Christmas Eve we had a rape. The woman didn't report it until the day after Boxing day, so hers was the only Christmas it wrecked. We were having a social evening in the canteen when she walked into the station. Highlight of the celebrations was a bulls eye quiz; the idea stolen, I am told, from television. The CID A-team, captained by' yours truly, Charlie Priest, tied with the Angels for first place so we had a sudden-death play-off to decide the winners.
"Mr. Priest, of the CID, has won the toss and put Agnes of the Angels in to bat first," Gareth Adey, my uniformed opposite number informed the crowd. "Select a category please," he ordered Agnes.
"Pop music," she announced, predictably, and lined herself up with the dartboard. Pop music was the twenty. If she hit it the question was worth double points, and so far she hadn't missed.
Plunk!
"Number one," Adey pronounced. "Television. And here is your question." Short pause while he shuffled his papers He likes to do things properly, but he can be a bit of a prat at times. "For five points, who played the part of Steed in the Aven ' "Patrick MacNee!" Agnes interrupted, thumping the air with a calloused hand.
A m T1VT7 "Correct. Would Inspector Charlie Priest now approach the oggy?"
I pulled Agnes's dart from the board and ambled to the line. If I threw well and knew the answer, we'd win. If I missed but still knew the answer, we'd draw. "General knowledge," I said.
"Number twelve," Adey informed us for the hundred and fiftieth time.
Plunk!
"Number nine. Sport."
"Useless," I heard my DC, Dave "Sparky' Sparkington, mutter.
"Absolutely useless."
I wasn't worried I know a bit about sport.
"And your question, with a chance to dead heat for first place, is as follows…"
"Get on with it," someone shouted.
"Quiet, please. For five points, who was the first person to run the mile in four minutes?"
"Yes!" and "Hooray!" I heard, sotto voce, from Sparky and Nigel Newley, my other team members.
I wasn't so confident. I let about five seconds tick away, then asked:
"Is this a trick question?"
"I am unable to enter into a discussion," Adey replied in precisely the tone he uses for cautioning juveniles. "You have five more seconds."
"Do you mean in exactly four minutes, or under four minutes?" I demanded.
"I will repeat the question as it is written here. Who was the first person to run the mile in four minutes?"
I waited until he opened his mouth to tell me I'd run out of time, then said: "Derek Ibbotson."
"Derek bloody Ibbotson!" I heard from Sparky, over the groans and cheers from around the room.
"Wrong," Adey pronounced. "The answer is Roger Bannister. I declare the Angels as winners of the competition '
Sparky and Nigel looked hurt and disappointed as if I'd run over their toes with a Lada. "Derek friggin' Ibbotson Sparky whined as I sat down with them and reached for my pint glass. "What made you say Derek Ibbotson? Who ever thought that Derek Ibbotson ran the first four-minute mile? Even Nigel knows it was Bannister, don't you, Nigel?"
DS Nigel Newley nodded into his beer. "Fraid so Boss." ' "Roger Bannister…" I tapped the table with my forefinger for emphasis, '… was the first person to run the mile in under four minutes. Derek Ibbotson was the first person to run it in exactly four minutes. Four minutes nought point nought nought nought seconds, and that's what I was asked."
"Was he 'ummers-like!"
"He was!"
"Everybody knew what he meant!"
"Well he should have said what he meant. We're supposed to be detectives. Next time I'm giving evidence I'll say "You know what I meant," to the defence barrister, see if he agrees with you."
Sparky said: "Talk about a minefield of useless information That must be the most useless ever, if you ask me."
"There's no such thing as useless information," I stated draining my glass and plonking it down to give the words maximum authority.
"Information is knowledge and knowledge catches crooks. What does knowledge do' Nigel?" ' "Catches crooks, Charlie."
"Exactly."
They drank their beer un forgivingly If ever it was my round, it was now. "Anyway," I declared. "Ibbo's a local lad, not some toffee-nosed southerner. Sorry, Nigel," I added. He's from Berkshire, so we have to make allowances.
I fetched the drinks and sat down again. Silence engulfed the table like a cloud of nerve gas. Maggie Madison, one of my DCs, was passing, so I reached out and pulled her towards me.
"Can I come and sit at your table, Maggie?" I asked. "These two aren't talking to me."
"I'm not surprised," she replied. "Everybody knows three universal facts: where they were when Kennedy was killed; who ran the first four-minute mile; and… something else."
"We came second," I protested. "That can't be bad."
Sparky broke his silence. "We were beaten by the cleaning ladies. I ask you, the flippin' cleaning ladies!"
"It could have been worse," Maggie assured us. "You could have been beaten by the wooden tops "Or even traffic," Nigel added.
"Nah!" Sparky said, grinning. "Not traffic. That's being silly."
It looked as if my lapse was forgiven. Not forgotten, though. I knew I'd be reminded of it every day until some greater calamity replaced it in the mythology of the police station.
Maggie said: "Scuse me, I'm wanted," and walked away from us.
I looked across the room and the other two swivelled round in their seats. A female PC was in the doorway and had evidently caught Maggie's attention. They stood there for a while, deep in conversation.
"She's attractive," I said. "Is she new?"
"Been with us about a month," Nigel informed me.
"I thought you'd know. Is she in with a chance?" I asked, looking across at her. She was fair-haired, wearing it piled up so it wouldn't show when she wore her hat. I wondered if I had a thing about women in uniforms.
"No," Nigel replied. "She's too young for me."
I nodded in agreement and pulled my glum face. She must have been nearly ten years younger than Nigel, and he was twice that younger than me. The trouble with growing old is that the people on the outside are more aware of it than you are. I took a long drink of denatured lager, but it didn't help a bit.
"Right," I remarked, brightly, banging my glass down. "So what sort of a Christmas have you both had?"
"Awful," said Sparky. "The kids say thank you for the presents."
"They're welcome. Tell them thanks for mine. My CD collection was short of a Gary Glitter."
"Sophie said he was your era."
"Yeah, first time round." I turned to Nigel. "And what about you, Sunshine?"
"Same. We were working, remember. Some of us didn't have three days off."
"I know. I'm thinking of doing it again next year, too. Murder, wasn't it?"
Nigel nodded. "Christmas seems to be a good time for murders; it brings out the worst in people."
"Don't remind me," I told him. "I had my fill last year."
"I thought that was a suicide."
"The mother was suicide. The baby was murder."
"Of course it was. I'd forgotten the baby."
I'd never forget the baby. That memory would be with me for ever. I said: "And how do you like working for DCI Makinson?" Regional HQ handle all murders, and had appointed one of their own as SIO.
Sparky chipped in with: "Very nice. He's a good bloke, isn't he, Nigel?" I felt a movement under the table as he kicked Nigel.
"Er, yes," Nigel confirmed, wincing with pain. "He's good. Very… er, professional."
"And very thorough," Sparky added. "Yes, very thorough does everything by the book." "That's right, and he doesn't go chasing off in different directions without telling us."
"No, he keeps us fully informed, all the time." "Yes, he's very good like that. And he listens to what we have to say."
"What I really like about him is that "OK! OK!" I interrupted. "I get the message. So has the brilliant Mr. Makinson caught the killer yet?" They shook their heads. "So what's he got you doing?" Sparky looked downcast. "Door to doors," he replied. "And you?"
"Interviewing staff at the White Rose Clinic' "Is that where the late departed doctor did his doctoring?"
"Only one day per week. I'm not complaining I think they choose them for their looks rather than their medical qualifications."
"I'll give Makinson a week," I told them. "Then they'll be asking me to take over and solve it."
Maggie was heading back our way, looking serious. She bent down beside me and spoke softly. "There's a woman at the front desk, Charlie. Says she's been raped. She's being taken to the suite. Shall I ring Mr.
Wood?"
Mr. Wood is our superintendent, and Number 1 Cop at Heckley. In his absence I am most senior, mainly because of length of service.
Officially, I was on leave until tomorrow.
"Is she… you know… all right?" Now I was asking the stupid questions, but she knew what I meant.
"I think so. She found her own way here and isn't hysterical, or anything."
"OK." I looked at my watch. "I want to make a phone call from the office. You've done the training, Maggie, do you think you and the WPC can handle it?"
"No problem."
"Right. Come on, then. I'll hang about in the office in case you want me. If she knows who did it we'll have to get moving." I pushed my nearly-full glass towards Sparky. "See if they'll give you a refund on that, please."
"We'll be here if you want us," he replied.
Going up the stairs Maggie said: "Is it Annabelle you're ringing?"
"Yes."
"Did you both have a good Christmas?"
"Not really," I admitted. "We went to her married sister's, in Guildford. I've left her down there, drove back yesterday. Not my types, I'm afraid." I didn't mention the separate bedrooms.
"They're called the in-laws," Maggie replied, knowingly.
She diverted to the front desk and I continued upwards to the CID office on the first floor. I unlocked the door and turned a few lights on. It hadn't changed much in three days. The balloon, our concession to the festive season, had nearly deflated, but everything else was just the same.
I met Annabelle that day about five years ago when the sun moved backwards in the sky and one of our tennis players hit one back against Boris Becker. She's tall and elegant, and looks just as beautiful when she's meeting ambassadors and statesmen as she does when she's halfway up Goredale Scar and the rain is running down her neck. I'll lean on a rock to gasp for breath, and she'll think it's the exertion and give me an encouraging smile. But her nose wrinkles when she smiles and all that does is make the lead weight sitting on my diaphragm feel heavier and heavier, and I have even more trouble trying to breathe.
Nobody answered at her sister's. She's called Rachel and they have hardly spoken since they were schoolgirls. Their family was well-off until daddy ran away with his secretary and their mother hit the bottle. Annabelle went to work in the Third World, married young, was widowed and fell in with me. Rachel married Harley Street's Osteopath to the Stars and enjoys the fruits of his success. Christmas was some sort of attempt at reconciliation and I think it worked. We had lunch at the golf club fifty quid a head and, while the sisters gossiped, George, Rachel's husband, introduced me to his friends and explained all the fascinating golfing memorabilia that adorned the walls of the clubhouse. I'd have preferred having extensive bridgework without anaesthesia.
I pushed the phone away and wandered into the annexe where we make the tea. Some kind person had washed all the mugs. I dropped a tea bag into one with "The Boss' in gold letters on the side and plugged the kettle in. There was a new notice above the sink, printed in forty-point Hippo. It said: "Please do not leave your used tea bags in the wastepaper bins." The advent of the word processor has greatly improved the quality of informal notices. When I'd brewed I left the bag sitting in the spoon on the draining board because I couldn't see a more preferable alternative.
Nobody answered again. Or should that be still. They must have gone out somewhere. I put my feet on the radiator and fished the top document out of my in-tray. It was a request for next year's budget forecasts. I wrote: "Deal with this, please, Nigel," in pencil across the top and dropped it on his desk. After a sip of tea I reached for the next document but immediately slid it back on to the pile this was becoming too much like work. When my phone rang I grabbed it before realising it couldn't possibly be Annabelle.
"Charlie?" enquired Maggie's voice. "Yep."
"This woman. She's in the rape suite. Apparently the offence took place on Christmas Eve, so there's no point in a medical or anything, but she knows the bloke. I've asked her if she has any objection to a male officer being present and she says she hasn't."
"I'm on my way."
My tea was too hot to finish, and no doubt they were having one themselves, so I carried my mug down with me. The rape suite is a haven of luxury and calm in the midst of the normal utility and hurly-burly of the nick. It's all pastel tints and deep armchairs, but there's a sophisticated tape recorder on the wall and a medical examination room through a door. I chose the pictures. I was an art student before I became a policeman, so I get all those jobs. My own choice would have been Pollock and Kandinsky, but I'd reluctantly decided that they weren't to everybody's taste and settled for Monets.
I knocked and went in, sliding the bolt across to the occupied position behind me and engaging my empathy mode at the same time.
I was right: they all had disposable cups from the machine. "Hello, Mr. Priest," Maggie greeted me. "This is Janet Saunders." Turning to the woman she said: "Inspector Priest is the senior officer at Heckley at the moment." Looking back at me she said: "You know PC Kent, don't you?"
It was the nearest I'd get to an introduction. I nodded at her without smiling.
"Do you need me, now?" PC Kent wondered.
I turned to Janet Saunders. "We have you outnumbered, I'm afraid, but do you mind if PC Kent stays?"
She shook her head and mumbled: "No."
"Thank you," I said. It was all experience for the young PC, and it didn't create the impression that she had something better to do.
Janet Saunders was about thirty and had once been blonde. There were crow's-feet around her eyes and deep lines down her cheeks, but you could still tell that she'd be attractive under different circumstances. She was wearing a black leather jacket and jeans. I couldn't fault that — I was wearing the same.
Maggie said: "I'll bring you up to date, Boss, and Janet can interrupt if I get it wrong. She's single divorced — with a five-year-old daughter. She lives on Marsden Road, about half a mile from the Tap and Spile public house, where she works as a barmaid three nights per week. She was working there on Christmas Eve, and a man she only knows as Darryl bought her a drink and later he offered to walk her home. She declined and walked home in the company of two neighbours." Maggie turned to the alleged victim. "Did you say they lived next door to you, Janet?"
"No. Next door but two. Mr. and Mrs. Brown, they're called."
"Right. Janet's ex was bringing their daughter round at nine a.m. It was her turn to have her over Christmas. She left the pub at midnight, sharp, because she had presents to wrap and other things to do." Maggie turned to Janet.
"Would you like to go on from there, Janet. I don't want to put words into your mouth."
Janet gazed at the table for a moment. She was wearing a wedding ring but no other jewellery. Her fingernails were short and unpainted and the sleeves of the leather jacket were too long so she had to keep hitching them up. She shuffled her position until she was more upright and said: "I wanted to make a trifle. Clean up a bit. And I had presents to wrap for Dilly."
"Dilly's your daughter?" I asked.
"Mmm. Working at the pub, you come 'ome stinking of cigarettes. First thing I always do is have a shower. I had a good long soak and dried myself. I was going to put my jogging suit on and get stuck in for a couple of hours. Make things nice for…"
Up to then she'd been in control, but as we approached the offence she lost it and pulled a scrap of tissue out of her pocket. PC Kent produced a box of man-size and placed them alongside her.
"Thank you," she sniffled, taking one.
I said: "You normally only work three nights at the Tap and Spile, Janet?"
She nodded. "Wednesdays, Thursdays and Fridays. They're not busy enough on Mondays and Tuesdays."
"And not at weekends?"
"Not usually. I have Dilly at weekends."
"Do you have a full-time job?"
She shook her head.
"Tell us what happened next, Janet, if you can."
She bit her lip for a second before answering. "I heard a noise.
Thought it was someone outside, you know, revellers. I was drying my hair on the towel when, all of a sudden, I went cold. There was a draught and the light changed somehow. I lowered the towel and… he was standing there, with the door wide open. I screamed. Tried to cover myself. He just stood there, laughing."
"This was the man you know as Darryl?" Maggie asked.
"Yes."
I said: "Janet, we're not recording this, but Maggie will do a statement later and we'll ask you to check it and sign it. If you're finding this too difficult would you prefer to write it down yourself?"
She shook her head. "No, I'm all right."
"Well, we can break off anytime you want."
"You're doing fine," Maggie assured her.
Janet had a drink of coffee and went on: "I shouted: "What the 'ell do you want?" or something. He said: "What do you think I want?" and he waved a knife at me. He grabbed me by the 'air and dragged me into the bedroom and… he did it to me. On the bed."
She took another tissue and blew her nose.
"You must have been terrified," I said.
She looked at me and gave a little sniff of disdain at my description of her fear. Her eyes were blue.
"Did he say anything else?" Maggie asked.
"He pointed the knife at me, said he could kill me. But he said that was messy. He said if I reported 'im he'd just say I'd consented.
Nobody would believe me. It would be my word against his. He said… he said…" She couldn't go on.
After a moment I asked: "What did he say, Janet?"
"He said… that everybody knew I was a slag. It isn't true. I'm not. Then he went."
We sat in silence for a minute. Maggie made several notes. PC Kent bit her lip and fidgeted with the cuffs of her blouse. I said: "And then you had to pick up the pieces and get ready for little Dilly coming as if nothing had happened. And play the best mum in the world for the next three days while all this was churning away inside you."
"Mmm."
"And everybody around you was enjoying themselves," Maggie added.
"Yes."
I pointed at a disposable cup and held four fingers up to PC Kent. I was convinced that Maggie had deliberately not told me her first name.
She asked how I liked my coffee. When she'd gone Janet said: "I wasn't going to report it. I'm trying to win custody of Dilly again and I thought that this might go against me. Then I thought: No! It's my body. He's not getting away with it."
"I admire your guts, Janet," I told her, 'and we'll do everything we can to nail him, but I can't guarantee that we'll succeed. You'd better give us a description."
He was about twenty-eight, liked to dress smartly in a three-piece suit, with close-cropped hair, no earrings or tattoos and stockily built. He answered to Darryl and drank occasionally in the Tap and Spile, leaning on the bar, chatting to the staff. If he lived locally we'd find him.
"You obviously haven't been back to the pub," I suggested as WPC Kent came in with four cups in a purpose-designed tray.
"No. I've had Dilly with me until tonight."
"Will you?"
"I don't think so, but I need the money."
"Right. Can you describe the knife?"
"It was one of my kitchen knives. On Christmas Day Dilly came in from the garden carrying it. "Look what Dilly found, Mummy," she said. I nearly fainted."
"Jesus!" I sighed. I leaned back in my easy chair and glanced round the room. There was a pile of chunky plastic toys in one corner with a little slide, kiddies for the use of. The place was starting to look grubby. That's the trouble with pastels.
I said: "I'll leave you with Maggie and she'll ask you all the personal stuff we need to know. Meanwhile I'll see what I can find about Darryl. We might need you to point him out to us, if we go looking for him. Will that be OK?"
"Through the week," Janet replied. "I can get away anytime through the week. I have Dilly at weekends."
"Fair enough. If we need more information would you prefer it if Maggie or PC Kent called to see you, or is it all right if I call? It's just that sometimes they're not available."
"I don't mind who calls, if it helps catch him."
"Right. Thanks. You're a brave lady, Janet, and you're doing the right thing. I'll say goodnight, and Maggie will take you home when you've finished."
She thanked me, and I wandered off to set the wheels in motion. Except that I was the wheels, and I didn't have much motion in me. The happy gang were leaving the canteen in various states of jollity and I zigzagged against the flow, shaking the occasional extended hand and returning seasonal compliments. Sparky and Nigel weren't among them.
I leaned on the bell push at the front desk and the duty sergeant came steaming out of the office with murder on his mind. He unclenched his fists when he saw me. Unfortunately, Darryl the Rapist didn't ring any bells in his memory. He just pursed his lips and shook his head. I half turned to leave, then said: "Oh, one more thing, Arthur. WPC Kent helped with the interview. She seems very competent. What's her first name?"
The big sergeant, built like a mausoleum, looked over his left shoulder and then his right. When he was sure we were alone he leaned conspiratorially across the front counter. I put my ear close to his face.
"Roger Bannister," he whispered.
It had started already.
Tomorrow I'd have a word about Darryl with our local intelligence officer and the regional rape squad. After that we'd have to go looking for him. I drifted up to the office and turned the lights off.
Five minutes later the car started first time and I drove home on empty roads. There were no messages on my ansa phone I flicked round the TV channels, didn't find anything worth the electricity and went to bed.
Another Christmas gone.
It didn't take me long to deploy the troops next morning because DCI Makinson had commandeered most of them in his hunt for the doctor's killer. In the run-up to Christmas we put everyone we can afford out mingling with the shopping crowds, looking for pickpockets and fraudsters. It's amazing how many we catch. After Christmas it's back to burglaries. We'd had the usual spate and several victims were complaining about our lack of response. The front desk handles most of the grumblers, but if I can't find a reason to be out of the office the more persistent ones come through to me. I patiently explain how thinly we are stretched at times like these, but feel like screaming down the phone that this was the first Christmas I've had off since Bing Crosby was in short trousers and most of my staff can't remember when they last saw their children out of their pyjamas. The burglaries would go unsolved, or perhaps be Taken Into Consideration if we got lucky, and our rating in the public's eyes would sink even lower.
"Yes, Colonel," I said into the phone for the tenth time as Maggie seated herself at the other side of my desk. "We have a patrol car in that area, and we'll ask them to keep their eyes open." I grimaced at her and nodded repeatedly at the earpiece. "You're right, sir horse-whipping is too good for them." I put the phone halfway down and snatched it back again. "Yes sir,… we will… thank you for calling." This time it made it back to its cradle before he could ramble on some more.
"Colonel Blashford-Ormsby-Gridpipe," I explained to Maggie. "Someone has popped-off all his Christmas tree lights with an air gun I stretched my arms out as if aiming a rifle.
She said: "A proper tree, out in the grounds, I presume."
TerchowV I said. "Got one. Good shot. No, I think he said it was standing on the piano."
She gave me the resigned look I've seen so many times. "Dare I ask you about Janet Saunders?" she wondered.
"Janet Saunders," I told her, 'would come as a welcome relief. What else did she tell you?"
"Nothing useful. She said he didn't wear a condom, but she doesn't know if he was circumcised or not. She's started her period, so that's a relief. I had a word with her about AIDS and the availability of counselling, but she says she definitely wants a test."
"Good for her. Let's go see Mr. Wood and kill two birds with one well-aimed missile."
Superintendent Gilbert Wood was spooning coffee into a mug as he shouted a come in to my knock.
"Ah, just in time," I said as we entered. "It must be at least six minutes since my last one."
He dropped a tea bag into another cup, saying: "Maggie?"
"Ooh, coffee please," she replied. "I've just had one, but it's not often the super makes it for me."
"Jesus washed his disciples' feet, Margaret," he replied.
We sat down at his desk while the kettle boiled and small-talked about Christmas. When it clicked off, Maggie jumped to her feet. "I'll do it," she said. "Don't want you scalding yourself."
There were sounds of stirring behind me. "Just two sweeteners for me,"
Gilbert called to her. "Oh, and don't put the tea bag in the wastepaper bin." "Where do I put it?"
"Anywhere but the bin. The cleaning ladies have complained. They jam the shredder, or something. I don't know what we're supposed to do with them."
"Those cleaning ladies are growing too big for their boots," I grumbled.
Maggie placed three mugs on the table and we shuffled beer mats under them. "I left the used bag on a saucer," she said.
"When you have a few dry ones you could always put them in an envelope and post them to someone," I suggested.
Gilbert took a sip and pulled a face. "Anyone…?" He made a pouring gesture over his coffee.
Maggie and I shook our heads and he looked disappointed.
"Or you could let them drop out of the bottoms of your trousers as you walked across the car park every evening."
"Right," Gilbert said. "Having solved my problem of how to dispose of wet tea bags is that it, or is there something even more pressing?"
I looked at Maggie and spread my fingers, inviting her to talk. She told the super everything Janet Saunders had alleged the night before, and the little we knew about Darryl the Rapist.
Gilbert looked grave and gave a big sigh. "Has anyone recognised him?" he asked.
I shook my head. "No, but it's early doors. And if he's local he shouldn't be too hard to find. He seems to be a creature of habit."
"So you want to fetch him in?"
"I think we should. We need to know who he is, at the very least."
"OK, but don't waste too much time on it."
There was a look of panic on Maggie's face as she looked from one of us to the other. "What's the problem?" she demanded. "He's a regular in the Tap and Spile. We'll get him."
"It might be better, Maggie, if we didn't," I suggested.
"And let him get away with rape!"
"Which would Mrs. Saunders prefer: not catching him, or we arrest him and the CPS refuses to prosecute?"
Gilbert said: "Darryl was right, Maggie. It'd be her word against his.
The vast majority of rapists are known to their victims, and we have a less than thirty per cent conviction rate if we go ahead with it. It looks as if he knows the score."
"We can't just let him get away with it," she protested.
"What would happend if it went to court?" I asked her. "I liked Janet. I admire her courage and believe every word she said. But how would she look in the witness box?" I took hold of my thumb, as if counting. "Her husband has the daughter through the week. That looks to me as if he has custody. Why is that? Was she the guilty party?" I moved to my index finger. "Janet works in the pub three nights per week, but doesn't have a full-time job. Is she on benefits? Almost certainly. Does she declare her pub income?" I shrugged my shoulders.
"They're just for starters. What else might we find out about her that can be twisted by a barrister to destroy her character? She'd get torn to pieces, Maggie. It'd be worse than the rape."
Poor Maggie looked shell-shocked. She'd heard of cases like this, heard of judges who still lived in the Stone Age and believed that 'she was asking for it' was a sound defence. But it's impossible to accept that there might be another point of view when you've dried the victim's tears, wiped the snot off her cheek and steadied her trembling shoulders. I didn't mention the final kick in the teeth: if the CPS decided that it wasn't worth pursuing, or if Janet decided not to give evidence, we regarded it as a clear-up.
"But," Gilbert said, removing his half-moon spectacles and polishing them on a large handkerchief, 'as Charlie said, we need to know who he is. If he gets away with it once, he'll do it again. Let's have a look at him, eh?"
I turned to Maggie. "How do you fancy a couple of nights on the town, with Mrs. Saunders?"
"No problem," she replied.
"Overtime?" I wondered, turning to the super.
He rolled his eyes. "Two hours," he said. "Not a minute more."