“Yeah, it’s called E by gum.”
I stroked my chin. “Right. Right. So what else is new?”
“Not much, apart from a couple of schoolkids
downstairs
, Charlie, in for a caution. I assume you’ll want to
handle
it yourself.”
I found a chair and pulled it towards the others. “Under normal circumstances, Jeff, you know I’d leap at the
opportunity
, but just this once I’m happy to delegate that
responsibility
to you. Regard it as something you can put on your CV.”
“Cheers. I appreciate the sacrifice you’re making and I’m grateful for the opportunity.”
“No problem. Ask them if they know any good jokes. What’ve they done?”
“They were caught fighting liars in the school
dumpsters
.”
I blinked as someone jumped in with: “
Fighting liars
?”
“
Lighting fires
, deaf lugs. I said lighting fires.”
“No you didn’t, you said fighting liars.”
“You need your ears testing.”
“He said fighting liars, didn’t he, Charlie?”
I shook my head and raised both hands in a gesture of peace. “I don’t know, I wasn’t listening. I never listen to
anything
Jeff says.”
Somebody else said: “This foot-in-mouth disease is
getting
worse, isn’t it?”
“Get lost!”
“Oh what a shining wit.”
“And you can piss off, too. It was a slip of the tongue. Anyone can make a slip of the tongue.”
The phone in my office started ringing. Phones are
inanimate
objects. They transmit and receive electrical impulses and convert them to sounds. In theory they should transmit one sound as implacably as any other, but sometimes there’s
something about the ring, the tone, that makes you hesitate before you lift it. We all turned towards the offending sound as it cut across the office like an assegai, and the silence between rings was as evocative as the noise.
“I’ll get it,” Dave said, picking up the phone at his elbow. He tapped in the appropriate code and the phone in my office fell silent.
“No, he’s not here,” he told someone, presumably
referring
to me. I relaxed, encouraged by the tone of his voice, and reached towards him for the handset, but he ignored me. “No, I don’t know where he is.” He listened for a few seconds then concluded the conversation with the words: “OK. I’d give it another hour, if I were you, and then call it a day. S’long.”
“Who was that?” I asked.
“Rod. He says not much is happening.”
“You should have told him to go home.”
“No, he likes watching people.”
Someone placed a mug of coffee in front of me and I thanked him. Big Geordie coughed to attract attention, as if we could ignore him, and asked: “Who’s coming training tonight? Five laps roond the park.”
Two or three said they’d be there but I declined.
“Is it true that the firemen are doing the three peaks thing by climbing up ladders and sliding down a brass pole?” Jeff asked.
This caused a flurry of disapproval and widespread
agreement
that it would be cheating. Walking down the
mountains
was almost as hard as walking up them.
“Somebody’s talking rubbish,” Geordie informed us. “’Hoo are they going to put a pole up in the middle o’ the park? Anyhoo, we’ll do it the hard way, up and doon the back stairs.”
“So the real thing is definitely off?” Another fifteen cases of foot-and-mouth had been confirmed, mainly in the Lake District, and there was no sign of it easing.
“It looks like it.”
Dave broke a brief silence, saying: “Just think, Jeff. If you did the scoring as the rest of us went up and down, you could tell us when we’d mounted three counts.”
“
Fuck off
!”
That broke up the meeting. Big Geordie stood up and I did the same. My coffee had cooled down so I was heading for the kettle to revitalise it when the phone in my office rang again. Sparky did his trick but this time it wasn’t Rod. He raised an arm to silence us and the smiles slipped from our faces as he listened.
“Yeah. He’s here. I’ll put him on.”
I reached for the phone as he told me the news: “They’ve found a woman’s body, just outside Leeds.”
I sat in the back as we drove there, not speaking, watching the fields and telegraph poles going by, remembering when I used to go off with my parents. Scarborough, Whitby or the Dales. I’d stuff myself with ice cream and Dad would slip into a pub to buy cigarettes and have a quick pint. He’d cough and smoke all the way home, and we’d stop at the Four Alls for a shandy and some more cigarettes.
It’s not the cough that carries you off
…
Dave was driving, with Peter in the front passenger seat. We’d not been able to raise the chief inspector doing the
initial
investigation, so we had to be content with second-hand messages from their HQ. They gave us the location of the body and we headed there. A council worker giving the grass its annual trim had found her in the middle of a roundabout, but she was newly dead. Dave was inches behind a woman in a Nissan Trooper doing the school run, nosing out every few seconds as he looked for an opportunity to pass.
“Take it easy, Dave,” I said. “She won’t be going
anywhere
.”
They’d closed off one segment of the roundabout and diverted the traffic through a garage forecourt. We showed our IDs and were allowed through the cordon to join the crush of vehicles parked haphazardly at the crime scene, some on the grass, some on the road. The sun was low and bright, casting long shadows, and a tent indicated the
location
of the body.
Faces turned to us as we slammed the car doors and walked over to the knot of suits who might have been
insurance
salesmen or Jehovah’s Witnesses deciding who was going to knock on which side of the street. They were all strangers to me.
“Acting DCI Charlie Priest, Heckley CID,” I said to the swarthy man with a pencil moustache who projected himself
to the front of the group. “And this is DC Sparkington and DS Goodfellow. I don’t think we’ve met…”
He introduced himself and we shook hands, but without much cordiality, and he asked why we were there.
“We’ve had three,” I told him. “Possibly more. We’re looking at all suspicious deaths to see if they might be linked with ours.”
“This one isn’t like yours,” he replied.
“Perhaps not, but I need convincing.”
“We’d have sent for you if it was.”
“I’m sure you would.”
“OK. Come and see for yourself.”
He strode off towards the tent and we followed him. It was a green tent and everything inside was bathed in green light. Only the blanket over her body provided a contrast. The DCI stooped and peeled the top three feet of blanket back, revealing its ghostly cargo.
She was huddled in the foetal position and looked about eighty years old. Grey-green hair, green face, blue-green nightdress. He covered her again and lifted the blanket off her feet. Legs like cocktail sticks ending in fluffy slippers.
“Poor old lass,” Pete said, very quietly.
“Come outside,” the DCI ordered. When we were back in the fresh air he said: “Hypostasis indicates that she died where she is lying. Time of death in the early hours of today, cause of death probably hypothermia but the PM scheduled for in the morning.” He turned and pointed. “See that building?”
“Er, which one?”
“Other side of the trees, with the tower.”
It was a castellated tower, poking above the trees, with a clock face and a flag pole, about half a mile away.
“With the clock?”
“That’s it. St Joseph’s, known locally as Holy Joe’s.
One-time
septicaemia hospital, one-time isolation hospital, now an old people’s home. We asked them to do a stock-take and
would you believe it, one of their clients is missing. Miss Jane Middleton, aged 77, hasn’t been seen since supper last night, and her bed hasn’t been slept in. We’re just waiting for permission to move the body. Anything else you need to know?”
Dave said: “They probably have supper at about seven.”
“So they haven’t missed her for nearly twenty-four hours.”
“Poor old lass.”
“That’ll do for me,” I said. “Thanks for your help.”
“Glad to be of assistance.” He warmed slightly once he realised I wasn’t there to steal his case. “So how’s it looking with your jobs?” he asked as we walked back towards the cars.
“Grim. No progress at all.”
“Rather you than me.”
I didn’t even look out of the window on the way back. I sat gazing at the back of the driver’s headrest, letting thoughts tumble through my head like newspapers blown about by a gale. I wasn’t getting any younger. What a stupid expression. Nobody was getting any younger. I was getting older,
rapidly
, that was it. No known relatives. Outlook, bleak. Pension prospects were good, so that was a relief. Friday we’d be on the carpet and they’d probably take the case off me. Perhaps that would be the time to leave. I had an option that wasn’t available to most officers. Somewhere in my abdomen were three shotgun pellets. Two were deep in my liver, too
difficult
to recover but not doing any harm, the surgeon assured me, and the third was pressed against my spinal column. Too dangerous to retrieve. Anytime I wanted I could keel over with a stabbing pain in my back and I’d be out of the force on full pension before the ink dried. That was my insurance plan.
As we approached Heckley I said: “Is your phone on, Pete?”
“No, it hasn’t been. I’ll ring in.”
He told the front desk that we’d been on a wild goose chase and I heard him ask for a number. He twisted in his seat, saying: “Rod’s been after you.”
He dialled the number and spoke to Rod. “Yeah, he’s here. We’ve been out. Charlie’s asleep in the back. Oh God! his mouth’s open and he dribbles. It’s disgusting. OK.”
Pete terminated the conversation abruptly and turned back to me. “Said he’ll ring back. Sounds as if he’s on to something but didn’t want to speak.”
“Good old Rod,” I commented.
“Where is he?” Dave asked.
I thought about it. “Do you know,” I said, “I believe it was his turn to tail Mrs Jordan-Keedy tonight.”
“Lucky for him,” Dave mumbled.
Five minutes later Rod rang back. He was in the toilet of the trans-Pennine flyer and a youth of the appropriate description had followed Mrs Jordan-Keedy on to the train at Heckley. He was now sitting about four rows behind her and the train was full. Rod had phoned her on his mobile and she’d answered in the pre-arranged way. We’d made contact.
I pulled my mobile from my inside pocket and unfolded it. Mrs Jordan-Keedy’s number was in my diary. I dialled it and she answered with a brisk hello.
“It’s DI Charlie Priest,” I said. “Just answer yes or no. Can you speak?”
“Some.”
“Is it the same youth?”
“Yes. Absolutely.”
“Last time, I believe you said you went into a restaurant and he gave up the chase. Is that right?”
“Yes.”
“OK, so do the same tonight, except that one of our men – he’s called Rod – will walk to the restaurant with you. Just say hello to him as you get off the train. Pretend he’s an old friend and you’re pleased to meet him. Then we’ll follow
laddo back and nab him at this end. Are you happy with that?”
She was, so I rang Rod and told him to stick to her like the proverbial. It takes one second to stab someone, and she mustn’t be left alone for that time.
Almost everyone had gone home when we arrived at the office. Maggie was typing a report and another DC was swatting for his sergeant’s ticket. Two more were busy at computer terminals, but whether they were consulting HOLMES or
lovelyladies.com
I didn’t enquire. I told the uniformed sergeant what was happening and asked for some weight to be handy near the station in case we needed it.
“Guns?” he asked.
I shook my head. “No. We have no reason to believe he has a gun.”
“ARV standing by?”
“That might be a good idea.”
After that it was have a coffee and wait. All the sandwich shops would be closed but one of the DCs suggested a pizza and we sent him out for a supply.
I was in my office, reading Pete’s
Telegraph
, when Maggie came in and shut the door behind her.
“Hi, Mags,” I said, folding the paper. “You look busy, anything interesting to report?”
She pulled the spare chair out and sat down.
“No, I’ve been waiting for you.”
“Right.”
“Tony and I had a long talk last night…”
“Something all married couples should do,” I said.
“You know what I’m on about. I feel I’ve let you down, Charlie.”
I tossed the
Telegraph
into the bin. “It’s over, Maggie,” I told her. “Forget about it. Are things OK between you and Tony? That’s all that matters.”
“We’ve agreed to work at it. I’ll resign from the CID if you want me to.”
“What? Back to shifts? That’s a marriage killer if ever
there was one. No, Maggie, forget all about it. Tony was a bit silly, that’s all. I’m not always as discreet as I could be myself. Just don’t talk to newspapermen, that’s the thing. Meanwhile, I need you on the team.” Over her shoulder I saw the DC enter the outer office, laden down with flat boxes. “The pizzas have arrived,” I said. “So be a good girl and fetch me a spicy beef, with extra olives, oh, and a fresh coffee.”
She rose to her feet and gave me a half smile, opened her mouth to speak and hesitated.
“No sugar,” I told her. “I’ve stopped taking sugar.”
“Right,” she replied and went to fetch the pizza.
Rod timed it perfectly, ringing just as I was nibbling
overcooked
cheesy bits off left-over crust. As the train approached Salford station he’d walked down the carriage towards the doors and accidentally-on-purpose met Mrs Jordan-Keedy. She’d given him a broad smile and they’d walked to the Italian restaurant about a quarter of a mile away. Pleasantries were exchanged on the doorstep before she went inside and Rod crossed the road and made himself invisible. The youth had waited outside the restaurant for about twenty minutes and then gone back to the station. “Long enough to establish that she was staying for a meal and not just buying a take-away,” Rod had suggested, although the image of the senior accountant with Aire and Calder Water tottering home with a ten inch Hawaiian clutched in her Virginia Woolf fingers didn’t ring true with me.