'You mean the Drug Trafficking Offences Act, 1987?'
'That one.'
'Slim. There've been one or two prosecutions, but the drug end of it was well proven. You'd have to do that first, before you could strip his assets. When Cakebread was turned over he was clean, wasn't he?'
'Like Mother Teresa. What happened to the parcel that was planted in my car?'
'Your half-kilogram of Bogota's best; it's been incinerated, along with a load of other stuff. Listen, Charlie; I hope you're not thinking what I think you're thinking. If you are, forget it. Hear me?'
'It was just an idea.'
'Well don't have any more like it. They're not worth it, Charlie. Keep repeating 'Pension, retirement, pension, retirement'. Okay?'
'I hear you. Thanks for ringing.'
It was definitely too cold to prune the shrubs, so I put a CD on the player and stretched out on the sofa to listen to it and relax. In deference to the sabbath I'd selected my Thomas Tallis. I played it loud, to impress God and the neighbours. I like the English composers, even if some of them have names that wouldn't make the Jockey Club members' enclosure. It's good music to think to; sort out your mind and make decisions. Inspirational, even.
Too many people were being hurt. We were catching the little fish, victim ising the victims, while the hammerhead swam free. I lay staring at the ceiling as the choir's final, triumphant chord faded into the ether; then I slipped into my trainers and leather jacket and went out to the car. I'd decided to go shark fishing.
Sunday afternoon is probably as quiet as it ever gets down at the station. Most of the squad cars were in the yard, one bearing a dented wing, evidence of a memorable Saturday night for someone. The front door of the building was locked; I spoke into the microphone to gain admittance.
Sergeant Jenks was in the charge room, with a PC and a miserable wretch who was being fed into one end of the sausage machine that would cough him out into the magistrates' court on Monday morning. Jenks looked up when I poked my head round the door.
'Hello, Mr. Priest,' he said. 'We weren't expecting you. Anything special?'
'No, Sergeant. I've just called to collect something from my office.'
I nodded towards the frightened little man. 'What's he in for?'
Jenks shook his head and tut-tutted. 'Trumping in church, sir,' he said.
I glared at him, long and mean. 'Hang the bastard,' I pronounced.
Upstairs, I pulled open my bottom drawer. The brown envelope addressed to our late Chief Constable was still there. I reread the note it contained. The mysteries of PH and PM were solved; now was the time to exorcise the rest of it. I wrote the number for the alarm, 4297, on the back of my hand with a ball-pen, and pocketed the three keys.
Ten minutes later Heckley was falling behind and below, as I gunned the car up the moorland road that led into Lancashire. The radio tuned itself in to the local station and I sang along with the music, slapping time on the wheel with my fingers. All the songs were new to me, but you feel you'd heard them in the cradle after the first two lines. I felt good; activity is the best antidote for depression.
Even on a bad day the moors look all right. Today was still and clear, for a change, and they were at their benign best. It was only temporary, though: moody malevolence was never more than a breeze away.
A million years of rain and wind has smoothed off every sharp edge, every jutting crag or soaring pinnacle. The hills roll and curve sensuously, with the valleys cutting deep cleavages between them. The shapes they make are animal, rather than geological.
Man's tentative grip is seen only in the valleys. Bold mills stand foursquare to the elements, their chimneys long grown cold. Rows of solid workers' terraces are now the homes of painters and the makers of thick wooden jigsaws and other primitive toys; guaranteed to make your children believe that Santa Claus hates them. Cotton and worsted that once clothed and carpeted the world have been replaced by politically correct dolls and pottery that grinds the enamel off your teeth. I love it all.
Going down the other side the patchwork of the Lancashire plain was visible almost to the coast. Soon I was driving through the middle of Oldfield, rattling across the market square with its ancient cross, and heading out towards Welton and ABC House.
I drove past the gatehouse at the front entrance. Apart from the rows of mute lorries and security vans, the only vehicles parked there were a small motorbike belonging to the gate man and Breadcake's Rolls Royce. Dammit, I hadn't expected him to be in today. I settled down to watch, from as far away as possible. After an hour I rang his home, The Ponderosa, on the mobile phone.
'Hello,' said a female voice.
'Hello, is Mr. Cakebread there?' I asked.
'No.' She didn't give much away.
'Oh. It's Mr. Curtis here, of Curtis's. I'd like a quick word with him, soon as poss. Are you expecting him?' Curtis's were the local Rolls Royce dealers.
'Yes, he shouldn't be long.'
'Good, I'll try a little later. If I miss him could you ask him to give me a bell sometime tomorrow?'
'Yes.'
'Thank you. 'Bye.' Click.
At least it sounded as if he was due to go home soon. He did, just before the end of the Radio 4 play.
The cobbled lane that runs down the side of ABC House was deserted, apart from a couple of vehicles parked outside the factory next door. I left my car behind them and walked back to the side entrance of the building. I knew that two of my keys fitted the small door that was inset into the big sliding one. Without looking round I unlocked the deadlock, then the Yale, and stepped inside. A small red light was blinking on the burglar alarm unit on the wall at the side of the door.
I typed in the number and the light turned to a steady green one. He hadn't changed the code, I was in. I closed the door, leaving the latch off.
It had possibly been a weaving shed, or something similar, in days gone by. Now it was just a big empty space, devoid of any machinery. Across the other side were a couple of disabled lorries, cabs tipped forward and entrails laid neatly on the concrete floor, waiting for their mechanics to resume work on Monday morning. A security van stood on blocks, minus its wheels. It was gloomy without the lights on, the only illumination coming from a row of windows up near the roof. Away to the right was the main entrance a big concertina door that led out into the yard and the office block where I had met the desirable Gloria. The offices were a two-storey affair, easily accommodated within the height of the main building. A flight of metal stairs led up to the next floor. I wondered if the door at the top of them gave access to Breadcake's private suite, with its deep carpets and wonderful matching colour scheme. There was a good way to find out.
I padded across to the stairs and climbed them two at a time, hauling on the handrail and extracting the third key from my pocket as I moved.
I paused at the door and looked around. The place was as silent as a turkey farm on Boxing Day. I tried the key. It turned. I let the door swing open and surveyed the room. It was windowless and dark. I didn't want to put the lights on, so I left the door wide open. It still took a few moments for my eyes to accustom themselves to the gloom. It was a big room, with an odd assortment of furniture. There were two or three easy chairs and a huge table that might have come from a drawing office or a school laboratory. But what really caught my attention was the familiar face, staring unwaveringly at me through the gloaming.
Ill
Chapter Twenty-One
I gazed back at it with a deal more fascination than when I'd seen the original in the Louvre, many years ago. It was the Mono. Lisa, but the picture wasn't hanging on the wall: it was on an easel, as if waiting for the artist to add the finishing touches.
I turned it a few degrees, so that it received more of the light from the door. It was good. Oil paints are slow
