Nigel was okay. I decided to expand a little. Maybe it would do me good. 'I started out as an art student but I didn't seem to fit in.
When I finished I decided I wanted a complete change, so I came into the family firm. Dad was a Dixon of Dock Green desk sergeant at Heckley for donkey's years. He died of cancer, but I made him happy in the end. I'm glad about that. Now I'm beginning to think that I don't fit in again. It's only taken me until now to realise it.' This was getting serious. I grinned at him: 'Maybe I'm just shiftless.'
We could see the lights of an occasional vehicle wind up the main road and vanish over the Tops.
'I'd rather be here with the other new starter,' I said. 'No offence, but she's better-looking than you.'
'Helen Chatterton?' said Nigel. 'She is good-looking. Got brilliant marks at college. Pity about the halitosis.'
'You're joking?' I winced at the thought of it.
'No way. She could knock out Schwarzenegger at ten paces, providing the wind was right.'
'Poor kid. Remind me to take her off my Christmas card list.'
A pair of lights was crawling up the hill, brilliant beams sweeping through the cold night air.
'He's taking it a bit steady,' I commented.
'Probably an elderly Cortina,' suggested Nigel.
'Can't be,' I replied. 'They don't have a warm yellow glow like these.'
The lights hesitated at the end of the lane, then swung our way.
'Bingo!' I cried. 'We could be in business.'
The car came slowly towards us, then stopped outside the telephone box and switched off its lights.
'It's a Roller!' exclaimed Nigel under his breath.
A burly figure got out of the Rolls Royce and waddled towards the phone box, barely visible in the meagre illumination it gave off. His silhouette hunched over the coin box and I saw the handset come up to his ear. After two or three seconds he let it fall from his hand, turned, and walked back to his car.
'What the heck is he playing at?' I wondered softly.
The Rolls Royce did a U-turn, bumping over the verge, and set off back towards the main road.
'Wait there,' I ordered, and jumped out and ran towards the box. The handset was swinging on the end of its wire. I grabbed it and put it to my ear.
'Hello, hello,' a voice was saying. An Asian voice. 'Is anybody there? What do you want?'
'Hello,' I said. 'Who is that, please?'
'This is Hassan's Taxis. Do you want a taxi?'
'Hassan's Taxis,' I repeated. 'Where exactly do you operate from?'
'We are in Welton,' he told me. 'Do you want a taxi?'
'No,' I replied, 'no thanks,' and hung up. I sprinted back to the car and leapt in. 'C'mon,' I said, 'let's get his number.' I gunned the Cortina out of the gateway and down the lane. Nigel was scrambling for his seat belt.
'Oh, no!' he cried. 'Please God, not a chase. Not in a Cortina!'
We rattled and jarred down the bumpy track. 'It's an old trick,' I told him. 'This time of night on a Friday is a busy time for taxis.
Find a quiet phone box, dial a rival firm, put a couple of quid in the slot and leave the phone off the hook. It's supposed to keep their line tied up for quite a while.'
'Does it work?' he asked.
'I'm not sure, now. Popular folklore says it does. It certainly worked in the past, when it was all done by wires.'
We swung on to the main road just in time to see the Rolls's taillights vanish over the brow towards Lancashire. The familiar scorching smell stung our nostrils as the Cortina struggled with the gradient. Nigel started making low groaning noises.
'Don't worry about it,' I told him. 'I've seen Bullitt three times.' ' Bullittl Was that a talkie?'
'Yes, and in colour.'
'That's right my dad told me about it. He said Steve McQueen's car had six hubcaps.'
'It probably had brakes, too,' I said. I decided to do some boasting.
'Actually, I've got a Jaguar back home in my mother's garage.'
'Then why aren't we in that?' he moaned, bracing himself against the dashboard as we slid round a right- hander.
'Because it's in a worse state than this. It's in a thousand bits. I'm supposed to be restoring it.'
As we levelled out on to the Tops, the taillights came back into view.
They were much closer. Mr. Rolls was obviously not in a hurry.
'We'll just get his number, then back off,' I said.
We caught him on the downgrade without any heroics.
'Personal number,' commented Nigel, 'ABC, very nice.'
'Can't be too many of those about,' I suggested.
Nigel rose to the bait like a hungry trout on the Day of the Mayflies. 'Nine hundred and ninety-nine, I suppose,' he told me, modestly.
We pulled off at the first left turn and as soon as the Rolls had vanished we headed for home.
'We'll check it out Monday morning,' I said, adding: 'That's your job.'
When I arrived at the station on Monday morning, Nigel was hovering around the front desk. I asked him what he was doing there.
'PC Riley has just asked me to watch things, sir, while he goes to the bog. He says he's got a bad stomach.'
'Okay, but I want you on parade in five minutes.'
We don't actually have parades in CID, but we still use the term. It just means 'be there', so that we can discuss the previous twenty-four hours' happenings. I sprinted upstairs and stood looking out of the front window. Shortly, a young woman appeared carrying a small parcel in front of her, and walked in through the front entrance of the nick.
I could visualise the scene.
'I would like to report some lost property,' she would be saying. Nigel would then make out the proper forms, give the lady a receipt and tell her when she could claim it if the rightful owner didn't. As soon as she had gone Riley would reappear.
After parade and the sub divisional Officers' management meeting, better known as morning assembly, I asked Nigel what had been in the parcel.
'I was a bit surprised when PC Riley opened it,' he told me. 'It contained a packet of six Lyons individual chocolate Swiss rolls.'
'What did he do with them?' I asked.
'He ate one. That really shook me.'
'Only one?' I enquired.
Nigel looked sheepish. 'He gave me one. I ate one, too.'
'You ate some evidence,' I stated.
'Lost property, not evidence, sir.'
He looked uncomfortable, as if his entire future had been blighted by a wayward Swiss roll.
'Never mind that for now. Have that Rolls Royce checked out.'
I settled down at the small mountain of paper on my desk. I thumbed my way through the pile, looking for money, offers of bribes or letters from pining young ladies. None. It was one of those Mondays. Nigel was back before I had done anything constructive.
'How about this?' he said, looking a little brighter. 'ABC belongs to one Aubrey Bingham Cakebread, of The Ponderosa, Welton.'
Welton was on the outskirts of Oldfield, on the posh side. It was also the home of Hassan's Taxis. I thought about things for a while. 'Ring your new-found friends in Oldfield,' I told him. 'Thank them for their hospitality and then ask them if they have anything on Mr.
Breadcake.'
'Cakebread, sir,' interrupted Nigel.
