the right size, and set up the easel in the front room, before the Picasso. It was daylight outside when I finished. It would take three or four days to dry, then it could go over the mantelpiece in place of the so-called original. It might fool a hired burglar, working by torchlight. I washed my hands and fetched the duvet from the bedroom. I fell asleep on the settee, the smell of oil paints and natural turpentine bringing back memories of another life.
In the afternoon I rang Gilbert and arranged to see him later. Then I had a desultory meal, showered and went to the library. I spent a long time perusing books about walks in Yorkshire. The CID office is usually at its quietest in the late afternoon. When I entered only Martin Makinson and Nigel were there.
'Hello, Maz,' I said. 'Or is it back to Martin? How does it feel to have to come to work again?'
He gave a relieved smile. At first they both were uncertain how to deal with me. 'No problem, boss. All the sex and drugs was starting to get me down anyway.'
'Good, you did well. Which of you two is good at walking?'
Neither spoke. They both believed that the first to twitch a muscle would find himself pacing every pavement in Heckley.
'Hard luck, Nigel. You blinked first.' I had intended giving him the job all along. I put a bundle of OS maps and a library book on his desk. 'You are now the secretary of the CID Walking Club. We meet the first Sunday in every month, for a brisk expedition across the fells.
Have a look at these and sort something out. It's about time you discovered more about God's Own Country, apart from the boozers and curry houses.'
Nigel surprised me with his eagerness. 'Great, boss,' he said, adding:
'Do you think many will want to come?'
'They will when they read the constitution. It's a pound a week to be a member, and membership is compulsory. All walks to finish near a pub, where we spend the club funds. That'll drag 'em in.'
Poor Gilbert had aged ten years overnight. He'd probably been taking non-stop flak since the shooting.
'Sit down, Charlie. Let's have a coffee.' He filled two mugs, then looked at his watch. 'Oh, it's not too early for a snifter, what do you say?'
I'd have preferred to have said 'No thanks', but I said: 'Good idea, get the bottle out.'
Gilbert poured two measures in our coffees and we settled down to put the world right. I told him about the new Walking Club.
'Hey, that could catch on,' he said. 'Might even come myself, if it's not too strenuous.'
'It won't be. We intend catering for all tastes, abilities, and the overweight.'
We discussed a few outstanding jobs, then he told me what Chief Inspector Brabiner had said he would put in his report. It sounded favourable. Gilbert delved into one of his drawers and slid a ten-by-eight black-and-white photograph across to me.
'If anything clinches it, Charlie, that will. Christ, you were lucky.
I went cold when I saw the hole in that wardrobe.'
The print showed a uniformed constable standing in the alcove where I had been. Inches in front of his face was a jagged mess where the shotgun blast had blown away the edge of the wardrobe. A chill ran through my bones, too. 'Yes,' I remarked. 'I'm having a lot of luck lately.'
While we were sipping our coffee the phone rang. Gilbert answered it, making acquiescent noises into the mouthpiece as he listened for several minutes. He scribbled on his pad, then turned it so I could read it. He'd written 'Longfellow'. After a while he said: 'No, you won't catch him at home… He's here, that's why… Yes, in my office. I'll put him on.' He reached over with the handset and gave me a resigned look.
'Priest here,' I said.
'Hello, Inspector Priest. DI Longfellow, from the SFO. I'm afraid I've some not very good news for you.'
'Don't spare me, I'm feeling brave.'
'Pardon?'
'Nothing, go ahead.'
'I've rung to tell you that we've just searched various of Mr.
Cakebread's premises. They were all clean as a whistle. We also asked our Spanish opposites to turn over his villa and boat. They found nothing, too.'
Disappointment hit me like a ten-ton custard pie. 'Where, exactly, have you searched?' I asked.
'Everywhere he had registered; that's his premises in Welton, ABC House; his home ' 'The Ponderosa?'
'That's right; his aeroplane at Blackpool and a flat at Whitby. He spreads his largess between both coasts.'
'He certainly does. I didn't know about the flat in Whitby; do you have an address?' He read it to me. I went on: 'And you found nothing at all?'
'Nothing. Apparently the sniffer dog they put in the plane became quite excited, but nothing came of it. We've taken some sweepings-up for analysis, but if we do find anything it will never stick. Looks like he's given us the slip, for the time being.'
'Oh. Well at least you sound as if you're happy that I haven't led you up a gum tree.'
'No, nothing of the sort,' he replied. 'He's up to his neck in something. We'll just have to keep watching him.'
'Will I step on any toes if I include myself in that?'
'Be our guest; you're on his doorstep.'
I was back on the job. 'Okay, thanks for ringing.'
'There is one other thing,' he said before I could put the phone down.
'CS Fearnside had me dig out your file. You've been an inspector for a long time.'
I didn't like the sound of this. 'That's right, I'm going for the record.'
His reply caught me off-guard: 'Ever considered a sideways move?' he asked.
'Er, no, never,' I stuttered.
'Maybe you should. Fearnside was impressed. Could get you away from a tricky situation. Why don't you think about it?'
'I will. Thanks. Goodbye.'
I thought about it. Move down south no way. End of thought process. I handed the phone back to Gilbert, and when it was back in its cradle said: They've spun Breadcake and he's cleaner than a dog's balls. They can't manage without me, so will I spend some of my valuable time on the case? Then he offered me a proper job.'
Gilbert's eyebrows shot up. 'Offered you a job?'
'That's what it sounded like.'
'The cheeky bastard!'
Being off work gave me time to think, without the pressures of day-to-day policing. All we had on Cakebread was a collection of tenuously linked crimes, where some of the connections were thinner than boarding house Spam. What we didn't have was forensic evidence, something that would stand up against critical cross- examination by the best bent lawyers in the business. Money can buy you truth, but only, thank God, up to a point. Wednesday morning I rose ridiculously early, but I hung about at home to give ADI Willis plenty of time to deploy his troops. Then I went in to the office.
'Hi, boss,' Sparky greeted me. 'We were just having a discussion on the greatest labour-saving device ever invented. What would you say it was?'
'No idea. What's this in aid of?'
'It's the eldest lad's latest project from school. That's the sort of stuff they teach 'em, these days.'
'I thought you had only two sons,' stated Nigel.
'I have.'
'In that case he's your elder lad, not eldest.'
'But I've got three kids.'
'Well in that case he's your eldest child, but your elder son.'
'My daughter won't like that.'
'Why not?'
'She's elder than he is.'
'What's he thinking of so far?' interrupted Tony Willis.
'Sliced bread.'
