The door closed behind me and I could almost hear the collective sigh they emitted on the other side of it. No doubt they'd celebrate my leaving with a little snifter or two. I pulled the coat together across my throat and walked down the drive towards the car. The rain was falling straight out of the sky, too morose to slant either one way or the other.
I could have strode away from it. I could have written that letter of resignation, saying I wanted out, and that would have been that. In two weeks, I'd be a civilian. But I didn't. I had a job to do. I didn't make the rules that's what we pay politicians for. I just applied them.
And every guard in every concentration camp used exactly the same excuse.
I drove to the Canalside Mews, home of the late doctor and also of Darryl Buxton. Eight flats, two definitely empty, a weekday. I'd be lucky to find anyone in.
I got an answer first try. "My name's Detective Inspector Priest," I shouted into the hole in the wall. "I'm making enquiries about the late doctor who lived upstairs. Do you mind if I come in?"
"I'll open the door for you," the woman replied, as the catch buzzed.
I pushed it open and walked across the lobby to flat number two. My luck held. Two others were in and answered my questions, not that I had many. "We're investigating various callers or salesmen who've been seen in the area," I told them all. "Have you ever had anyone leave a catalogue for a company called Magic Plastic?"
Heads were shaken. Noses were looked down. Magic Plastic salesmen didn't call at prestigious developments such as Canalside Mews.
Perhaps, I thought, they knew that the residents weren't as generous with their money or as sympathetic as the likes of Janet Saunders. The young man in number five wearing a cookery apron offered me a coffee and the lady in number seven showed me her husband's tropical fish.
"Your sergeant was ever so interested in them," she said.
"I know. He told me all about them."
I saw a lot of gold velvet and tassels and G-Plan furniture and was definitely unimpressed. I was left with the big question: if the Magic Plastic salesman had never called at Canalside Mews, where did the doctor obtain the mini-bin I'd seen in his apartment? I climbed into the car and wiped the rain off my neck. I couldn't put it off any longer. I started the engine and drove across town to where Susan Crabtree's parents lived.
It was a street of post-war semis with bay windows, similar to the one I lived in. The type of house that middle-class people aspired to, in those far-off days before inflation set the market alight and home-owning became a hedge against it and not a millstone around the pay packet. These had become seedy a few years ago, then regained respectability as the double-glazing salesmen moved in to give the place a face-lift. Now the cycle was being repeated with patio doors and conservatories. As I cruised slowly past their house I saw a woman at an upstairs window, polishing the glass like she'd done every day since her daughter hurled herself off a graceless concrete car park, two Christmases ago. She wore a yellow smock that made her the brightest thing in the street. I parked about six doors away and turned up my collar.
I knocked at the door of the house I'd parked outside and a dog started barking. A woman told it to be quiet and somewhere inside another door slammed, muffling the dog's yelps. A bolt slid back, the latch clicked, and the door swung open.
She was about eighty years old and four foot eleven high. "Yes," she demanded.
"Police," I said, offering my ID. "I'm DI Priest. Could I have a word, please?"
"Come in," she ordered.
We stood in the kitchen. "First of all," I told her, "I want to give you a ticking off."
"A ticking off?" she echoed. "I'm too old to take a ticking off from you, young man, police or no."
"You should be more careful who you let in. Don't you have a spy hole, or a chain on the door?"
"I'm eighty-three years old next birthday," she responded. "If anything was going to happen to me it would have happened by now, don't you think?"
At what age do you start adding one on instead of taking a few off? How do you argue with someone who believes the Earth is flat? You don't.
"I'm enquiring about people salesmen who come round knocking at doors,"
I told her. "Have you ever had anyone call from a firm called Magic Plastic?"
"Magic Plastic? Yes, of course I have. He calls regularly.
Never buy anything, though. Far too dear. He's a nice man, always polite. What's he done?"
"Nothing. Do you know his name?"
"Why do you want to know his name if he hasn't done anything?"
"Because he might have seen something. We don't only talk to criminals, you know. We talk to witnesses, too." I could give it as good as she could.
"What sort of something?"
"That's what we want to ask. Do you know him?"
"No."
"Do you still have a catalogue?"
"No, he collected it."
"When?"
"Weeks ago. Months, in fact."
I thanked her for her trouble and told her to keep the door chain on, but she wasn't listening.
The next two houses were unoccupied. A middle-aged woman with a headscarf over her rollers saw me knocking and told me that her neighbours had gone to Tenerife for a fortnight. Who'd have a job in crime prevention? Yes, the Magic Plastic man did call, although he hadn't been for a few weeks. No, she never bought anything off him, and no, she didn't have a catalogue.
The woman with the two toddlers who lived directly opposite the Crabtrees bought some stuff for cleaning moss off her patio when he first called, but it didn't work and she hadn't bought anything since.
Her labrador insisted on jumping up at me, leaving big muddy paw-prints on the East Pennine Police waterproof. "He's just being friendly," she assured me.
And that was that. I'd arrived. It couldn't be postponed a moment longer. I crossed the road, looking up at Mrs.
Crabtree, her chamois leather moving round in circles, slowly progressing across the pane of glass like a glider in a crosswind. She paused as my hand fell on their gate and we stared at each other for a moment. I lifted the catch, she reached into a corner for an invisible speck of dirt.
William, her husband, answered the door. As I waited I noticed that the drain next to the bay window was covered with a plastic lid, to prevent the ingress of leaves. A snip at 8.99 from Magic Plastic.
"Hello, Mr. Crabtree," I said. "I'm Inspector Priest, from Heckley CID. Do you remember me?"
He looked confused and mumbled something.
"I'd like a word with you both," I told him, stepping forward. "Do you mind if I come in?"
He moved to one side to allow me past, and when he'd reclosed the door we went into their front room. I took the heavy coat off and suggested he call Mrs. Crabtree. He shouted up the stairs to her, saying they had a visitor. He called her Mother. I placed the coat in the angle between a sideboard and the wall, half on the floor, half leaning against the wall.
William hadn't changed much, but his wife had. She'd taken the house coat off and had lost at least a couple of stones since I'd last seen her. Her face was lined and her hair unkempt. We all sat down.
"How are you both?" I began.
They shrugged, mumbling meaningless answers to a meaningless question.
"I was the officer in charge," I told them, 'when Susan died. I came to see you, but you've probably forgotten me. Christmas brought it all back, and I was wondering how you were."
"So-so," he replied, quietly.
"For you," I went on, "I don't suppose it ever went away, did it?"
They shook their heads. "No."
"And I don't suppose it ever will. In a sense, you probably don't really want it to go away. She was your daughter, your only child, and you loved her. She'll always be a part of you."
Mrs. Crabtree said: "The Lord moves in mysterious ways."
"That he does," I agreed.
She turned to her husband. "Would you like to make some tea, Treasure?" she suggested.
"I'll put the kettle on," he replied, stooping forward before making a big effort to rise from his low chair.
"No!" I insisted, raising a hand. "Not for me, thanks all the same."
William settled back.
I straightened the antimacassar on the arm of my chair. "I have no children," I stated. "But it's hard, even for me, to imagine anything as devastating as losing a child. Except, of course, you lost a grandchild, too. That must be unbearable."
"Some fell on stony ground," she said. "And even as we sow, so shall we reap."
"Quite," I replied. "The Bible must be a great comfort to you, Mrs.
Crabtree."
He said: "Yes, it's been a great comfort to you, hasn't it, Mother?"
She reached out and took his hand. "We came through it together, didn't we, Treasure? We helped each other and trusted in the Lord."
In the far corner of the room was a big Mitsubishi television. Stuck on the side of it was a holder for the channel changer. "Only 2.99 and you'll never again have to search for that elusive remote control."
"Hey! That's a good idea," I said, glad to change the subject. I strolled across the room and lifted the controller from its holster. It occurred to me that I could just as easily have turned the telly on while I was there. "I could do with one of these," I declared. "Where did you find it?"
"Oh, we bought it," he replied.
"From a shop?"
"No. It's someone who comes round."
"You mean, like the Magic Plastic man?"
"Yes. Them."
"Magic Plastic?"
"Yes."
"Right. I'll have to look out for him. I'm told they do some useful stuff."
"Yes, they do."
I glanced around the room. It was still filled with all the clutter I'd seen before: commemorative plates, porcelain shepherdesses, cut glass vases. Everything pristine, standing on crocheted doilies to protect the polished surfaces of the furniture. No photographs.
"You don't seem to have a photograph of Susan," I said.
They glanced at each other. "No," he replied, awkwardly. "We, er, have different ideas about that. I try to forget, most of the time, put her out of my mind. It's my way of coping. Mother's just the opposite. She likes to remember Susan as much as possible, don't you, Mother? We have photographs. They're upstairs. I go in every night, before I go to bed, for a few minutes, but Mother spends most of her time up there." He was close to tears.
"Would you like to see Susan's room, Inspector?" Mrs. Crabtree asked, leaning forward.
"Yes," I replied. "I'd like that very much."
I followed her upstairs, to a room at the back of the house with a crucifix on the door. She pushed the door open and ushered me in.
The hairs on my neck were bristling as if I'd moved into a powerful magnetic field. The only illumination came from electric candles on the walls and at either side of what I can only call a shrine. It had probably been a Welsh dresser, but now it was a repository for religious artifacts and memorabilia of their daughter. There was a big picture of her as the focal point, underneath one representing Jesus Christ as a Scandinavian pop star rather than a Middle Eastern artisan.
Susan looked intelligent but you'd never call her pretty. Her hair was hacked and she wore what I believe is called a twin set. Maybe I'd have liked her values. Rosary beads hung across a small photograph of the Pope.
"Are you a Catholic?" I asked, lamely.
"No," she replied. "There is but one God, and He is Jesus Christ, our Lord."
There was an easy chair positioned in front of the shrine. "Is this where you come, Mrs. Crabtree?" I asked. "Is this where you find your comfort?"
"Yes," she whispered. "I spend many hours here. William doesn't seem to understand."
"I'm sure he does," I told her. I walked to the door and turned the dimmer switch, brightening the room, and took in the scene. There was a square of clear plastic around the light switch, to prevent a stray fingertip soiling the wallpaper. "What was the baby called?" I asked.
"Davey," she replied, so quietly I hardly heard. Davey, of course. I'd almost forgotten.
"Davey. Was that the father's name?"
"No."
"Do you know the father's name?"
"No."
"You never met him?"
"No."
There was no photograph of the baby, and I wondered why.
"There doesn't seem to be a picture of Davey, Mrs. Crabtree?" I commented.
She moved towards the shrine. "Just a small one," she said, and unhooked a gold locket that was hanging by its chain alongside the picture of Susan. Inside was a little round photo of a baby' sface, looking like every other bonny baby I'd seen. "He was a handsome fellow," I said.
"Yes, he was beautiful. He weighed seven pounds five ounces, in spite of being five weeks premature."
"I didn't know that," I told her. The PM hadn't said anything about him being premature.
"These," she said, opening the other side of the locket with a fingernail, 'are his hair and his toe-nail clippings. Would you believe, his nails needed cutting when he was born?"
I looked at the wisp of hair and the tiny slivers of protein that were all that remained of little Davey. "Don't lose them," I whispered.
Mrs. Crabtree clicked the locket shut and replaced it next to Susan.
There were other photographs of her, tracing the development of popular photography as well as the girl and young woman depicted in them.
Fading black and whites of a little girl in National Health spectacles that she hated, right up to full colour seven-by-fives of her with friends, somewhere at the seaside. She changed over the years, blossomed even, but the glasses singled her out, every time. I saw a little bronze trophy, with crossed squash rackets on it, and my stomach bubbled like a sulphur pool. I picked it up. "Mixed doubles," it said, "Losing semi-finalist."
"Mrs. Crabtree," I began. "Did you ever…" I replaced the trophy, looked at it and adjusted its position. "Did you, or Susan… ever consider an abortion?"
"No!" she declared, defiantly. "Never. Life is not ours to take away. By the fruits of your sins shall you be judged."
"Did Susan think about having one?"
"No."
"Did she investigate the possibility? Maybe take advice, or counselling?"
"He wanted her to," she said. "But he would, wouldn't he? He didn't want the responsibilities of a child."
"What did he say?"
"He took her somewhere. When she came back she was confused. They poisoned her brain with the devil's works. She soon changed her mind when she was back with her family. The word of the Lord prevailed, but the price of salvation is eternal vigilance."
I only know one quotation from the Bible. I learned it from my dad.
When I was little and he was a struggling PC he drove a motorbike and sidecar. It was his pride and joy. He took great delight in telling people that Moses rode a motorbike. It said so in the Bible. It said:
"And the sound of his Triumph was heard throughout the land." He'd have loved talking to Mrs. Crabtree.
"This boyfriend," I said. "He took her somewhere, for advice about an abortion?"
"Yes, but she was too strong for him, for she was filled with the Holy Spirit."
"But he knew all about abortions?"
"Yes. He was a disciple of Satan. He did the devil's work, here on Earth. The devil finds work for idle hands."
"What was he called?"
"I don't know."
"I think you do."
"I don't know."
I dimmed the lights and held the door open for her. Outside, after I'd pulled the door closed, I put my hands on her shoulders and looked into her eyes. I could feel her bones, and her face was crisscrossed with fine lines.
"Thank you for showing me Susan's room," I said.
Downstairs, William was standing close up to the gas fire, warming his legs, even though it must have been eighty in there. He turned as we entered and sat down again.
I made a production of looking at my watch. "Is that the time?" I said. "I'd better make a phone call, if you'll excuse me." I went to the front door and lifted the latch so I didn't lock myself out. I stood on the front step and spoke to the desk sergeant, telling him where I was and asking for a panda to come and stand by.
"It's still raining," I told them as I took my seat again. They didn't comment. "Mrs. Crabtree was telling me that Susan's boyfriend wanted her to have an abortion," I said.
William shuffled and looked uncomfortable.
"Do you approve of abortions, Mr. Crabtree?" I asked, watching him as I waited for an answer.
"I… don't know," he replied, eventually.
"Do you know the boyfriend's name?"
He shook his head.
"I think you do."
"No."
"You were a soldier, I believe."
He looked at me, startled by the change of tactic. "I was a conscript," he replied. "Called up. We all were."
"How old were you?"
"Eighteen."
"Did you sign on?"
"Only for three years."
"When was that?" '1950."
"And did you go abroad?"
"Germany."
"That would have been quite an experience for a young man."
"Yes, it was."
"You'd see all the devastation."
"Yes."
"Did you carry a gun?"
He shrugged his shoulders.
"Did you carry a gun, Mr. Crabtree?"
"There were guns about. Sometimes we carried one. It was dangerous.
We never knew what they were thinking."
"An Enfield thirty-eight?"
"Possibly. I don't remember. It was a long time ago."
"It was a long time ago," Mrs. Crabtree repeated.
"Yes, it was," I agreed. They were sitting with their backs to the window, which meant that their faces were in shadow but I could see out into the street beyond them.
"Losing a child," I began, 'like you did. And a grandchild. It's the saddest thing imaginable. You must have been about forty when Susan was born. You'd probably already accepted that you'd never be parents.
Resigned yourselves to it. And then she came along everything you'd always wanted. And, all those years later, little Davey, too the grandchild you never expected to have. If someone took them away from you, caused their deaths, you'd want to kill that person, don't you think?"
He crossed his feet and dug his fingers into the chair arm. She sniffed and pressed her interlocked hands into her lap. Neither spoke.
"You knew all about the doctor she met at the squash club, didn't you?"
I continued. "She'd come home, thrilled to pieces, and tell you all about him. When she fell pregnant you knew he must be the father. He took her to the clinic and she told you that she was thinking of having an abortion. Is that what happened?"
"He was the devil's disciple," Mrs. Crabtree told us. "He tempted her with the forbidden fruit, then wanted her to resort to murder to avoid the wages of sin. He filled her head with ideas, but with the help of her loved ones the will of God prevailed."
"And when Susan died, you blamed him."
"Our Lord is a jealous Lord. "Vengeance is mine," He said."
She was ga-ga. Stark, staring ga-ga. Outside, a car horn peep-peeped and I saw a panda's blue lights slide past above the privet hedge. I turned to William. Maybe he was capable of rational thought.
"You wanted him dead, didn't you?" I said.
He shrugged and stared at the carpet.
"And one day, you remembered the gun. Where was it? Hidden up in the loft, or somewhere, wrapped in grease-proof paper? Whenever we have a guns amnesty it's amazing how many old soldiers bring in weapons that they forgot to hand back when they were de mobbed Do you know what I think, William?" I didn't wait for an answer. "I think you found the doctor's name and address in Susan's diary, when you went through her things. And then the hatred for him began to fester in your minds.
Both of you. The strange thing is, I think it's perfectly understandable. In your shoes, I'd have wanted the same thing. What did you do? Go round, with the gun? But he lived in a block of flats and you didn't know how to get in, did you? So you left a Magic Plastic catalogue in his mailbox, with a note saying that you'd call back. Couldn't you do it, that first time? And what did you think when he ordered a mini-bin from you? Is this about how it happened, Mr. Crabtree?"
He nodded, slowly and deliberately, without taking his eyes from the carpet.
"But then Christmas came, with all its images of children, and the feelings became unbearable. Christmas Eve was the first anniversary of Susan's and Davey's deaths. You went back again, didn't you? You said you were the man from Magic Plastic, and he let you in. This time you made him lie on the carpet and you shot him through the head. Am I right is that how you did it?"
His wife reached across and took his hand. "Suffer the little children to come unto me," she said, 'for theirs is the Kingdom of God."
He looked up at me and nodded. "Yes," he whispered.
"What did you do with the gun, William?" I demanded.
He opened his mouth to speak, but she beat him to it. "He threw it in the canal."
"Did you?"
"Yes, I threw it in the canal."
"Whereabouts?"
"Off the bottom bridge."
That shouldn't be too difficult to find, I thought. I turned to her.
"Could you get your coats and shoes, Mrs. Crabtree," I said. "I think you'd both better come down to the station." She struggled to her feet and went to fetch them.
We stood in the hallway and I held her coat while she helped him with his. She fussed around him, checking his buttons and fastening his belt. He thrust his hands deep into the pockets as she placed hers on his cheeks and kissed him.
"Don't worry, Treasure," she whispered to him. "Be brave. Mother's coming with you."
As soon as she was inside her own coat I asked where the key was. She retrieved it from a hook beside the door and handed it to me.
"Right, let's go," I said. I locked the door behind us and took William by the arm, guiding him up the garden path, Mrs. Crabtree leading the way. The panda was parked near my car. When the driver saw us emerge he drove slowly towards the Crabtrees' gate.
Mr. Crabtree wrenched his arm from mine as the car stopped. I turned as the gun fired and saw the side of his head blossom like a chrysanthemum and felt the warm wetness of him on my face. He was falling through a scarlet mist. I threw my arms around him but I was off-balance and he dragged me down to the ground. Mine was the embrace that held him in his death throes, but he was already beyond comforting.
The two PCs came running, but there was nothing anyone could do. I took the waterproof coat off and spread it over William's body, the army-issue Enfield revolver still grasped in his hand as his blood spread out across the wet concrete. Mrs. Crabtree stood there, rain pouring down her face, spouting her mantras, until she was led away.
"It's come," Sparky informed me as I returned from the morning meeting, a week and a half after we'd brought Mrs. Crabtree in. He followed me into my office and retrieved a brown Home Office envelope from my in-tray.
"Right," I said, hanging my jacket on its hook. "Better ask Nigel and Maggie to join us."
Sparky poked his head out of the door and shouted: "You and you. Boss says to get your arses in here, toot sweet."
Maggie arrived first. "Nigel's on the phone," she told us.
"It looks like the results of the DNA tests have arrived from Wetherton," I explained, showing her the envelope.
"What do they say?"
"I haven't looked yet. Sit down."
"Let me get this straight," she said, pulling a chair from under my table and turning it round. "I wasn't in from the beginning. The Crabtrees were under the impression that Dr. Jordan was the father of the baby?"
"Yes."
"And Jordan wanted Susan to have an abortion?"
"Not quite. According to the counsellor at the clinic he just took her along to explain the options. She listened to them and at first she appeared quite keen to have a termination, but then changed her mind.
The counsellor detected that she was under a great deal of pressure from her parents to let the pregnancy take its course." I sliced the envelope open with the glass dagger I use as a paper knife. It was a present from the team after an earlier murder enquiry.
"And after it was born the depression set in."
"It looks like it. She blamed them, they blamed the doctor. Sometimes, it helps if we can put the responsibility on someone else instead of accepting it ourselves."
"And the Magic Plastic Killer was created."
"Yep."
Nigel came in. "Sorry about that," he said.
"Did she put the gun in her husband's coat pocket?" Maggie asked.
"It looks like it. She said something about coming with him, but I don't know what she meant."
"Will she stand trial?"
"Mrs. Crabtree? I doubt it. She's been sectioned under the Mental Health Act. She'll spend the rest of her days preaching to her fellow inmates. No doubt they'll hang on to her every word." I thought about it for a second, then continued: "It's funny, isn't it? If there is a God speaking to her, putting the words into her mouth, you'd think he'd give her the right quotations, wouldn't you?"
Sparky said: "You know what they say: When we talk to God it's called praying. When he talks to us, it's called schizophrenia."
"I'll say Amen to that." I unfolded the letter from Wetherton. "Let's see what we have here." There was a silence as I scanned it. "Tests were conducted…" I read out, 'at the request of handsome but self-effacing DI Priest of…"
"Get on with it!" Sparky urged.
"Right. Blah blah blah. Here we are "Conclusions. Examination of the band patterns shows that there is no obvious kinship between the two samples. In answer to the specific question posed, we can categorically state that the donor of sample CP1 is not the child of the donor of sample CP2." That's it. The doctor wasn't little Davey's dad." Nigel extended his hand and I gave him the letter.
"So who was?" Maggie asked.
"Big Davey? Whoever he is."
"Are we going to find him?"
"To tell him his ex-girlfriend and their baby are dead? What's the point?"
Sparky said: "So the doc was just being kind to her."
"It looks like it," I replied.
"Every way we've turned, every avenue we've followed, he's come up smelling of roses. He was a decent bloke, all along."
"You're right. He was a bit of a lad, but why not? Everybody who knew him liked him. He had plenty of friends. Some of them just happened to be a bit dodgy."
"Who needs enemies?"
Nigel placed the letter on my desk. "So it was all a waste of time," he stated.
"Fraid so."
"All that… all that grief was for nothing."
"Yep," I agreed. "All for nothing." And I've still got the scars to prove it.
I never wrote that letter to personnel saying that I wanted out, and the one from pay section is still unopened. Darryl Buxton appeared before a crown court judge last month and pleaded guilty to a charge of rape. He'll be sentenced in a few weeks. The daffodils outside the court looked magnificent.
When we tried to tell Herbert Mathews the good news we discovered that he'd been admitted to a hospice, and he died shortly afterwards. Maggie and I went to the funeral. His old station was represented by a young WPC who'd never met him. They sent a wreath, everybody else made a donation to Cancer Research. On the way Maggie told me that Janet Saunders had applied for a job as a school dinner lady, which would give her a good chance of regaining custody of little Dilly. She'd decided that life was still worth living, and was putting it back together.
I opened the letter that Annabelle sent me, even though I'd asked her not to write. She said she had to. There was no address, it just said London in the top right-hand corner. I was glad she hadn't put an address. It was the best testimonial I've ever received; when I'd finished it I couldn't understand why she'd ever left me. I slowly tore it into a hundred and twenty-eight pieces, and immediately wished I hadn't.
Her house is empty, with a For Sale sign standing in the garden. I think about her, now and again. Wonder where she is, what she's doing, if she's happy. I hope she is. I don't dwell in the past, but sometimes a memory of her takes me by surprise. All sorts of things can trigger it off, but music is the worst. Some of my CDs I doubt if I'll ever play again, but it can be anything: Barber's Adagio for Strings; the Archers' signature tune; when it rains; when it doesn't.
Since the Doctor Jordan case I've let Nigel run the show. He'll be promoted to inspector soon, which will mean a return to uniform.
Meanwhile, I let him play at detectives. I go walking, most weekends, either in the Dales or driving up to the Lakes on a Friday or Saturday evening. The couple who run the B and B I use have become friends, and he suggested I do some back-packing on the Continent. I wondered about the Blue Ridge Mountains, in the USA.
There's a good library in Heckley. One lunchtime, fired with enthusiasm, I went along to see what I could find in their Travel section and discovered that my membership had lapsed. That's a bit like saying that Maggie Thatcher wasn't a chemist any more.
"Could you fill this in please?" the woman behind the counter asked, 'and we'll put you on the computer. We have computers now, you know."
"Whatever next?" I replied, taking the white card from her. She was wearing wire-framed spectacles and her hair was tied severely back. She believed in conforming to type, but couldn't disguise the fact that she was attractive. I was reminded of one of those Barbra Streisand films where the make-up people have drawn on all the skills of their craft in an attempt to make her look dowdy, fooling nobody except the hapless hero.
"Will that do?" I said, handing the form back to her, holding on to it a fraction of a second longer than necessary.
She studied it and looked at me, her cheeks tinged with colour. "Hello, Charlie," she said. "I thought it was you."
I imagined her in the last reel, where he removes her spectacles and she lets her hair tumble free, revealing the enchantress we knew was there all the time. "Jackie?" I said, disbelieving my eyes. "Is it Jacqueline? Weller fancy meeting you here."