Graham Allen lived in the downstairs flat in a converted house on the edge of old Heckley, where once lived the
management
classes in the wool industry and all the related occupations. The wool barons, who lived elsewhere, needed managers to manage what needed doing, solicitors to tell them what they were allowed to do, and accountants to count the money. This was where
they
once lived, side by side with each other in big stone houses, with room in the attic for a servant or two and space in the cellar for the odd bottle of port. Maggie pressed the bell and after a few
seconds
a woman’s silhouette appeared behind the frosted glass.
“DC Madison and DI Priest from Heckley CID,” Maggie said to her when the door opened. “I believe Graham Allen lives here. Could we have a word with him, please.”
The room was by Ikea, with a little help from Laura Ashley and Modigliani. Graham and the woman were in the middle of a take-away pizza, but we didn’t offer to come back later. First impressions of him were that he was a
handsome
so-and-so with enough charm to lure the linnets out of the bushes, but they faded rapidly. He was tall, about six feet, with a mop of fair hair that fell over one eye in a
manner
designed to melt the heart of every woman he met. The black polo necked sweater emphasised his height and the jeans were faded just the right amount. “Is it about Colinette?” he asked, when I was alone with him.
His lady friend, whom he introduced as his partner, was called Becky. She was nearly as tall as Graham, with platinum hair that hung over her shoulders. Apart from that she had a much more pleasing shape. Much more pleasing. Becky took
their food into the kitchen, to keep warm, and Maggie
followed
her.
“Yes,” I replied. “When did you hear about her?”
“Tonight, driving home from work, on Pennine news. Do you know who did it?”
“Not yet. Where do you work, Mr Allen?”
“I manage a shop for my parents. Designer wear, in the mall.”
“And how long did you know Colinette?”
“About, oh, five or six years. We were at the same school.”
“I’d say you were a bit older than her. Is that so?”
“Um, yes. I was in the sixth form, she was in a lower one.”
“How old are you now?”
“Twenty-six.”
“So you’d be eighteen and she’d be…what…fourteen when you met?”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
“Were you engaged?”
“No, nothing like that. We just palled about together, a whole crowd of us. Nothing serious.”
“That’s not what her mother said. She told me you were engaged when Colinette was fifteen.”
His charm began to crumble at the edges, and so did his looks. First impressions had faded and now his mouth looked just a little too full, his teeth too big, like the wolf must have done to Little Red Riding Hood.
“Mrs Jones,” he said, with a shrug of dismissal. “She was a bit…I don’t know, possessive. It was Colinette this, Colinette that. Got on my nerves with it.”
I fumbled in my pocket for the plastic bag containing the ring. “Ever seen this before?” I asked, handing it to him. The mop of hair fell across his face as he studied it, and I pictured Colinette or Becky reaching forward to brush it to one side for him.
“No,” he answered, passing it back.
“Don’t lie to me,” I told him. “I’m told that you gave this ring to Colinette, and it was an engagement ring.”
He brushed the hair away and stared at me defiantly. “What if I did? It was one like that, but it wasn’t an
engagement
ring. Just a present, for her birthday, I think. Where did you find it?”
“Where did she throw it?”
“Into the rec – the recreation ground.”
“That’s where we found it. When was this?”
“Um, Christmas before last.”
“And how long have you known Becky?”
“About three years, but I don’t see what that’s got to do with anything.”
It hasn’t, I thought, but it helps me determine just what sort of creep you are. “So where were you at seven o’clock last night?” I asked him.
“Here, where I am now, sitting in this chair. We watched a video after we’d eaten.”
“What was it?”
“
Notting Hill
.”
“Any good?”
“Yes, it was, as a matter of fact. Brilliant.”
Julia Roberts, I thought. Not my type. Too wide-eyed and wide-mouthed for me. And old mop-head himself, of course. “Can anyone confirm that?”
“Only Becky. She was with me all night.”
“Did you hire the video?”
“No, bought it. It’s there, still on the player.”
“Good,” I said. “Good. Thanks for your help, Mr Allen. These are distressing times and I’m sure you’ll understand that I have to ask these questions.” I rose to my feet and opened the door to the kitchen. Maggie stood up and thanked Becky for her help. Graham led us to the door and I noticed that he’d carefully threaded his belt under the designer label on his jeans, so there was no mistaking their
pedigree. Tosser, I thought.
“You first,” I said, when we were in the car.
Maggie studied for a few seconds, probably trying to
separate
fact from impressions and finally abandoning the task. “She’s an air-head,” she stated. “Met Graham four years ago, when she was on a modelling assignment from some agency in Halifax.”
“Halifax!” I echoed. “I bet Jerry Hall is quaking in her shoes.”
“Jerry Hall? You’re behind the times.”
“Go on.”
“Well, apparently he works for his parents, who have a chain of shops selling designer jeanswear and tops. Mister Blue, you’ve probably seen them.”
“And heard them. They’re the ones in the mall that
deafen
you as you go by.”
“That’s them. It was love at first sight, and they’ve been living together for nearly two years. She has a rock on her finger that would break your toe if it fell on it.”
“So it looks as if the two relationships overlapped
somewhat
,” I said.
“You can say that again.”
“It must have taken some juggling to keep them separate.”
“Not with Becky. She thinks the moon shines out of his rear orifice. If he told her that Bishop Auckland was the new Archbishop of Canterbury she’d believe him.”
I fished in my pocket and pulled out the ring. “How did it compare with that?” I asked.
Maggie looked at it and sighed. “I never had an
engagement
ring,” she replied. “I’d have been delighted with this. It’s not the size of the stone that counts, but Becky’s…it’s in a different league.”
“Put it in the connected property store, please,” I said, then added: “On second thoughts, before you do, pop into a jewellers with it, see if it’s genuine. Fancy a drink?”
Maggie fancied a gin and tonic, and once she’d put the
idea in my mind it sounded rather tempting to me too. However, husband Tony had been playing up lately, so she suggested we have a small one at her house.
Tony was engrossed in a programme about Nazi nurses on Channel 4 and declined joining us, so we sat in the kitchen with our drinks and I told her about my talk with the dashing Graham.
“He sounds a shit,” Maggie concluded.
“A cad,” I told her. “Years ago he’d have been called a cad and tolerated as being amusing and a bit of a lad.”
Maggie changed the subject. “I see your name’s down for the Three Peaks,” she said.
“I know,” I replied, downbeat, “but I just might strain a fetlock before then.”
“It’ll be tough.”
“I know.”
“Especially for someone your age, Charlie.”
I grinned at her. “If that’s meant to make me rise to the challenge, I’m impervious.”
“Uh,” was all she said.
“What does ‘Uh’ mean?”
“Oh, nothing.” She filled the kettle and plugged it in. “Tea or coffee?”
“Tea please. Go on.”
Maggie placed three mugs in a row and spooned loose tea into a brown teapot. The mugs had poppies and yellow
flowers
on them, and the spout of the teapot wasn’t chipped. I’d never ever seen one before that wasn’t chipped. “Do you know what they’re raising money for?” she asked.
“The hospital, isn’t it?”
“Mmm. They want to start a retina blastoma unit there. One of the firemen has a daughter who suffers from it.”
“What’s retina blastoma?” I asked. Soon I’d wish I hadn’t.
“It’s a cancer, in the eyes. They treat it with chemo and radiotherapy, but if they don’t work…” She left it hanging in the air.
“What happens if they don’t work?”
“If they don’t work it spreads to the brain. So they remove the eyes.”
I sipped my tea and had a Nice biscuit. As I left I popped my head round the front room door to say goodnight to Tony. He raised a hand and said: “G’night, Charlie,” without taking his eyes off the screen. Rank after rank of nurses in white uniforms with cross-straps across their backs were marching away from the camera, black-stockinged legs all in time. Cut to Hitler pinning a medal on to the heaving bosom of one of them, her face glowing with devotion.
“Watch him,” I whispered to Maggie as she showed me off the premises, “or he’ll have you dressing up in
jackboots
.”
“Gymslips,” she replied. “He prefers gymslips.”
“So…who is the next Archbishop of Canterbury?” I asked.
“Go home, Charlie. I’ll see you in the morning.”
“No need for you to come in,” I told her. “Go straight round to Mrs Jones’s, if you want. I’ll know where you are.”
“Right. Thanks. I’ll think about it.”
I stepped down off the threshold on to the path and turned back to her again. “This girl,” I began. “The fireman’s daughter. How old is she?”
“Three,” Maggie replied. “She’s just three.”
Like I said, I rarely dream. I think a lot, though, and it keeps me awake. I had one murder a month old and a new shiny one. If this went to review they’d take me off the case. Graham Allen had been the rich kid at school, who always had a new cricket bat, went on all the trips and set standards of trendiness the others could only dream about. What was a new set of the latest trainers to a youth whose parents owned a shop that sold them?
Colinette wasn’t quite from the other side of the tracks, but she lived within spitting distance of them. And she was the best looking girl in school. So the heap-big sixth-former started dating the impressionable younger girl and they became secretly engaged, which was probably about when he started having sex with her. He’d strung her along for six or seven years and then they’d fallen out. Either she’d found out about Becky and dumped him or he’d dumped her. Did that give him a motive for murdering her? Was she putting pressure on him?
No. According to her mother she was happy and looking forward to going to college. To Colinette, Graham Allen was history. My father was a copper, so I suppose I went into the family business, too, like he did. Mrs Jones was probably over-protective to her daughter, which was understandable after she’d lost her husband, but all Graham could say was that she’d “got on my nerves.” And he hadn’t once asked how she was taking this latest blow. Was that because he was totally uncaring or did he have something else on his mind?
Scafell Pike would be the difficult one, I thought, when we did the three peaks. It’s the lowest of the three, but the route is ill defined, and we’d be up there late in the evening. The other two had decent paths all the way to the top, but not the Pike. We needed to do a couple of practice trips, so we could find the way in bad weather and not waste time looking at a map.
And I wasn’t fit enough. All together we’d have to do about 10,000 feet of climbing, walk twenty miles and drive 500 miles in the day. Suddenly it didn’t sound such a good idea. Perhaps it might be better if I volunteered to drive, and leave the difficult stuff to the Young Turks.
We’d have to have another look at Graham Allen and have a quiet word with his girlfriend. She’d expose any flaws in his story. I hadn’t handled it very well, but we could always go back for another go. I’d let Maggie talk to him, next time.
Maggie hadn’t asked about Annette, which was unusual. Perhaps she’d grown tired of me moping about her. Annette was a police lady, one of my DCs, and I’d broken the
cardinal
rule and started dating her. When push came to shove she left and moved to York, near her long-term boyfriend and his two young daughters. I stretched an arm across the empty half of the bed and wished she’d been there.
People die on Scafell. Those who were going up it would have to be fit and know the way. And it wouldn’t be easy for the driver, either. He’d be behind the wheel for nearly a thousand miles, what with the trip down to Wales and then back from Scotland. I’d have to take lots of black coffee and get some fresh air while I waited for the walkers. I’d have time to make a brew, though, and maybe have something hot waiting for them when they came down.
Colinette competed in triathlons. Running, cycling and swimming. You have to be tough and dedicated to do
something
like that. The picture of her on the wall of the incident room showed a girl who was bubbling over with vitality, until someone snuffed it out. She was the type that might attract a stalker who’d fancied her for years. Had Graham been out there, or Mr Naseen, watching, following,
drooling
?
Someone was stooping over me and I couldn’t move. His shadow grew larger, blotting out the ceiling. He smelled of curry and something gleamed in his fingers. They were inside latex gloves, like we wear, but he wasn’t a cop. I could
hear the roar of my pulse, like waves on a beach, rolling the pebbles back after each surge forward. I tried to lift a
protective
arm, but they were tied down. “This won’t hurt,” a voice said. “You won’t feel a thing.” “No,” someone replied. “No, I don’t want it. I don’t want my eyes taking out.”
I sat up and shivered. The window was a light patch against the shadows and my digital clock said five-seventeen. OK, maybe I do dream, now and again. I swung my legs out and sat on the edge of the bed. I imagined a man, in his
forties
perhaps, getting up on such a morning. He drove to work in his BMW and changed into a surgeon’s gown, with mask and boots and everything else. When he was scrubbed up, or whatever the expression is, they wheeled the patient in. She was three years old and he was going to remove her eyes, all in his day’s work. The image of Hitler’s nurses flashed up before me and I shuddered. I couldn’t have done it. Not even to save her life. I’d have said a little prayer,
asking
forgiveness, and placed my hands over her face.