Annabelle rang me that evening. "Before you ask," I told her, "I've had piece of cod from the market, grilled to perfection mmm! with some melted cheese over it, and a few vegetables." Actually it was boil-in-the-bag, but what you don't know can't give you indigestion.
"Well done," she replied. "I'm glad you are eating sensibly, if you are telling the truth."
"Scout's honour. Followed by a big cream bun from the bakery. What about you? How did your evening with Farouk go?"
"Farouk? Who's Farouk?"
"This Egyptian carpet dealer who took you to his restaurant."
"He's Persian, and he's called Xav. I imagine it is short for Xavier.
Actually he's very nice. Older than I expected, but ever so charming."
"I'm jealous already. How was the meal?"
"The meal itself was fine, but I think I may have upset George and Rachel."
"Go on," I laughed.
"Blame it on your Yorkshire forthrightness rubbing off on me…"
"Bluntness," I interrupted. "We call it bluntness."
"Bluntness, then. Poor old Xav asked me what I thought of his lovely new restaurant, so I told him. George looked ever so embarrassed and if looks could kill you'd have an APW out for Rachel. Did I get that right?"
"Ha ha! That's my girl. What did you say?"
"Well, the restaurant is called Omar Khayyam's, rather predictably, and Xav has the contract for a chain of them, attached to something called Luxotel Hotel and Conference Centres. It is supposed to be an alternative dining experience, more up market than the hotel restaurants, to give top businessmen somewhere to impress their more affluent clients."
"I'm impressed already," I said, 'and I haven't even been."
"You would have seen it for what it was," Annabelle assured me. "For a start, I told him that the name was naff. I said it sounded like a take away She giggled at the memory. "Then I criticised the decor. It was all done in pale green and lilacs, what you would describe as a puff's boudoir. I told him that I would have chosen something bolder; perhaps largely white, with black and red panels and gold borders; something with a more Eastern feel."
"Sounds good to me. What did he say?"
"That was the surprising thing. He had a good look around and said he agreed. He wished that he had consulted me earlier. I wondered if he was just being polite, or patronising me."
"Don't be silly," I said. "I've told you before, you have a flair for that kind of thing."
"Then he asked me to suggest another name, before it was too late and he'd had all the signs made. After some thought I said I'd call it Jamshyd's."
"Jamshyds?"
"That's right. He was a Persian king, fabulously wealthy, mentioned in the Rubaiyat."
I said: "As in: "The wild ass stamps o'er his head, and he lies fast asleep"?"
"Mmm, not quite, that was another king. "The lion and the lizard keep the courts where Jamshyd gloried and drank deep," but I'm still impressed."
"Don't be it's the only poem I know. Your version sounds much more appropriate. I'm glad you enjoyed yourself, Annabelle, and it sounds as if you gave them something to think about. So when are you coming home? You know I'll be extremely happy to come and fetch you."
"Ah. That's why I rang." her voice had dropped several tones. "Would you be very disappointed if I stayed down here for the New Year, Charles? Xav rang me earlier today and said he would like to show me the designs for the next restaurant. Apparently it is nearly at the decoration stage and he needs to move fast if he's changing things. He says he will even pay me consultancy fees, would you believe? Do you mind, love? I'll come back if you insist."
What do you say? Do you insist? The words no win situation are not usually anywhere near the tip of my tongue, but right then I couldn't think of a better expression.
"Oh," I said.
"It's only a couple of days. I'll come back on the train, the day after New Year's day."
That was three days. "Er, right," I mumbled. "You'veer caught me off balance. I was looking forward to coming to collect you."
"Oh, I'm sorry if I've upset your plans, Charles, but I really would like to have a go at this. It's a wonderful opportunity."
Bugger my plans, I thought, it's me that's upset. "Yes, I can see that," I told her. "Don't worry about me. You show those experts a thing or two that they couldn't learn at college, and tell me all about it when you come home, eh?"
"I knew you would understand, and you know what they say?"
"What's that?"
"Absence makes the heart grow fonder, of course."
"Of course." And so does lying in each other's arms under a duvet, with the rain blowing soundlessly against the double glazing and Rimsky's Sheherazade playing very low on the CD. And I know which I prefer.
You don't see a suspect for weeks, then two come along at the same time. I was listening to Today on Radio 4, mug of tea in hand, feet on the gas fire, when the phone rang. The Prime Minister was on the radio, delivering his New Year message. Law and Order was high on the priority list again. He was determined to make Britain a safer place for young and old alike. Measures would be announced to curb the increasing tendency towards violence and he promised five thousand more policemen on the beat by the end of next year. I yawned and reached for the phone.
A refrigerated van had drawn up at the end of Ged Skinner's street and a figure answering to his description had leaped down from it, carrying a sports bag, and entered the squat.
"I'll be with you in about twenty minutes," I said.
I was pulling my coat on when the phone rang again.
"Priest."
"It's Maggie, Boss. I didn't want to ring you last night, but I went for a look-round with Janet Saunders and we found Darryl."
"Brilliant! Well done."
"He's called Darryl Buxton, but we've nothing on him."
"Great. Look, Maggie, I'm sorry to cut you off in your finest hour, but I'm on my way to lift the bloke we think did the doctor. You stay with it today, see what else you can find, and I'll have a word with you later. OK?"
"Will do. Good luck."
"Cheers."
The unseasonable weather was changing; the sky clearing and the breeze swinging to the North. I pulled my down-filled jacket out of the closet and swapped the contents of my pockets round. Once I wore it up mountains, but now it was just another winter coat. Outside, the field fares were stuffing themselves with my cotoneaster berries, as if they knew something we didn't.
A panda car was parked two streets away from the squat, with Sparky's Escort behind it. I pulled in behind them and spoke to the crew of the panda.
"Let's get on with it," I said.
One of them lifted a radio. "Mr. Priest is here. Ready when you are."
"OK," came the reply. "Let's go go go!"
We didn't make a fuss. Just drove to the front and back of the house and marched into the yard. I hammered on the door.
Sparky nodded at my jacket. "Expecting bad weather?"
I nodded and sniffed. "Smell that breeze," I said. "That's ice, straight from the Arctic'
He looked up at the sky and sniffed audibly. "And polar bear shit," he confirmed.
A bleary-eyed woman in a pink candlewick housecoat came to the door. It was only seven a.m. but she'd no doubt still be wearing it at noon. She had a ring through her nose and on her throat was the biggest ripe blackhead I've ever seen. I could hardly take my eyes off it. The nearest she got to soap was on TV five evenings per week.
"Police," I said. "We believe Ged Skinner is here. Could you find him, please."
"I'll, ergo look," she mumbled, and tried to close the door. I put my arm out to hold it open and went in. Sparky and a City DC followed me.
"Ged!" the woman shouted. "It's the police, for you!"
We were standing in a dismal passage with brown walls and lino on the floor. A pram and a bike took up most of the room and several kid's toys lay around. Doors opened and inquisitive faces, mainly children's, poked round them. A little girl appeared, wearing a short vest and no knickers. She stared up at us, fingers in her mouth.
Sparky spoke to her. He's good with kids and I'm grateful.
Skinner came bouncing down the stairs wearing a T-shirt with the Nike logo on the front and shell suit bottoms with don't-I-look-stupid stripes under one knee. He was about five foot nine, with longish hair and a little wisp of a beard. His complexion looked as if it came with extra mozzarella. "What's up?" he asked.
"Ged Skinner?"
"Yeah. What of it?"
"We'd like a word with you, somewhere more private. How about coming out to the car?"
"What's it about?"
"We'll tell you there."
"I'm having my breakfast," he protested. "I've just come in."
"We won't keep you long," I said. Fifteen years was the time I had in mind. The passage was filling with people of assorted ages and states of dress.
"E's only just come in," a spotty youth in what looked like a Dodgers nightshirt confirmed. I didn't know they did nightshirts.
"Look," I told Skinner. "We need to talk to you. It can either be here or down at the station, the choice is yours."
"I'm not going anywhere 'less you tell me what it's about."
The woman with the blackhead had adopted a protective stance alongside him. "Why don't you leave us alone?" she ranted. "We 'aven't done nothing."
I was waiting for the next line: "Why aren't you out catching murderers," but she said: "Aven't you anything better to do?"
"Are you coming out to the car?" I demanded.
"I'm not going nowhere unless you tell me what it's about."
"OK, have it your way. Ged Skinner, I am arresting you on suspicion of being involved in the death of Dr. Clive Jordan. You do not have to say anything but it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned, something that you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you understand? Good, let's go."
The spectators were stunned into silence, except for the little girl who started to cry. "The doctor?" Skinner said, shaken. "You think it was me what did the doctor?"
"Take him in," I told Sparky, 'and let's have this place searched."
"Let's see your warrant," Skinner insisted.
"I'm all the warrant we need," I told him. "Let's go."
"Hang on," Skinner protested. "I haven't got any shoes on."
I looked down and saw his bare feet for the first time. "For God's sake, someone fetch his shoes," I yelled.
"Where do you want him taking, guy," the City DC asked.
"Heckley. We're still allowed to make our own tea there."
While Skinner was being processed I had a toasted tea cake in the canteen then ran upstairs to see if anything was happening in the office that I needed to know about. Maggie was hanging her coat up.
"Did you get him?" she asked.
"Bet your ass," I replied with a wink and a jerk of the head. "But we had to arrest him. We'll let him settle in, have a word with the duty solicitor, then I'll put the thumbscrews on him."
It had worked out well. The evidence was a bit weak, all circumstantial, and the custody sergeant might have thrown it out, so I'd normally have done an initial interview and hoped something would have come from that. We'd arrested him because he wouldn't cooperate, and that meant that I could now authorise a property search.
"Have you time to hear about Darryl?"
"You may not believe it, Maggie," I told her, 'but Darryl is my number one priority. I'm just Makinson's running dog in this murder case.
Fire away what have you got?"
She tucked her blouse into her skirt and sat down opposite me. Her hair was wet, several strands clinging to her forehead. "We went looking for him last night," she began. "Janet and me, that is. Found him in a town-centre pub. The Huntsman. It was fifties night you'd have been at home. Darryl was leaning on the bar, chatting to anyone who came to be served. Got the impression that was his technique. It was early, about eight thirty. Looked like we'd have a long wait and Janet was upset, so I phoned for a taxi and sent her home. Hope that's all right?"
"No problem. Go on."
"Darryl stayed until chucking-out time. He drove home alone and I followed him to a flat in that posh new block near the canal. The address matched the one on record for the owner of the Mondeo he was driving. He's called Darryl Buxton and he's clean, I'm afraid. All the other details are on your desk."
"Brilliant, Maggie. We'll make a detective of you yet. Looks as if you'd better take an afternoon off when things settle down you heard what Mr. Wood said about overtime."
"That's OK. There's more. This morning I followed him to his place of employment. He works in the town centre, for someone called Homes 4U.
That's number 4, capital U. Snappy, eh?"
"Speaks volumes about their clientele," I said. — "Quite. They're some sort of estate agents, special ising in cheap rentals, DHSS work, that sort of stuff. They're big around Manchester and are just expanding to this side of the Pennines. I rang them up and had a girl-to-girl chat with their receptionist. She sounded a bit dim.
Darryl is the local manager."
We were sitting at Nigel's desk and I'd straightened most of his paper clips as I listened to Maggie. I pulled at his middle drawer to find some more and saw the Guardian, open at the crossword. My proudest achievement is that I've created the only department in the force where officers dare to be seen reading the Guardian. I slid the drawer shut again.
"Now you've sorted that out," I said, "I don't suppose you'd like to have a go at this murder case would you? Sort that out, too?"
Maggie smiled and her cheeks flushed, just a little. "If you need me, but what I'd really like is a bacon sandwich in the canteen, if you don't mind."
I nodded my approval and she asked me if I was joining her. "No, I've just come from there," I said.
When she'd gone I pulled the crossword out and read through the clues.
They might as well have been written in Mandarin Chinese. One across was "Editor rejected ruse set out (6)." Possibly an anagram of set out, but nothing flashed into my brain. I put potato. Two lines below was nine across: "Comes down, about to fix forest in grand planned development (9,9)." The second nine referred to twelve across. I wrote apple pies and crocodile in the appropriate squares. For fifteen, nineteen, twenty-two and twenty-seven across I put: haddock, ruminant, frog spawn and Zatopek.
Then, with a blunt black fibre-tipped pen, I carefully drew a line through all the clues for the lines that I'd filled in. You need inspiration like that for the Guardian crossword.
I was admiring my work when a pair of hands fell on my shoulders. "Need any help?" Sparky asked.
"Er, n-no thanks," I stuttered, guiltily, "I, er, think that's as far as I can go."
"Read the clue out," he invited.
"Clue!" I gasped. "Clue! Since when did we bother with clues?"
He'd come to tell me that the interview room was set up and Skinner and the duty solicitor were waiting for us. We discussed tactics for ten minutes and went downstairs.
Skinner was smoking. We, the employees, are not allowed to smoke in the nick, but stopping our clients doing so would be to violate their civil liberties. I found him an ashtray. Sparky switched the tape recorder on and did the introductions. It was ten thirty a.m. and we had him for another twenty-three hours. I verified that he was Ged Skinner and his main place of residence was the squat.
"Did you know Dr. Give Jordan?" I asked.
"Yeah," he grunted.
"How did you know him?"
"Cos he was prescribing methadone for me."
"Why?"
He looked straight into my eyes and said: "Cos I'm a fucking dope-head, ain't I?"
I said: "I know why you were taking methadone. What I want to know is why was Dr. Jordan prescribing it for you? He wasn't your GP, was he?
And as far as we know he wasn't attached to any programme."
Skinner galloped his fingertips on the table. "Yeah," he said. "Sorry.
I, er, met him about five weeks ago, at the General. The wife was sent to see him, by her doctor. Women's problems. She was worried scared so I went in with her. He was good about it. Brilliant. Said she was pregnant but there was nothing to worry about, if she was careful with herself. Gave her some pills and told her to come back in a month. Then he looked at me and said: "That's her fixed up, now what are we going to do about you?" I said "How do you mean?" and he told me that if I didn't get off drugs I might not live to see my kid."
"Who told him you were on drugs?"
"Nobody, I don't think. He could see from the state I was in." He raised his arms and said: "This is sound, for me."
"Go on," I invited.
He folded his arms and sat for a few moments with his chin on his chest. "I've done all the cures," he began. "All the do-gooders have had a go at me. St. Hilda's, Project 2000, the City Limits Trust. You name it, I've done it. But nobody talked to me like he did. They're all sympathy and encouragement and "I know what you're going through."
He raised the pitch of his voice for the last bit and affected a posh accent. "There was none of that with the doc. He said:
"Get off it now or you're dead. D-E-A-D fucking dead!" He said he'd help me as much as he could, but he couldn't do it for me. It was up to me. I said right. Let's give it a go."
"So he started prescribing methadone for you."
"That's right. One day at a time. He'd leave a script for me either at the hospital or, later, I'd collect one from his flat. I'm down to twenty milligrams."
"From what?"
"From whatever I could get. "Bout hundred milligrams, plus horse."
"And you were doing OK?"
"Yeah. You don't gouch out on it, but it helps you through the bad times, which is all the H does, when you've been using it as long as me."
"So when did you last see him?"
"Day before Christmas Eve, 'bout half past six."
"At his house?"
"That's right'
"How long were you with him?"
"Not long. Two minutes. We just stood on the doorstep chatting for a while. He gave me a script for two days and a letter to take to this GP in London."
He was anticipating my questions. I sat back and let Sparky take over.
"What GP in London?" he asked.
"A GP in London. When I told him that I wanted to go there he persuaded me that a script for a week wasn't a good idea."
"Where were you going in London?"
"Wandsworth."
Sparky made an encouraging gesture with one hand. "You're allowed to elaborate," he said. The new caution has been a big help. Suspects now know that silence, or being obstructionist, might ruin their defence, so they usually give an answer of sorts, but Skinner was almost being helpful.
"Right," he said. "I have some good friends in Wandsworth. Jim and Mary. We was in care together, from being about ten. We split up when we were sixteen, but we've always kept in touch. I go see them every Christmas, if I can. I told the doctor and he asked me to find out the name of a GP down there. He rang him and did me a letter of introduction, so I got my scripts no problem."
"We need Jim and Mary's address, and the doctor's," Sparky told him.
Skinner recited them from memory and I wrote them down to save time waiting for the tape to be transcribed.
"So where were you at eight o'clock that night," Sparky went on.
"Easy. In a van on my way down south."
"Can you prove it?"
"My brother-in-law was driving it. Well, he's not really my brother-in-law. He picked me up at home just after six. We went round to the doc's and then set off. Will that do?"
"No."
"I don't want to drag him into it, if I can. He's not supposed to take passengers."
I chipped in with: "Did you stop anywhere?"
"Yeah. We stopped for a fry-up."
"Where?"
"Don't know the name of the place. It's on the Peterborough road, just after the long red wall, after you pass the airfield."
Sparky and I looked blank. There's a whole culture of travellers who never use a map, never remember a road number; they navigate by landmarks, like the early fliers did.
"Near the greenhouses," he explained.
"Right," I said. "And did you save the receipt?"
"No."
"What a pity."
"The brother-in-law claimed it. He insisted on separate receipts and kept them both. For his expenses. He'll have it."
We were supposed to be tying him up and he was doing it to us. "Two fry-ups in one day," I said. "He'll clog his arteries."
"No, he didn't eat them both," Skinner told me, earnestly. "I had one of them. He just told his firm that he had, for the money." Now he was taking the piss.
Sparky said: "How did you learn of the doctor's death?"
"Jim and Mary have a phone. The wife she's not really the wife rang me, Christmas Day. Said it'd been on Radio Leeds."
"What did you think?"
He shrugged his shoulders. "What am I going to do for my scripts?
That's what drugs do to you."
"Who did you get your drugs off before the methadone?" I asked.
A look of panic flashed across his face. "I can't tell you that. I'd be a dead man."
"OK. If you didn't kill the doctor, who did? Were you in with anyone heavy? Had you told your supplier about him? Was he losing a good customer because of the doc?"
"No. I didn't tell a soul, except the wife. And I bought my H casual, like. Nothing regular. Half a gram, when I had the money. That's all. It's all the other stuff they put in it that fucks you up."
"Are you all right for today?" I asked.
"Yeah, but I haven't got it with me."
"And tomorrow?"
"I need to fix something for tomorrow."
"Want our doctor to see you?"
He hesitated. "I don't know. Maybe now's the time to break with it."
"OK," I said. "We'll leave it at that, for now."
He was taken to one of the cells. Judging by his trousers, the duty solicitor went for a round of golf and Sparky and I trudged up the stairs to the CID office.
"What do you reckon?" Sparky asked. Someone always asks it. I knew what I reckoned, but I wasn't admitting it, yet.
"Check it all out," I said. "Let's see what they turn up at the squat a gun would be nice. Talk to the brother-in-law, get the receipts.
Then let's have a look at Jim and Mary in Wands worth and the doctor down there. Have a word with traffic. Try to arrange for someone local to get a receipt for a breakfast from the cafe-near-the-wall-by-the-silver-stream-under-the-trees-by-the-fly over Could be worse. It could have been in Welsh."
Maggie was in the office. "It's on your desk," she said.
"That was quick."
"We don't mess about. When are we going to have a word with him?"
"Darryl?"
"Mmm."
"Not yet," I told her. "I want to concentrate on the doctor job, if you don't mind. Makinson will be back on the second, and I've a feeling he's not going to be pleased with what I have to say. Maybe we'll go for Mr. Buxton when the debris has fallen to the ground, eh?"
"What about tomorrow? We could get him then."
"Tomorrow, Maggie, is a bank holiday. I suggest we all have the day off. What's good enough for Mr. Makinson is good enough for the rest of us."
"Blimey!" she exclaimed. "I don't believe what I'm hearing."
"Well just keep your fingers crossed that our Darryl doesn't strike again."
"I never thought of that. Do you think he might?"
"I doubt it. Hopefully this was a one-off." I wondered if I was making a mistake. Maybe we should put the scarers on him as soon as possible. "Have you an Almanac handy?" I asked. "There is one avenue we can try."
Maggie fetched it from where it hung on a piece of string from a nail in the notice board. I thumbed through it after studying the map and dialled a number.
"Pendle Police Headquarters," a voice sang in my ear.
"Good morning," I said. "Could you please put me through to DI Drago at Burnley Padiham Road CID."
"Putting you through."
After the usual beeping and clicking a voice said: "Padiham Road CID.
DI Smith speaking."
"I said: "Hello. This is DI Charlie Priest at Heckley CID. Is DI Drago available, please?"
"Drago? DI Drago? Sorry, Mr. Priest, I've never heard of him."
I looked at the date on the front of the Almanac. It was eight years old. "Oh," I said. "He must have moved on. Doesn't time fly? Peter Drago owed me a favour and I was calling it in. We were at the Academy together a long time ago, and one night I saved him from a six-foot bald-headed nymphomaniac. I wonder if you can help me. How's your local knowledge?"
Not brilliant, I'm afraid. Only been here three weeks. I was at Chester before that."
"Right. Well, I'd be very grateful if you could make a few enquiries on my behalf with your intelligence officer or any other local men."
"I'll see what we can do, Mr. Priest."
"Good. Thanks. We are about to have a talk with a character called Darryl Buxton, about an alleged rape on Christmas Eve. He has no form, but we think he may have come from Burnley. If I give you his description do you think you could see if he's known to anyone, please?"
"You mean, informally?"
I winked at Maggie. "Yes, informally. Just between ourselves."
He told me that I wouldn't be able to use it and I said yes, I was aware that I wouldn't be able to use it and he eventually said he would, so I gave him the description Computers are good for storing information, but there are some things you just daren't put on them. I wanted to know if there was anything like that for Darryl Buxton. All's fair in love and law.
"What was all that about?" Maggie asked as I replaced the handset.
"What's Burnley got to do with it?"
"It's a long story," I replied, settling back in the chair "It all started in the First World War."
The East Lancashire Regiment was in the thick of it In 1914 they recruited locally: men from one town, or one street, enlisting together to form what were known as Pals Battalions. Brother trained and fought side by side with brother, father with son. They escaped the drudgery of mill or coal mine to take the King's shilling and fight to make the world a better place. They yelled blood-curdling war-cries as they stabbed bags of straw with their bayonets and imagined they were killing Germans. The only difference, they were assured, was that the real thing would be running away from them. Nobody told them that their enemy was probably a blond-haired Adonis who'd grown up in the fields and mountains of Bavaria, not stooped over loom or shovel breathing foul air for twelve hours per day.
Nobody told them about machine guns.
Nobody told them about the Military Police who followed behind and shot anyone who turned to run, even though their comrades were falling around them like over-ripe plums in the first autumn gale.
And nobody ever mentioned the firing squads that were waiting for the frightened or the feeble or the ones who simply saw more suffering than anyone could bear.
When it was over, when the politicians saw the opportunity to save face, when Satan himself was sickened by the carnage, those that remained limped their way back towards the Channel, towards home. They left behind their friends, their sight, their youth and, some of them, their sanity.
For the East Lanes, a ragged remnant of their former selves, luck changed. They regrouped and billeted at Fecamp, in Normandy. Centuries before, the Benedictine monks who lived there had devised the medicinal brew of grape and herbs that now bears their name. It was offered to the soldiers of the East Lanes to soothe the pain, and, being fifty per cent proof, it worked. They asked for more. To men who were still young enough to remember every pint of weak beer they'd had, it had a kick like a field gun.
They brought the pestle-shaped bottles home with them, to stand on the sideboard alongside the shell cases, the uniformed photograph and the framed message from the King. And they brought a taste for the contents with them, too.
Like the gene for brown eyes, or cystic fibrosis, or the belief in God, it passed down the generations. Eighty years later a handful of pubs and clubs around Burnley still do a thriving trade in Benedictine, serving it to the great-great grandchildren of that ragtaggle army that left its dreams 'hanging on the old barbed wire'.
Sparky had joined us. "You know some stuff," he said, when I'd finished.
"It doesn't win quizzes," I admitted.
"So you reckon he comes from Burnley," Maggie said.
"I'd bet on it."
She was picking at her fingernails, absent-mindedly removing imaginary dirt from under them with her thumbnail, a faraway expression on her face. "It'd be nice if they could come up with something," she said.
She wanted Darryl behind bars.
"Day after tomorrow," I told her. "We'll have a word with him then.
Put it in your new diary."
Sparky was pulling his coat on. "I'll get down to the squat, Boss," he said. "See if they need any help."
"OK. I'll probably be here if you want me, but try not to." I didn't envy them, having to cope with all the residents, plus children and animals. It'd be a pantomime.
"What are you doing tonight?" he asked.
"Not sure. Haven't thought about it."
"In that case, come round. See the New Year in with us."
"Aren't you going out?"
"No. Sophie's going to a party, so Daniel would be left on his own.
We'll stay in with him."
"Right, thanks. I'll come round late on, if that's OK?"
"See you then. I might have to tear myself away to fetch Sophie. The joys of fatherhood," he added, making a face.
A copy of the Sun was lying on Jeff Caton' sdesk, with the headline '5,000 New Cops'. I picked it up and read the story.
It didn't take long. The streets were about to be reclaimed for the people. The PM's new initiative would meet the muggers and vandals and drug pushers head-on, make them realise that they had no future in the New Society. Suddenly, we had Society again. They made it sound as if our towns and villages would be flooded with policemen. You'd be able to walk your dog at two in the morning, safe in the knowledge that a friendly bobby would be standing on every street corner.
I pulled out my calculator and typed 5,000 into it. Divide by forty-three forces, except that the Met would get the lion's share, then by the seventeen divisions in East Pennine and the number of stations in Heckley. We cover twenty-four hours per day, seven days per week, but each officer only works five eight-hour shifts. I tapped the appropriate keys. Then there's holidays, training courses and sick leave. I hit the equals button and watched as minute electrical forces shuffled molecules into new locations, spelling out a number. It said that at any given time the citizens of Heckley would have the benefit of an extra 0.49 of a policeman on duty. Allowing for meal breaks, paperwork and time in court, it worked out as the equivalent of a rooky wolf cub. Halle-flipping-lujah.
I did a report for Makinson and caught up with the burglaries. Lunch was a mug of tea. The doctor in Wandsworth was on his rounds, I was told, but I'd catch him about ten to four. Sparky rang to say that they'd found nothing of interest at the squat and Nigel told me that Skinner's brother-in-law had been traced. He'd be having a word with him shortly.
It had never looked good, and then it all fell to pieces. Nigel came in with the till receipts and they sounded just like the one a Traffic officer from Cambridgeshire described to me. The doctor in Wandsworth verified that he had been contacted by Dr. Jordan, and Skinner had collected his prescriptions from him like a good little boy. Jim and Mary were stalwarts of the local church and supported Skinner's story, and finally, we didn't have a weapon.
"Let him go," Superintendent Wood said.
"Let him go," Chief Superintendent Isles concurred.
"You can go," I told Skinner. The only bright spot was the thought of the look on Makinson's sunburnt face when he learned the news, and I wondered how I could wangle being there at the time.
I hung around in the office until I knew the Bamboo Curtain would be open and had my favourite, duck in plum sauce, for tea, washed down with a pint of lager. There was no reason why I shouldn't have a little celebration of my own. The place was almost empty, so early in the evening, and the proprietor came and shared a pot of Chinese tea with me, on the house. Later, it would be rowdy with drunks, but the staff would serve them with patience and courtesy, their contempt suppressed by ten thousand years of oppression.
There were no messages on my ansa phone but the postman had made a delivery. The various financial organisations that knew my address were suggesting that now was the time to reorganise my lifestyle and the house insurance was due. I binned most of it and had a shower.
I had no clean shirts. Well, no decent ones. I don't wear designer clothes and automatically reject anything with the label on the outside. If they want me to advertise their wares they should pay me, or at least bring their prices down. All jeans are made from the same material on the same machines to the same measurements. Only the labels vary, with perhaps an odd row of decorative stitching. I buy mine in the market at half price. I pulled on a pair that had that washed-once look, when the colour is at its brightest.
There is one exception to my aversion to style. Wrangler do a shirt that has a row of mother-of-pearl press-studs down the front instead of buttons, and the first time I saw one I thought that one day all shirts would be like that. Harold Wilson was at Number Ten at the time, but Scott McKenzie was at number one. I found a faded example in the recesses of the wardrobe and put it on. I was only going toSparky's;I'ddo.
Once upon a time I thought I was trendy, at art school, when I was competing with the other young blokes, like a stag at rutting time. I had an Afghan coat. I gave it to the Oxfam shop, and a couple of years ago I'm sure I saw it on telly, when Kabul fell. What goes around comes around.
I made a mug of tea and relaxed for a while to a Dire Straits CD, hoping Annabelle would call me. It was ten o'clock when the phone rang, as I was opening my front door, leather jacket half on, half off.
"Priest!" I snapped into it, with faked authority.
"Hi, Charlie. Pete Drago. How are you?"
"Hiya, Dragon," I replied. "This is a pleasant surprise. I'm fine, how are you?"
"I'm OK, thanks. Counting the days, of course, like you, I suppose."
Time flies, don't remind me."
"It doesn't seem like fifteen years since I rescued you from that big nympho when we were at the Academy."
"Your memory's playing tricks. It was me rescued you."
"No it wasn't. I was knocking her off for the rest of the course."
"So were most of the others."
"Then everyone was happy. I wonder what happened to her?"
"I married her. So where are you, these days?"
"Ha ha! Good one. I'm at Penrith, back in uniform."
"Penrith? What took you there?"
"It was either move up here and go back into uniform or have my buttons cut off in front of the massed troops of the division. It's not too bad."
"I get the message. It sounds as if you haven't changed much."
"It was a long time ago. Listen, I rang Padiham Road for a chat with a couple of old pals and they said you'd been after me."
"That's right. We have a suspected rapist called Darryl Buxton who may have originated in Burnley. There's nothing on the PNC for him, so I was hoping for some local knowledge."
"That's what I was told. When I heard the name the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end, except that it's not quite right. The bloke I'm thinking of is called Darryl Burton."
"Burton?" I repeated. "No, this is definitely Buxton. What did your man do?"
"He raped a sixteen-year-old schoolgirl, eight years ago. Invited two of them to his flat one bank holiday Monday and plied them with cheap wine. One of them passed out and he raped the other. He pleaded not guilty and just before the trial the girl's parents withdrew the charges. It had been made plain to them that he intended destroying her credibility in court. I think she knew what it was all about."
"It sounds like our man. What does he look like?"
The description could have been read from Maggie's report. "Yuppy meets football hooligan' was his final assessment.
"It's him," I said. "He's moved away from Burnley and changed his name."
"If it is the same bloke he's a nasty piece of work. He was only about twenty, but he worked as a heavy a repo man — for a firm of bailiffs, or something."
"This one works for an estate agency called Homes 4U. He's a branch manager."
"That's them! Homes 4U. Estate agency is putting it a bit high, I'd say. They're not above calling round to slow payers with the baseball bats."
"Great. You've been a big help, Pete. We're bringing him in after the New Year, so it'll be good to have some background on him."
"I haven't finished yet," he said. "I left a few months later, but I've a feeling that he pulled something similar after I'd gone. The man to talk to is called Herbert Mathews. He was our collator but he retired on ill health about a year ago. I'll give you his address. If it breathed in Burnley, Herbert knew about it."
We chatted for a while, agreeing that we ought to get together, knowing we wouldn't. We'd said our farewells when a thought struck him.
"Charlie!" he shouted as I was replacing the phone.
"Yeah."
"I just thought of something. I believe you told Padiham Road that this rape was on Christmas Eve?"
"That's right."
"Well, the one I investigated was on a bank holiday Monday." "So?"
"So you know what tonight is? Maybe there's a pattern."
"Shit!"
"Quite."
"Happy New Year."
"Thanks. And you."