Authors: Stuart Pawson
I said: ‘Durham! Jesus! She gets around.’
‘Small fine for the first offence. Community service order for the second.’
‘That’s been a good day’s work,’ I told him. ‘Well done.’
‘Cheers. Have you rung him?’
‘Young Duncan? No, I’ll do it now.’ I found the telephone number and dialled, convinced that the code was one I’d never used before. A girl answered almost immediately.
‘Is Duncan there, please?’ I asked.
‘Duncan? You mean DJ?’ she asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Who wants him?’
‘He wants me. He left a message.’
‘I’ll get him.’
I put my hand over the mouthpiece and hissed: ‘Woman; she’s fetching him.’ I pointed to a phone in the outer office, and dialled the number to make it a party line. Dave went out and picked it up.
‘Is that Inspector Priest?’ said a voice I’d last heard talking about carburettors.
‘Yes. How can I help you, DJ?’
‘I, er, was just wondering about my Uncle Duncan. My dad told me you came to talk about him, free weeks ago, when I was fixing the bike.’
‘That’s right. Did you get it going?’
‘Yeah. No problem. It’s just that, I, er, was a bit closer to my uncle than my dad knew, what with being named after him an’ all. Went to see him now and again. I just wondered if you could tell me anyfing about how he died, and why. If you know what I mean.’
‘You used to visit him at…his flat?’ I said, narrowly avoiding saying ‘squat’.
‘Yeah.’
‘I went to have a look for myself, about a week after I saw you. Nice place he had.’
‘Yeah, wicked.’
‘Mr Wong, the landlord, showed me round,’ I lied.
‘Did he?’
‘Mmm. Right, DJ, I’ll tell you what we know. Your Uncle Duncan telephoned someone just before he died, confessing to starting a fire in Leeds, back in 1975. Eight people died in the fire, and it’s still on our files as an unsolved crime it was arson, started deliberately. I’ve been trying to link your uncle with it but so far can’t find anything at all to suggest he was anywhere near or had anything to do with it. He was a sick man, DJ. Maybe he knew someone who died in the fire, someone he loved, and thought he could have saved them somehow. It might have been preying on his mind all these years. Perhaps, in the phone call, he didn’t say he
started
the fire, perhaps he said he was
to blame for it
, and the person he was talking to misinterpreted his words. Do you follow what I’m saying?’
‘Yeah, I fink so.’
‘I don’t know if that helps at all. Anything else you want to ask me?’
‘No. That’s about it. Fanks for ringing.’
‘No problem, DJ. And any time you want to talk, you know where I am.’
‘If you find anyfing else will you let me know?’ he blurted out as an afterthought.
‘Will do.’
‘OK. Fanks again.’
We all replaced our phones and Dave joined me again. ‘You handled that very, er, sensitively, squire, if you don’t mind me saying so,’ he told me.
‘Li’l ol’ smooth-talkin’ me,’ I said. ‘Trouble is, he was lying through his teeth. Someone put him up to that call.’
‘Oh. Who?’
‘I don’t know. His dad? His mum?’ I reached into a drawer for my planner diary and turned to the back page where I write new telephone numbers. I said: ‘The code for his parents, in Welwyn Garden City, is…here we are…01707. And the code for wherever I’ve just rung him at is…01524. Where’s that?’
‘Hang on,’ Dave told me and went back out. I watched him walk over to the bookshelf where we keep all the telephone stuff and extract some pages stapled together. He consulted them for a few seconds, put them back and retraced his steps into my office.
‘Lancaster,’ he said.
‘
Lancaster
?’ I echoed. ‘He’s in Lancaster?’
‘It sounds like it.’
‘What the chuff’s he doing there?’
We were discussing possibilities when Nigel and Jeff came in. Jeff was carrying a rolled-up tabloid, which he spread on my desk, saying: ‘Seen this, boss?’
We were on the front page, or the Transit was.
Find This Van
ran the headline, over a full-page picture of a Transit doctored to look like the one we needed. That took care of page one. Inside, we learnt that East Pennine police were putting lives at risk by not disclosing details of the vehicle used by villains who had terrorised old people right across the north of England, tying them to their chairs in their own homes while they ransacked, violated and desecrated. It was powerful stuff; interrupted only by Angharad on page three who wanted to be a brain surgeon and had nipples that stuck out like a racing dog’s balls. If we were indifferent to the safety of the people, it went on, they, the
UK News
, would gladly take that responsibility upon themselves by publishing full details of the vehicle used in these dastardly crimes. They offered a £10,000 reward for anyone who found it, providing, of course, that they weren’t policemen and it led to a conviction.
‘See!’ I declared. ‘I told you to go public.’
‘Um, no, boss,’ Jeff replied. ‘The way I, um, recollect things, you used your golden vote to overrule us all.’
‘Did I!’ I exclaimed. ‘
Moi
!’
Dave said: ‘Blimey! You could hang your cap and a walking stick on them.’
‘It might work,’ Nigel told us. ‘Perhaps someone will ring in.’
‘Don’t hold your breath,’ Dave told him. ‘
Yuk News
readers probably think they’re talking about something on television. They’ll all be looking for a Transit in
EastEnders
tonight.’
‘So what do we do?’ Jeff asked.
‘Nothing,’ I replied. ‘If the other papers don’t pick it up we might get away with it. Chances of the villains seeing it are fairly small, and the
Yuk News’s
credibility is about as low as mine at the moment. Give something bland to the publicity department for them to hand out if anyone asks.’
‘Right,’ Jeff said, rolling the paper up and tossing it into the bin.
‘Are you happy with that?’ I asked him.
‘Sure. No problems.’
‘OK,’ I said. ‘Here’s another for you. What is elephant?’
‘Elephant?’ they replied, not quite in unison.
‘That’s right. Elephant.’
‘Big grey animal,’ Dave told us. ‘Pulls bunches of grass up with its tail and stuffs them up its arse.’
I ignored him and related the conversation that O’Keefe’s pal, ‘Wilkie’ Collins, had overheard in the
Half a Sixpence. ‘So what did he mean?’ I asked.
‘Horse is heroin,’ Nigel said. ‘Could be the same.
Elephant,
sounds reasonable. Or perhaps it’s simply E for Ecstasy.’
‘It must be drugs,’ Jeff agreed. ‘Herbal cannabis looks a bit like elephant shit.’
‘Have you ever seen elephant shit?’ I asked.
‘Well, no, but it looks like it ought to look. And shit’s cannabis.’
‘Trouble is,’ Nigel said, ‘they change the names all the time. It’s best to just use the proper name when you talk to them. If you try to be clever and streetwise you end up looking foolish.’
‘It’s not Ecstasy,’ Jeff declared. ‘It’s too butch for Ecstasy.’
Nigel, thinking aloud, mumbled: ‘Elephant… elephant…elephant…s’foot umbrella stand.’
We were getting nowhere until Dave made a contribution. ‘It’s rhyming slang,’ he said.
‘Go on,’ I urged him.
‘I don’t know what for. Elephant something…then something else that rhymes with it, like, oh, er, horse and cart…fart.’
‘Earthy as always, David,’ I said. ‘So keep going.’
He thought for a few seconds, then offered us: ‘Elephant’s trunk…um…skunk.’
‘That’s cannabis,’ Jeff told us.
‘Elephant’s trunk, junk,’ Nigel suggested.
‘That’s heroin,’ Jeff confirmed.
I said: ‘Sounds highly likely it’s one or the other. Have a word with O’Keefe, Jeff, and see if he’s anything to add. Have a few liquid lunches in the Half a Sixpence; they sound a distinctive trio, you might recognise them. And let Drugs know about it; maybe they’ll have some ideas of their own.’
‘Right,’ he replied, adding: ‘My money’s on skunk. The place is flooded with it.’
Things were moving, and that gives me a good feeling. I’d have liked to have kept working on the burglaries but I had to let go and give Jeff a chance. If he caught them I’d still get the credit, but all the satisfaction of feeling their collars would be his. We now had a name for the girl with purple hair, and that would lead to other names, dozens of them, one of whom might hold the key to eight agonising deaths. I’d be more than satisfied if we could solve this piece of unfinished business.
Interpol came back to us on Tuesday afternoon. They had a file on Melissa Youngman because of her drugs conviction and some doubtful associates, and had faxed us a resume. She’d attended seven universities, including the University of California, Los Angeles, but had never graduated. Not in any of the named subjects, that is. Her studies had given her foundation courses on palaeontology, very useful; modern languages; psychology; politics and business
studies. No bomb-making, but a well-rounded education by any standards. The last bit was most interesting. When at UCLA she had contacted a right-wing group of militiamen and was believed to be currently living in the States. Consult FBI for further details, it said, which was all the encouragement Dave required.
‘They’re five hours behind us,’ Dave reminded me when our paths crossed and he had an opportunity to tell me how hard he’d worked. ‘Somebody called Agent Kaprowski is attending to it and will ring back. I’m taking the kids to the baths, so I’ve given him your home number and our office hours. Is that OK?’
‘You’ve been a little beaver on this, Dave,’ I told him, knowing that sitting in the office using the telephone was not his favourite style of policing. ‘I appreciate it.’
‘That’s because I’ve a ghost to lay,’ he replied grimly.
We’d never talked about me dragging him out of that burning building all those years ago. I’d always suspected that a little bit of him blamed me for not letting him try to rescue Jasmine Turnbull, but he’d never said anything. I didn’t feel guilty about it; he hadn’t stood a chance. ‘I know, old son,’ I said. ‘I know you have.’ I reread the fax and that old restless feeling began to swell inside me. We were on to something, I was sure of that. ‘Some time tomorrow,’ I said, ‘have
a word with Graham at the SFO and tell him where we’re at. If we’re dealing with the FBI and Interpol we should keep them informed, and no doubt they have some better contacts than us. Give him some of it to do, if you want.’
‘Did you say he’s a DS?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Right. No sweat.’
I called at the supermarket and bought a fresh trout and a ready-made salad, determined to improve my eating habits. Smothered in margarine and four minutes in the microwave and the trout would be delicious. The oven was pinging to say it was ready when the phone rang. ‘DI Priest, Heckley CID,’ I barked into it.
It was Loopy Lucille from Easybroke Windows. They were working in my area – again – and looking for a show house that they could fix at a huge discount PLUS offering four windows for the price of six and when could they start?
I said: ‘Er, no thanks, love.’ That trout smelt good.
‘What about a conservatory?’ she asked. They were doing interest-free credit on conservatories.
‘Er, no, love.’
‘A patio door?’
‘I don’t have a patio.’
‘Our range of Victorian patios come complete
with free dwarf conifers. When would you like our surveyor to call?’
‘No thanks.’
‘Plastic guttering, soffits and fascia boards?’
‘No.’
‘Imitation stone cladding?’
‘No.’
‘Block-paved driveway?’
‘No.’
‘Well, thank you for your time, Mr Priest,’ she sang, unperturbed by rejection.
I couldn’t believe it. She was about to put her phone down, allowing me to return to my meal, when I heard myself saying: ‘Wooden Indians.’
‘Pardon,’ she said.
‘Wooden Indians,’ I repeated. ‘I don’t suppose you do wooden Indians. I’ve been trying to find a wooden Indian for years.’
‘Wooden…Indians?’ she queried. They weren’t in her script.
‘That’s right.’
‘I’ll put you through to my manager. Hold the line, please.’
The New World symphony burst into my left ear as she briefed her manager. I remembered a little dodge I used to be good at when I spent some time on the front desk, and wondered if I could still do it. If one of our regulars rang the nick to complain about
a domestic I used to make clicking noises like a loose connection on the line. I was young and irresponsible in those days. After struggling to be understood for a while they’d say: ‘Oh, forget it,’ and stab their husband with the potato peeler.
‘Hello, Mr Priest,’ came a cheery voice.
‘Actually, it’s the Reverend Priest,’ I replied.
‘Reverend Priest! Well, good evening, sir. How are you this evening?’
‘Very well,
ck ck
you.’
‘Good. And a lovely evening it is too.’
‘It is, isn’t
ck ck
?’
‘This is a bad line,’ he told me. ‘Can I just check your number, Reverend Priest, and I’ll ring you back.’ I agreed that he’d got it right and held the bar down. The phone rang immediately.
‘Ah, that’s better,’ he began. ‘Now, could you please tell me what it was you’re interested in, Reverend Priest. Lucille didn’t quite catch what you said.’
‘I told her I was considering
ck ck
a conservatory, if the price was
ck ck
.’
‘Right, sir. I’m afraid this line is just the same.’
‘I can
ck ck
you perfectly well.’
‘Good. Good. So when will it be convenient for someone to come and discuss our range of Georgian, Victorian and Edwardian conservatories with you?’
‘I’d prefer it if you could just give me an approximate
ck ck
over the phone. I may not be
ck ck
to afford one.’
‘We’re not really able to give prices over the phone,’ he replied. ‘There are so many different considerations, such as size and style and…’
‘Oh, I
ck ck
the size,’ I interrupted. ‘It will have to be
ck ck
six inches long by
ck ck
six inches wide.’