Authors: Stuart Pawson
The other two were much the same. I made a coffee with Adey’s fixings and read the contents of his in-tray. That was much the same, too. There was a canister of a new CS gas in his drawer that he was supposed to be appraising. I gave a bluebottle on his window a quick squirt and it keeled over. Good stuff, I thought as I closed his door behind me, tears running down my cheeks.
Fresh air, that’s what I needed. I cleared my desk and went for a wander round the town centre. I have a policeman’s eye for detail, the unusual, and girls’ legs.
The warm weather certainly brings them out. The new mall has taken a lot of trade from the high street shops, and the place is a ghost town through the week compared to a few years ago. The only street vendor at work was O’Keefe, at his usual place near the entrance to the market. He’d be tall if he straightened his back, with a craggy complexion eroded by years of neglect and outdoor life. He plays the Old Soldier, unable to work because of the wounds he suffered in Korea and, later, the Falklands. Soon it’ll be the Gulf. His right eye has a wedge of white where it ought to be brown and it points off to the side. O’Keefe sells jeans and football shirts.
‘Anything my size, O’Keefe?’ I said.
‘’Ello, Mr Priest,’ he replied warily. ‘Didn’t recognise you for a minute. All a bit short in the leg for you, I’d say.’
‘How much are the Town shirts?’
‘Eighteen quid to friends. Cost you forty-two at the club shop.’
‘Are they any good?’
‘Course they’re any good. They’re just the same. No middle man, that’s the deal.’
‘And no rates, rent, electricity, National Insurance and so on. How’s business?’
‘Pretty fair, Mr Priest. Pretty fair. And with you?’
‘Oh, you know. It’s a bit like sex. Even when it’s bad, it’s good. Or so I’m told.’
He threw his head back and guffawed, the afternoon sun shining straight into his mouth and illuminating his teeth like a row of rotting sea defences. ‘You’re a case, Mr Priest,’ he said, wiping his chin with the back of his hand.
‘Anything to tell me?’ I asked.
‘Aye, there is summat.’
‘Go on.’
‘Pickpockets, Saturday morning. About five of ’em. Not from round ‘ere.’
‘I’ll send someone to have a word with you. What about burglars? Someone is causing me a lot of grief.’
‘You mean, these where they ties ’em up? Old folk?’
‘Mmm.’
‘Nasty jobs, them, boss. I’ll let you know if I ‘ear owt.’
‘Ask around, will you? They take orders for stuff they can buy on credit cards. Expensive stuff, like sets of alloy wheels and televisions. Washing machines, anything like that.’
‘Right.’
‘One more thing,’ I began. ‘Find another pitch at the weekend. We’re having a crackdown. Spread the word if you want to earn some kudos, then ask about the burglars.’
‘Yeah. Right. Thanks, Mr Priest. Thanks a lot.’
It was only half past four, but I went home. I rang
the office, had a shower and set the alarm clock for seven. When it rattled into life I thought it was early morning and nearly went back to work, but the jaunty tones of the Archers signature tune saved me.
The prawn cocktail was tasteless, the steak dry and the mushrooms like bits of inner tube dipped in oil. I’d have preferred a curry but Jacquie doesn’t eat them – she has her customers to consider. She had to be up early so I forsook the massage and dropped her off at the door. My answerphone was beeping when I arrived home.
‘Hello, Uncle Charles,’ a female voice said. ‘If you are home before midnight could you please give me a ring.’ It was my favourite woman: Dave’s daughter Sophie. Apart from my mother, my previous girlfriend was the only person who had ever called me Charles. Sophie had been as besotted by her as I was and almost as devastated when she left. Calling me by my Sunday name was an echo from the past. I sat down on the telephone seat and drummed my fingers on my knee, just for a moment wishing that things were different. But they weren’t. Never would be. Never could be. I dialled Sparky’s number.
His son, Daniel, answered the phone. ‘Is that Mustapha?’ I whispered.
He said: ‘If you’re another one who wants to know if the coast’s clear, ring the flipping coastguard.’
I said: ‘There were some very handsome camels for sale at the market today.’
He said: ‘A handsome camel has a price beyond rubies.’
I said: ‘Beyond Ruby’s what?’
Sophie’s voice in the background asked: ‘Is that Uncle Charles?’ and Daniel said: ‘Hang on, Charlie, Slack Gladys wants a word with you,’ rapidly followed by: ‘Ow! That hurt!’ He’s four years younger than she is and a good foot shorter.
‘Hello, Uncle Charles,’ she began, ‘did you have a nice meal?’
‘Not really. That sounded painful.’
‘Mmm, it did hurt my hand a bit. It was me who found her.’
‘Found who?’
‘The girl with purple hair, of course. She’s called Melissa. Melissa Youngman.’
I loosened my tie and unfastened the top button of my shirt. Tonight I’d gone out smart. ‘You found her?’ I repeated.
‘Just after lunch. It was looking hopeless, so I said to myself: “What course was a weirdo most likely to be on? Let’s try psychology.” I rang one of the postgraduates who still lives in Leeds and she remembered her, told us that she was called Melissa Youngman and had been the first punk at the university. Brilliant, aren’t I?’
I told her she was. I wanted to take her in my arms and hug her, squeeze her to pieces, ask her to marry me, but she was only eighteen and there were three miles of telephone cable between us. And I’d have caught hell from her dad.
The weather was breaking. The Saturday-morning forecast said widespread thunder, followed by a cooler spell. I breakfasted early and gathered my walking gear together. I’d have a couple of hours in the office then hotfoot it up into the Dales for the afternoon. I was taking my boots out to the car when I saw him. The spider, that is. It was a dewy morning and he was suspended in space, halfway between the wing mirror and the outside light, welding a cross-member into position. I pretended not to notice him as I sidled down the side of the house, then I struck.’ Yaaah!’ I yelled and severed his web with a well-aimed karate chop. He fell to the ground, rolled expertly back on to his feet with a bewildered look on his face and fled for safety – under the front tyre. He was definitely having a bad hair day. I flexed my fingers but no damage was done. Weight for weight, spider web is six times stronger than high-tensile steel.
Dave came in and told me all about it over bacon sandwiches in the canteen. They’d been getting nowhere fast until Sophie had her brainwave. Jeremy in the students’ office had taken her to the
pub for lunch, much to Dad’s disgruntlement, and she’d come back with the idea about looking for courses that might attract someone with purple hair. Psychology had been the first guess. Dave suspected it was really Jeremy who’d thought of it, but who cares? It had saved us ploughing through several thousand records.
‘I’d better buy her a present,’ I said. ‘She’s saved the tax payers a few quid.’
‘Er, not another Alice Cooper CD, if you don’t mind,’ Dave requested.
‘Why? What’s wrong with Alice Cooper?’
‘She’s a bit noisy, for a start!’
‘She! He’s a he!’
‘A he? Well why do they call him Alice?’
‘Er, well, er, because Alice is an ancient abbreviation of, er, Alexander. Who, as you know, was a Greek. The name was popular among Greek immigrants to the States at the turn of the century and handed down through the male line.’
‘Really?’
‘Well, either that or he’s living in Wonderland.’
I suggested Dave collect his boots and maybe the kids and come walking with me, but his mother-in-law’s windows needed a final coat of Dulux gloss and Daniel had gone off with his pals. I didn’t suggest Sophie tag along and neither did he. I bought a sandwich at the
cafe across from the nick and drove to Bolton Abbey, about an hour away.
The Valley of Desolation is aptly named in winter, but in good weather it’s a pussycat. I watched a succession of people crossing the Wharfe on the stepping stones, waiting for someone to come to grief on the low one in the middle. There’s always one, halfway across, that’s wobbly or slippery; it’s a law of stepping stones. They weren’t going anywhere, just crossing for the hell of it, determined to get the most from their day out. I decided not to risk it and used the bridge ten yards downstream. A rumble of thunder rolled down the valley, followed by a second of silence as every face turned towards the sky and noticed the black clouds above the trees.
In twenty minutes I’d left the tourists behind and was scrambling up the path that headed out on to the fells and towards Simon’s Seat, a magnificent fifteen hundred feet above sea level. No chance of altitude sickness today. As I emerged above the tree line I saw a figure ahead of me, laden down with equipment, and shook my head in amazement at the amount of stuff some people take with them. They believe all they read about the dangers of walking on the moors.
It was a young woman. She stopped, looked around her, and decided this was the place. As I approached I saw that she’d been carrying painting equipment and I made a silent apology to her. She was struggling to
set up an easel while holding her artist’s pad under her arm, trying not to put it on the ground. ‘Can I give you some help with your easel?’ I asked with uncharacteristic boldness.
‘Easel!’ she gasped, red-faced. ‘Easel! The man said it was a deckchair.’
I laughed and took the pad from under her arm. She was quite small, with fair hair pulled back into a short ponytail, and a mischievous smile. ‘Lift that bit upright,’ I said, pointing, ‘and tighten that wing nut.’ She did as she was told and turned the nut the right way first time, which was a surprise.
‘Well done,’ I said. ‘Now pull the middle leg back and tighten that one.’
‘Ah!’ she exclaimed. ‘Now I see how it’s done. You’re a genius.’ She extended the legs and locked them in position.
‘I’ve done it before,’ I told her. ‘Maybe you’re not mechanically minded.’
She tested the easel for rigidity and said: ‘
A body will remain at rest or in motion until it is acted upon by a force
. Isaac Newton said that and I agree with him. You can’t be more mechanically minded than that. Do you paint?’
‘
A body will remain at rest until the alarm clock goes off
. I said that. I went to art school, many years ago.’
‘In that case,’ she told me, looking up into my
face and smiling, ‘I’m not starting until you are a mere speck disappearing over that hill.’
‘I’m going, I’m going.’ I hitched my bag on to my shoulder and said: ‘You’ve picked a nice spot.’
‘It’s lovely, isn’t it? Enjoy your walk and thanks for your help.’
‘Thank you.’
She’d given me a new zest for life. I walked too fast, buoyed by her cheerfulness, and was soon puffing. Grouse flew up around me, clucking and whirring like clockwork toys before they dived back into the heather further away, and another roll of thunder sounded ominously near.
Big blobs of rain were staining the path by the time I reached the Rocking Stone, pockmarking the dust with moon craters. I made it to the top and sheltered in a shooting hut while I donned my cagoul. Then the rain came in earnest, dark and powerful, Mother Nature showing us that the brief respite we’d had was at her whim. The path outside the hut became a stream and visibility dropped to about fifty yards, grey veils sweeping over the moor, one after another. I leant in the doorway, dry and warm, and marvelled at it.
Five minutes later the storm had moved along, leaving a rainbow and a steady shower in its wake. I had intended to do a circular route, but I wasn’t sure of the way and now the paths were sloppy with mud.
I pushed my arms through the straps of my rucksack and went back the way I’d come.
It had been quite a downpour. The lazy river had become a torrent and the stepping stones were submerged. The bridge hadn’t been swept away, thank goodness, but all the tourists had vanished. I soon found them. They were in the cafe, drying off. I unhooked my bag and edged between the stools and pushchairs, looking for an empty place at a clean table.
I walked straight past and wouldn’t have recognised her if she hadn’t pulled my sleeve. Her T-shirt was now covered by a blouse in an ethnic design from one of the more mountainous areas of the world, Peru or Nepal, at a guess, and her ponytail had come undone so her hair framed her face. It suited her that way. She was tucking into a giant sausage roll and a mug of tea.
‘Hello,’ I said, unashamedly delighted to see her again. ‘Did you get wet?’
‘Managed to dodge most of it. And you?’
‘The same.’ I pushed my bag under a spare chair and nodded at her plate. ‘That looks good. Can I get you another?’
‘No, one’s enough, thanks.’
‘Tea?’
She shook her head.
One might have been enough for her but I ordered
two, with a big dollop of brown sauce. I bought a large tea, without, and two iced buns with cherries on top. ‘I’ve bought you a present,’ I said as I sat down beside her.
‘Oh, thank you,’ she replied, slightly surprised, and took it from the plate I offered.
‘How many paintings did you do?’
‘About a half, that’s all. What about you? Did you have a good walk?’
‘Brilliant. Not very far, but the rain added a different dimension. I don’t mind it.’
‘It doesn’t help when you’re trying to paint in watercolours,’ she told me.
She was a schoolteacher, which I found hard to believe. She looked about Sophie’s age and was called Elspeth. Her number one subjects were physics and biology but she was hoping to move into the private, that is, public, sector of education and another talent on her CV would be useful, hence the painting. She’d taught for three years at a big comprehensive in Leeds without a problem, but was beginning to think her luck might run out. I confessed to being a policeman and she wanted to know if I’d ever caught a murderer. It’s easier to say no.
We were in mid-chat about the Big Bang theory when she looked at her watch and said she’d better go. She had a bus to catch.