I awarded myself a weekend off. I'd worked nonstop for nine weeks, averaging over twelve hours per day with no paid overtime. The car had clocked up five thousand miles in that time, for which I would be reimbursed. I called in at the office on the Saturday morning, but I was determined not to stay long.
There were reports to read from the few officers I didn't see regularly. We had people floating about the country, interviewing suspects, informers and the mother-in-law's first cousin, twice removed. We also had search parties out when we could borrow the manpower. Plenty of local groups offered their help, but they needed organisation to do the job properly. Sometimes I caught myself wishing that they'd find a body, and a feeling of revulsion came over me, but I couldn't imagine a plausible alternative.
The house was a dump. A lady came and cleaned it for a while, but her husband needed a lot of attention and she'd had to give me notice. I pleaded with her not to desert me, but to no avail. Eventually she agreed to iron my shirts if I took them round, once a week. I filled the washing machine and set to work with the Hoover.
I made a big impression on the mess, but it left me feeling knackered.
Pub grub is not my first choice, but I couldn't face cooking so that was where I went. The chicken Kiev tasted as if it had walked from there, and the landlady's home-made apple pie was made from tinned apple that she'd opened all by herself. The company was about as interesting as the food, so I downed a couple of pints and went home.
Sunday breakfast was cornflakes and toast. Then I mowed the grass in the front garden. The borders were overgrown and neglected but a couple of hours with the hoe and secateurs made them respectable again.
Well, I thought so, although the Best Village judges might disagree.
Lunch was a roast beef ready-meal for one. I remembered what Annabelle had said about my eating habits and felt guilty. Happy, but guilty.
When I'd cleared up I rang her.
"It's Charlie," I said. "I've done my chores, washed the car, wallpapered the coal house and had my dinner. I'm fed up, so I was thinking about having a drive up on to the moors; blow away a few cobwebs. Any chance of you putting your tapestry down and coming along?"
"Goodness! You mean you are having a day off?" she replied.
"That's right."
"What about the crime wave?"
"Anarchy will break out all over the nation, but I don't care. Are you free?"
"I'd love to come, but I have a PCC meeting at seven. I'll have to be back about sixish Is that all right?"
"No problem. I'll see you in about forty minutes. And put your walking boots on."
We went to Blackstone Edge, a rocky outcrop at the scrag-end of the Peak District, where the high moors fade into the Aire and Calder valley. I parked in a lay-by, where the local water authority kindly still allow their subjects access to the land, and we followed a track into the moor. The path quickly became narrow and muddy, so I led the way, making diversions at intervals to avoid the worst of it. Soon we were on rocky ground, with no distinct trail, just marker poles at irregular intervals. You clambered across the boulders as best you could.
We were both wearing hiking boots and jeans, but Annabelle's jeans seemed to go on for ever. Her navy coat would have been a donkey jacket on anybody else, but on her it looked straight from a Paris fashion house. Walking on rough ground is an art, but she had obviously mastered it. She moved effortlessly, her long legs never hesitating or stumbling.
A gang of sheep, about ten of them, raised their sullen heads and watched us pass, like the honest folk in a western town contemplating a couple of outlaws riding down Mainstreet. A bird with pointed wings and down-curved beak flew leisurely by.
"Curlew," I said, pointing. We followed it till it was a speck against the sky.
"What's that one then?" Annabelle asked, as something flew from under our feet, showing a flash of white as it sped away.
"Er, SBB," I told her.
"SBB?"
"Small Brown Bird," I explained.
"It was a meadow pipit."
"Oh."
After about twenty minutes we reached the ancient cobbled road. I stood in the middle of it, arms outstretched, and said, "Voil amp;r Annabelle looked amazed and delighted. "I never knew this was here," she said. "It's Roman, isn't it?"
I nodded.
She knelt on the cobbles and ran her hand along the groove that runs down the centre. "I've seen pictures of it in books, but never knew where it was. Does anybody know what this is for?"
"No," I replied. "Lots of crackpot theories, like it was made by the keels of Viking ships as they were dragged overland; or maybe by charioteers as they trailed a foot along the ground to try to slow down. Must've ruined their sandals. It's anybody's guess."
"What do you think?"
I shook my head. "The truth," I replied, 'would probably be mundane and obvious, once we knew it. It usually is. Far better for it to remain concealed."
Annabelle stood up, and slowly turned in a full circle, studying the view. I watched the wind ruffle her hair. When she was facing me again she said: "You love the moors, don't you, Charles."
It was a statement rather than a question, but I replied to it. "Yes, I suppose I must."
"Why? What is it about them that draws you?"
I'd never tried to put it into words before. "I don't know. They're beautiful. And mysterious. They have stories to tell that we can only try to imagine. They're never the same for two days together, or even for ten minutes. They reveal themselves to you in brief glimpses, like a curtain blowing open and then closing again. But all the time there is a constancy about them." I shrugged, struggling for the right words. "I don't know, I suppose I just feel at peace when I'm near them."
Even as I spoke I was wondering if it was my feelings for the moors I was describing, or for the woman who'd asked the question.
Above us, ragged clouds, the colour of wet slate, were scurrying eastwards. Thirty thousand feet higher, the pale sky was patterned with pink fish-scales, through which an invisible jetliner etched its trail, straight as a laser beam. We walked, hand in hand, back up the hill to the outcrop of millstone grit that is Blackstone Edge.
"Are we in Lancashire or Yorkshire?" Annabelle asked.
"Neither," I asserted. "We're just about on the border, but history has been rewritten. The Wars of the Roses were now fought between Calderdale and Greater Manchester. It was a close-run thing until Kirklees joined in and tipped the balance."
When we reached the piled-up boulders of the Edge, I pointed to a smooth one and told Annabelle to sit there. We were both puffing with the exertion. I sat on the ground, leaning back against a rock and facing her, with my legs splayed out in front of me.
"I want to tell you something," I said. "About me."
Her smile was replaced by a look of concern. She sensed from my tone I was being serious, and she was uncertain and possibly worried about what I was about to say.
"What is it, Charles?"
I picked up a small stone and tossed it at my left boot. It bounced off the toe and rolled into the grass. I followed it with my gaze, as if it were some juju that might tell me the right words to use.
"Just over a year ago," I began, 'not long after I first met you, I…
I… killed a man." There, I'd said it. "We were on a raid, and ' "Yes, I know." ' he came at me with a… You know?" I looked up at her face, into those eyes the colour of a bluebell wood in spring.
"Yes," she replied, very softly.
"How do you know?"
"I read in the papers that a drug dealer had been shot. It said he fired a shotgun at a policeman, who fired back and killed him. I wondered if you were involved, and when I didn't hear from you for a long time… Then, one day, I bumped into Gilbert Superintendent Wood. So I asked him."
"You've known all the time?"
"Yes. Do you want to talk about it?"
"No, I don't think so. I just wanted to tell you."
She slid down off her rock and reached out for my hand. Hauling me to my feet she said: "Come on, then. Get me to my PCC meeting."
High above, the vapour trail was breaking up and drifting away. The jet that had made it would be heading out over the Atlantic by now. I was glad I wasn't on it. I wouldn't have traded places with the Emperor of China.
We threw our coats on the back seat or the car and I pushed the heater controls to maximum and started the engine. Annabelle clicked her seatbelt fastened and looked across at me.
"Thank you for showing me the Roman road," she said.
I winked at her and said: "You're welcome, ma'am."
"Does it have a name?"
"A name?"
"Yes, like Watling Street, or the Fosse Way."
"Oh, didn't I tell you?" I replied, thinking fast.
"No, you haven't mentioned it."
"Sorry about that. It's called the M… let me see… the M… LXII."
She chuckled and smiled. It was an indulgent smile, tolerant, and, I thought, affectionate. We arrived at her gate well before six. I politely declined the offer of a quick cup of tea and drove home.
The Peak District is chopped off the bottom of the Pennines by what Yorkshire geography teachers call the Aire Gap, although their Lancastrian colleagues may have a different name for it. The Gap acts as a funnel for migrating birds, working their way from one coast to the other. It's also a major transport route between the conurbations of Manchester and Leeds, especially since the coming of the motorway.
It's a good area for a young, ambitious policeman to work in. The wool and cotton barons left a legacy of fine houses, mills and remote farms, built like castles from the local stone. Property prices are low, and the attractions for today's highly mobile criminals are tempting.
There's a lot more to the area than that, though. Something in the water, or the air, reacts with the genes of a few susceptible people to produce villains who break all the rules of the game.
This valley spawns serial killers.
Everybody knows their names. They were splashed over the front pages of the tabloids, feeding the egos that created them. Even Haigh and Christie, who did their foul work in London, were born near here.
Then there are the ones who worked within the law — brutish, inarticulate men who were driven by something within to write misspelt letters to the Home Office, volunteering to become the Public Executioner. And the Government, glad to find the final cog in the mechanism that started in Westminster and ended in the lime pit, accepted them. Six hangmen, including three Pierrepoints, were born in the valley. Between them they despatched, with varying degrees of incompetence, over a thousand of their fellow men and women.
I was having a restless night. All of these things, plus a few faces from the past, came to disturb my sleep. Twelve years ago I caught a double killer. In the heat of the moment I could cheerfully have pulled the trap myself; but now, and in the quiet of the night, I'm glad he didn't hang. He's still inside, and will be for a long time. That's good enough for me. I can live with knowing I put him there. The memory of those two kids in that blood-splattered room easily dispels any doubts that may arise.
Once the birds started singing I knew that any chance of sleep was gone. I rose ridiculously early, shaved and showered, and drove to work; pausing only to put on some clothes, of course.
We always made a point of having a full team conference on a Monday morning, although 'conference' was putting it a bit grandly, these days. Due to my change in routine I hadn't seen a Sunday paper, but I was quickly brought up to date. Georgina's disappearance had attracted the attention of a good number of cranks. Unsolved crimes, especially murders or potential murders, always do. Some were sincere, some were mischievous, all were time-wasters. Now one of them had hit the headlines.
Madame Julia LeSt rang medium and psychic healer, said she could find Georgina. The Sunday News believed her and the police's reluctance to cooperate amounted to sheer incompetence.
I tossed the paper I'd been given to read straight into the bin. "You had finished with that, hadn't you?" I asked Sparky, who'd brought it in.
"Yes, boss. Texture's no good for me."
"Mmm, it is a bit coarse. Jeff, you've handled most of the crank calls. How many times has Madame LeSt rang been in?"
"I've seen her three times in the last month. She wants access to something personal from Georgina. Then she claims she can find her using a pendulum. She's already receiving messages from the ether, or somewhere."
"More like her bank manager. What did you tell her?"
"Er, well, I suggested she pissed off, with varying degrees of emphasis."
"Good," I said. "So let's get down to worki'
I broke the news about the deadline that the Acting Chief Constable had given us. It didn't go down well. The three main types of evidence are Witnesses, Confessional and Forensic. We had none of these. Motive and Opportunity are worth less in a court of law than a dipsomaniac's vows of abstinence, and they were all we could offer. The entire investigation would rely on us discovering something damning if we searched Dewhurst's premises. Short of finding a body under the floorboards, it was hard to imagine what that might be.
We reviewed the current situation, pooled our findings and shared out the various lines of enquiry to be followed. I sensed that morale was waning, so before the team dispersed I suggested that we all have a jar or three in the pub that evening. The proposal was received with enthusiasm. After much argument a decision was made that we'd meet at the Golden Lion. Monday was karaoke night. I wished I'd kept my mouth shut.
"Somebody remember to invite Luke along," were my parting words.
One of the best parts of being a detective is that you work with a partner. When you are the boss you can choose your own. I had suppressed all personal or emotional signals and worked with DC Dave "Sparky' Sparkington. It was the most objective decision I ever made.
We joined the force within a year of each other, but Sparky had never chased promotion. Thief-taker was the only recognition he ever aspired to. Many policemen say that sergeant is the most satisfying rank, but all Sparky ever wanted to be was a DC, and he was the best I'd known.
We went down to the canteen for some breakfast.
Nigel and Mad Maggie joined us for a mug of tea and a toasted currant tea cake "I have the impression that you're not a believer in the supernatural, boss," stated Maggie.
"Correct," I replied through a mouthful of toast.
"There's a woman in Heckley who has a terrific reputation for fortune-telling," she said. "I've spoken to several people who've visited her and they've been told things about themselves that have really shaken them. I don't believe in it, but she's very clever."
"You've said it all there, Maggie," Sparky confirmed. "They're clever.
Shirley once went to a spiritualist with a neighbour. She came home full of it. This chap had the audience hanging on his every word.
Claimed he was receiving messages from some poor woman's dead husband.
I had to put my foot down to stop her from going again."
"You?" I said. "Put your foot down with Shirley? Pull the other one."
"My grandmother held regular conversations with my grandfather," Nigel added. "Went on for years. Mother said it used to drive her potty."
"Through a spiritualist?" asked Maggie.
"No. Across the dinner table. He wasn't dead."
We all laughed far too much, but it was a special event — Nigel had never made a joke before. He blushed with pride.
The boss always has the last word. "Listen," I told them. "There's a simple proof that telepathy is bunkum. Think of all those poor page-three girls and big-bosomed film stars. If thoughts could be transmitted they'd never have a moment's peace. They'd constantly be imagining they were being ravished, by building-site workers and third-formers and little men in big raincoats."
"And policemen?" asked Maggie.
"And policemen."
"It could work the other way round, too, boss," she insisted.
"Well, it's never happened to me," I declared; modestly adding, before anyone else did: "Not that that proves much. "C'mon, let's check the streets."
I knew what karaoke was, but I'd never seen how it worked. I was fascinated by the technology. The list of songs available contained hundreds that I hadn't heard of, but there were still plenty of golden oldies from the sixties. Nothing that I felt like singing in public, though.
The pub was crowded, but we managed to get the last two tables, and pushed them together. I bought the first round. When I reached the bar I discovered that the landlady was an old friend. She used to work in the canteen at Heckley nick. It was not long after my divorce, and she was attractive, in a flashy sort of way. Sexy. The restrictions on having affairs with colleagues didn't extend to the civilian staff, and the possibilities offered by coordinating my flexible hours with her afternoons off made my hormone levels run berserk. We'd almost reached the your-place-or-mine stage when someone tipped me off that her husband played in the sc rum for Wigan. It worked better than a cold shower.
"Hello, Charlie," she said warmly. "Don't see you in here very often."
"Hello, Karen," I replied, with equal delight. "No, I've not been in for years. Still married to that rugby-playing gorilla?"
"Ted? Yes, he's here, somewhere. What about you? Still on your own?"
I'd met Ted and liked him, dammit. It was a struggle to prevent my eyes flicking down towards her cleavage as she wrestled with the pumps." "Fraid so. If he ever leaves you, let me know." I didn't mean it, but might have done, a few years ago.
She smiled at me as she pushed the last pint across and took the money.
"Want a tray?" she asked.
"No, I've enough here to carry," I replied.
A Tom Jones lookalike was at the microphone. Unfortunately the similarity didn't extend to the voice. His hips swung in unison with his medallion as he asked Delilah to forgive him because he just couldn't take Kenny More, whoever he was.
"Is he serious?" I asked.
"Deadly," was the answer from the others. Then I joined in with the enthusiastic calls for an encore.
We had a pneumatic Dolly Parton with a slow-punctured voice, and a passable Kenny Rogers, although his Yorkshire accent didn't do anything for the red-necked lyrics. Then it was Luke's turn.
He grabbed the mike, turned up the corner of his lip as he waited for his cue, then launched into "Jailhouse Rock'. The place was instantly on its feet, dancing along with him. He uh-uh'd and gyrated like he'd invented the style. A final pelvic thrust had everybody cheering, but this time they meant it.
"I think we just found Elvis," said Sparky.
"We're not looking for him," I stated, draining my glass. "Get the beer in."
Luke was waylaid by a girl with the face of a Disney princess and hocks like a Derby contender. We watched him dismiss her with unmitigated hatred seething inside us.
"Charlie?" said Sparky, reaching for my glass.
"What?" I replied, passing it to him.
"If you had your life to live over again, would you do it all the same?"
I watched the girl retreating, her bum pushing the properties of lycra beyond its design limits. "Yeah, probably," I said.
Luke sat down and I gave him a brothers handshake. "You should practise that lip-curl," I told him. "You could be good."
"I do," he admitted.
Sparky and Jeff returned laden with replenished glasses. "There's an old friend of yours behind the bar, Charlie," Sparky told me.
I feigned ignorance. "Oh, who's that?"
"Karen. Used to work in the canteen. We all thought you had something going with her."
"Karen? Karen?"
"You know. Has a divine right and a heavenly left."
"Ah! That Karen!"
"Yes, that Karen. Rumour was that you and her were having it away."
I shook my head. "Sadly, we were just good friends," I confessed.
"She's looking her age now," he went on. "Bags under her eyes. Looks tired."
"I'm not surprised, running a place like this," said Jeff. "It must be an eighteen-hour day, seven days a week. It'd give anyone bags under the eyes."
I licked the froth off my top lip. "There could be another reason for them," I said, brightly. "Maybe there is something in this telepathy, after all…"
It looked suspicious, the way he stood up and followed me into the gents' toilet. If he'd been over five foot four and under sixty-five I'd have been worried. He was just a little old man, though.
Definitely not my type. Probably one of the old regulars who still came into the pub even though it had been overtaken by the youth boom.
He hovered behind me as I did what I'd come in to do. I was drying my hands under the blower when he spoke:
"Er, it's Inspector Priest, isn't it?"
I didn't answer, waiting for him to continue.
"You're, erin charge of looking for that little girl, aren't you? Can I have a word?"
I cast a glance at the cubicles. Both doors were closed. I nodded and pointed at the exit.
Instead of returning to the big room where the music was, I turned left, into the old-fashioned taproom. This was where the men did the serious drinking while their wives, one night per week, sipped a milk stout or a port and lemon.
The room was almost empty on a Monday evening, hence the karaoke. I led the little man to a quiet table in a corner and we sat down.
"I saw your picture in the paper and on the telly. I, er, hope you don't mind me talking to you in here; when you're, er, trying to relax, like."
Not so far, I thought, but I'm getting close. He shuffled nervously and fidgeted with a beer mat.
"My daughter," he continued. "She said I should have a word with you.
I don't want to waste your time, though. You've plenty on your plate already."
Well, it didn't sound as if he wanted my autograph. He fumbled with the beer mat and it fell from his fingers. I reached across and placed my hand over it.
"What's your name?" I asked.
"Er, ny name? It's Toft, Norman Toft."
"Right, Norman. Start at the beginning and tell it in your own words.
First of all, where do you live?"
"Er, Crowfields Road. Number twenty-six."
"Go on."
"Well, I first noticed it two weeks ago…" He licked his lips and glanced towards the bar, but I ignored the gesture. "Saturday night.
I'd been in 'ere for a couple of pints, like I usually do. I was looking out of the back window, just before I went to bed. I have a back garden, then there's a dirt road, and then there's the gardens of the 'ouses on Crowfields Street. They're a rum lot live on the street.
Problem families, gipsies, that sort. It used to be a good neighbourhood before they started bringing them in from…"
Now I was beginning to feel thirsty. He'd get a drink out of me by attrition if he didn't come to the point soon. "Just tell me what you saw, Norman," I interrupted.
"Right. Flashes."
Oh no! Not Unidentified Flashing Objects!
"Flashes?" I echoed.
"Yes, well, not at first. There was a car parked in the lane. I turned the light out and watched it for a while, er, through my binoculars."
He must have noticed my change of expression, and looked embarrassed.
"I wasn't pimping!" he protested. "We get all sorts of carrying-on in that lane. Last year I had a row of cabbages stolen. And all next door's runner beans went."
"That's OK, Norman. You were being a good citizen. So what did you see?"
"Well, I've worked it out. If I'm number twenty-six, the 'ouse behind me is probably number twenty-five, so next door to him will be twenty-seven. That's where I saw the flashes. Number twenty-seven, Crowfield Street."
"Where were these flashes?"
"In a bedroom window. The curtains were closed but I could still see 'em."
"And what were they like?"
"Like from a photographer."
You work on a case for months, sometimes years, searching for evidence, sifting meaningless facts and observations, waiting for the breakthrough to come. And you pray that when it does come you will recognise it, because it is never quite what you expected. I thought about it until I realised my teeth were nearly meeting through my bottom lip. "Maybe he's a keen amateur photographer," I suggested.
Norman shook his head. "Not on Crowfield Street. Dog fighting and pigeons is the only 'obbies they 'ave."
"So how many flashes were there?"
"Dozens. "Undreds. Went on for best part of an hour."
"OK. Anything else?"
"Yes. I saw them leave. They got in the car and drove away."
"Can you describe them?"
"Yes. There was a man, a woman, and a little girl."
I had a salty taste in my mouth. I wiped my lower lip with my finger.
It was bleeding. "Let me get this straight," I said. "You told me it started two weeks ago. So when did you see what you've just described?"
"Two Saturdays ago. And then again this Saturday."
"What time?"
"Oh, about… just before midnight to one o'clock."
"Same thing? Same people?"
"Yes."
"And now you're reporting it to me?"
"Er, yes."
I thought: You stupid, doddering old fool! You idiotic apology of a human being! I didn't say it, though. Instead I stood up and nodded towards the bar. "What'll it be, Norman? Pint of bitter?"