Sparky was right. We were no nearer narrowing the field down than when Ged Skinner walked out of the station. We hadn't even considered Darryl Buxton. Much as I'd have loved to have pinned it on him, living in the same block of flats as the dead man was hardly grounds for suspicion. Monday, I'd have a word with Mr. Wood and Mr. Isles. We needed more manpower. Every alibi would have to be checked, every interview re-done. Maybe somebody's guard would drop, or their story wouldn't tally with the first one they'd given. They'd embroider it, add bits that contradicted what they'd said earlier, and talk themselves into a murder charge. And Mother Teresa might buy a Harley for nipping to mass on. I told Sparky that I'd see him Monday and went home.
I had a luxurious shower and smothered myself in smelly gunge that Annabelle had given me for Christmas. Tonight we would eat in style; the Wool Exchange was the best restaurant in Heckley. There wasn't much competition — the second best was the Bamboo Curtain but it had a certain class that no amount of new money can re-create. I pulled the last of the new shirts from its box and carefully unfolded it. It was dark blue, with a thin grey check. It would look good with my dark suit and the red silk tie, which was another present from Annabelle.
I pulled the knot tight and slipped my jacket on, studying myself in the mirror. I looked good, even if it was archetypal detective. The face was pale and I had a few more wrinkles, but they were all in the places where I smile, and I smile a lot. I picked up the holiday brochures and drove round to the Old Vicarage, next to St. Bidulph's, where Annabelle lived.
She was wearing a fawn suit that I'd never seen before and a red blouse. The suit wasn't her colour she's at her best in something really bold but she still looked stunning. She looks good in one of my old sweaters when she's helping me with emergency maintenance in my garden. I stood watching her as she moved around the rooms, checking windows and switches. When she was ready I led her to the front door and held it open. As she passed me she gave me a kiss on the cheek.
"What did I do to deserve that?" I asked, pleased but slightly surprised.
"You look very handsome," she said, rather gravely, and gave me a squeeze.
"And you look very beautiful," I replied, but she turned away, and my kiss fell on her cheek.
Tell me about the Wool Exchange," she said, in the car.
"Right," I replied. "Here comes a rather vague history lesson. The present building was built by the wool barons in the eighteenth century, although, there was something there long before that. It was where they auctioned their produce and conducted their other businesses. It was in use well into this century, but I'm not very good at dates. At other times they used it as an exclusive club and entertained their cotton-picking cousins from over the hill. If we knew its full history we might not want to frequent the place.
Slave-trade money and freemasonry come to mind, but I think you'll like it."
"Have you been before?"
"Mmm," I said. "Long time ago," but I didn't enlarge upon my answer.
My wife Vanessa and I held our wedding reception there. After that we'd come back for a romantic table for two on birthdays and anniversaries. There weren't too many of those. Tonight, hopefully, I was laying a ghost.
Our table was available so we went straight in and sat down. "This is incredible," Annabelle said, looking around. Along the edges of the room was a row of desks on high legs, with merchants' names elegantly written on them in gold paint. Blackboards carried the names of breeds of sheep, probably now extinct, with columns for the prices to be written in sd. Portraits of the leading barons in their ceremonial robes, smug bastards to a man, adorned the walls. It wasn't elegant or aesthetically pleasing in any way, but it was authentic and smacked of wealth and all that went with it.
"Would you like the wine list, sir?" a waiter was saying as he proffered a bound volume. He was old enough to have been here when they drowned their sorrows over universal suffrage. Annabelle shook her head when I looked across at her.
"Just fizzy water, please," I said.
All the other tables were occupied but they were so far apart it didn't matter. We both decided the halibut dieppoise with a salp icon of prawns and leeks sounded good and settled for that. I was starving so I ordered the carrot and fennel soup and we both asked for pate.
"How's the soup?" Annabelle asked as I tucked in.
"Delicious, but," I said.
"But what?"
"But not as good as yours. Same with the bread roll. Have you seen the uplifting slogans carved round the frieze?" I led her eyes upwards. "The one behind you says: "Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the Earth."
"Good grief, yes," she replied. "There doesn't look anything meek about this lot. Yours says: "Out of Prosperity shall come Peace." I suppose I could go along with that."
"Except when the the prosperity comes from running slaves and peddling opium to the Chinese," I said.
"It's a fascinating place," Annabelle observed, glancing around. "Why haven't you brought me here before?"
"Oh, I just thought I'd keep it up my sleeve," I told her, laying the spoon across my empty bowl.
"And what else do you have up your sleeve?"
I fiddled with my napkin and focused on the table centrepiece. There was a little silver bowl brimming with primulas, and salt and pepper shakers with a coat of arms on them that featured a sheep hanging by a strap round its middle. I've never understood what that was about.
"Nothing," I said, softly, looking up into her eyes, bluer than a jay's wing, and reaching a hand towards her. "There's nothing else, Annabelle. All you see here is all there is."
Her cheeks flushed. She picked up her fork and pressed the points into the cloth until she realised what she was doing and replaced it. We were too far apart to hold hands so I had to settle for a little smile from her.
An all male party, about eight of them, were at a table in the far corner. We could hear them chattering but they weren't too bad. As the waiter brought the pate they all burst into raucous laughter.
"I must apologise for the noise, sir," the waiter said. "I assure you they are not regular customers."
"It's not a problem," I told him.
One of the group was now on his feet, as if to make a speech. A bread roll bounced off his dinner jacket and he sat down again to loud cheers from his cronies.
"It's not how we prefer our guests to behave," the waiter said, hurrying off.
"Tell me about the restaurants," I said to Annabelle. "And this designer you're meeting."
"I don't know much about it myself," she replied, leaning forward.
"Xav's meeting me off the train and I expect I'll be whisked away to a meeting, or a working lunch. Working lunches are very popular in this business."
"I bet they are."
"Xav sent me some drawings of the interiors of the restaurants, sort of three-dimensional plans, looking inside, if you follow me…"
"I think they're called isometric sketches," I said, although I was guessing.
"Are they? I was wondering if you'd have a look at them with me, when we go home. Will I be able to colour them, to compare how different designs would look?"
"Of course you will," I replied, smiling. Ever since we met I've broken the rules to involve her in my work. Now she was doing it with me. A roar went up from the rowdies in the corner. I looked across and Annabelle turned in her seat. One of them, jacket off and sleeves rolled up, was pretending to sing, using a Liebfraumilch bottle as a microphone. The others started chanting: "Sit down you bum, sit down you bum."
"This used to be a posh place," I said by way of an apology.
"I think we picked a bad night," she replied.
The manager, tall and elegant, scuttled out of the kitchen and headed towards them, a diplomat dashing to quell trouble with the natives.
Behind him the chef took up a position in the doorway, meat cleaver in his hand. He looked like a cross between Pavarotti and the King of Tonga. I decided to be on his side.
The manager knew what he was doing. His hands flapped as he spoke, faces nodded at him, smiles broke out and hands were shaken. He went back to his retreat and the chef closed the door.
We ate our pate and Annabelle told me that the next Luxotel would be on a new complex near West Midlands Airport. Hopefully, she'd be in from the start with the decor of this one. It was nearing completion and decisions needed making in the next few days. I could understand her enthusiasm.
The halibut was superb. I was asking Annabelle if she'd like to change her mind about the wine a glass of dry white would have gone well with it when there was another commotion in the corner. They were all on their feet, hooking jackets off the backs of chairs and reaching for wallets.
"Breathe easy," I said. "They're leaving."
"Thank goodness for that."
They filed towards us, threading between the tables in line astern, bellies thrust forward as they swayed with a curious grace, like sailors on a moving deck, and stifled their belches. They could have been the descendants of the men in the paintings, fat and arrogant but minus the class.
Fifth in the line was Darryl Buxton. He was wearing a cream tuxedo with red cummerbund and dicky bow, and a frilly shirt. Each frill was edged in black, in case you hadn't noticed it. He looked like something from the Great Barrier Reef.
"Well, well, well," he shouted as he saw me, raising an arm above his head in a parody of a bullfighter, 'look who it fuckin' isn't."
The man in front turned and grabbed him. "C'mon, Darryl," he said.
"That's the bastard who's trying to frame me," Darryl declared. "I didn't know cops ate 'ere. I wouldn't have suggested it if I'd known cops ate 'ere."
The parade had shuffled to a halt at our table. My only thought was with Annabelle. We were in a situation that was not of my making, so how could I extract us with minimum embarrassment and maybe even earn a bit of kudos for myself? Was it to be Gregory Peck in The Big Country, or Stallone in… whatever? Freud would have loved me., "Take him away, please," I said to his companion, my hands spreadeagled on the table so he could see I wasn't going for my gun.
"He's a fuckin' cop," Darryl told the restaurant.
"C'mon," his pal said. "He's not worth it."
They started to bundle him away and I looked across at Annabelle. Her face was white but she was staring defiantly at him.
"I'll fix him," I heard Darryl say. "I'll fuckin' fix you," he shouted, further away.
The manager was with us, apologising. "I assure you sir, we won't be accepting a booking from them again, and I'm most sorry for any inconvenience or upset caused to you. Please try to enjoy the rest of your meal. Allow me to bring you a complimentary bottle of wine? Sir?
Madam?"
"Who are they?" I asked.
"They said they were estate agents. A company called Homes 4 U, I believe. We took the booking about a week ago. It is the last time they will eat at the Wool Exchange, I promise you. Now, about that wine, sir?"
I shook my head. "No, we're all right, thanks." Annabelle had pushed her plate away, cutlery neatly laid on it. I felt the same way.
"I think we'll just have the bill," I said.
He trowel led the apologies on like marzipan and offered us coffees or liqueurs. I told him that the halibut was excellent but we'd lost our appetites, so he knocked ten pounds off the bill and hoped that we'd eat there again. I promised him we would.
I held the car door open for Annabelle and carefully closed it behind her. I walked round and took my own seat. I pulled my seatbelt on but didn't start the engine.
"That didn't quite work out how I'd planned it," I said.
"It wasn't your fault, Charles," she replied, putting her hand on mine.
"I'd wanted tonight to be special."
"I know." She smiled, and said: "Up to then, it had been."
"Well, at least it wasn't dull," I chuckled.
"You can certainly say that again. Who was he, that obnoxious man?"
"That was Darryl Buxton, acquitted of rape five times and in the frame for another."
"Five times!"
"That we know of."
"That's… horrible. Be careful, Charles," she said, 'he looked dangerous."
"Only with women," I assured her. "I can handle the Darryl Buxtons of this world any time at all." There's no harm in a flash of macho, now and again, as long as you keep it under control.
As we drove out of town I said: "I think the Wool Exchange must be jinxed for me."
Annabelle asked me why, and I told her about my wedding reception.
"Oh, Charles, I am sorry."
"Tell me about yours," I said.
"My wedding reception?"
"Yes. Where was it?"
"In Kenya."
"Whereabouts?"
"A little township called Navashonga, in the north."
"Go on. I like to hear you talk about Kenya."
We were at the traffic lights. They changed to green and I eased forward, Annabelle's hand on my knee. When I was in top gear again I put mine back on it.
"It was the start of the long wet season," she began, 'so the acacia trees were in blossom. The church was made of breeze blocks and flattened oil drums, with a piano that had several keys missing. After the service we had a picnic, everybody invited. People came from miles around half of Africa must have been there and the Samburu danced for us. It was wonderful."
I could picture it, through her eyes. She'd shown me her photographs and books and the images were as vivid to me as if I'd been there myself: the flat-topped fever thorn trees, the cattle, swirling dust and pogo-stick dancing of the Samburu, close cousins of the Masai. She was happy when she reminisced, and that usually made me happy, too.
But tonight it was different. Tonight, as I listened to her reminisce, her voice far away, on another continent, with another man, the ache in my stomach felt as if something was trying to suck my entrails from me, and I knew it wasn't the halibut.
"Am I invited in?" I asked as we drew up outside the Old Vicarage.
"Of course, silly. Besides, we're home a little earlier than expected."
"Mmm, that's true."
We spread the drawings of the restaurant on the refectory table in her kitchen. The paper wasn't substantial enough for watercolours, so I suggested she purchase coloured pencils from the art shop in town.
Using an HB which she found I demonstrated how to do it and watched as she tried herself. Some people have a knack for drawing, some don't, and to them it's like being tone deaf. A foreign language. Annabelle had the ability, but had never practised. It was only colouring squares, so she'd soon get the hang of it. She explained her ideas, for my approval, and I told her about the silver and gold pens you could buy. They'd do for highlighting the borders.
"Do you want me to take you to the station in the morning?" I asked as I finished my mug of decaff and stood up to leave.
"It's kind of you Charles, but I've.ordered a taxi. For six thirty, would you believe?"
"You know I'd be happy to take you down there; go with you."
"No. We want to take a look at a couple of restaurants in the West End and Docklands. See if they inspire us. There's a limit to how many times you can do that in a weekend."
"So when are you coming home?"
"Monday."
"You'll put on weight."
"Probably."
I put my arms around her for my customary goodnight kiss. She melted into them but buried her face in my neck.
"You're a very thoughtful person, Charles," she said as we separated.
I pecked her on the nose. "Goodnight."
"Goodnight."
Halfway out of the door I hesitated. I wanted to tell her not to go to London. Not to go running to this mysterious millionaire with his grandiose schemes whose spell she'd fallen under. "Annabelle, what would you say if I asked you not to go?"
But I didn't. If I'd asked, and she'd not gone, it would always have been there between us, like an invisible strand of barbed wire with bits of wool dangling where something had blundered into it. I pulled the door shut and strode down her garden path.
I drove straight off, but stopped around the corner at the end of her street. Perhaps I should have said more? Maybe I should go back? But what would I be going back to? Her eyes had been on the edge of tears as we said that last goodnight, and I was scared of the reason. I put the car in gear and drove away, fairly close to them myself.
Darryl Buxton's Mondeo was in his spot outside the Canalside Mews, but there was no light showing in his apartment. I don't know what I'd expected. I sat and watched for fifteen minutes but nobody came, nobody went. "Go home, Charlie," I said to myself. "Go home. You shouldn't be here." Common sense got the better of me, for once. I went home.
The ansa phone was beeping. A visit from the mailman used to be a delight as you anticipated the message he'd brought, read the envelope and wondered who it was from. Now, envelopes with windows contain bills or computer-generated claptrap that makes your heart bleed for the rain-forest dweller that your personal consignment has rendered homeless. You scan the pile on the doormat and dump the lot in the bin without a second thought.
Not so the ansa phone It still has the power to raise a minute thrill of expectancy as you press the replay button. Double glazing companies and charities do not leave junk messages on ansa phones They know you're not going to ring them back. And, now of all times, there was the possibility that it was Annabelle…
The electronic lady told me that I had one message. There were the usual bleeps and clicks, followed by a brief silence and the noise of a handset being replaced, breaking the connection. "Your message timed at eleven sixteen p.m.," the lady told me, which made it about ten minutes ago. I pressed 1471 and she gave me the number for Heckley police station.
"Hello, Arthur, it's Charlie Priest," I said when they answered.
"You've been after me."
"Hello, Boss that's right, a few minutes ago. We've contacted DS Newley and he's taken it, so you can go to bed safe in the knowledge that it's all in good hands."
"What was it?"
"Girl well, a young woman on the Sylvan Fields estate. Badly beaten up. She staggered into a neighbour's and they drove her to the General."
"Right. I think the young Mr. Newley should be able to handle that.
Let me know if there are developments." In other words, if she dies.
"Will do, Boss. And thanks for ringing."
On the other hand, I was still wearing my shoes and jacket, the car engine was warm, and sleep was about as far away as the cure for snoring. I squealed the tyres as I set off, just to let the neighbours know that the forces of law are vigilant around the clock.
A Heckley panda was parked outside the Accident and Emergency entrance.
We always used to call it Casualty. Inside I found a PC I knew and WPC Kent, who I didn't.
"Hello, Graham," I said. "What have we got?"
"Hello, Mr. Priest. DS Newley's here, you know."
"Is he? I must be slowing down in my old age. Where is he?"
"Talking to the doctor in IC
"What happened?"
"The hospital contacted the station, after she was brought in. They say she's obviously been done over pretty bad. She's called Samantha Teague, from an address on the Sylvan Fields."
"What happened to the people who brought her in?"
"They've gone home."
"OK. In that case let's find Nigel."
I led the way to Intensive Care. It was a journey I knew too well. As we followed the yellow line painted down the length of the corridor floor I turned to WPC Kent and said: "I'm sorry, I don't know your first name."
"It's Claire, sir."
"And you don't mind me calling you Claire?"
"Of course not, sir."
"Good. Pleased to meet you. I'm Charlie Priest. I object strongly to you calling me sir, unless it's absolutely essential. Graham will tell you all about it."
Nigel and a ridiculously young doctor were standing outside the doors of IC, deep in conversation. They turned as we approached and Nigel introduced me. "She's stable," the doctor said. "We'll have her in surgery in the morning and she should be able to go straight on to a ward, if we've picked up everything."
"What are her injuries?" I asked.
"Broken jaw, depressed fracture of the cheek, several broken ribs, concussion, extensive bruising and a few lacerations. I'd say she was given a good thumping round the head and then he put the boot in."
"Nice man," I said. "You mentioned concussion, when can we talk to her?"
"She's drifting in and out of consciousness. You can try having a word, for a minute or two, but she won't be able to speak."
"Thanks." I turned to Nigel and suggested that he take Graham to the Sylvan Fields and they interview whoever brought her to the hospital.
Maybe they knew her assailant.
Which left me with Claire Kent. I hadn't planned it that way, it was just how things worked out. "Let's have a word with Samantha, then," I said to her.
From the contours of the sheet draped over her it was easy to see how thin she was. There was a skeleton under there, and little else. The face was a different story. An oxygen mask covered her nose and mouth, resting uncomfortably on the swelling. One eye was closed-up completely and the other was blackening. Her left cheek was the colour of a dip so s liver and in the midst of the bruising I could see three, then four, small deep lacerations.
"What do you think caused those?" I asked the doctor. Claire leaned over to inspect them.
"I wondered if he was wearing a ring," he suggested. "A signet ring or, say, one of those with a sovereign in it."
But wouldn't that have made a sharper cut? These are, like, intense bruises, with the skin bursting in the middle."
"Yes, I see what you mean. Unless he was wearing gloves over the ring."
"Well done, Doc," I said. "I think you're right. We'll have them photographed."
"There's two more down here," he said. He slackened off the elastics holding the oxygen mask, saying that her face was still swelling, and pulled it down to reveal her mouth and jaw.
"She had a ring through her lip," he told us. "We found it in her mouth, hanging on by a strip of skin. That didn't help."
"Oh, you poor kid," I whispered. "You poor kid." I straightened up and took in the battered face. Man's inhumanity to Woman in all its glory. Some men have the need to do it, some women endure it for years. This was as bad as it got the next step was murder.
Her hair was spread out to one side, loose and flowing against the crispness of the linen, and the words of the song flashed through my mind: "Your head upon the pillow in a fair and a golden storm." What if it did come from a bottle? Nobody ever said Marilyn Monroe was a natural.
I put my hands on the rail at the bottom of the bed and turned away.
The walls were revolving around me.
"Are you all right?" the doctor asked, laying a hand on my arm.
"I know her," I said. "I know her."
"You know her?"
"Yes."
I sat on the edge of the bed and leaned across her. "Samantha," I said, softly. "Can you hear me?"
The third time I asked she opened her good eye.
"Hello, Samantha," I said. "My name's Charlie. I saw you last week, in your office. Remember?" There was no response.
"I came to see Darryl," I continued, 'and he sent you out to do some shopping while we talked." I swear her body tensed at the mention of his name, and I wondered if the instruments wired to her recorded it.
Her face was incapable of showing emotion.
"Can you hear me, Samantha?" I asked. "Blink your eyes if you can hear me."
She did better than that. She gave a barely perceptible nod of the head.
"She nodded, Mr. Priest," I heard PC Kent say.
"I know," I replied. "She's a brave girl. Do you remember me, Samantha?"
Little nod.
"You're in hospital, Samantha. Someone attacked you. But you're safe, now. No one can hurt you here. Do you understand?"
Nod.
"I'm a policeman, Samantha. I want to catch the person who did this to you and put him in jail, where he belongs. Can you hear what I'm saying?"
Nod.
"That's very good. You're doing well. Now listen very carefully to this next bit, Samantha. Was it Darryl who did this to you. Was it your boss, Darryl Buxton?"
Her head jerked sideways, away from me, and she winced with pain.
"Was it Darryl?" I repeated.
No response.
"I think that's enough, Inspector," the doctor said.
"OK," I told him, raising a hand to fend him off for a few more seconds. "Samantha, look at me." Her head came back round and the good eye pointed in my direction. "This lady," I said, reaching out towards PC Kent, 'is called Claire." She came and stood by me. "She's going to stay with you, to make sure you are safe. Outside there are ten policemen with guns, just to look after you. That's twice as many as Prince William has. Claire is in charge of them. All you have to do is have a good rest and get better. Understand?"
She nodded.
"Good. There's nothing to be frightened of, now." I stood up and turned away.
The doctor walked to the door with me and I beckoned for Claire to join us. "I'll send for the photographer, get those wounds recorded, if that's OK, Doc?"
"Mmm. No problem."
"Thanks. Claire, have you heard of a dying declaration?"
"Yes sir, Mr. Priest. You mean that if she thinks she's about to die she might change her mind about telling us who did this to her?"
"That's right. She works for a man called Darryl Buxton who is a right thug. There's a good chance this is his handiwork. Keep your notebook with you just in case."
She looked concerned. "Do you think it might come to that, sir?"
I turned to the doctor, deflecting the question in his direction. "I'd say she was off the critical list," he told us, 'but we don't know how bad the internal damage is. She's not out of the woods just yet."
I was dozing behind my desk, feet on radiator, when Nigel rang. If I'd been at home in bed I wouldn't have slept a wink. It's as if you need some discomfort to divert your attention. It was just before one a.m."
Saturday morning.
"We've spoken to the neighbours," he said.
"Go on."
"Samantha lives in a council house that she rented with her boyfriend, but he left months ago. The neighbours who brought her in say they heard a noise at their door at about a quarter to eleven and found her slumped on the floor. They don't have a phone so the husband decided to bring her in himself, thought it would be quicker. The neighbours at the other side heard a car door, possibly a bit before that, and the sound of it driving away. Nothing special, possibly a diesel."
"Or a taxi?"
"Possibly."
"Great." I told him who Samantha was, and that I was going to ask uniformed to arrest her boss, Darryl the Rapist.
"On what grounds?" he asked.
"On the grounds that Samantha was scared stiff when I mentioned his name. Whoever worked her over was wearing gloves. If we can find them we have him. See you here about ten, eh?"
"Ten it is, Boss."
"Get some sleep. Darryl and his solicitor are about to have theirs disturbed."
It took another hour to organise lifting Darryl and searching his house. I rang a lady magistrate I do regular business with and she agreed to sign a warrant. We despatched a panda to collect it. After that I went home and set my alarm for seven o'clock, five hours away. I slept quite well, but was waiting for the alarm.
I drove straight round to Canalside Mews. Two pandas were parked outside and young Graham opened the door for me.
"Any luck?" I asked.
"Fraid not, Mr. Priest. We haven't found any gloves at all. There's three gold rings in the bedroom, and SOCO's taken imprints."
"Right," I said.
The flat was a dump. Men who live alone are granted a certain amount of dispensation in the field of housekeeping, but this went beyond that. His white tux and the frilly shirt were thrown on to the settee, next to several days' tabloids. A dirty plate and mug were on the table, and my detective skills told me that his last meal had been sardines. I wandered through the rooms, taking in the squalor and wondering what his classy neighbours would have thought. He hadn't washed up for two days and his bedroom smelled like a horse box I opened a window. On a chair was a pile of pages from newspapers. I picked a bundle up and thumbed through them. He'd saved every page-three girl for the last six months.
"Gather round, boys and girls," I called out.
There were three of them, Graham's partner Claire still being at the hospital. When I was a rooky PC on nightshift my partner was David Sparkington. Such is life.
"I appreciate it's Saturday and you should all be home in bed," I said, 'but are you all right for staying a little longer?"
They nodded.
"Good. I want to widen the enquiry. First of all, though, let's have a think about Darryl's movements." I told them about Samantha and gave a brief resume of what we presumed had happened.
"If he was wearing gloves," I went on, "It's imperative that we find them. Let's suppose that he did go round to Samantha's and did beat her up. How did he get there?"
"Taxi?" one of them suggested.
"It looks like it. So he does the deed. How does he get back here?"
"Another taxi?"
"How do you get a taxi in Sylvan Fields at eleven o'clock at night?"
"Ring on your mobile. He sounds the mobile type."
"Very good," I said. "He rings for a taxi on his mobile. Meanwhile what does he do? Wait at Samantha's? Or sit under a street lamp?"
"Start walking?"
"What do you think?"
They all agreed that he'd start walking home, looking out for the taxi coming to collect him.
"Right," I agreed. "And I reckon he'd walk downhill towards the town centre. And maybe he got rid of the gloves on the way. I'll organise some more help. When it arrives, start looking for the gloves along the route he might have taken. I'll have a word with the taxi firms.
Meanwhile, there's something else, but it's off the record."
I told them about the rape, and asked them to make a note of anything that gave a clue towards his sexual inclinations. It wouldn't be admissible as evidence, but these days nothing is if it incriminates the accused.
Mr. Turner didn't look pleased when I passed him in the foyer of the nick, waiting to be taken to his client. Nigel was in the office, brewing up.
"You're early," I told him.
"Eager," he replied.
"I think I'll let you talk to Buxton," I said. "Keep the enquiries separate. Otherwise they might just assume that I'm pursuing a vendetta against him and not take it seriously."
"That might not be a bad thing," Nigel suggested.
"Mmm, perhaps. Thing is, I'm not so sure myself. Samantha was scared when I mentioned his name, but that's hardly evidence. No, you do it."
We gave Mr. Turner twenty minutes with his client before Nigel went down to record an interview. I rang Mr. Wood at home to let him know what was happening in his nick and arranged for another crew to assist in the search for the gloves. Then I had a bacon sandwich in the canteen and walked into town to buy another shirt from M and S's Casual but Smart range.
Turner's car had gone when I arrived back, and Nigel was in my office, reading the contents of my in-tray. He slid a report about the effects of police radios on officers' hearing back on to the pile and pushed a cassette across the table.
"According to that you'll be deaf as a post before you're fifty," I said, nodding towards the report.
"You've seen a ghost behaving shifty?" he replied. For Nigel, it wasn't bad.
"Is this it?" I asked, holding up the tape.
"For what it's worth. He was at the Wool Exchange until about nine, nine fifteen, with a party of managers from Homes R Us…"
"Homes 4U," I interrupted.
"Sorry, Homes 4U. It was their Christmas gathering. Claims he has a foolproof witness."
"Ta da! Me. Go on."
"They had a few more bevvies in the pub over the road and dispersed.
One of his fellow high-flyers offered him a lift home but he asked to be dropped off at the Sylvan Fields. He walked the last bit, to Samantha's."
"So he admits being there."
"Mmm, but he didn't see her. He said the place was in darkness, so he knocked once, he says, very softly, and then he realised it was a bit late and went home."
"Realised it was a bit late! Him? He won't realise it's a bit late until Old Nick's handing him a shovel and pointing at the pile of coal.
How did he get home?"
"Walked towards the town centre and stopped a taxi."
"That's more-or-less how we'd guessed it. So if we find anyone who saw him near Samantha's he has a ready-made excuse."
"Quite."
"What was his manner?"
"Cocky as you can be with a hangover. Turner had to pull him into line once or twice."
"What about?"
"Oh, he started slagging you off."
"I bet. Was Turner his usual obstructionist self?"
"He wasn't too bad. I don't think he was pleased about having to come over. How long are you keeping Darryl?"
"Is the custody sergeant grumbling?"
"He's pulling faces."
"We'll let him stew a bit longer, see if anything turns up. We need to check his story with the bloke who gave him a lift I'll leave that with you. Thanks for doing it, Nigel, I'll have a listen to the tape later."
My phone rang while I was finding an envelope for the tape. Nigel answered it. "Yes, he's here," he said. "Good, good. I'll tell him."
He lowered the mouthpiece and said: "They've found the gloves."
They were floating among the reeds at the edge of the canal. They'd been thrown off a bridge and landed in the water. I had them rushed straight to City HQ so the SO COs could examine them, but it looked as if Darryl's luck was still holding.
Nigel went straight home but I stopped for a shoppers' special at the Indian restaurant on the way. As I drove into my street I saw an elderly Austin Montego sitting on a neighbour's drive. It was the best news of the week. Mrs. Tait is the lady who normally irons my shirts for me. She'd visited her daughter for the holiday period, and now she was back. I hooked a bundle of coathangers over my fingers and thumbs, stuck the box of Black Magic under an arm and went to say how much we'd all missed her.
It's not normally done, but I'd taken the tape of Nigel's interview of Buxton home with me. His brief, Mr. Turner, had a copy, so there was no question of tampering with it. When I came back from Mrs. Tait's I slid the cassette into the player, turned the volume up and put the kettle on. I brought my tea and the biscuit box into the front room and thumbed the TV remote control. There were a few seconds' bedlam until I found the right button and wound the TV sound to zero. The choices were: horses running from right to left; a black and white Gregory Peck film; horses running from left to right or various soccer pundits talking about Manchester United's match that kicked off in an hour. I zapped them all to oblivion.
Nigel was saying: "You were drunk, weren't you?"
"Yeah, I'd 'ad a few," Darryl admitted.
"So you thought you'd go round to Samantha's for your leg over eh?"
"No, it weren't like that."
"Were you in a sexual relationship with her?"
"What if I was?"
"So you said goodnight to your cronies and got one of them to drop you off near her house. Did you tell them that you had it laid on? Did you tell them, Darryl, that your secretary was waiting for you to go round and give her a good seeing-to? Is that your style? Is it?"
"No, you've got me wrong."
"And what happened when you got there?"
"I told you. She wasn't in, or she was in bed. I realised it was late and started walking 'ome."
"I think she was in, Darryl. I think she said: "You're not coming in here in that state. You're not going out enjoying yourself without me on a Friday night and getting pissed and thinking you can come round here for a bit of the other any time you want." Isn't that more like what happened, Darryl?"
Turner said: "Sergeant, my client has made it perfectly clear to you that he did not speak to Miss Teague on the night in question."
"So you lost your rag," Nigel went on. "You gave her a good hiding.
You don't like it when someone turns you down, do you, Darryl?"
"I really think that's enough," Turner said. "My client is perfectly willing to answer questions but I cannot allow you to harangue him in this way."
I went through into the kitchen and listened to the rest of it while I washed up. The state of Buxton's flat had strengthened my resolve to be tidier.
The SOCO was watching the football match on a little portable when I walked into his office in City HQ. "Who's winning?" I asked.
"They are, two-nil," he replied, switching it off. He ambled over to a lab table under the window and retrieved a plastic bag containing a pair of brown leather gloves. Handing them to me, he said: "Men's, large size, relatively new. Lining worn and leather stretched near base of right index finger, suggesting they have been worn over a large ring. Sadly, they'd been lying in shallow water for several hours and it rained quite heavily through the night. That would be about the equivalent of a colour fast cotton cycle in a washing machine. I've dried them out very carefully and sprayed them with reagent, but there's no trace of blood. We've taken fibre samples from inside, which don't mean anything at the moment, and scrapings from the outside."
Nigel hadn't asked Buxton about the gloves because he hadn't known about them. If they were his, we needed forensic evidence to link Samantha to them. If he said they weren't his, we'd then need our brainy friends to link him to the gloves.
"And the dinner jacket and shirt?" I asked.
He shook his head. "Sorry. I'll keep looking, but what marks I've found are probably ketchup and gravy stains."
"Fair enough," I said, disappointed. "Thanks for staying over. Can I take these?" I held up the gloves.
"We've done all we can," the SOCO replied. "I'll send the samples to Weatherton for microscopic examination."
"Right, cheers." Their electron microscope can see the fluff in a virus's navel, and make individual blood cells look as big as dustbin lids.
As soon as I walked into Heckley nick the duty sergeant collared me.
"Your prisoner's grumbling," he said, 'and his solicitor gave us hell before he left."
"Give me ten minutes," I replied, 'then we'll let him go."
I ran upstairs and read the reports about the search of his flat.
They'd found a few porn magazines but nothing you wouldn't find at most all-male establishments. Tearing out and saving the page three girls was peculiar, and the pair of combat knives told us a lot about the man. Tucked in the back of a drawer they'd found an arm band with a swastika on it.
"Gimme the keys," I said to the custody sergeant when I went back downstairs, 'and lock up your wimminfolk. Let's get him off the premises."
He was sitting on the bunk with his head in his hands, looking up as I raised the flap in the door.
"God, you look rough," I told him.
"What do you fuckin' expect?" he snapped back at me.
"Are these your gloves?" I asked when I was inside. I took them from the plastic bag and threw them towards him. He caught one and the other fell to the floor.
"Never seen 'em before," he said.
"Are you sure?"
"Positive."
"Try them on for size."
He opened the neck of the glove he'd caught and started to push his fingers into it.
"Oh no!" he declared, and hurled the glove back at me. "I'm not trying it on. You're not fuckin' fitting me up like that."
"Please yourself," I told him. "C'mon, you can go." We signed him out and returned his property. I didn't offer him a lift home.
There wasn't enough daylight left to do anything in the garden, which was all the excuse I needed. I had a shave and shower and settled in my favourite chair, inevitable mug of tea nearby. It grew dark around me. It's a time I usually enjoy, the gathering gloom emphasising the silence, the shadows, the womb-like comfort.
Trouble was, I had too much on my mind. For a start, I was hungry, but didn't feel like cooking. Then there was Darryl. We'd get him, one day, but how many more people would he hurt before we did? And on Monday it was back to the murder hunt. Somebody was out there who put a gun to the head of a highly respected doctor and blew him to kingdom come. But most of all, more than all these, was my little problem with Annabelle and Zorba the Greek.
The meal at the Wool Exchange had been a disaster. Our relationship was a long catalogue of broken dates, late arrivals and hurried meals.
I tried to involve her in the job, but there's a limit to how far you can do that. I could retire in less than two years, but wasn't sure if I could hold on to her that long. I put the light on and found my book of telephone numbers.
Eric Dobson used to be a motorcycle policeman. He retired early and started his own business, Merlin Couriers. I designed his logo and painted his first van. We've kept in touch. I rang the office first but he didn't answer. If he had, I'd probably have hung up. I didn't want a job that would require me at five o'clock on a Saturday afternoon. He was at home.
"Hello, Charlie," he said. "Ringing up for a job?"
"Yes," I told him.
"Seriously?"
"Seriously."
"Why? What have you done?"
There is a general expectancy among people who know me that one day I'll 'do something'. "Nothing," I told him. "I'm just sick of it. If I leave, what's the chances of finding a simple and undemanding occupation to tide me over?"
"Not with us five minutes and already you're after my job," he replied in a mock Jewish accent. "What are you like on a six-fifty Kawasaki?"
"Cold and scared."
"It'll have to be the Transit then. Is this a firm enquiry or just speculation, Charlie? You haven't been caught with the Chief Constable's wife, have you?"
"Have you seen her? He'd probably recommend me for a QPM. I might set the wheels in motion, see if they can do without me. I don't mind the job, but it's mucking up my personal life, and at my age Tell me about it. We could always fit you in, Charlie. Fact is, if you wanted to invest some money, we could expand a little. What I need is a depot on the outskirts of London. I could treble my business overnight if there was someone down there I could trust. You'd be just the man. How about that, then? Five minutes ago you were staring at unemployment, and now you're a partner in a thriving courier business.
Can't be bad."
"Sounds interesting, Eric. I'll think about it and have a word with pay section on Monday."
We chatted a while and some of his enthusiasm transferred to me. The weather forecast had said that tomorrow was going to be fine and clear.
I found another number and booked myself into a guest house in Keswick for the night. Three hours later I was eating rabbit pie in a Lake District pub, my down jacket over the back of the chair and hiking boots on my feet.
Sunday morning I had the compulsory full English and walked over Helvellyn and Striding Edge. There was a thin covering of snow on the hilltops and the air froze the cilia in your nostrils as you breathed it, feeling like shards of broken glass being stuffed up your nose. I screwed my eyes into pinholes against the glare and absorbed the wonder of it all. There's a well-known conundrum about noise. Does a sound exist if there's nobody to hear it? I feel the same about beauty. Is beauty wasted if you've nobody to share it with? I think it is. I ate my bar of mint cake and strode off downhill.
Weekdays, I do murders. I told Mad Maggie about the weekend's adventures with Darryl and told her to keep an eye on things. If forensic couldn't come up with anything and Samantha didn't make a complaint we'd done all we could. I asked Mr. Wood if he could join us and pulled a few chairs around the white board in the main CID office. Sparky re-drew the chart, bigger and with more colours. I was peeved. I'd wanted to do it.
"Right, Dave," I said as the super joined us. "You're on your feet so you might as well do the honours." I rocked my chair back until it was leaning against the top of a radiator. After a few minutes I could feel the heat striking through my shirt.
Sparky ran through our list of suspects, although acquaintances was a more accurate description of them. No one leaped off the board as a fully fledged, twenty-four carat suspect. The doc was a popular character, with lots of friends and colleagues ready to say what a splendid fellow he was. He'd have had no trouble at all getting HP from a double-glazing company. But there is always a dark side to popularity. Success breeds jealousy, and that can fester away inside you like a malignant worm. More so if the person you envy just happens to be screwing someone you love. Reading between the lines, there were plenty of people who might have been glad to see Mr. Jordan dead.
Trouble was, they all had cast-iron alibis.
"Maybe it was a contract killing," Nigel suggested.
"OK. So who might have the necessary connections with the underworld?"
"Perhaps someone came into the clinic for a face-lift. Or someone's wife."
"And just happened to say they were an assassin?"
"Not like that. They might have got to know them over a period of time. First of all as friends, and then perhaps the conversation worked round to it."
"It's a possibility," I admitted.
"I think we're getting a bit fanciful," Mr. Wood said.
"If it was a contract killing," Sparky began, "I'd place it back with Ged Skinner and his friends. They've got the contacts."
"Why would they want him dead?"
"Because he was refusing to play ball."
"So we're back with drugs?"
"Yes."
"What about his showbiz friends?" Maggie asked.
"Good point," I said. "Is any of them about to play the part of a murderer? It'd be just like one of them to get into the role by indulging in homicide."
"This isn't being helpful," Mr. Wood protested.
"Sorry," I replied. "Truth is, we're floundering."
"OK," he said. "Let's be thoroughly unprofessional. Dave, who's your favourite for the deed?"
Without hesitation Sparky said: "Him," stabbing a finger against Ged Skinner's name. "Or one of his cronies," he added.
Gilbert nodded. "I don't think we need to go into motives. Nigel?"
"Dr. Barraclough," he replied, again without hesitation.
"Go on," Gilbert invited.
"Professional jealousy, plus possible sexual angle, but I don't know what."
I let my chair drop on to its front legs with a clomp.
Nigel's theory was interesting. There was the added attraction that I hadn't liked Barraclough, but I'd never let a personal opinion affect an investigation. Much.
"And," Nigel continued, 'there's always the possibility that he's in cahoots with someone else."
"You mean… they're giving each other alibis?" Gilbert suggested.
"Mmm."
"Don't!" I protested, clamping my hands over my ears. "Please don't!"
Jeff Caton was with us. He thought Skinner was worth another look at, but was interested in the malpractice suit against the doctor.
"Barraclough's supposed to be finding me details of that," I said.
"Maggie, when we've finished how about if you go round there and see if he's found the information? You might even learn something about the man himself from his secretary or the other staff' "Will do, Boss."
"Meanwhile, Margaret," Gilbert said, 'who's your favourite for the killer?"
"Hey, we should be running a book on this," Sparky said.
Maggie studied the chart. "I haven't been in from the beginning," she said, 'but there's an awful lot of grief down there." She nodded to the box that said "Abortions, X 10,000'. "That's where I'd be looking."
"And you, Charlie?" Gilbert asked.
I folded my arms and shook my head. "None of them," I replied. "None of them."
In a way, I was right. But then again, in a way, I was wrong.