They were gathered around Sparky like the apostles around Jesus, expressions of beatitude on their upturned faces. I'd been up to see Mr. Wood to tell him what he didn't want to know that we were roughly in the same place in our enquiry as we were when Dr. Jordan's body was found. I didn't mention the rape and he didn't ask, and I certainly didn't tell him about my revelation in the shower. He wasn't ready for that, yet.
Sparky was in full flow: '… and the French television reporter looked at them and said: "Wait a minute, wait a minute…"
"Un moment! Un moment!" Jeff Caton interrupted, one hand raised with the fingertips together, as if plucking a grape.
"I'm translating for Nigel's benefit," Sparky told him.
"Oh, sorry."
"That's all right. So this Frog reporter says: "Wait a minute. You don't like our wine. You don't like our food. You don't like our ladies. So just why do you keep coming back to France all these times?" And the Siamese twin on the left says: "It's the only chance I get to drive."
They drifted away, morale boosted, back to the tedium of reports and observations and the frustrations of court. Nigel and Sparky stayed behind. them at half Sparky "Where's Maggie?" I asked.
"She went straight to the clinic," Nigel said. "Wanted to collar Barraclough before the daily grind of executive meetings started. I've told her I'll join her, soon as I can, if you don't need me."
"Fair enough."
"There's a package on your desk," Sparky informed me. "Special delivery from Wetherton. A hell's angel from traffic brought it a few minutes ago."
"That was quick," I said. "I only rang past seven."
"You could tell he was happy at his work," declared.
"Who?"
"The biker."
"How?"
"He had dead flies on his teeth. What's in it?"
"In January? It's just a little something I wanted to borrow," I replied. "I'll tell you all about it when I've had a think. Meanwhile … I'm going to set you some homework."
"This sounds omnibus, Nigel," Sparky complained.
"It does, doesn't it?" he replied.
"Nigel, are you still going out with that red-headed WPC from City?" I asked. He opened his mouth to speak but I cut him short. "On second thoughts," I said, 'are you going out with anyone?"
"Er, sort of," he answered.
"Right," I said, turning to Sparky. "And you're still in a blissful relationship, I presume?"
"Ye-es," he replied, cagily.
"OK, here's what I want. Tonight you will both make love to your respective partners in the shower, and be prepared to discuss same tomorrow. Understood?"
"Is that all?" Sparky said. "I was expecting something exciting."
"Forget the "respective partners" bit, if it helps," I suggested.
"Will, er, you be joining in this research?" Nigel wondered.
"No," I told him. "I did the initial fieldwork; your job is to confirm my findings." I didn't mention that I was alone at the time.
When they'd gone I pulled the piece of equipment I'd borrowed from Wetherton lab from the package and found the instructions. It sounded simple. I tested it against the palm of my hand and discovered that I was fit enough to survive the day. In that case, I'd carry on. On the way out I stopped at the front desk to see if there was a female officer available to accompany me, but I was out of luck. Ah well, never mind.
Janet Saunders was in when I knocked because I could hear Radio 2 filtering quietly through the door. I knocked again and the volume lowered. There were footsteps inside and a key turned in the lock. The door opened a fraction and she peered out at me, a chain bridging the gap.
"Yes?" she asked, timidly.
I held my ID in front of her face. "DI Charlie Priest," I said. "I met you when you came to Heckley Police Station. I wonder if I could have a word with you?"
"Who is it, Mummy?" a tiny voice asked, and I looked down to see a little face framed with platinum blonde hair gazing up at me.
"I didn't recognise you," Janet said, steering her daughter to one side so she could close the door to unfasten the chain.
She led me through into the living room and invited me to sit down, "If you can find an empty seat." There was a scattering of toys and clothes, but the place was clean and fairly tidy.
"You must be Dilly," I said to the angel face that came to stand alongside me. She nodded.
"And how old are you?"
Dilly looked up at her mother for a prompt.
"Tell the gentleman how old you are," she said.
"I'm five."
"Five! You're a big girl for five. I thought you were at least six."
Sparky would have been proud of me. "And how long have you been five?"
I asked.
She thought about it, swinging her body from side to side. "Um, since my birthday," she calculated.
I decided I was out of my depth and looked across to Janet for rescue.
She suggested that Dilly go up to her room and put some different clothes on, suitable for a trip to the shopping mall.
"She's back with you," I said, when we were alone.
"Yes," Janet replied, walking over to a portable radio and switching off Terry Wogan or one of his clones. "Her father is working away Edinburgh so I've got to have her, all this week."
"You appear to have a civilised relationship with him."
"Yes, we try to have."
"It must be difficult, arranging your lives around Dilly."
"It is, but we manage."
"She's a lovely little girl," I said, smiling. "It's easy to see who she takes after."
It was a stupid thing to say. Janet coloured slightly and asked: "What did you come for?"
Shelter from the storm? "I'm sorry," I told her. "I shouldn't have said that. Maggie is busy, otherwise I wouldn't have come alone. Maybe I should have waited."
We sat in silence for a few seconds. "Maggie has told you all about Buxton?" I said.
She nodded.
"He's done it before," I continued. "More than once."
"I know. Maggie told me."
"Right. I need to break his story, Janet. He says that on that night Christmas Eve you did it the first time in the shower."
She gave a sigh that came from right down in her cheap trainers. "No.
I'd just come out of the shower. He dragged me into the bedroom and..
and… and did it to me on the bed."
"He says you consented."
"He's a liar."
"He says you were a willing participant."
"He had a knife at my throat."
"But you didn't have sex in the shower?"
"No! For what it's worth, I've never had sex in a shower, either here or anywhere else."
"OK. I needed to know. I'd like you to make a statement to that effect in the next few days. Maggie can take it, if that's all right."
She nodded. Her hands were in her lap, engaged in a subconscious wrestling match, and her feet were shuffling about as if the floor was too hot to bear.
There was an uneven clomping on the stairs as Dilly came down, leading with the same foot on every step. She dashed to her mother and posed for inspection and approval. She was wearing fluorescent tights and a blue dress.
"Have you got them on the right way round?" Mummy asked.
Dilly nodded.
"Good girl."
"She's, er, colourful," I observed.
"You're a little rainbow, aren't you?" her mother said, swinging her up into a cuddle. Dilly giggled.
"Is it all right if I have a look in your bathroom?" I asked.
"Yes, of course it is. It's at the top of the stairs, facing you."
The stair carpet was threadbare. The welfare state considers rent and food bills when calculating its allowances, but carpets and repairs to washing machines and a host of other expenses are considered non-essential. I closed the bathroom door behind me and slid the bolt across.
There was no radiator in there, just an electric heater high on the wall. The element was covered with dust, showing that it hadn't been used all winter. Those things eat electricity. I took my jacket off and hung it behind the door, next to a white to welling dressing gown and a tiny pair of pink pyjies with yellow teddy bears on them.
The shower worked straight off the taps, which isn't the best way to do it, and fingers of mildew were eating their way along the grouting between the tiles. I pulled the curtain out of the bath and turned the shower on for a few seconds. It didn't take me long to decide that Buxton and Janet almost certainly had not had sex in there. Problem was, could we convey that certainty to a jury? I had a pee. Down the side of the toilet was a plastic seat, designed to reduce the size to that of a child's bottom. I smiled, acknowledging that although I would have liked kids, having none has plenty of compensations. I was flushing the toilet when I noticed something on the windowsill that caused a jolt of recognition.
It was a miniature swing bin, just like the one that Dr. Jordan kept his tea bags in. I picked it up and flipped the lid open. It was half filled with remnants of soap tablets; that final flake that breaks in half and tells you that trying to use it any longer is not worth the effort. Janet saved them for recycling. Thrifty girl. I washed my hands and went back downstairs, taking it with me.
Dilly had gone outside, and Janet had her coat on.
"I, er, saw this," I said, waving the bin at her. "I've been looking for one, all over."
"That," she said with a shrug. "It's called a mini-bin. I just keep bits of soap in it. You can have it, if you want."
"No, I wouldn't dream of taking it. I'd like to know where you got it, though."
"It came from Magic Plastic' "Magic Plastic? Never heard of them. Where are they?"
"They don't have a shop. Well, they might, somewhere, but a man comes round. He leaves a catalogue and comes back a week later to collect it and take your order, if you want anything."
"I see. And how often does he come round?"
"I'm not sure. Once a month, I imagine, but most of them don't last that long. I ordered something because I felt sorry for him, but the next time I didn't buy anything it's all a bit expensive and he didn't come any more. An empty coffee jar would have been just as effective."
"I don't suppose you still have the catalogue?"
"No, sorry. I left it hanging on the door handle that's what you do and it vanished. I suppose he collected it."
"Right, thanks," I said, placing the mini-bin on the table. Gilbert would have to wait for his used-tea bag receptacle. "Thanks for your help, Janet," I said. "It's been most useful. If you're going into town I can give you a lift."
"No thanks," she replied. "The bus stop's just outside."
"But I'm going that way."
"It's all right, thanks."
Have it your way, lady, I thought. I was driving past the mall while they were probably still waiting for a bus. They're not exactly as numerous as the daisies in the fields in that neighbourhood. Recently they've gone back to two-man crews driver and shotgun.
On an impulse I hung a right at the traffic lights, completely wrong-footing a woman pushing a pram across the road, and parked outside Heckley Squash Club. I made a mental note to paint a little silhouette of a baby carriage on my door, next to the hedgehogs, cats and traffic wardens.
A young woman with that healthy outdoor look you used to see on Syrup of Figs posters was standing behind the desk, drinking an isotonic concoction from the neck of the bottle. Orange juice with a pinch of salt is just as good and a fraction of the price, but it doesn't have that certain cachet. Magic Johnson drinks the real stuff, whoever he is. She was wearing green jogging bottoms and a polo shirt with akangaroo embroidered on the left pocket and sweat spots in delightful places. I averted my gaze.
"Hello," I began.
"Hi," she replied.
"Your manager," I went on, 'tells me that as well as being highly proficient with bat, ball and dumb ells you are also a whizz kid on this." I tapped the top of the computer VDU.
"Yer what?" she demanded.
I flashed her my ID and crossed her off my list of possibilities.
"Charlie Priest, Heckley CID," I said. "He promised me a printout of all your members' names; said he'd ask you to run it off for me."
"Aw, gee, the printout!" she exclaimed. "Completely slipped my mind."
"I'd be very grateful for it."
"OK, but it'll take ages. Tell yer what, are you at the police station here in town?"
"Uh uh."
"Right." She delved under the counter and came up with a large manilla envelope that had been used. "Why don't you just cross out our address and write your own there, and I'll set this thing going right now and drop it in on my way home. How does that sound?"
"Very cooperative. Thanks a lot." I reinstated her as a contender.
"Did yer want them in alphabetical order?"
"Yes please, if possible."
"No problem. Nice meeting you, Inspector."
"And you."
The office was empty. I ate the prawn sandwich I'd bought on the way back and shut myself away. A plan of action was required. I wrote my reports to clear my mind and made notes on a sheet of A4. First thing we needed was a suitable venue. I put my coat back on and drove to City HQ.
Superintendent Isles wasn't in, which suited me fine.
"Are the old Bridewell cells still in use?" I asked the desk sergeant.
City HQ is attached to the town hall, and parts of it date back to Victorian times. The old cells, known universally as the Bridewell, were down in the basement. He seconded a young PC to help me and we went exploring.
The one we chose was used to store sports equipment. We manhandled a wobbly ping-pong table into the cell next door, along with assorted cricket pads and a one-armed bandit. The PC, called Martin, tried the fruit machine and wondered if the social club would let him have it.
There was a bit of dust around, but not enough to make the place uninhabitable. We'd ask the cleaning ladies to give it a quick once-over. There was a power point and the fluorescent light on the high ceiling worked. The walls were covered from top to bottom in white tiles, broken only by a thin blue line running round the room at waist height. I ran a hand over them, wondering how many frustrated prisoners had found their glazed surface unyielding to scratch or skull. You couldn't buy tiles like these any more. They had curved edges and special corner pieces, and were as hard and unforgiving as tungsten carbide. Just what I wanted.
I took Martin upstairs and introduced him to the technical support wizards. They found one of the portable tape recorders we used before the new interview suites had them built in, and showed him how to drive it. I dithered over a video camera, then decided to go for it. They gave Martin a crash course on that, too. We carried the lot down to the Bridewell and I left him practising. I told him to make sure the batteries were charged, the tapes were blank and the lights worked. If all went well, I'd buy him a fruit machine. He nodded enthusiastically and went to fetch a table and some chairs.
Maggie was in when I arrived back at Heckley. "How did it go?" I asked.
"Like drawing teeth," she sighed. "Slow and painful. Patient confidentiality, all that crap. I don't know who they think they are."
"Did you tell them that our investigation overrides any duties of confidentiality they may have towards their patients?"
"Till I was blue in the face."
"So how have you left it?"
"I had a long discussion with the counsellor who talks to all the young women who go in for abortions. She said most of them know exactly why they are there and are not interested in counselling. A few sad ones seize the opportunity but usually decide to go ahead. Not many back out. She said that she has had one or two disturbing cases, possibly unbalanced, and nothing they did would surprise her. One involved an irate boyfriend. Trouble is, she wouldn't name names. I had a word with Barraclough and suggested that if she told him they might then be able to come to some arrangement where he could pass the information on to us, whereby she wouldn't have contravened the etiquette of her profession."
"Mmm, maybe. I'd rather you leaned on them. Tell them that we are not interested in their consciences or the sexual transgressions of their clientele. We're trying to catch a killer. Make that a serial killer.
Say we have reason to believe that one of them is next on his list.
That should focus their attention."
"Ha!" she laughed. "Some serial killer. He's only done one, so far."
"That's the best time to catch them, Maggie. That's the best time to catch them." I decided to change the subject. "Have you," I asked, 'ever heard of a company called Magic Plastic?"
"Magic Plastic?"
"Mmm."
"No. What have they done?"
"They haven't done anything. I want to know where they are. They produce a catalogue of a hundred and one things for the home that you never thought you needed, and employ door-to-door salesmen. I'd appreciate it if you could track them down and tell them to send me a catalogue, soon as possible."
"Right, no problem. Is this police work?"
"Maggie!" I exclaimed. "Of course it's police work. When did I ever do anything else?"
If you sit still too long in this job everybody learns that you are at your desk and rings you. By five o'clock my right ear was numb and my brain was reeling, so I trudged upstairs for a decent cup of tea with Gilbert. The atmosphere is always more relaxing in his office. I refused to answer questions about crime but told him that I was on the verge of solving the great tea bag disposal problem. He wasn't impressed.
We were on the way out, walking past the front desk, when a voice shouted: "Mr. Priest!" I turned to see the desk sergeant coming out of the office. "Packet for you," he said, reaching under the counter.
He handed me the self-addressed envelope I'd left at the squash club.
"Thanks," I said, taking it from him.
"A big green Sheila brought it in," he told me. "Said it was special delivery, for you and you alone. Wish you'd tell me how you do it."
"That's the problem with Australian women," I replied, winking at him.
"They keep coming back."
I drove out of town on the old Oldfield road, quiet now, since the coming of the motorway. There is a transport cafe, famous for its wholesome meals and warm atmosphere, where all the truckers stopped on their journey over the Pennines. It has had to contract, grass over the lorry park, and change the menu, but it has, thankfully, survived.
Nowadays they make a decent living from a handful of drivers who remember where they are and hordes of senior citizens who know where to find a tasty bargain. And now me. One time, I was a regular at all the cheap eateries. I'd have to start finding my way around them again. No more sneaking away at lunchtime for trout in almonds at Annabelle's. I'd miss that. I ordered lasagne, with salad, and sat facing the telly, to give me something mindless to think about.
A man in a jacket the colour of a ruptured gall bladder was reading from a sheet of paper. "For five points, Dorothy," he whispered intimately, as if asking for her dying testament, 'can you tell me the name of… the first man to run the mile in four minutes?"
"Roger Bannister!" she screeched, as the camera panned to an open-mouthed matron clutching her hands to her head. The whole world was ganging up on me. I moved to the chair at the opposite side of the table, my back to the telly.
The lasagne was not bad, for lasagne. I followed it with rhubarb crumble and a refill of tea. Today, I'd eaten well. Annabelle would be proud of me. No, she wouldn't. There I go again, I thought.
When I reached home I took the envelope in with me. A list of a couple of thousand names and addresses is my idea of bedtime reading. The mailman had left an avalanche of correspondence spilling halfway along my hall. I gathered them up and took them into the kitchen to look at while the kettle boiled. One from the bank was put to one side for future reference and I binned missives from the AA, Damart and Reader's Digest. A note from my window cleaner said I was three payments behind. I put fifteen quid in an envelope and took it round to my neighbour's. The final piece of mail was from the Playhouse, containing two tickets for Romeo and Juliet. It was hard to believe, but Annabelle had never seen a stage performance of it. The repertory theatre in equatorial Africa prefers Shakespeare's more violent offerings. They were for Monday evening, and I'd wanted it to be a surprise. I placed them back in their envelope and stood it behind the clock.
There was a programme about the mating habits of termites on Channel 4, so I watched that until I remembered the list from the squash club.
She'd used half a roll of Sellotape on the envelope, but I eventually made it to the contents.
I have a lot of sympathy with the Chinese. I usually read the front page of a newspaper first, then the back page, then work through it from back to front, like they are supposed to do. I'm sure it's more natural. I'm equally convinced that we drive on the wrong side of the road in Britain, and the Continentals and most of the rest of the world have it right, but I rarely put that one into practice. The list was on the type of computer paper with sprocket holes down the edges, in a continuous concertina of folded pages, about a hundred, although I didn't count them. I started at the last name — Younghusband, William Defoe, "Carrickfergus', Cotswold Manor Garth, Heckley and slowly started to work my way upwards on the long journey towards Abbott, John, 143 Sheepscab Street.
I studied them methodically, unhurried. I'd read each name and dredge my memory for a spark of recognition. One or two sounded familiar, but the addresses were wrong. A couple were policemen I knew. Then I'd read the address and try to visualise where the member lived. I studied them all, but I was mainly interested in the women. If I didn't find anything we'd have to put them in the computer and let that search through them.
Two hours later my eyes were burning. I'd be reading names, flicking through them, and realise that nothing was registering. I'd go back a few places and try again. I thought of playing some music, but when I glanced through my collection I found nothing that wouldn't have been a distraction. Just reading the labels reminded me of Annabelle. After a great deal of dithering I marked the place I'd reached in the list and rang her number. The ansa phone came on. I put the receiver down, had a think about it and dialled again.
"It's me," I said. "Hello. Last night… I may have said things that I didn't mean… I'm not sure if I said them or just thought them..
anyway, I take them back. I was upset. The last five years have been the happiest of my life, and I'm grateful to you for that. You're a big girl, and you must do what is best for yourself." I wanted to say a lot more, but ansa phone tapes are not very long. I finished with: "I hope it works out for you. Don't write or anything… It's not necessary… But you know where I am, if you need me. Oh, and I meant what I said in the note. Every word. Goodbye, love."
I'd made another mug of tea and was arranging the sheets on my lap to recommence the search when the doorbell rang. I looked at the clock it said just after ten. I refolded the pages with my pen marking the appropriate place, about halfway through, and went to answer it.
Maggie was standing there, pale and grim, her coat buttoned up around her throat. "I'd like a word, Boss," she said.
"Come in," I invited, holding the door wide.
She walked through into the lounge and sat down, leaning over to see what the printout was about.
"Heckley Squash Club," I told her. "Membership list. Dr. Jordan was friendly with a girl there, called Sue or Sheila or something. I was looking through them for inspiration. So, what's happened? Is something wrong?"
"I'm… not sure," she replied.
"Are you taking your coat off?"
She shook her head.
"Cup of tea? The kettle's just boiled."
"No. I don't want a tea."
"Right. In that case, you'd better tell me why you're here. Sadly, I'll assume it's not a social visit."
The fingers of her right hand screwed up the belt of her coat and smoothed it out again. I've known Maggie a long time. We have a good working relationship but there's something above that between us. She's listened to my problems and chided or encouraged me, as required. I've leaned on her. They say that there's no such thing as a platonic friendship between a man and a woman, but I'm not sure I agree.
"No," she said. "It's not a social visit."
"So what sort of a visit is it?"
"What you just said, a moment ago…"
"What?"
"You said: "Sadly I'll assume it's not a social visit."
I shrugged. "So?"
"It's flirting. You do it all the time, Charlie. I don't think you know you're doing it."
I was puzzled. "I'm not flirting with you, Maggie," I told her. "I'm being pleasant, or at least I thought I was. If I've got it wrong… if you have a problem with it, I'll change. I'll be an arrogant bastard like most of the others. Is that what you'd prefer?"
"No."
"Well I'm not in the mood for a lecture on political correctness, Maggie, from you or anyone else. I treat everybody the same, and you know it. I respect our differences, and work round them, but as long as we're all pulling together I don't give a toss about them."
She unbuckled her belt and unfastened the top buttons of her coat. "I know," she sighed. "It's just that…"
"Just that what?"
"This morning. You went to see Janet Saunders."
So that was it. "Oh," I said.
"She rang me. You scared her, Charlie. Have you any idea what she went through?"
"I like to think I have."
"No, you haven't. I thought she was pulling round, learning to trust us, but now…"
"Maggie," I said. "It was ten o'clock in the morning. You weren't available. No one else was. I played it by the book, and for God's sake, her daughter was there."
"You commented on her looks."
"Yes," I admitted. "And I meant it. It was an observation, not a come-on. The last time I went to the cinema I made a similar remark about John Travolta's smile, but I've no desire to hop into bed with him. It was a crass thing to say, under the circumstances. I realised that, as soon as the words came out, and I apologised."
"She said you went up into the bathroom and tried the shower, where Buxton says it happened."
My elbows were on the chair arms, my fingertips pressed against their opposites in front of my face. I drummed them together in a rhythm that Dave Brubeck never mastered. "What are you trying to say, Maggie?" I whispered. "What are you implying?"
"I don't know, Charlie."
"If you're suggesting that I went round there in the hope of having sex with Mrs. Saunders, I want you to leave, now. Make a formal complaint, if you want, but leave."
"I tried to tell her that you'd have a good reason for what you did, Charlie. I said you were a person who cared, like nobody else I know, but you frightened her. I told her that if she wanted to make a complaint about you, that I couldn't handle it. There was a procedure … It'd have to be someone higher up the ladder. But I assured her she was wrong, she'd misunderstood. I offered to have a quiet word with you, and she agreed."
"So that's what this is: a quiet word?"
"It looks as if I've made a balls of it."
I shook my head. "No, you haven't. I'm grateful for you coming, and I'm sorry if I upset Mrs. Saunders that was the last thing I wanted.
But I've a job to do. If she's like this after I visit her, how will she be on the stand, with Buxton's brief implying that she's every kind of slag under the sun?"
"Do you think it will come to that? Go to court?"
I looked across at her. "Trust me, Maggie," I said. "Trust me."
"OK," she replied. "That's good enough for me."
I walked her to her car. Her husband, Tony, was sitting in the driver's seat. She'd brought backup. "Hello, Tone," I said.
"Hi, Charlie. All sorted out?"
"I think so."
I waved them away and slinked back inside, shivering with cold. I closed the door and leaned against it. Not you, Maggie, I thought.
Don't you desert me, too.