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.
Chapter Fifteen
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, and caked 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 super glue 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 okay?'
'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 okay 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 net ball 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?'
'Yes sir. 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
