"Jesus, Maggie, mind your fingers," I said. She slid the box across to me and delved back into the drawers. Wrapped in a pair of tights she found a twist of cooking foil, as if wrapping a home-made sweet.
"That's what we're looking for," I told her. After more groping she produced a cardboard packet. It was pale blue, and I noticed the Boots logo. "What is it?" I asked.
Maggie held it so I could read the label. It said: "Clear Blue', and underneath: "Home pregnancy testing kit'.
"I've seen enough," I said, adding: "You'd better give me a lift back with the drawers; I think I did my back getting them out."
We decided to take the wrap straight round to Drug Squad at city HQ. On the way there I asked: "Do you think the girls were on the game.
Maggie?"
"Dunno," she replied. "Probably not. Just having it away with the boyfriend, most likely; or the bloke who supplied. Maybe it's the same person. Let's give them the benefit of the doubt."
We'd forgotten about the Friday afternoon traffic. It's one of life's little mysteries why there are so many more vehicles on the road on a Friday afternoon. Waiting for the lights to change, Maggie asked: "Charlie, why didn't you tell Mrs.
Clegg about the wrap and the syringe?"
"No idea," I replied. "Just a spur of the moment thing. She's enough on her plate."
"Would you have given the Turners the same break?"
"No," I replied, after some consideration, 'probably not."
Maggie gunned us across the junction as soon as the amber flashed on.
"I thought amber meant "Prepare to start"," I said, as the G-force relaxed its grip.
"What did you think of Mrs. Clegg?" she asked. "She was attractive, in a careworn sort of way, don't you think?"
"Er, yes. It was a nice home, too."
Maggie turned to me and smiled. "I think you fancied her, Charlie."
I smiled back at her. "These days, Maggie, I fancy anything. It's a phase I'm going through."
An old lady was walking on the pavement, with a poodle on a lead. "Look at that!" I exclaimed, turning in my seat and wolf whistling at the dog.
We pulled into the HQ car park. "You could always try Vera Turner, Charlie. She'd probably accommodate you."
"No thanks. If I'm ever that desperate, I'll jump in the Calder," I said.
Maggie gave her lewdest laugh. "You and Vera it'd be like throwing a chipolata up a ginnel," she giggled. She was still chuckling as we went into the building.
We gave the Drug Squad the evidence and asked for a report as soon as possible. I left word for DI Freer to ring me. He caught me at home later that night and invited me out for a pint.
"Oh, go on, then," I said, in the pub, when he pointed towards the beer pumps. "But I'm limiting it to one." ' Good idea," he replied. "True temperance is moderation."
"Is it? Who said that?"
"Peter Yates."
I was puzzled. "The solicitor with Jack Berenson's?" I asked.
"That's Peter Gates. Peter Yates founded Yates's Wine Lodges."
"Oh. Well he would do, wouldn't he."
"Would do what?"
"Would say that true temperance was moderation. He could have added that the only genuine way to appreciate abstinence was to get totally rat-arsed now and again."
"Mmm, you might have a point. Cheers."
"Cheers."
We found an empty table and sat down. I looked around the pub; the average age of the clientele was about nineteen.
"So where did the works come from, Charlie?" Mike asked.
I reminded him about the girls, and told him about Julie.
He licked froth off his lip and shook his head. "They never believe it can happen to them. What'd she been doing?"
"I don't know the details, just that she'd been injecting. I was hoping you'd be able to tell me' "It depends on where she's been sticking the needle in," he replied 'or what the dope was cut with. Milk powder's the favourite over here. In America some sadistic bastards sell it with powdered glass in. She probably injects it between her toes. Not very hygenic, but the marks don't show. Sometimes they go for the femoral vein, in the groin. If they hit the artery they're in big trouble."
I squirmed at the thought of it. After a few minutes I asked him if there was anything big in the pipeline. No pun was intended.
He shook his head. "No, 'fraid not. At the moment we're reduced to spying on the needle-exchange schemes. We're picking up plenty of small fry, but nothing significant. Our policy is "hit the users", but only because we don't know who else to hit. Your Mr. Cakebread is the favourite. He's a lot to answer for. We've been trying to watch him, but it's too intermittent. Lack of resources, as usual."
We discussed various ways of smoking him out, ranging from the possible but ineffective right through to the absurd. I went on to orange juice and surveyed the talent. I decided that vitamin C was all the stimulus I needed.
"Would you like to be young again, Mike?" I asked.
He pursed his lips and looked round the room. It had become packed with the Friday night crowd of revellers, heading for a night on the town. The delights were the same as in our youth, but the temptations and the dangers were much greater. Pot and Purple Hearts had been replaced by dirty drugs that could kill in a dozen sordid ways, with the spectre of AIDS overshadowing everything. His gaze settled on the gyrating bum of a tall, miniskirted girl who was standing, glass in hand, about a foot from his face. Blonde hair hung down her back and her thighs were a navigation hazard.
"Yes," he announced, gravely.
"Me too," I added, unnecessarily.
Billy Morrison of the Fraud Squad rang me at the office with an update on Wheatley's affairs. I was impressed the main attraction of working for the Fraud Squad is they don't usually work weekends. He sounded hurt when I pointed this out to him.
"We'll be doing him for false accounting, among other things. Just thought I'd let you know his books don't balance," he said.
"In what way?"
"Well, let's say he's living way above his apparent means. His companies are losing money, or, at best, breaking even. But he has a lavish lifestyle and it's not done on credit — he's no major debts. Most of his properties are paid for, as are the Range Rover and the Porsche."
"So what we need to know is where does he get the money?"
"That's about the size of it."
"What does he say about it?" I asked.
"Oh, there's a few deals in the books, associated with large injections of cash, but they don't stand up to scrutiny. We can't get anything out of him, thanks to that creep of a lawyer. The real reason I'm ringing is to ask you about this drugs thing; are you any closer with that?"
"No, it's come to a standstill."
"Pity. If we could find a smell of drugs on him we could screw him with the 1987 Drug Trafficking Act. Confiscate the lot, with a bit of luck."
"I get it: we say he gained the money through trafficking, then the onus is on him to prove otherwise."
"That's the theory."
"Okay," I replied. "I'll bear it in mind."
I didn't get the chance to. A message came up from Control and Command that a silent alarm had been activated at the York and Durham Bank in the high street. I went downstairs to listen to the action.
The intensity of purpose in the control room was almost tangible as I walked in. The sergeant looked up from his desk and lifted one finger towards his lips to silence me. He was listening on his headset.
"Okay… okay…" he said. "Good, good. So you stay there and round up the witnesses, then tell the other two to get off towards the motorway." He turned to the WPC who was also listening and making notes. "Did you get all that?"
She nodded as she wrote.
"Right, then divert all cars to the ring road, except Lima Sierra.
They're too far away. Put them on the motorway, watching the westbound lane. Tell them what to look for; and we want no heroics he may be armed."
He removed his headset and turned to me. "Sorry about that, Mr.
Priest," he said.
"That's okay. What's happening?"
"That was young Henderson." He gestured towards the microphone. "Him and Wilson were first there, but the culprit had already left. Believe it or not, someone took his number, or at least, most of it. He's in a red Ford Escort that sounds like one that was stolen earlier this morning. Jenny's circulating it."
"Was he armed?"
"Yes. A handgun "like cowboys use"."
"How many cars is "all cars"?"
"Two of ours, one from City and a Traffic' "Mmm. Where's the nearest Armed Response Vehicle?"
"Halfway to Lancashire, unfortunately, but we've turned them round and they're heading this way."
"Good. Any idea which way the crook was heading?"
"He started up the hill, but he may have gone round the one-way system and left it in any direction." I wondered if I'd obey the one-way signs after sticking up a bank. Probably.
"Okay. Jenny repeat to all units that under no circumstances are they to approach the target. Strictly locate, follow and observe."
"Yes sir."
"Tom have someone contact City and raise a firearms unit. Then let West Pennine know there may be some fast traffic coming their way. I'll try and organise the helicopter, before I ruin Mr. Wood's lunch."
Molly was just about to put the Yorkshire puddings in. I took pity on him and told him we could manage, strictly on condition that the next time Molly made Yorkshires, I was invited.
We alerted adjoining forces and listened to the banter on the radios.
The sergeant knew the area better than a Buddhist monk knows his navel.
He instinctively read the mind of the fleeing man and directed the cars under his command accordingly. I tried to follow the action on the big map. The net was slowly tightening, but there were some frighteningly large holes in it. Gilbert walked in. I gave him an update on the action.
"Where's the nearest ARV?" he asked.
Jenny overheard the question. "They're just coming off the M62, sir," she replied.
"Sorry, Charlie, didn't mean to take over."
"No problem. Have them stand by, Jenny, until we know where lad do heading. Do you want me to get out there, boss?"
"No, you handle it from here."
Things went dead for a while. It looked as if he'd sneaked through the cordon. If he was heading for the motorway we might latch on to him in a few minutes, otherwise he'd be out of our patch and we'd have to rely on our neighbours. Then there was a sudden burst of static from the speaker.
"We've got him!" shouted an excited voice.
"Call sign and location? Let's have proper radio procedure, lads," demanded the sergeant.
"It's Lima Tango," someone yelled back. "We're on Parkside. He's gone the other way. We nearly hit him on the bend. Doing a… bloody 'ell! … done a U-turn and pursuing."
"Lima Tango… whereabouts on Parkside?"
"Near the park, skipper, heading south. The park's on our left. He's turning left on to the Parkway; we've lost sight of him."
The sergeant pointed towards the map. "He's either heading for the Meadowlands or he's making a break for the Bradford Road," he suggested.
"Lima Tango to control. We've regained contact. On Parkway, heading out of town. Just passing B amp; Q. He's about two hundred yards ahead and we're gaining."
"How fast's he going?" I asked.
"Control to Lima Tango. What is your speed?"
"About sixty."
"Back off. Don't get any closer."
"Zulu 99 airborne, Mr. Priest," interrupted Jenny. "Requesting directions."
I spoke directly with the chopper pilot, giving him some very un aeronautic bearings. We got him there, though. Then we contacted City to see what units they had available and to tell them to switch to our channel.
"Zulu 99 to Heckley Control. We've made contact with target."
"Control to Chopper; can you make a low pass in front of him; make sure he knows you're there?"
"Will do."
I turned to Jenny. "Then blast him with your missiles," I whispered.
"He's turning right," someone yelled over the radio.
"Meadowlands," stated the sergeant. He relayed the information to the other units in the vicinity.
"They're getting excited," I said to the sergeant. "Tell them not to chase him, leave it to the chopper."
He passed the message on. Some of the villains who lived on the Meadowlands estate liked to think it was a no-go area, and the newspapers eagerly promoted this view. It wasn't, though. The area was rife with crime, but it was the pain-in-the-arse variety, committed by fourteen-to-eighteen-year-olds. Boys in men's bodies, but not old enough to draw the dole. They burgled each other's houses, then probably went for a drink together. Everybody knew who the culprits were. Even the respectable people who were in the vast majority could name a string of villains, but a brick through a window, or the threat of a firebomb, discouraged any contact with us. Who could blame them?
The protection we could offer was negligible.
"Lima Sierra here. Approaching Meadowlands, where do you want us?"
"Don't know yet," came back Lima Tango. "Heading towards the big roundabout. Speed, nearly seventy."
"Lima Sierra, this is Control. Get to the flats if you can, and wait.
Lima Tango, back off and leave it to the chopper. Understood?"
"Yes, skip," said a relieved voice, 'backing off. He's turning right at the roundabout, heading towards the flats."
I was standing at the end of the console, alongside the sergeant.
Gilbert was standing at the back, leaning on it and drumming his fingers. There was a burst of noise as everybody spoke at once.
"Repeat message," ordered the sergeant.
"Lima Tango here. He's knocked a kid off a bike. Stopping to give assistance."
"Zulu 99 here. I caught it on the video. Looks serious. Suggest you send for an ambulance, Control."
"Will do. You stay with that, please, Lima Tango."
"Understood."
Gilbert thumped his fist into the palm of his other hand and walked over to the window.
"I'll do it," I said. I had a quick look at the map to verify the street names, then rang the hospital.
"Zulu 99 to Control, he's heading for the right-hand block. Make that the southernmost block."
"Did you read that, Lima Sierra?"
"Yes, understood. Heading that way now."
I got straight through to Casualty, thank God.
"We can see him. He's seen us, doing a U-turn."
"Follow him but don't give chase. Repeat, don't give chase."
"Understood."
A new voice came over the air: "ARV Zulu Bravo to Control. On Heckley bypass. Any instructions?"
"Yes, Zulu Bravo. Turn on to Parkway, heading north. He may be heading back your way."
"Firearms unit leaving city HQ' said Jenny.
Another couple of cars from adjacent forces radioed in to say they were in the area. It looked as if he were panicking. If he'd managed to run into the flats we'd have lost him. They were a twenty-storey warren, named in memory of Hugh Gaitskell, one-time leader and unifier of the Labour Party. Now they stood as a monument to a social plan that had gone badly astray. They had more windows made of plywood than glass, and glue-sniffers and graffiti artists followed their pastimes unhindered.
"Hello, Heckley Control, this is India Romeo, we're coming out of Westland Road on to Dobgate. He's just gone by the end, heading towards Dudley."
"Okay, India Romeo. Follow, but don't chase. Understood?"
"Understood."
"Zulu 99 to Control. He's turning on to the Heckley bypass. He must be doing about seventy."
The bypass wasn't a purpose-built road. It was just a string of existing streets that had been linked together and given priority, to ease the rush-hour traffic flow. He wasn't going to get far at seventy miles per hour. The big question was would he kill anybody when the inevitable happened?
"He's crashed! This is the helicopter. He's just bounced off the side of a bus."
"What's his status?"
"Stationary. The car's in someone's garden. It wasn't too bad, though. Standing by."
"India Romeo, where are you?"
"Approaching; we can see the chopper."
"Zulu Bravo, where are you?"
"About half a mile away. We can see the chopper. Should be with them in a few seconds."
"India Romeo; don't approach the suspect; he's believed to be armed.
Wait for the ARV."
"Right, skip."
I needed a cup of tea. I walked over to the little boiler on the wall, filled it to the MAX mark and pressed the ON button. It was a struggle stopping myself giving advice to the men in the cars, telling them to stay well out of trouble. They were big boys; they'd had the training.
Let them get on with it. Gilbert didn't look any happier than I felt.
"Wonder how the kid on the bike is?" he said, when I arrived back at the console. I just shook my head. Making enquiries about his health might make us feel better but wouldn't help him; sadly, we had other priorities.
"India Romeo to Control; we're there. He's standing outside the car.
He looks shell-shocked."
"Control to Romeo, keep your distance and wait for the ARV."
"The passengers are getting off the bus. A woman's giving him a bollocking."
"Does he look armed?"
"No. Now he's walking towards us."
"Tell him to lie on the ground," I said to the sergeant.
"Control to Romeo; order him to lie on the ground."
Silence.
"Control to Romeo; what's happening?"
"He's lying on the ground." More silence, then: "India Romeo to Heckley Control, have arrested and handcuffed suspect." We could hear the ARV's siren in the background. He went on: "Here comes the cavalry, too late as usual."
The boiler on the wall started to whistle. Jenny and I made everybody tea while they tied up the loose ends.
We were passing the cups round when Lima Tango came back on the air.
"Victim despatched in ambulance. Two other children were the only witnesses. Have them in the car and taking their details. We'll, er, need the FatAcc Investigation boys over here. Will you arrange it, please."
They were referring to the standard procedure that swings into action after a fatal accident.
"Understood, will do," replied the sergeant, gravely. "Do you know his identity?"
"Yes, from these other two."
"How old was he?"
"Thirteen."
"Do his parents live nearby?"
"Yes, in the maisonettes."
"Sorry to ask you this, lads; but how do you feel about…"
"No!" Gilbert held his hand out and interrupted the sergeant. "Tell them to stand by. I'll be there in a few minutes. It's about time I made myself useful."
None of us said anything. We were all afraid he'd ask us to go with him.
The heroes of the chase began filtering back to the station. The India Romeo crew were from City, so they were doubly pleased at making a good arrest on our territory. Their euphoria soon subsided when news of the young boy was given to them. We handed out tea and thank yous and wondered what Gilbert was finding to say. A constable brought me a big handgun in a plastic bag, found in the offender's car. It was at least a foot long. I held it up to feel the weight; its lightness told me it was obviously a replica. The others gathered round to gawp at it it was a fearsome looking brute. You could almost hear "The Call of the Faraway Hills' welling up in the background. I looked at a constable who I knew to be an authority on such things.
"What do you reckon, Buntline Special?" I asked him.
He examined it through the plastic bag. "Navy Colt," he declared.
"Worth a fortune if it'd been real."
"I bet the poor girl in the bank wet her pants when he stuck it under her nose," someone said. "It scares me just lying there."
The villain was called Shawn Crabb, with a couple of other, fancy names in the middle. I stood in the doorway of the charge room as he was being processed. The custody sergeant read him his rights, emptied his pockets and made him sign for the contents, then charged him with armed robbery. He complained that he was ill; said he had 'flu and needed a doctor.
"Were you injured in the crash?" asked the sergeant.
He shook his head.
"I'll ring for the doc," I said, and phoned Sam Evans. He could buy me a drink out of his call-out fee.
The press were soon on the phone and I found myself fending them off with the standard platitudes. "Further charges may follow' usually satisfies their readers. When Sam arrived I went down to the cells with him. Crabb, wearing one of our neat paper one-piece overalls, was sitting on the bunk, wrapped in a blanket. He said he was cold. Sam gave him a comprehensive examination, mainly to ensure he hadn't been hurt when he rammed the bus. The true cause of his sickness was plain to see: both arms were covered in needle scars and new sores.
"You've got to give me something, Doc," he moaned.
Sam pointed to the scars. "What are you injecting?" he demanded.
"Smack," Crabb replied, his head lolling forward.
"Heroin?"
He nodded.
"How much? Do you know?"
He shook his head. "No, all I can get. It's all shit nowadays."
"I'll leave some pills with the sergeant," Sam told him. "They'll make you feel better." Upstairs he rummaged in his bag and put a few white tablets in a container. "Give him two of these every four hours," he instructed.
I picked them up. "What are they?" I asked.
"Aspirin," he answered, with a bleak smile.
Cold turkey is not regarded as the ogre that it once was. It's not pleasant, but it's no worse than many everyday illnesses. At one time methadone was prescribed to ease devotees away from heroin, but the latest thinking is that this is a more addictive drug, with even more evil side-effects. Crabb was expecting methadone but he was in for a disappointment. I volunteered to take him his first dose.
"These are the pills the doctor left for you," I told him, after I'd been let into his cell again. He reached out for them, but I clenched my fist around the bottle and pulled back from him.
"First of all, I want some information from you. Who do you get your drugs from? A name for a tablet; that's a fair exchange."
He begged, pleaded and cried, but he wouldn't give me a name. He bought them from a bloke in a pub. He wasn't sure which pub. I thought about wiring his testicles to the pelican crossing outside, but I doubt if it would have helped.
"Does the name Cakebread mean anything to you?" He swore he'd never heard of him. "Okay," I said, pocketing the tablets, 'have it your way," and shouted for the jailer to let me out. Upstairs I placed the unopened bottle on the custody sergeant's desk. "Give him another couple in four hours," I told him.