she claims she can find her using a pendulum. She's already receiving messages from the ether, or somewhere.'
'More like her bank manager. What did you tell her?'
'Er, well, I suggested she pissed off, with varying degrees of emphasis.'
'Good,' I said. 'So let's get down to worki'
I broke the news about the deadline that the Acting Chief Constable had given us. It didn't go down well. The three main types of evidence are Witnesses, Confessional and Forensic. We had none of these. Motive and Opportunity are worth less in a court of law than a dipsomaniac's vows of abstinence, and they were all we could offer. The entire investigation would rely on us discovering something damning if we searched Dewhurst's premises. Short of finding a body under the floorboards, it was hard to imagine what that might be.
We reviewed the current situation, pooled our findings and shared out the various lines of enquiry to be followed. I sensed that morale was waning, so before the team dispersed I suggested that we all have a jar or three in the pub that evening. The proposal was received with enthusiasm. After much argument a decision was made that we'd meet at the Golden Lion. Monday was karaoke night. I wished I'd kept my mouth shut.
'Somebody remember to invite Luke along,' were my parting words.
One of the best parts of being a detective is that you work with a partner. When you are the boss you can choose your own. I had suppressed all personal or emotional signals and worked with DC Dave 'Sparky' Sparkington. It was the most objective decision I ever made.
We joined the force within a year of each other, but Sparky had never chased promotion. Thief-taker was the only recognition he ever aspired to. Many policemen say that sergeant is the most satisfying rank, but all Sparky ever wanted to be was a DC, and he was the best I'd known.
We went down to the canteen for some breakfast.
Nigel and Mad Maggie joined us for a mug of tea and a toasted currant tea cake 'I have the impression that you're not a believer in the supernatural, boss,' stated Maggie.
'Correct,' I replied through a mouthful of toast.
'There's a woman in Heckley who has a terrific reputation for fortune-telling,' she said. 'I've spoken to several people who've visited her and they've been told things about themselves that have really shaken them. I don't believe in it, but she's very clever.'
'You've said it all there, Maggie,' Sparky confirmed. 'They're clever.
Shirley once went to a spiritualist with a neighbour. She came home full of it. This chap had the audience hanging on his every word.
Claimed he was receiving messages from some poor woman's dead husband.
I had to put my foot down to stop her from going again.'
'You?' I said. 'Put your foot down with Shirley? Pull the other one.'
'My grandmother held regular conversations with my grandfather,' Nigel added. 'Went on for years. Mother said it used to drive her potty.'
'Through a spiritualist?' asked Maggie.
'No. Across the dinner table. He wasn't dead.'
We all laughed far too much, but it was a special event — Nigel had never made a joke before. He blushed with pride.
The boss always has the last word. 'Listen,' I told them. 'There's a simple proof that telepathy is bunkum. Think of all those poor page-three girls and big-bosomed film stars. If thoughts could be transmitted they'd never have a moment's peace. They'd constantly be imagining they were being ravished, by building-site workers and third-formers and little men in big raincoats.'
'And policemen?' asked Maggie.
'And policemen.'
'It could work the other way round, too, boss,' she insisted.
'Well, it's never happened to me,' I declared; modestly adding, before anyone else did: 'Not that that proves much. 'C'mon, let's check the streets.'
I knew what karaoke was, but I'd never seen how it worked. I was fascinated by the technology. The list of songs available contained hundreds that I hadn't heard of, but there were still plenty of golden oldies from the sixties. Nothing that I felt like singing in public, though.
The pub was crowded, but we managed to get the last two tables, and pushed them together. I bought the first round. When I reached the bar I discovered that the landlady was an old friend. She used to work in the canteen at Heckley nick. It was not long after my divorce, and she was attractive, in a flashy sort of way. Sexy. The restrictions on having affairs with colleagues didn't extend to the civilian staff, and the possibilities offered by coordinating my flexible hours with her afternoons off made my hormone levels run berserk. We'd almost reached the your-place-or-mine stage when someone tipped me off that her husband played in the sc rum for Wigan. It worked better than a cold shower.
'Hello, Charlie,' she said warmly. 'Don't see you in here very often.'
'Hello, Karen,' I replied, with equal delight. 'No, I've not been in for years. Still married to that rugby-playing gorilla?'
'Ted? Yes, he's here, somewhere. What about you? Still on your own?'
I'd met Ted and liked him, dammit. It was a struggle to prevent my eyes flicking down towards her cleavage as she wrestled with the pumps.' 'Fraid so. If he ever leaves you, let me know.' I didn't mean it, but might have done, a few years ago.
She smiled at me as she pushed the last pint across and took the money.
'Want a tray?' she asked.
'No, I've enough here to carry,' I replied.
A Tom Jones lookalike was at the microphone. Unfortunately the similarity didn't extend to the voice. His hips swung in unison with his medallion as he asked Delilah to forgive him because he just couldn't take Kenny More, whoever he was.
'Is he serious?' I asked.
'Deadly,' was the answer from the others. Then I joined in with the enthusiastic calls for an encore.
We had a pneumatic Dolly Parton with a slow-punctured voice, and a passable Kenny Rogers, although his Yorkshire accent didn't do anything for the red-necked lyrics. Then it was Luke's turn.
He grabbed the mike, turned up the corner of his lip as he waited for his cue, then launched into 'Jailhouse Rock'. The place was instantly on its feet, dancing along with him. He uh-uh'd and gyrated like he'd invented the style. A final pelvic thrust had everybody cheering, but this time they meant it.
'I think we just found Elvis,' said Sparky.
'We're not looking for him,' I stated, draining my glass. 'Get the beer in.'
Luke was waylaid by a girl with the face of a Disney princess and hocks like a Derby contender. We watched him dismiss her with unmitigated hatred seething inside us.
'Charlie?' said Sparky, reaching for my glass.
'What?' I replied, passing it to him.
'If you had your life to live over again, would you do it all the same?'
I watched the girl retreating, her bum pushing the properties of lycra beyond its design limits. 'Yeah, probably,' I said.
Luke sat down and I gave him a brothers handshake. 'You should practise that lip-curl,' I told him. 'You could be good.'
'I do,' he admitted.
Sparky and Jeff returned laden with replenished glasses. 'There's an old friend of yours behind the bar, Charlie,' Sparky told me.
I feigned ignorance. 'Oh, who's that?'
'Karen. Used to work in the canteen. We all thought you had something going with her.'
'Karen? Karen?'
'You know. Has a divine right and a heavenly left.'
'Ah! That Karen!'
'Yes, that Karen. Rumour was that you and her were having it away.'
