bleeding off a couple of drops of the precious stuff. A fifteen percent profit, overnight, minus commission, had half of Yorkshire, Lancashire and Derbyshire beating a path to their cave. It all came to an end when they were hanged on York Knavesmire, as a prelude to the day's racing, but legend has it that there is still a million pounds worth of gold hidden somewhere in them thar hills.
None of this was on my mind as I drove towards the Coiners after leaving the office. My main concern was whether they served food, closely followed by wondering what my mystery caller had for me.
Hallelujah! There was a big sign outside that read 'Home of Peggy Watt's Famous Yorkshire Puddings'. Wild Bill Hickok sat with his back to the door and paid for it with his life, so I sat in a corner where I could view the entire room. There was nobody else in, apart from the landlord, who seemed to resent my intrusion. I drank four orange juices with lemonade as slowly as I could, and ate one of Peggy Watt's puddings as rapidly as I was able. Two other men, apparently regulars, came in and had a serious discourse on tupping while sipping halves.
The Yorkshire pudding had the consistency of a marathon runner's insole. Peggy would have been better employed helping ill their Jimmy with his steam engine; or perhaps he had to invent the steam engine to stir the bloody stuff.
It was dark when I left. Maybe Sparky and Nigel Newley were having better luck. I'd left them watching over my house it could all have been a ploy to get me out of the way. I was manoeuvring in the car park just as another vehicle came in, carrying a young couple. We got in each other's way for a few seconds, then the driver wound down his window and shouted to me: 'Watch how you go, mate, there's some rozzers parked down the lane and you've a back light out.'
I waved a thank you and parked up again. The offside rear light was deader than last night's promises. I tapped the lens a few times in an attempt to resuscitate it, then tried to open the boot lid to have a closer look. The key jammed in the lock at first, but with some extra persuasion I managed to force it open. Once I'd figured how it was done I flicked out the offending bulb holder. Surprise, surprise, there was no bulb there; it must have fallen out into the light fitting.
All good cops carry a flashlight with a five-hundred-foot beam. By some chance I happened to have one with me. I didn't find the bulb, but I did discover a white package tucked in the recess where the window-washer bottle was situated. It weighed about half a pound and was neatly done-up with polythene and Sellotape. It could have been special flour for Mrs. Watt's Yorkshire puddings, or it could have been something else.
Watching in the rear-view mirror for the blue light to come on was like waiting for the sun to rise: dazzling and inevitable. I pulled over, they got out. It was a textbook exercise in courtesy and Proper Police Procedure. Nobody had been slipping double tequilas into my orange juice, and vitamin C is non-intoxicating, so I passed the breath test as easily as a Charolais heifer passes wind.
'Do you mind if we look in your boot, sir?'
'Yes.'
'It'll be easier all round if you co-operate, sir.'
'One of you can look; I want the other to stand well back.'
The lock operated more easily this time. He flashed his light round inside, then asked to look in the car. I watched him like a weasel watches a rabbit, or was it like a rabbit watches a weasel?
'Everything seems to be in order, sir. You will get that light fixed, won't you? Which station would you like to present your documents at?'
'St. Pancras. You're on the wrong side of the hill, Sergeant. Who sent you over here?' It was my turn to ask questions.
'We had a tip-off, sir. Can't say any more than that.'
'Stop calling me sir. An anonymous tip-off?'
'Er… I understand it was.'
'Then make sure it was logged, 'cos I'll be checking.'
The gate to Bentley Prison could have been the prototype for the Great Gate at Kiev. The whole edifice was constructed during Queen Victoria's reign, in a burst of enlightenment and compassion, and an earnest desire to be constructive in the treatment of the criminal classes. Now it was overcrowded, understaffed, and held regular degree ceremonies for those who passed through its courses in advanced criminality. They don't open the Great Gate to let visitors in there's a normal-sized, but metal, door just to the side of it.
I'd arranged my visit to see Lee Ziolkowski the previous afternoon. The visiting room is like a large canteen, with formica tables and tubular chairs; none of this talking through a screen that you see in the films. Down the side there are small cubicles for special visitors, such as solicitors or policemen. I was told which cubicle to use, and someone went to fetch Lee. I bought a couple of teas and chocolate biscuits from the lady at the WRVS counter and waited. It was normal visiting hours, and the place was noisy with young women with toddlers, come to see daddy doing his bird. At the table just outside my cubicle a tattooed hero was trying to swallow his leather-clad visitor. She wore a mini-skirt and thigh boots, and the gap between displayed enough fishnet to equip a small trawler. Just the thing to raise the morale when you measure the passing of time in Christmas dinners.
Lee appeared a lot healthier than when I last saw him. He'd lost his pallor and gained a pound or two in weight. He still looked at me nervously, though.
'Hello, Lee. Remember me, Charlie Priest? I interviewed you in Heckley nick. I got you one with milk and two sugars; hope that's how you like it.' It's how they always like it.
He sat down opposite me. 'Yeah, thanks,' he said.
'I have to tell you, Lee, that you've no need to talk to me if you don't want to. You can get up and leave right now, or you can insist on your solicitor being present. I hope you won't, though, because I think you should hear what I have to say.'
Legally he was a man, but inside he was just a scared little boy, struggling to survive in a world he couldn't comprehend.
He would put up a tough show for my benefit, but was out of his depth, and now had to either grab the lifeline or go under, maybe for ever. He didn't say anything, just stayed where he was and unwrapped his biscuit.
'You and your pals have been used, Lee,' I told him, 'by evil people who don't care if you live or die. They feed you shit drugs and shit friendship, but all they want is for you to get hooked. Then they start bleeding you. You don't belong in here, this place is a dustbin, it's full of garbage. A young kid died over the weekend from a heroin overdose. The stuff he was using was too strong, he was just guessing at the dose. He's the latest in a long line. It could have been you if you hadn't been in here. I know it's not the done thing, Lee, but you could help me stamp it out. You could save lives, including your own. I want you to tell me who you got your works from.' Longest speech I ever made, and he wasn't impressed.
'You mean grass? You want me to grass?'
Sometimes I think they absorb the prison culture with the food. 'The rubbish in here call it gras sing Lee, I call it curing a disease. A few years ago there was a disease called smallpox; killed millions.
Then they found a cure for it and thought they'd stamped it out. A couple of years later somebody in Africa said: 'Hey! There's a feller in our village still got it.' So the doctors moved in and cured him.
Now he can't give it to anyone else. The man who spoke out wasn't gras sing he did a public service. You could do the same.'
'They'd kill me.' He looked scared.
'No they wouldn't,' I assured him, without conviction. 'They wouldn't know where the information came from. Besides, I thought the younger generation wanted some excitement in their lives.
They've wanted to kill me for years, I can live with it.'
He could have stood up and walked out. An old lag would have done, but he still had a residue of polite behaviour in him, and I hadn't said he could go.
'What's the grub like?' I asked.
He almost smiled; either with relief at the change of subject or at the thought of the next culinary extravaganza. 'Rubbish,' he answered.
I small-talked with him for twenty minutes, asking him about how he was finding it inside, his family, how he'd done at school, anything I could think of. He opened up a little about playing football, but most of the time it was a questions-and-answers session. It usually is with teenagers. After a while I took a long look at my watch.
