Authors: Stuart Pawson
I dismantled the wall, crawled through and rebuilt it behind me. My boots had been slobbing about on my feet for a while, sucked down by the glutinous mud. What I didn’t realise was that the weight of mud dragging on my bootlaces had pulled one of them undone. I dropped
lightly off the ledge outside the tunnel, taking a quick step forward to regain my balance. Except that my foot didn’t move because I was standing on the lace. I fell heavily, flat on my face, did a forward roll that would have earned a string of sixes for artistic interpretation, and slid fifteen feet on my back to the foot of the scree. A dog started barking.
I lay still for a few seconds, gathering my wits and my breath, then rolled sideways into the dense shadow of some bushes. The door of one of the sheds opened and a torch beam cleaved the darkness. The dog, a terrier, stood yapping at the night. I think it was as scared as I was. The beam scanned the cliffs, then went out. Thank God I’d rebuilt the wall. A voice said something to the dog and they both went back inside, closing the door behind them. I sat on the scree, my arms round my knees, staring at the shed for ten or fifteen minutes. When they’d had time to settle I silently made my way back to the cliff path.
Following the path upwards was easier, but by the time I reached the top I was wheezing like a leaky accordion. I had an old tracksuit in the car to change
into, but I didn’t bother. I carefully arranged it over the driving seat, to keep some of the mud off, and started for home. I was halfway across the North York Moors before my heart stopped trying to batter its way out of my rib cage.
The fingerprint people at city HQ work round the clock, so I went straight there. The sky was beginning to lighten as I pulled into the car park. I was dry by now, but caked in mud from head to foot, and had to show my ID to get past the front desk. The constable in Fingerprints viewed me and my evidence with scepticism.
‘It’s a bit of a mess,’ he told me, unnecessarily, ‘but we might find something. When you pull these gloves off they turn inside out, so the inside is now outside, andvcaked in mud. That’s no good. If this was the first glove he pulled off, there’ll be nothing on it. If, however, he pulled it off with his bare hand, we might be lucky.’
‘You mean those prints would have been on the outside, which is now inside?’
‘That’s it.’
‘So there’s only a fifty-fifty chance of finding anything?’
He looked at the glove with disdain. ‘Less than that, I’m afraid, Inspector. How urgent is it?’
‘It’s not desperately urgent, but it is important. I want your best efforts, we’re talking about murder.’
He made notes on a pro forma pad, recording the
time, my name, et cetera. ‘Right, sir.’ He poked at the glove with the blunt end of his pencil and dislodged same of the mud. ‘I think what we’ll do is let it dry out, then give it the superglue treatment. That works best on rubber. Then we’ll have a look at it under the ultraviolet. I’ll have to wait until the fume cabinet’s available, though. As you know, we’re run off our feet – will Tuesday, possibly Wednesday, be OK?’
‘Fine. I’ve some other work here too. Could that be ready at the same time please?’
He found the reference and made a note. ‘Right, boss, will do. You look as if you’ve been run down by an avalanche, do you want a coffee?’
I smiled for what seemed the first time in ages, and said: ‘It was only a small avalanche. No thanks, I’m going home.’
I showered and went to bed. I fell asleep in minutes. An hour and a half later the doorbell rang. I staggered across to the window and peeked out. Down below, the morning sun was reflecting off the shining pate of Dr Evans. I let him in.
When he saw the dressing gown he said: ‘Sorry, Charlie, have I got you out of bed?’
‘No,’ I lied. ‘I was just about to have a shower. Want a cup of tea?’
‘No thanks. I was nearby, so I thought I’d call to see how you were.’
‘Fine, Sam, I’m fine. Wasn’t sleeping too well at first, but I dropped off OK – er – last night.’
‘Good, good. How have you been spending your time?’
‘Oh, this and that. I’ve done some painting, dug the garden. Yesterday I went to the coast, took your advice.’
The doctor stared at me, his eyelids blinking at regular, two-second intervals. After ten blinks he said, incredulously: ‘You took my advice? You actually took my advice? You had a day at the coast?’
I gave him a grin. ‘You were right, Sam,’ I declared, ‘there is life outside the police force.’ I went back to bed with a smile on my face, but sleep had fled for the day.
I declared myself fit and well and resumed work Monday morning. The latest reports were placed in the file and I found Nigel’s efforts in there. He’d discovered a comprehensive list of associated companies, and several names with records. He’d then looked up all the companies involved with these names. It was quite a tangled web. Fires and burglaries, usually just after a major delivery, were hazards that seemed to strike their warehouses with uncommon regularity. They had an awful lot of bad luck. Nigel had left a note saying he was off having a word with the insurance companies. Well done.
Mike Freer rang. Parker was now in the pen, but he wasn’t writing home. They’d picked him up on the M62, the Porsche loaded to the gunwales with boxes of wraps, each one containing a twenty-five-pound fix.
Estimated street value, about fifteen thousand pounds; his profit, three and a half grand. Not bad for an evening’s work. His house and several others had been raided, too. Findings included a crack factory and the first ice seen on the patch.
‘We’ve done our bit,’ said Mike. ‘Now you boys can stand by for the backlash.’
Drug prices are controlled strictly by supply and demand. Ready availability creates a big market. A major supplier was now out of circulation, so the prices would soar. A user who paid for it by thieving, desperate for a fix, would have to step up his work-rate. That was the backlash.
Wednesday morning Fingerprints rang. ‘It’s Sergeant Miller, Fingerprints. Your photos are ready. Do you want us to post them to you?’
‘Great, thanks. No, I’ll collect them. Did you get anything at all from the glove.’
‘Nothing spectacular, but better than it could have been. Several fragments, mainly from the thumb. All the fingers had turned inside out when the glove was removed, but the tip of the thumb hadn’t. It’d got a bit smudged, though. It matches the other one, but it wouldn’t stand up in court.’
‘Eh? Which other one?’
‘This other stuff you wanted. These contact prints. Says here they’re off a paperknife. Weren’t you expecting them to be the same?’
A sensation was welling up in my loins similar to the
time I accidentally wandered into the wrong dressing room at grammar school, after being clean bowled first ball, and realised that nobody had noticed me. The sixth-form netball team were just changing for a match. It was the most wonderful hundred and twenty seconds of my entire twelve years. I stared at the phone. Had I misheard him?’
‘Sergeant Miller,’ I said. ‘Spell it out slowly. Are you saying that the prints in the glove match the ones on the knife?’
‘Yessir. As far as we can tell they’re from the same person.’
‘You mean … you’re convinced, but a jury wouldn’t be?’
‘That’s it. There are several small, smudged impressions on the glove, which match with the ones on the knife, but nothing big enough to give us sixteen points of similarity in one dab.’
‘Which the law requires.’
‘To make it conclusive, yes.’
‘How many points have we?’
‘Three, maybe four, plus a couple elsewhere.’
‘Mmm. You reckon it’s him, though?’
‘No doubt about it.’
‘Great, I’m grateful for what you’ve told me. Any chance of a report for me by five o’clock, the full works?’
‘No problem, Mr Priest. In fact, for you, four o’clock.’
I put the phone down, punched the air with my fists and gave a rebel yell. Nigel popped his head round the door, a big smile illuminating his tanned face.
‘Won the pools, boss?’
I thumped the palm of my hand. ‘We’ve got the bastard, Nigel, we’ve got the bastard.’
‘Who, Cakebread?’
I calmed down, stared at him and shook my head. ‘Sorry, Nigel, I can’t tell you; not just yet. But I will do, soon. Do you know if Mr Wood’s in?’
Gilbert was in an SDO’s meeting at city HQ. I asked the secretary to get a message to him to ring me, pronto. He came out of the meeting straight away.
‘I can’t tell you anything on the phone,’ I said, ‘but there’s been a development. I need to see you, soon as poss. What time will your meeting finish?’
‘Are you talking about your friend in Lancashire?’
‘Yes.’
‘We try to finish about three thirty. Do you want me to come back to the office? I usually sneak off home.’
‘No. Do you mind coming to my house? I’ll get off a bit early.’
‘OK, Charlie, I’ll be there four thirtyish.’
‘Thanks, boss.’
I made a pot of tea and struck out the biscuits. ‘I’ll be looking like tea and biscuits soon,’ grumbled Gilbert, going straight for the chocolate. ‘What’s it all about?’
I told him about my trip to Port Mulgrave, and what I’d found in the tunnel. He listened with pained resignation. When I’d finished I slid the Fingerprints report over to him. After he’d had a chance to study it I told him: ‘I know it’s not conclusive – a good defence lawyer would tear it to shreds; but statistically, that glove was worn either by Chief Constable Hilditch or a Mongolian witch doctor in the tenth century. A court would give him the benefit of the doubt, but I know who my money’s on.’ I could feel my voice and my temper rising as I said the words.
We sat in silence for a while, then Gilbert said: ‘So what are you going to do?’
‘I don’t know; it’s out of my league. I suppose I should go to either the Home Secretary or HMI. I’d hoped you might have some ideas.’
‘That prat in the striped shirt would sell the story to the tabloids.’
‘Probably,’ I sighed. ‘So it’s the inspectorate?’
‘What if he just clammed up and denied everything?’ asked Gilbert.
Suddenly I didn’t feel so confident. ‘He’d be retired on ill health, and I’d work out my time helping schoolkids across the street,’ I answered.
‘Correct. They’d say you were tired and emotional. What about seeing him?’
‘It’d crossed my mind. He’s not likely to break down and confess, though, is he? Or are you talking about a deal?’
‘Possibly. How would you feel if he saved his own skin by grassing on the others?’
‘Unhappy.’
‘So would I; we could end up as incriminated as him.’
It was the first time Gilbert had used the plural; I’d been thinking I was in this on my own. I went into the kitchen to replenish the teapot.
After a few moments Gilbert shouted after me: ‘How well do you know him?’
‘Hilditch? Hardly at all,’ I yelled back.
I poured us both another cup.
‘I know him a bit better than that,’ he said. After a while he went on: ‘What if I went to see him?’
I felt relieved. Gilbert’s responses so far were a disappointment to me. ‘I’d feel better, but what’s changed?’
‘Nothing, but he knows you’re conducting a vendetta against Cakebread. He’d be on the defensive. I’ll just wave the file under his nose and say we’ve found his dabs in a cave used by drug smugglers. See what his reaction is.’
‘It’s a tunnel; they’re not the Pirates of Penzance. Sounds good to me, though. What if he suggests a deal?’
‘It’s your case, Charlie. Who are you really after?’
‘I don’t know, but if he wants to talk turkey, the price is a shedful. I’ll leave it to you.’
Gilbert finished his tea. ‘I’ll take this,’ he said, holding up the file. ‘I’ll ring him from home, then let you know what’s happening.’
‘Cheers.’
I don’t normally pass on the dirty work, but I was grateful to let this one go. It wasn’t as cut and dried as I’d first thought. Gilbert rang me at seven.
‘I’m just setting off. I’m seeing him at eight. He’s moved to bloody Harrogate.’
‘I’ve been thinking, Gilbert,’ I said. ‘Do you think you ought to have a driver with you?’
‘No, you know the score. Wait up for me, I’ll call in on my way back.’
An hour there, an hour back, an hour talking. That came to ten o’clock. Say eleven. I cooked a meal fit for a condemned man and hardly touched it. It passed the first hour, though. The next four weren’t filled so easily. I tried luxuriating in the bath, with a couple of cans of beer, but the beer warmed almost as quickly as the water cooled. It had seemed a good idea. I watched some bad TV, then went into the garage to talk to the E-type. The dust sheets slid to the floor like a neglige off a beautiful woman. I ran my fingers along the curves, then unlocked the door and slid in. I sat there for a long time, thinking about people I’d known, messes I’d made. I wondered how much it would sell for.
It was after midnight when I went to bed, annoyed that Gilbert hadn’t rung. Earlier, I almost called Molly, to see if he was home, but I realised that would only make her as worried as I was. I was still awake when I heard a car in the road, followed by the doorbell ringing. I knew straight away, from Gilbert’s pallor,
that something had gone wrong. I poured him a stiff Glenfiddich, with a very small one for myself. He downed his in one.
‘Hey, this isn’t Japanese muck, y’know,’ I told him, pouring another.
‘Cheers, Charlie, I needed that.’
When he’d composed himself I asked: ‘How’d it go?’
He sat looking at his hands, as if wondering where to begin, then said: ‘Bad, Charlie, really bad. I’d made it clear on the phone that he’d better see me. I think he had an idea what it was about. His wife was out, at a meeting, or something. I told him about the tunnel and the fingerprints. He said: “It’s that Priest, isn’t it, making wild accusations?” I said: “No, it’s me, and there’s nothing wild about that.” I showed him one of the photos, one taken from the paperknife. I didn’t bother explaining. He stared at it and started trembling.’
I had a sip of my drink and waited for him to continue.
‘I asked him how well he knew Cakebread; thought I’d give him an opening. He didn’t answer. After a while he said he needed a drink, did I mind if he fetched one? He stood up and went into the kitchen. While he was gone I had a look round the room, like you do. It’s cluttered with all that stuff you see in the supplements; mass-produced special editions, as if he didn’t know what to spend his money on. Then I saw the drinks
cabinet in the corner. You’ll never guess what he drinks.’
‘What?’ I asked, remembering the Macallan I’d seen in his office.
‘Macallan,’ Gilbert replied.