'Overhere, please,' he said, catching the SOCO's attention. He stood well back, with his hands in his pockets, so as not to contaminate the evidence. 'That's his trademark,' he told the officer, 'so give it everything you've got. I want to know his blood group, his skin, hair and eye colour' he counted them off on his fingers 'his DNA profile, his sperm count, fingerprints, chromosomes, what he had for breakfast, oh, and his telephone number.' He stepped back in modest triumph to let them do their work.
'What is it?' asked the local super as the little group joined him.
'Picture of a toadstool, sir,' explained Peterson.
'A toadstool? ' 'Actually, Andrew,' interjected Chief Superintendent Tollis, anxious to assert his authority, 'it's called a destroying angel. Amonita vi rosa Well spotted, Oscar.'
Get stuffed, Baldy! thought Peterson.
'A destroying angel? Does that have any significance?' asked Andrew.
'Well, yes,' expanded Tollis. 'Our culprit uses that as his nom de plume. It would appear that the man we are looking for is some sort of religious fanatic' 'Holy Moses!' exclaimed Andrew.
'Quite possibly, sir,' said Peterson.
They were all back at Don Valley nick when DC Trevor Wilson finally made telephone contact with Peterson.
'Hi, guy, how's it going?'
'OK. What do you want?' the DI asked.
'Is it another one?'
'Looks like it.'
'Why didn't you send for me?'
Peterson glanced up to see who was in earshot. 'Because I'm just the bloody chauffeur,' he hissed. 'Did you want something, or is this all part of your campaign to drive me out of office?'
'We've had a reply,' stated the DC.
'To what?'
'The mail shot to libraries. A DI in Heckley left a message this afternoon saying his local librarian has found two books with pictures cut out.'
'Brilliant! Where's Heckley?'
'Yorkshire, not far from Halifax.' Do you want me to go there?'
'When?'
'Now.'
'Is it an all-night library?'
'Er, no, I don't suppose it is.'
'Then the morning will do. Big meeting first, seven o'clock. Then we'll drive up to Eeh-By-Heckley together. And Trevor 'What, guy?'
'Just think of all those sheep!'
We hit Paul Darryl Lally's house at seven a.m. on Wednesday morning.
The seven o'clock knock on the door doesn't have the same police-state overtones that the two o'clock one does, but it catches the suspect in the same degree of unawareness. He's usually snug beneath his smelly sheets, and expecting to be there for at least another five hours. The criminal classes have no timetable imposed on them, so they invent their own. Their day starts at nightfall daylight is for sleeping through.
I didn't go in with the raiding party, but Nigel is still talking about the expressions on Mr. and Mrs. Lally's faces when he shook them out of their sleep and cautioned them.
They hadn't heard the front door being sledge hammered having indulged themselves in an evening of bondage and supermarket red wine, plus an odd snort of sherbet. First I saw of them was when they were led, bewildered and bleary-eyed, to the waiting police car. She was wearing an anorak over her nightdress, fluffy slippers and an air of disbelief.
They looked as if they'd just escaped a direct hit on their home by a Scud missile.
Nigel watched them leave as if he were seeing his parents off on their holidays, then gestured me inside. He was grinning like a eunuch in a hurdle race.
'Come and see the bed, boss,' he said, leading me upstairs. Best offer I'd had in years. He opened a door and stood back. 'How about that!' he declared.
In another room I could see Jeff Caton and the others. He saw me pass and said: 'Come and look at this, boss.'
'In a moment, Jeff.'
I walked past Nigel into the master bedroom. The bed was a magnificent brass job, all gleaming black enamel and gold. It nearly filled the room. The duvet cover was black satin, as were the pillows. The ceiling was mirrored and fitted with several spotlights. Nigel flicked them on and off. Dangling from each corner of the bed was a silken rope, made from red, black and white strands plaited together. A video camera stood on a tripod at the foot of the bed.
I looked across at Nigel with my best attempt at a bored expression on my face. 'So what's special?' I asked.
We hadn't gone in heavy-handed, but we'd taken a few experts with us someone to take care of the dog; a sergeant, Frank Marriot, from the Porn Squad, and a photographer to make sure we didn't muck up any unprocessed material. Jeff was in a room converted into a studio, with the photographer.
'Cartier-Bresson, I presume,' I said as I joined him. All the walls were painted white and there was a white sheepskin rug on the floor. A thirty-five-millimetre Minolta fixed to another tripod was pointing down at it.
'Forensic,' I said, indicating the rug. The photographer was inspecting the camera. 'Any good?' I asked.
'Nothing special. Good enough, though.'
A voice in another room shouted, 'Tell Charlie to come and look at this lot.' I followed the sound into the third bedroom.
A loft ladder was in the lowered position and a pair of legs were visible at the top. 'What lot?' I asked.
Sparky withdrew from the aperture and looked down at me. 'Hi, boss.
It's his dark room. There's a light switch, but maybe we'd better let Lord Lichfield have the first look. Don't want to spoil anything.'
Nigel wandered in to join us. 'It's a water bed!' he announced.
'I'm going back to the office,' I told them. 'You know what to do. And Dave…'
'What, boss?'
'Lock up when you've finished, but don't let Nigel have the key. We don't want him bringing that red-haired WPC from Halifax round and showing her the evidence. She might get seasick.'
Colour rose up Nigel's neck like beetroot juice spreading across a napkin. 'Who… how… who told you about her?' he stammered.
I winked at him and tapped the side of my nose with a forefinger.
'Is she a genuine redhead?' asked Sparky.
'Er, I'm not sure. I suppose so,' he replied.
'Yes, she is,' I surmised, and fled down the stairs.
The custody officer had put Lally and his wife in separate cells. His face lit up when I walked in and asked him where they were. 'Did they really have straps on the bed?' he asked. 'Not straps silken ropes.
I'll talk to them later let them stew for a few hours. Have they asked for a phone call?'
'Didn't want one. She claims her name is Fenella. Did you get a look at her?'
'No, not really,' I told him.
'If I were guessing, I'd say she had to tie him to the bed.'
I went upstairs. As I walked into the office two voices cried: 'Boss wants you.' I did a stiff U-turn and walked straight out again.
Superintendent Wood's office is up another floor. I knocked and walked in. Two strangers were sitting opposite him, sipping coffee, and the two books from the library were on the desk.
'Come in, Charlie, come in,' Gilbert said. Flapping his hand between us he went on: 'This is DI Oscar Peterson and DC Trevor Wilson, from Trent Division. DI Charlie Priest.'
I shook their hands. I have a bad habit when I shake hands. A few years ago one of my sergeants was
