giving her all the support she could. That was where she was going next.
DS Sparkington was doing some follow-up interviews — seeing people who hadn't been in when we called, or who couldn't remember where they were at the fateful time. Luke was putting Van Rees's report on file.
That left me. I went upstairs to see the Super.
'The bottom line, Gilbert,' I told him, 'is that he's clever, he's had it planned for a long time, and I'm confident that he's known to us.'
Gilbert pondered on what I'd said. 'So couldn't Forensic come up with anything at all with the note?' he asked.
I shook my head. 'Nope, nothing at all.'
'What about the typed address?'
'Done on a computer. Laser jet printer, impossible to trace. They're not like your old Remingtons, I'm afraid.'.
'In that case, why didn't he print the whole bloody note on it?'
'Good point. Maybe he didn't know that it was untraceable. I wasn't sure myself until I asked. Sparky thinks the note was designed for theatrical effect.'
'You mean it's just someone making mischief?'
'Mmm.'
'Jesus Christ! Makes you wander just who's out there. Do you need anybody else?'
'No, not at the moment, thanks.'
I was walking across to the door when Gilbert said: 'So what's your next move, Charlie?'
I paused with my hand on the handle. 'I'm trying a new technique this afternoon,' I replied.
'Oh, what's that?'
'I'm driving up on to the moors and I'm going to sit on a wall and listen to the wind.'
'Well, don't try pissing into it,' he called after me.
The idea appealed to me. Wildernesses have a way of helping you put things in perspective. The moors I live on the edge of have seen it all, heard it all. I love walking across them, the wind lashing my hair and the shadows of the clouds racing across the hillsides. They speak to me, too, in their way. There are ghosts up there. They tell of hardship and cruelty; vast wealth for a few, and indescribable poverty and degradation for the rest. They don't come up with names, unfortunately. For that I needed evidence. Van Rees's newfangled DNA tests and Luke's computer were more likely to produce the goods than any half-baked voodoo. About four o'clock I swung the Cavalier into the drive of The Firs, Edgely Lane, and switched off the engine.
Dewhurst's big Nissan Patrol was standing on a paved area alongside his garage. That could mean he was using the Toyota. He'd told me that he saved it for 'best', such as when he was likely to be entertaining clients, or needed to cover large distances as swiftly as possible. The Nissan was his workhorse, handy for carrying samples or delivering rush orders. I did a rough calculation of their value. It came to about twice my annual salary.
The house looked quiet. It's hard to put a finger on the reason, but you can usually tell when a house is empty. I gave the doorbell a perfunctory stab with a finger and turned to survey the garden. It was about a hundred yards long, but only as wide as the house. A paved area, with rusting barbecue, gave way to lawns which stretched down to an orchard.
For late June the weather was bloody awful. Black clouds were piling up and the tops of the big fir trees gave a sudden shudder as the beginnings of a cold front caught them. The leylandii reminded me of a Van Gogh painting, done when the black dog of depression was at its most rabid. I shivered and turned up my jacket collar.
His grass was short and neat. There were even parallel lines up and down the lawn, left by the mower. The ground was soft, so I walked flat-footed, trying not to leave too many prints behind. Dewhurst didn't spend enough time at home to do it himself, so he must have a gardener. I couldn't see any point in having it all dug up. Not yet.
At the front it was rose beds and an ornamental pool, with concrete cherub. Presumably, in more happy times, it peed into the pond. Then there was the Nissan. Dewhurst had used it on the Friday before Georgina disappeared, on the Sunday when they took Mrs. Eaglin home, and also on the Monday morning.
I wandered round it, looking in through the windows. It didn't look anything special. There was a road atlas on the front seat and a pair of Ray-Bans above the dashboard. Otherwise it was neat and tidy. It was neat and tidy underneath, too. In fact, the whole thing was gleaming like a politician's smile. I ran my hand inside the wheel arches, like a mother-in-law feeling the tops of the doors, and inspected my fingers. Spotless. I'd put some plastic bags in my boot, in case I collected a few specimens, but it looked as if I wouldn't need them.
The spare wheel on a Nissan Patrol is carried underneath, at the back, exposed to all the spray from the road. This one was wrapped in black plastic to keep it clean. It was a sensible precaution. I knelt down and reached through to feel the top of the wheel. My hand came back grimy. The front of the spare was probably caked in mud. I needed a sample of that mud, just for the records.
But first I needed the help of a mechanic. A single nut held the wheel in position, but I had nothing that would undo it. I went over to my car and telephoned the station garage. Nobody was available. It was late and they'd all gone home. I rang Jimmy Hoyle.
Jimmy owns a little garage in Heckley. He services cars for a few regular customers and is an expert with a spray gun. My father left me an old Jaguar when he died and Jimmy helped me restore it. We've been pals since we played in the same football team. I'd just joined the force and I helped him steer his way out of some trouble. I took a risk, but he's never forgotten it.
'Sheepshagger! What do you want?' he greeted me.
'Hiya, baboon features. How did you know I wanted something?'
'You always want something. I haven't seen you since you hit the big time bustin' that drugs gang.'
'Ah, the ABC gang, Mr. Cakebread and his pals. Those were the days.
You know where I live, Jimmy; you're welcome to call in with a bottle any time. Bring a tin of salmon and I'll make you a sandwich.'
'I'll pass, if you don't mind, Charlie. I don't want to be around when someone puts a bomb under your car.'
'When I woke up this morning there was a horse's head in my bed.'
'I'm not surprised.'
'It was a right bugger trying to get the milk float back down the stairs. Listen, I didn't have to come to you. I've got other friends I haven't used yet.' I told him what the problem was and he was with me in fifteen minutes. After casting an expert eye under the Nissan he declared: 'It needs what we technicians call a twenty mil. socket.
Won't be a mo.'
I collected a few plastic bags out of my boot and gave them to him.
'Put as much of the mud as you can in these, please. I'll stand at the gate and watch for the owner coming back.'
Jimmy looked at me in alarm. 'You mean he doesn't know you're doing this?'
'No.'
'Chuffin' 'eck. 'Ave you got a warrant?'
'No. Get on with it.'
'Chuffin' 'eck. Does this make me an accessory after the fact?'
'No, just an accessory.'
'What's the difference?'
'It's more serious.'
'Chuffin' 'eck.'
Jimmy sprawled on the ground at the back of the vehicle and I stood at the gate looking down towards the Penistone Road. A few big blobs of rain made dark spots on the pavement. Right on cue, the white shark-nose of the Toyota came into view, paused in the middle of the road for a moment while the traffic cleared, then swung into the lane.
'Jimmy! He's here,' I called. 'Pack up quick! Pretend you've been messing with my car.'
I walked into the road to stall Dewhurst. Fortunately Jimmy's van was blocking the entrance to the drive, so he'd have to wait until it was moved before he could go in.
