'Mr. Treadwell has kindly suggested we fax a letter to you from here,'
Peterson said. He listened for a few seconds, then added: 'That's very obliging of you, Olga. We'll have it with you as soon as possible.'
'What a pleasant woman,' he declared, replacing the receiver.
'Er, yes, er, Olga is, er, very pleasant,' replied Treadwell, who had never realised that O. Friedland, his chief executive, was, in fact, a woman.
'Right, Mr. Treadwell,' said the Inspector. 'If you could possibly loan us a pad and put up with us for a few more minutes, we'll draft a letter.'
'Yes, yes, right away, be my guests,' he replied, producing a brand-new A4 pad from a drawer and handing it to Peterson. The Inspector passed it straight over to DC Wilson and stood up.
'Sit here, Trevor, and earn your keep,' he said.
Treadwell realised that he was no longer wanted. 'Well, gentlemen,' he said. 'I've got things to do, so I'll leave you to it, if you don't mind.'
'Thanks for your help, sir. We'll only be five minutes,' Peterson told him. He was a great believer in charm when he didn't have the authority to kick butts. He sat quietly in the chair vacated by Treadwell while the DC exercised his literary skills, and resisted the temptation to turn the two photographs to the wall.
'How about that, guy?' asked Wilson, after a while, handing the pad back. After the introductions the message read:
Will all librarians check, as soon as possible, any books they hold on the subject of fungi (i.e. mushrooms and toadstools) to see if any pages or photographs have been removed. If you find any such books will you please report this information to Detective Inspector Oscar Peterson at… It finished with the words:
This is an enquiry into a serious crime, so will you therefore treat this and any other information with the utmost confidentiality.
'It'll do,' said Peterson, after crossing out the Oscar. He didn't want anybody thinking it was a practical joke. DC Wilson smiled with satisfaction that was the deliberate mistake he'd included.
Treadwell came back and agreed to type it and fax it to Olga. He smiled at the thought of adding a conspiratorial covering note of his own. Peterson said he'd call in tomorrow to pick up a copy, but really he just wanted to make sure it had been forwarded.
When they'd gone, the Group Librarian set to work on the word processor, secretly pleased that the typist had taken the day off. He wasn't happy with the letter and felt that the Inspector should have written it himself, instead of delegating it to a junior officer. That was something he would never have done. He studied the finished document on the screen, but couldn't quite put his finger on what was wrong with it.
He ran off a copy and studied it some more. Then he realised where the error was. He tore the sheet into shreds and dropped them into the bin. Turning back to the screen he rattled his fingers expertly over the keyboard for a few seconds and examined the result. After Peterson's address and telephone number he'd added the words: 'or your nearest police station'.
That was better. Now it looked professional. He tapped the keys again and the printer zipped away at another copy.
Chapter 9
I awarded myself a weekend off. I'd worked nonstop for nine weeks, averaging over twelve hours per day with no paid overtime. The car had clocked up five thousand miles in that time, for which I would be reimbursed. I called in at the office on the Saturday morning, but I was determined not to stay long.
There were reports to read from the few officers I didn't see regularly. We had people floating about the country, interviewing suspects, informers and the mother-in-law's first cousin, twice removed. We also had search parties out when we could borrow the manpower. Plenty of local groups offered their help, but they needed organisation to do the job properly. Sometimes I caught myself wishing that they'd find a body, and a feeling of revulsion came over me, but I couldn't imagine a plausible alternative.
The house was a dump. A lady came and cleaned it for a while, but her husband needed a lot of attention and she'd had to give me notice. I pleaded with her not to desert me, but to no avail. Eventually she agreed to iron my shirts if I took them round, once a week. I filled the washing machine and set to work with the Hoover.
I made a big impression on the mess, but it left me feeling knackered.
Pub grub is not my first choice, but I couldn't face cooking so that was where I went. The chicken Kiev tasted as if it had walked from there, and the landlady's home-made apple pie was made from tinned apple that she'd opened all by herself. The company was about as interesting as the food, so I downed a couple of pints and went home.
Sunday breakfast was cornflakes and toast. Then I mowed the grass in the front garden. The borders were overgrown and neglected but a couple of hours with the hoe and secateurs made them respectable again.
Well, I thought so, although the Best Village judges might disagree.
Lunch was a roast beef ready-meal for one. I remembered what Annabelle had said about my eating habits and felt guilty. Happy, but guilty.
When I'd cleared up I rang her.
'It's Charlie,' I said. 'I've done my chores, washed the car, wallpapered the coal house and had my dinner. I'm fed up, so I was thinking about having a drive up on to the moors; blow away a few cobwebs. Any chance of you putting your tapestry down and coming along?'
'Goodness! You mean you are having a day off?' she replied.
'That's right.'
'What about the crime wave?'
'Anarchy will break out all over the nation, but I don't care. Are you free?'
'I'd love to come, but I have a PCC meeting at seven. I'll have to be back about sixish Is that all right?'
'No problem. I'll see you in about forty minutes. And put your walking boots on.'
We went to Blackstone Edge, a rocky outcrop at the scrag-end of the Peak District, where the high moors fade into the Aire and Calder valley. I parked in a lay-by, where the local water authority kindly still allow their subjects access to the land, and we followed a track into the moor. The path quickly became narrow and muddy, so I led the way, making diversions at intervals to avoid the worst of it. Soon we were on rocky ground, with no distinct trail, just marker poles at irregular intervals. You clambered across the boulders as best you could.
We were both wearing hiking boots and jeans, but Annabelle's jeans seemed to go on for ever. Her navy coat would have been a donkey jacket on anybody else, but on her it looked straight from a Paris fashion house. Walking on rough ground is an art, but she had obviously mastered it. She moved effortlessly, her long legs never hesitating or stumbling.
A gang of sheep, about ten of them, raised their sullen heads and watched us pass, like the honest folk in a western town contemplating a couple of outlaws riding down Mainstreet. A bird with pointed wings and down- curved beak flew leisurely by.
'Curlew,' I said, pointing. We followed it till it was a speck against the sky.
'What's that one then?' Annabelle asked, as something flew from under our feet, showing a flash of white as it sped away.
'Er, SBB,' I told her.
'SBB?'
'Small Brown Bird,' I explained.
'It was a meadow pipit.'
'Oh.'
After about twenty minutes we reached the ancient cobbled road. I stood in the middle of it, arms outstretched, and said, 'Voil amp;r Annabelle looked amazed and delighted. 'I never knew this was here,' she said. 'It's Roman, isn't it?'
I nodded.
She knelt on the cobbles and ran her hand along the groove that runs down the centre. 'I've seen pictures of
