It was the earliest I'd been home for months. First thing I did was ring Jimmy Hoyle. The rain was bouncing knee high off the garden, so I hadn't bothered to have a look in the boot to see if he'd collected anything for me.
"Hi, Catfish. Thanks for coming out. Did you manage to get me a sample."
"A sample? I nearly donated one myself when you shouted," he said. "I scraped some mud into the bag you gave me, but when he came I just stuffed the whole lot in and put it in your boot. He'll notice that his spare wheel isn't wrapped up any more."
I could tell from his voice that his adrenalin was still high. He'd enjoyed the whole thing.
"Never mind. He'll just assume the cover blew off when he was doing a ton on the motorway. I'll send it to the lab tomorrow. Well done.
You'll have to let me know what I owe you."
"It's OK. Buy me a pint sometime."
I'd known he'd say that. I'd drop him a bottle of whisky when I got the chance.
I was sick of takeaways, so I cooked for a change. I had turkey, with stuffing, chipolata, sprouts, potatoes, carrots and gravy. It only took six minutes in the microwave.
For pudding I rang Annabelle.
"Hello, Charles," she said warmly, 'this is a pleasant surprise."
"I just thought I'd better ring now and again, before you forgot my name," I told her.
"I don't think there is any chance of that," she replied, 'but it is still nice to talk to you. I know how busy you must be. Are you any nearer the end of it?"
"No, we're batting in the dark, swiping at shadows. Our luck will change, though, hopefully."
"I saw the appeal on television. It was heart-rending listening to that poor man, her father. How can he ever recover from something like this?"
"He can't." As soon as the conversation was back on a less traumatic level I said: "I'm not eating too well, and I've been hungering for a nice, man-sized T-bone. Would you care to join me over the weekend?
You could have a juicy tenderloin, grilled to your own taste and served on a bed of lettuce with half a tomato, two onion rings and seventeen sharply pointed chips."
"Mmmmmm," she replied, 'sounds deeelicious. You really know the way to a girl's heart."
"Is that an affirmative?" I chuckled.
"I'm sorry, Charles. Now it is my turn to back out. I've arranged to go to Northampton over the weekend. It's a long-standing arrangement and I don't really want to cancel it. You won't be too disappointed if I decline, will you?"
"Yes. Terribly. If we ever do meet again we'll have to compare diaries, but I wouldn't dream of expecting you to cancel. Never mind; the main thing is that you still remember me."
"Of course I still remember you, dumbo. You are the short, bald one with the walking stick, aren't you? Aren't you?"
"That's me."
"Listen, Charles, talking about food, I'm worried about how well you are eating. You will make yourself ill if you don't look after yourself. What have you had tonight?"
"I've done well tonight. I had turkey and vegetables and all the trimmings. Christmas dinner."
"Frozen. That's awful! It's not good for you. What do you have for lunches?"
"Bacon sandwich in the canteen. Very streaky bacon. Followed by a cream bun and a quart of strong tea. Frugal but nourishing."
"Just as I thought. Oh, Charles, what are we going to do with you? I'm busy the next couple of days, but I will be at home on Friday. Will you be able to make it here for lunch then?"
Try to stop me. It was nice being bossed about by a beautiful woman, although I knew I'd never understand them. I had a can of Newcastle Brown, showered and went to bed early. In the shower I did my Leonard Cohen sings Placido Domingo act. In bed I didn't dream about a little girl; not for a long while.
"I like the tie, boss," Nigel told me as we congregated in my little office.
"Thank you. It is rather nice, isn't it?"
"Jumble sale?" suggested Sparky.
"Actually, it's a Hockney. Bought it at his exhibition in Saltaire.
We'll hang on a bit because I've asked Mr. Wood to join us. No point in repeating everything."
"Did you go to college with him?" asked Maggie.
"Mr. Wood? No, he was educated by the Jesuits. Or was it the Innuits?"
"I think Maggie meant David Hockney," explained Nigel.
"Heck, no. He's six or seven years older than me. And our art schools were about two hundred miles apart. And severial light years."
Severial was a local pronunciation, for Nigel's benefit.
"What sort of painting did you speciali se in?" he enquired.
"Nudes," Sparky chipped in. "That was the only way he could get women to take their clothes off for him. Am I right?"
"As always, Dave," I replied.
He warmed to his theme: "He was a pubist. You might not know it, but Charlie founded a school called pubism. Spent his formative years painting hairy mots."
Dave had rekindled some fond memories for me. I smiled and replied:
"Actually, in those days they were always shaven."
The Super walked in and saved the conversation from further degeneration. "What were always shaven? Good grief, where did you find that tie, Charlie?" he demanded as he sat down.
"It's a long story, boss. OK, Maggie, take it from the top."
She coughed and flicked open her notebook. "Right," she began. "I've spent much of the week talking to Mrs. Eaglin and Mr. Dewhurst. He's been busier than ever. I've spoken with him on the telephone twice a day, but only managed to catch him face to face once."
"What's his excuse?" asked Gilbert.
"Just busy, sir; trying to catch up, throwing himself into his work, that sort of thing."
"Mmm. And his attitude? To you, I mean?"
"Tolerant, but strained. When I meet him his face falls for a moment, then he smiles. He says he appreciates our concern, but it doesn't show. Except about his mother-in-law. He seems genuinely grateful for the time we're spending with her."
"I see. Go on."
"Well, the gist is, so far he hasn't heard anything more from the kidnappers. That's up to eight o'clock this morning." Maggie paused for a drink of coffee. She turned the page and went on: "Charlie, er, Mr. Priest, asked me to do some probing with Mrs. Eaglin. It wasn't very pleasant. She's opened her heart to me over the last few weeks, regarded me as a friend, so it seemed dishonest to put the policewoman's hat back on, without telling her."
"Yes, I can imagine," said Gilbert. "But it's kinder than inviting her to the station to answer a few questions. At least I hope it is."
"Probably. Well, here's what I've found, for what it's worth. Eagle Electrical was founded by George Eaglin, Georgina's grand ad Miles Dewhurst was the chief sales engineer. After a whirlwind courtship he married Janet, their daughter. Mr. and Mrs. Eaglin weren't very pleased about it at the time, but when Janet gave birth to a daughter six months later they decided it had probably been for the best. And Dewhurst did well for the company. Built it up to what it is today Mrs. Eaglin gave him full credit for that. Old George Eaglin died of a brain tumour just after Georgina was born. In his will he left Eagle Electrical to Janet, his daughter, with a few provisions for Mrs.
Eaglin. That's about it." She closed her book and had another drink of coffee.
Gilbert didn't have any questions, so I thanked Maggie and invited Nigel to speak.
"I've had a long conversation with Mr. Wylie," he told us. "He's a partner at Dean and Mason, solicitors for the Eaglins and also the Dewhursts. I told him that it was off the record, but we believed that Dewhurst was trying to raise the ransom money himself. I told them what we were doing and that we were worried that he might try to act unilaterally."
Gilbert winced. "On his own?"
"Yes, sir. They were sympathetic. Apparently Dewhurst has asked them to arrange the sale of his house and the company. They're trying to resurrect the offer that was made a while back. Meanwhile they have heard, unofficially, that he's borrowed heavily against the properties from his business contacts."
"How do you hear something like that unofficially?" asked Gilbert.
I shook my head.
"Talk at the golf club," suggested Sparky. "Or at the lodge. They all urinate in the same receptacle."
"Oh, no," groaned Gilbert. "Not the Freemasons. Don't start Charlie off about them again."
"That wasn't me. It was Wassock Willis," I protested. Willis was one of my sergeants, now moved on.
Sparky leaned back in his chair, his face bearing a satisfied grin.
He'd succeeded in goading Gilbert and myself into bickering. I kicked his shin under the table.
"Nigel." I turned to him, scratching my ear with my pencil, to create a diversion. "We need to find out what was in Janet Dewhurst's will; who she left the company to. Do you think your Mr. Wylie will tell you?"
"Don't see why not. Shall I ring him?"
"Or would you rather see him in person?"
"No, I'll ring him. I'll use my own phone if you don't mind, the number's in my desk."
When he'd gone I said: "Nigel has a flair for dealing with people like solicitors. He gets more cooperation from them than I ever can."
"It's called being polite," said Gilbert. "You let it be known that you don't like them because they're better off than you, so you get their backs up."
"Thank you for putting me straight," I replied.
"Any time. What's the shirt and tie for?"
"Er, I have a luncheon appointment."
"Anywhere special?"
I was saved by a knock at the door and Geoff Caton poked his head in.
"Scuse me, Mr. Wood. It's Van Rees on the phone, boss. Shall I say you'll ring him back?"
"No, transfer him in here please."
After a few seconds the phone rang. "Hello, Professor, it's Charlie Priest here. Have you anything for me?"
"I'm not sure, Inspector. First of all, I've just received these dirt samples from you. We're having a quick look at them and cataloguing them for further reference. Is that all you wanted?"
"For the time being, Professor. It's just material that we might want to do a comparison with, one day. It's a long shot."
"I see. Now, this blood sample. It's from a Miles Dewhurst."
"Yes."
"Presumably he's something to do with the little girl who vanished."
"Yes, he's her father."
"The SOCO brought us samples of hair from her hairbrush when she first went missing."
"I know."
"Was she adopted?"
"I don't think so. No, she wasn't. Definitely not."
"Well, Inspector, statistically there's a chance that you are her biological father. There's even an extremely remote chance that I am her biological father although I have to confess to having no recollection of the encounter. But this sample proves that Miles Dewhurst is no blood relation to her whatsoever."
"Well, well," pondered Gilbert when I relayed the message to the others. "Mr. Dewhurst becomes interestinger and interestinger."
"If he's in the frame I've something to add," stated Sparky.
"Goon."
"He has a girlfriend."
"A girlfriend? How do you know?" I queried.
"I've been keeping an eye on him. According to her car registration she's called Sarah Louise Parkinson. She's a dark, intense piece.
Fashionable dresser. Glamorous, if you like that sort of thing. Her address is Oldfield, but they share a love nest in Todmorden. She's chief buyer at Clay's Manchester branch."
"Thanks for keeping me informed, Dave," I told him somewhat abruptly, throwing my pencil on the table.
"Sorry, boss. I was about to tell you."
The door swung open and Nigel bounded in, like a puppy that's just learned to retrieve a stick.
"Guess what?" he challenged us.
"What?" I demanded, deflating him with a word.
"Er, Janet Dewhurst's will. She left most of it in trust for Georgina.
Miles Dewhurst might call himself managing director, but he's still just a glorified employee."
Maggie, Sparky, Gilbert and myself sat and stared at him, our jaws drooping at various degrees, like sea lions waiting for the keeper to toss a fish to us. Slowly Nigel's face sank, as if his master had taken the stick from him and used it to beat him.
"What did I say?" he wondered aloud.
Raymond Chedgrave could see Miss Jonas's cottage from where he stood.
He wondered for a moment if the rumours about her and Father Harcourt were true, then turned back to his barley. He cast his expert eye over the expanse of it and smiled with satisfaction. This was the most widely grown crop in Britain. Some went for feed and some was destined for the brewing industry, but the best the fattest, purest grain was held back to use as seed for next year's crop. It fetched the highest price, and Raymond Chedgrave had over a thousand acres of it.
Before being accepted as seed it would be rigorously tested to verify that it was uncontaminated with wild oats or any other weed.
Generations of what was regarded as good husbandry had banished the poppy and corn cockle from these fields, but the wild oat was a common intruder, brought in by impure seed. It was easy to detect, standing a foot taller than the barley, but the sterile brome was much more difficult to tackle. That was what Chedgrave was looking for this morning.
He'd started walking the fields as soon as the rising sun had burned off the dew, up and down the waving waist-high rows. The corn was as clean as a weasel's molars. He'd knock off now, he decided, and go back to Home Farm for a bite to eat. Maybe he'd have another couple of hours tomorrow; the weather looked like holding. He made a mental note of where he'd reached, then started working his way back to the Land Rover.
A covey of red-legged partridge suddenly whirred and clattered into the air from almost under his feet. Farmer Chedgrave was startled for a second, but he recovered immediately and raised his arms as if holding an imaginary gun and followed the path of the fleeing birds.
"P-chow!" he cried, and the pretend shotgun kicked upwards with the recoil. He didn't do much shooting, but the season had started and a brace of partridge would make a pleasant change of menu. He'd bring a proper gun tomorrow.
As he moved on, his foot tangled with something and he sprawled full-length into his barley. His ankle was held fast and hurting. For a second he thought he must have stepped into a gin trap. He rolled over on to his back to see.
It was a bicycle. His left ankle was jammed through the spokes of the front wheel of an old bike.
"Holy cow!" he muttered. "I've found the Father's bike!"
The vanishing of Father Harcourt was the best piece of gossip to hit the village since the post mistress was prosecuted for growing marijuana. The police had walked all the drainage ditches looking to see if he'd ridden off the road, and a helicopter had scoured much of the local countryside. Then the momentum had waned and it was left to the passing of the seasons or the tides to reveal his whereabouts. PC Donald Watson was sent in response to Farmer Chedgrave's agitated phone call. He made a positive identification of the bicycle and radioed for further help.
Two hours later Sergeant Morgan Davis deployed his team of two constables in the road adjacent to the barley field.
"What exactly is it we're looking for, Sarge?" asked one of them.
Davis surveyed the antiseptic landscape with distaste. "Anything suspicious, boyo," he replied. "That means that if it's not grass and it's not gravel, put it in a bag and label it. I'll be back at the station, directing operations, so to speak. Radio in if you find anything."
He climbed into the panda car and drove off. A few seconds down the road his eyes made an habitual flick towards the rear-view mirror.
Young Watson was standing in the road waving his arms, trying to attract his attention. The Sergeant stamped on the brakes, slammed into reverse and rocketed back towards him in a storm of tyre smoke and flying stones.
"What do you reckon to this, Sarge?" PC Watson asked.
Davis bent over to see where the constable was pointing. Lying in the grass at the edge or the road was a windscreen wiper arm. He carefully extricated it and held it between his fingertips. Stamped into the metal was the word: VOLVO.
"This, Donald, is what we more experienced police officers call a clue," said the Sergeant.
"A clue, Sarge. I'll remember that. I've got two of them on my car."
His face glowed so brightly with pride, you could have marked a roadworks with it.
"And will you be looking at this," said Davis, pointing at the wiper with his little finger. Plainly visible along one edge were flakes of blue paint. "Nearly as good as his name and address, that is."
"So we're looking for the owner of a blue Volvo, eh, Sarge?"
Davis nodded. "Carry on at this rate, Donald my boy, and you could be joining the detectives. Now, will you be handing me one of them plastic bags I know you're carrying."
Next day the search party brought in from divisional HQ found Father Harcourt's body, or what the rats and maggots had left of it.