international driving permit cost me next to nothing. Then I called at Jimmy Hoyle's.
'You'll never fit five wheels in the back of the Cavalier,' he told me.
'I've got them in the van, I was going to bring 'em round. Come on, I'll show you.'
He opened the back of his little van. It was stuffed solid with Jaguar wheels and smelled of new rubber. Jimmy pulled the nearest wheel towards him, and turned it to show off the gleaming chrome spokes.
'Don't they look fabulous,' he enthused. 'I think I'd keep the spare one over the mantelpiece.'
I had to agree with him. They looked a lot bigger than I remembered, and exuded style and excellence. And this was only the wheels.
'Jimmy, do you think I'll be able to take a long trip in it at the weekend?' I asked.
'Course you can,' he said. 'That's what it's meant for. I'll give you an MOT certificate now and you can send off for the tax. As long as you backdate it you'll be okay. Then it just needs setting up. I'll do that for you. No problem. Where are you going?'
I'd wanted to keep it secret. 'I'm thinking about the South of France,' I said.
'Smashing. Anywhere in particular?'
'Yeah, Spain. But don't tell anyone.'
'I'll make a deal with you,' he said, giving me his lopsided grin.
'Leave the keys with me and I'll pop up this afternoon and put the wheels on. Then I can give it a going-over. That way I get to have the first ride in it. Okay?'
It was definitely okay by me. 'Great,' I said, 'but what about this place? Can you leave it?'
'No problem. I'll soon have the wheels on, then I can bring it down here to set up. Do you want me to call round at the station with it?'
'No. Er, definitely not. And make sure you put your time on the bill.' Jimmy's bills were about a third of what other garages charged, which was just as well, otherwise I'd never have been able to have all the work done. He'd done the paintwork and the technical jobs, and had the expert stuff done at cost price for me. It was Jimmy who'd given me the Cortina several years previously, and I still felt indebted to him.
'Don't worry, I will. C'mon, I'll give you an MOT certificate and a tax form.' We went into his little office, where he rummaged among an untidy jumble of papers.
'How can you give it an MOT certificate when it hasn't any wheels on?'
I asked.
'Here they are.' He retrieved the pad of certificates and ran his finger down the conditions of issue. He shook his head. 'Doesn't say anything about having to have wheels here.'
Chapter Eight
There's a photocopying machine in the main post office, so I took copies of the documents before posting them off to the Vehicle Registration Centre at Swansea. Next I called at the bank and cleaned them out of francs and pesetas. They didn't have many, and weren't pleased because I hadn't ordered them, but they paid up without being reminded that it was, after all, my money. Then, because I couldn't think of anything better, I drove back to the office.
Only Nigel was in, immersed in a long report. He told me where everybody else was and gave me a couple of messages. There was nothing that couldn't wait. I sat at my desk and pretended to be busy. I was still feeling restless, impatient, wondering what the next move would be.
The only relief came just before official knocking-off time. I answered the phone to hear a familiar voice whisper: 'Hi, boss, it's me, Maggie. Is Nigel in?' She wasn't called Mad Maggie for nothing.
'Yes,' I stated, flatly.
'Can he see you?'
'No.' Nigel had recently turned his desk round to catch the light from outside, which meant he now had his back to the windows of my little office.
'Then dial him on the party-line number and keep listening.'
I did as I was told, and was rewarded by the trill of Nigel's phone.
'Heckley Police, DC Newley speaking, can I help you?'
The next voice was that of a downtrodden female. 'I'd like to speak to a policeman,' it whined.
'Detective Constable Newley here, ma'am, how can I help you?'
'It's about my us band He's been done for stealing an occasional table and I want to know if he'll go to jail.'
'Your husband, ma'am? Well, to start with, do you know if he's been charged with stealing anything else?'
'Yes, he 'as.'
'Can you tell me what?'
'E stole an occasional car… and an occasional video… and an occasional Nigel slammed the phone down. 'Piss off!' I heard through the glass.
I replaced my receiver silently and buried my head in some paperwork.
Maggie could be a heartless bitch when she wanted.
I left early, for once, and told Nigel not to hang about. I hadn't made a great contribution to the cause of law and order today, but I had other things on my mind. Five years of broken fingernails, caused by endless rubbing down and polishing, had finally come to an end. All the difficulties of finding obscure spare parts had been overcome and now the whole thing was assembled and sitting in the garage waiting for me. Patience isn't one of my foremost virtues, but I'd made great efforts not to spoil the restoration of the Jaguar by rushing it. Going slowly also helped to spread out the expenditure.
Jimmy had popped the keys through my letter box, as arranged. I just went into the house, picked up the keys, and went straight back out to open the garage door. It slid upwards like the shutter of a missile silo, to reveal its awesome contents. The evening sunlight slid slowly up the endless bonnet of the E-type and flicked over the windscreen. I took a few paces backwards and just stood there, staring at it. I've never been what might be called a car person they're normally strictly workhorses to me but I'd always regarded the E-type Jaguar as a work of art. The reverence I experienced as I gazed upon it was similar to that I had felt when I stood before Michelangelo's Pietd, or watched the sun set, one winter's afternoon, from the summit of Blencathra.
Jimmy was right, except that I would have liked to have put the whole caboodle over the mantelpiece.
The phone was ringing in the house. I dashed in and grabbed it.
'Hello,' I said. It was as good an opening as any, and didn't give a lead to crank callers.
'Is that Mr. Priest, please?'
It was a female voice. I thought I recognised it, but I wasn't sure.
'No, it's Charlie. Who's that, please?'
'Hello, boss, it's Kim, Kim Limbert…'
'Hi, Kim,' I replied with enthusiasm, 'sorry I missed your bun fight, did it go off all right?'
'Yes. Never mind that. Charlie, are you in trouble?'
'No. I don't think so. Why?'
'I overheard a conversation today, well, more of a row than a conversation. It seemed to be about you.'
I was intrigued. 'Where was this?' I asked.
'Down at city HQ,' Kim replied. 'I don't start till Monday, but I thought I'd call in today to say hello. I was waiting to see my new boss when I was invited up to see the Assistant Chief Constable, Mr.
Partridge.'
I hadn't been invited to see the ACC when I made sergeant. 'Go on,' I told her.
'Well, when I got there I was informed that he'd just been summoned to the Big Chiefs office. Hilditch's, that is. Would I forgive him, and he'd have a word with me some other time.'
'Mmm, sounds like I've a rival there. What happened next?'
'Next I got lost. I had a quick word with a girl I know in the outer office, then I must have turned the wrong way when I came out. I knew I'd made a mistake when the carpet came over my ankles. I found myself outside
