his mother. When I'd first seen her she was sixteen, and looked like an angel. She could have gone in any direction she chose, had she known the options. But she didn't, and fell into the same one as all her friends: get married to the first yob you meet with a prick bigger than his IQ and have kids, not necessarily in that order. Now she was twenty-two, pushing fifty, and lumbered with a short-arsed layabout who had all the personality of a used tyre. It depressed me. Given another chance, I think I would dedicate my life towards steering sixteen-year-old girls away from idiots like him and towards a loftier lifestyle. The sugar daddy could have an important role to play in society; he should be sponsored by the community tax. I didn't understand what it was, but maybe I was also a little jealous of the attraction Eddie held for her.
"This is your daughter?" I said, nodding towards Marie mark two, already doomed to a life of poverty and hardship.
"Yes."
"Hello."
She glowered at me. Ah, well, you can woo 'em all.
"Do you think she could go up to her room?" I suggested.
Grant patted her backside, pushing her towards the door. "Go play outside, Shelley," he told her.
When she had gone I said: "You must have brought her up yourself, Marie."
"Yes, I did, until she was four."
"That can't have been easy."
She shrugged, as if to say: You didn't think of that when you banged her daddy up for ten years.
Eddie Grant had robbed a series of banks and building societies at gunpoint. It was only an air gun but he'd fired it once or twice, and a young girl cashier had lost an eye. He'd also pistol-whipped a customer who'd had a go at him. He was a vicious piece of work. When the judge sent him down he left the dock swearing to kill me and my wife and kids. He said he knew where I lived, and he'd hunt me down for as long as it took. As I was in the middle of expensive divorce proceedings at the time, it didn't perturb me. But he'd served his five, after time off, and was back on the streets again. And somebody was trying to kill me.
"Right, Eddie," I said. "Where were you at nine o'clock on Friday night?"
"Friday night?"
"Uh-uh."
"Dunno."
"You'll have to try harder than that."
"Er, Mr. Priest?"
"Yes?"
"I read about the shooting in the paper. You don't fink it was me, do yer?"
"You said you would kill me, so convince me you weren't having a go.
Where were you on Friday?"
"I s'pose we was 'ere. Together."
"That's right," Marie announced. "We can't afford to go out, and can't get no baby-sitters since we moved 'ere."
"Can anybody else confirm this?"
They shook their heads.
"Why did you move here?" I asked.
"To get away from "Eckley," he replied. "We was in wiv a bad crowd.
Drugs an' stuff. That's why I did the banks. All that I said in court them freats — I was off my 'ead at the time. I'd 'ad some stuff the night before. Pills. Don't ask me what they was. An' Marie was pregnant. And when 'e said ten years it just blew my 'cad. I didn't mean anyfing."
"Have you a job?"
"Now and again."
"What doing?"
"RoofinV
It's always roofing.
Marie said: "Would you like a cup of tea?"
I shook my head. "No thanks, Marie." I turned to him. "There's plenty of drugs around Towncroft, Eddie. Are you managing to stay away from them?"
He nodded. Marie said she made sure he did. We made small talk, mainly about how they were settling in a strange town. After a while Eddie said: "Mr. Priest?"
"That's me."
"When I was inside, this last time, they put me wiv this old lag; 'e was about forty. I was braggin' about what I'd do to you, playing the big man. He told me to shut up. "E said that if you deserve it, you should serve it. Then 'e said that 'e knew you. "E said you was all right; not bent like all the rest. It wasn't me, Mr. Priest, I promise it wasn't."
I stood up to leave, saying: "I'm touched, Eddie." At the door I added: "But I'm not impressed. If you think of anything, anything at all, let me know. Maybe we can do business." I pointed a finger at Marie's belly and smiled. "Good luck," I said. She didn't smile back, and why should she? I'd only accused her husband of attempted murder and given him a veiled invite to become a grass, to add to their other problems.
Shelley was drawing pictures in the dirt on my car. I winked at her and drove off, back to my world, on the other side of the universe.
My intention was to call at the General and see Annabelle again, but I reluctantly decided not to. She wasn't expecting me, and I only encouraged her to talk, aggravating her sore throat. Rest would do her more good.
Two reporters were waiting on my doorstep. They were local, and were hoping for an update for the Heckley and District Weekly, due out on Thursday, although I knew that anything juicy that they gathered would immediately be syndicated. I invited them in for a coffee and repeated what they already knew. They had nothing to tell me.
My appetite had returned. A new take away was open on this side of town, so I gave it a try. I had chicken bhuna, with pilau rice and a couple of chap atis washed down by a brace of lagers. The list was on the table. I drew a line through Eddie Grant, then modified it with a question mark. I put another next to the one already against the ABC entry and scanned the also-rans, but nothing obvious jumped out at me.
When I looked out of the bedroom window the car was parked down the road again. I slipped my trainers on and went outside, through the back door. I climbed over the fence and sneaked down my neighbour's garden, narrowly avoiding falling into his new goldfish pond. Back on the street, I turned right, and right again at the end. I was now approaching the car from behind. When I reached it I opened the passenger's door and got in.
"Evenin', Dave," I said.
"Evenin', Charlie," Sparky replied.
"Does Gilbert know you're mucking up his overtime allowance?"
"This is extracurricular."
"Good. Seen anything?"
"Yeah. The woman next to you doesn't draw the curtains when she goes to bed."
"Well, thank God there isn't a window at my side. She frightens me to death when she's fully dressed." We sat in silence for a while. I said: "You're getting on better with Nigel these days. I'm glad about that."
"He's OK," Sparky concurred. From him it was the equivalent of an Academy Award.
"I forgot to ask. Did Sophie get the results she wanted?"
He chuckled. "Let me down. She got five As and three Bs. I'd told her straight Ds, or else. Looks like she's going to cost me a fortune."
"Hey, that's brilliant. I'll have to find a decent CD for her." Sophie was my goddaughter and at Christmas and birthdays I tried to manipulate her musical tastes. Maybe a Janis Joplin this time.
After another silence I said: "So, you don't think he was trying to shoot Annabelle?"
He looked across at me. "Do you?"
I shook my head. "No. He was having a go at me. And I never told Peterson."
"Peterson's a twat. He wouldn't have believed you."
"What about this Destroying Angel? Do you think it was him?"
"Not sure. Probably not. Apparently the first two killings weren't him, he just claimed them. Who's to say he isn't doing the same again?"
"Good point, Dave. I hadn't thought about that." I told him about my list, and the visit to see Eddie Grant.
"How tall is he?" Sparky asked.
"Grant? He's only a squirt. About five foot five, no more. Why?"
He shuffled in his seat, lifting himself more upright. "I've been sitting in on Peterson's meetings," he told me. "Liaison officer.
There's been a slight development. Everybody who attended the concert is in the process of being interviewed, plus all the staff at the town hall. Usual stuff asked to describe everybody they saw. One of the women who looks at tickets probably saw him."
"Go on," I urged.
"It was after the concert started. A few people were hanging around in the foyer; latecomers who'd been hoping for a ticket, that sort of thing. She says she particularly noticed one character because he was carrying a sports bag. A black and red Adidas. She was quite the little detective, this lady. She said he must have been a tennis or squash player."
"Why?" I queried.
"Because there was a hole cut in the end of his bag, for his racket handle to poke through."
"Or a shotgun," I murmured.
"Or a shotgun. She described him as being small five two to five six wearing a baggy suit and a hat. That's about it."
"So you reckon Eddie Grant's back in the frame?"
"I'd say so."
"No. It's not him. I can feel it in my wobblies."
"You've told me often enough never to trust hunches."
"That's true. But it's late. I want to go to bed and you're going home. That's an order. Otherwise I'll report you for pimping on the lady next door."
"I think you ought to carry a gun," Sparky said.
"We don't carry guns, remember?"
"You could always book one out for yourself "I'd get the sack."
"Mmm, probably. What about the radio? Do you have one?"
"No."
"Bloody hell, Charlie! What's the matter with you? Some madman's out to kill you, so you keep it to yourself and don't even carry a radio.
Not to mention visiting the main suspect without telling anyone. Do you want him to succeed?"
I sighed. "When you put it like that, it does seem a bit stupid."
"Here." He reached over and grovelled in the glove compartment, producing a personal transmitter receiver "Take mine."
I accepted it and opened the door. "Cheers," I said. "And, er, thanks."
"Bugger you, Charlie," he called across to me before I closed the door again. "I'm looking after that ten-pound bet we have."
I walked the hundred yards home. As I unlocked the door I heard his engine cough into life.
The hospital has fairly liberal visiting hours, and they didn't mind me calling in at any time. I was making toast for a quick breakfast before going there when the phone rang.
"Is that Mr. Priest?" asked a female voice.
"Yes. Who's that, please?"
"It's Sister Williams, on ward B. Will you be able to visit Annabelle this morning, please?"
"Yes, why? What's happened?" My heart was pounding.
"Nothing to panic about, but she's had a restless night and has asked me to call you. She wants to see you and is worrying herself into a state. I don't know what it's about, but she says it's important."
"OK. I'm on my way."
I poured my untouched mug of tea down the sink and grabbed my jacket. I wanted to race there, but I regularly hear of the results of such impatience and went with the traffic flow. I parked in the big car park, stuffed some money in the machine and ran to the hospital.
Annabelle was sitting up. Someone had done her hair and she was wearing one of her own night dresses but her face was lined with worry.
"Oh Charles, I've been so worried about you."
I bent forward to give her a kiss and she flung her arms around my neck, almost pulling me off balance. I extricated myself and sat on the bed, holding her hand.
"Worried about me?" I said. "You're the one everybody is worried about."
She sank back against her pillows. "I've remembered what happened," she said, the words tumbling out. "The man with the gun…"
"Look," I interrupted. "We know all about him. He's a long way away now, so don't you concern yourself about him. He won't come here."
"But I saw him."
"You saw him? When?"
"When he fired. He wasn't shooting at me, Charles. He was shooting at you. It was you he was trying to kill."
I stroked her long fingers. The wedding ring was made of silver wires, twisted together in a local design by some Kenyan silversmith. It looked so simple against her suntanned skin, its elegance representing everything about her that I loved. "Yes, I know," I said. "We have a good idea who he is. He'll be arrested soon."
She shook her head in agitation. "But you don't understand. I saw him. He was wearing a man's hat, a trilby, but I don't think it was a he. I think it was a woman. A woman in men's clothing."
I couldn't hide my incredulity. "Are you sure?" I demanded.
"No, it was just an impression. But that's what I think I saw. Please be careful, Charles."
A nurse came and put a thermometer in Annabelle's mouth. "I will," I said. She couldn't speak, so I told her that I had a bodyguard, that Sparky was following me everywhere I went and armed police were never far away. It wasn't true, but hopefully it eased her mind.
The nurse read the thermometer and entered the result on the chart.
When she'd gone I said: "I understand you're staying with Rachel to recuperate. It's a good idea."
She sighed. "Yes, I said I would. I'm not so sure about it being a good idea, though."
"I thought he was a doctor?"
"He's an osteopath. He manipulates the bank balances of the wealthy.
Qualified by correspondence course with a college in Medicine Hat, Nebraska, or somewhere."
"Gosh. That's worse than Nairobi."
The old smile came back, enslaving all before it. "Not to mention Batley College of Art," she chuckled.
A frond of hair had fallen across her left eye. I brushed it aside and said: "Have you forgiven me for falling asleep on your settee?"
"You really know how to make a woman feel wanted, Charles, but you are forgiven."
"Oh, you're wanted," I stated. "Believe me, you're wanted."
It was a struggle, but I tore myself away. From home I rang the office, but nobody was in, not even Gilbert. I made some fresh toast and a pot of tea, but restlessness blunted my appetite. I carried breakfast through into the front room and placed it on a low table at the side of my favourite easy chair, in front of the gas fire. There was still nobody in the office, so I dialled Control.
"Where is everybody, Arthur?" I asked.
"Hello, Mr. Priest. Out on the job; we had three ram-raids last night. Plus I understand you have a couple off sick."
"Sick? It's not allowed. What's wrong with them?"
"Virus going round. It's called one-day flu."
"So they'll be back tomorrow?"
"No, it takes about a week to get over it."
"Well, why do they call it one-day flu?"
"Don't ask me, that's just its name."
"I see. If anybody comes in, ask them to ring me at home."
"Will do. Do you want me to chase them?"
"Er, no, I don't think so. Bye."
I finished the toast and tea. I was just reaching over to switch on Radio Four when the phone rang.
"Priest!" I snapped.
"Hello, Charlie. It's Gav Smith. I hear you were after me."
"Hi, Gavin. Yes, I was. Thanks for ringing, but I spoke to Mrs…
Petty, was it? She answered my question."
"It's Mrs. Pettit, actually. Yes, she told me, but I've just had a look at the file and she didn't give you the full story."
"Oh, go on."
"She said Purley died of TB and pneumonia, but what she didn't tell you was that they were AIDS-induced. I don't suppose it makes much difference, but Don Purley had full blown AIDS."
"Jesus, thanks. What was he doing injecting?"
"Probably, plus a bit of shirt lifting "Shirtlifting? Bet you didn't put that in your report."
"Not in those words, so don't quote me. Anything else?"
"Yeah. His wife, Rhoda. What happened to her?"
"Still in Heckley, as far as I know."
"We tried her name alongside the electoral roll and she didn't show."
"Oh." He was silent for a few moments before he said: "What name did you try?"
"Well, Rhoda Purley," I answered.
"Hang on a second." I could hear the rustle of sheets as he riffled through the file. "Here it is. Name of spouse or partner Rhoda Flannery. Common-law wife, as we called them in those days. They weren't married."
"Bugger!" I spat the word out. "You've been a little treasure, Gavin.
Give me his release address, please."
"Forty-nine, Attlee Towers."
"Got it. I owe you a pint."
"You're welcome. I know you don't believe it but we are supposed to be on the same side, you know."
I rang Heckley Control and spoke to Arthur again. "Bring up the local electoral roll," I told him, 'and check for a Rhoda Flannery. Then find out what car she drives, please. I'm at home."
He rang me back in a few minutes. She still lived at Attlee Towers and drove a 1988 Ford Fiesta, colour grey. Ah, well, I wasn't far off. He told me the registration number. I grabbed my jacket and picked up Sparky's radio from the hall table, where I'd left it the night before.
The rain had started again.
Attlee Towers is on the mean side of town. Once, rows of terraced houses stood there; two-up, two-down and back-to-back. No hot water, shared closets, and washing strung like bunting across the cobbled streets. But now people remembered them with affection, for there had been a sense of community that vanished when the bulldozers moved in.
They'd been replaced by vertical warrens with unlit stairwells and cardboard walls.
There are four blocks on the estate, all named after giants of the Labour movement. It was a lot worse than I remembered: Attlee Towers was in its death throes.
It reminded me of some eccentric art gallery, with all the paintings on the outside, like a forerunner of the Pompidou Centre. Most of the windows and doors were covered by sheets of plywood, on which the graffiti artists had demonstrated their talents with enough stolen aerosols of paint to give Heckley its own private hole in the ozone layer. The wooden sheets were portrait-style over the doors, landscape on the windows, and the artists had worked with a flair and urgency that showed in the results. Some of them were bloody good, but I'd never admit it in front of the Super. Here and there dingy curtains indicated an occupied flat.
Forty-nine is on the fourth floor, but it was a coincidence, not good planning. Four floors is about the limit of my endurance these days, but I didn't trust the lift. The stairway was narrow and dark, and stank of urine. An empty drinks can clattered away from under my feet, the noise echoing unnaturally loudly as it rattled down the concrete steps.
Huddled on the landing of the third floor were two youths. They stared at me with blank expressions on their spotty faces. The air was pungent with the smell of solvent and one of them was trying to hide a plastic bag.
Tut that where I can see it," I told him.
He made no effort to do so. I fished my ID from my pocket and held it in front of his nose. "Now!" I yelled. He placed the bag on the floor, alongside where he was sitting.
"OK, now let's see what you're using."
He produced a tube of glue big enough to make a full-scale replica of the Spruce Goose. Half of it was gone.
"Now you," I told the other one.
"I 'aven't got anyfing, mister," he said.
"No? So open your jacket."
He reluctantly unzipped his bomber jacket. I put my hand in the inside pocket and found a cylinder of lighter fuel.
"How old are you?" I demanded.
"Fifteen," they replied, not quite in unison.
"Well, if you keep on using this stuff you won't make sixteen. Now get out of it."
They sidled off down the stairs, backs to the wall as they looked up at me. As they vanished round the landing below, I shouted: "Stick together," after them, and immediately hated myself for it.
They inhale the lighter fluid butane by operating the valve against their teeth. It is under pressure in the cylinder and injects straight into the lungs, reaching the brain in seconds. It's an act of desperation, with no safety margin between a good trip and an OD. I pressed the cylinder against the metal banister until it was empty, the tube growing icy in my hand as the pressure inside dropped and the smell of the gas nearly knocking me over. Then I squeezed the rest of the glue out. Neither container had a price ticket indicating which shop had supplied it.
The fourth floor. External corridors radiate out from the main structure, each with three flats along it. I chose the wrong one first: 44, 45 and 46.
Forty-seven, this was more like it. All the windows were boarded up and defaced. Forty-eight, just the same. Window, door, window, all covered and spray-painted; but the design on the last sheet of plywood stopped me in my tracks.
It was a skull, done in red on a white background and edged in black.
It was the artist's tour de force, the prize exhibit in the gallery.
He'd captured that grin that mocks the living surprisingly well, for the teeth were comprised of four letters. They spelt: AIDS.