'Oh, hello Annabelle, It's Charlie,' I stumbled.
'Hello, Charles. This is a pleasant surprise.'
'Glad you think so. How are you keeping?'
'Very well. And you? How is the crime-fighting going?'
'It's going well. I was wondering, Annabelle… if you are not doing anything, would it be all right if I popped round to see you?'
'Of course it would. Are you coming now?'
'If you don't mind. I'm feeling a bit… what's the adjective that means anticiimaxed?'
'Fed up?'
'That's it. I wish I had your way with words. I feel a need for some TLC
'You poor thing. Come and tell Auntie Annabelle all about it.'
'Half an hour?'
'Fine. Shall I bring a bottle of gin up from the cellar?'
'A cup of Earl Grey will do.'
'I'll put the kettle on.'
'Bye.'
And now I felt happy. Like Father Christmas must do at the end of his round.
The batteries in my razor were flat so I retrieved Nigel's toilet bag from his bottom drawer and swapped batteries. His weren't much better but I scraped most of the stubble from my face. My aftershave had congealed to a jelly so I borrowed that from Nigel, too. When I looked at myself in the mirror I wasn't sure that visiting Annabelle was such a good idea. Ah well, what you see is what you get. I rinsed my face and dried it on the roller towel. The aftershave smelt like Culpepper's dustbin.
Annabelle looked really pleased to see me. 'Come through into the kitchen,' she said. 'The kettle won't take a moment.' As she turned away I gazed appreciatively after her. Hungrily and longingly, too.
She was wearing a white blouse and black trousers, with no jewellery.
As she filled the kettle I wished I knew her well enough to go up behind her and slip my arms around that waist.
We sat at opposite sides of the refectory table. I waffled something about her kitchen being nice.
'Yes,' she agreed, 'I'm very lucky to live here.' She went on: 'So, what's the reason for this deflated feeling, or are you not allowed to tell me?'
I said: 'It'll be common knowledge by tomorrow. We've just arrested Miles Dewhurst for the murder of Georgina.'
Her face darkened. 'Her father?' she gasped.
'Yes.'
'But… but that's monstrous. Who on earth would have thought he did it?'
'Well, I did,' I replied.
After a pause she asked: 'How do you know it was him?'
I said: 'I've known right from the beginning. Well, from the second day, when we had the TV appeal.'
'I saw that,' said Annabelle. 'The poor man looked devastated. I can't believe he was acting.'
'I don't suppose it was all a sham. But just before we went on the air I saw him go to the gents' toilet. I thought I could do with one myself, so I followed him in. He wasn't having a pee, though. He was fixing his hair; running the comb under the tap and inspecting his reflection in the mirror. Hardly the behaviour of a grieving parent.
When I came out I decided to perform a little experiment with Gilbert.
Use him as a control group type of thing. I told Gilbert that his hair was sticking up and he ought to go and comb it. He nearly bit my head off. Not exactly enough to convince a jury, but it made me think. We had to wait until we found the body for the proof.'
'I read about that,' she said. 'Somewhere up in County Durham, wasn't it? What led you to it?'
'He sent us a note with various instructions. He thought he'd got away with it, and was impatient to tie up the loose ends; put it all in the past and start his new life. I just followed the instructions.'
'You, Charles? Are you saying you found her?'
I nodded.
Annabelle reached across the table and put her hand over mine. 'Oh Charles, that must have been horrible. That poor little girl,' she sighed. She looked across at me, a new determination illuminating her face. 'And poor you,' she said. 'I wouldn't normally have commented, Charles, but you look a wreck. I bet you're not sleeping, are you?'
'I don't need much sleep.'
She studied my crumpled shirt and realisation struck her. 'Have you come here straight from the office?' she demanded.
Another nod.
'Without eating?'
Nod.
She jumped to her feet. 'Charles, you can't go on like this. It's bad for you. What would you like? It won't take a moment to rustle something up.'
'Sit down, Annabelle. A cup of tea and a biscuit will be fine. Most of all I just want some pleasant company. I feel as if I've been living in a sewer lately.'
She sat down again. 'It's all getting to you, isn't it?' she said, quietly.
'Yes,' I replied, 'I think it is. It must be something to do with growing older. Or else I'm getting sensitive. Either way, I think the time is coming for the police force and Charlie Priest to part company.'
'Maybe it's something to do with being a human being,' she replied, adding quite firmly: 'There is some home-made soup in the freezer and I am going to heat a bowl for you. Understood?'
I smiled and said: 'A bowl of your home-made soup would be extremely welcome.'
She rummaged in the deep freeze for a few moments before emerging with two plastic containers. She frowned as she looked for labels on them, her nose wrinkling with concentration. 'This one,' she pronounced, 'is soup dujour. This one is soup de la mais on Any preference?'
It was chunky vegetable with lamb and a few secret ingredients. The alternative had been carrot and orange with coriander. They both sounded delicious. Annabelle cut me a huge chunk of bread and gave me a cup of tea for support while the soup defrosted in the microwave. I nibbled the bread and had a sip of tea.
I said: 'Is this bread home-made?'
'Yes.'
'It's wonderful. Can I order two loaves per week, please.' Now I felt ravenous. I could easily have eaten the whole loaf.
Annabelle said: 'The soup will be about ten minutes. I wish you would let me make you something more substantial.'
I shook my head. After a few moments of silence I said, right out of the blue: 'Tell me about Peter.'
She looked taken aback for a second, and I wondered if I'd dropped a big one, but she said: 'Peter? What would you like to know?'
I decided I wasn't walking on broken glass after all. 'Everything,' I said.
'Where shall I begin?'
'Where else? How did you meet? No, before that. First of all tell me about yourself. Dispel the mystery that surrounds this beautiful lady I know as Annabelle Wilberforce, while I… finish this bread.'
She blushed and settled back in her chair. After inspecting her fingernails for a few seconds she took a deep breath and it all spilled out: 'I was born in a little village in Oxfordshire. Father Daddy, as we called him was something in the City. I can't be more specific than that. I have an older sister and a younger brother, Hugh. He's an engineer, somewhere in India I believe. We don't have much contact. My sister, Rachel, is married to a Harley Street charlatan. I have no contact with her at all. At first, things were idyllic, although you don't realise it at the time, do you?'
Now her gaze was fixed on the top right-hand corner of the ceiling. She went on: 'Then, when I was about eight, it all turned sour. Daddy vanished. Years later I learned that he ran off with a female colleague. First the pony
