'You smell nice,' she whispered. 'What is it?'
'Oh, it's er, called… Nigel's,' I croaked, tracing her spine with my fingertips. 'Nigel's aftershave.'
'I think you ought to go, Charles,' she sighed.
'Me too,' I lied, adding: 'Saturday,' as I gave her a farewell peck on the cheek.
The rain had stopped. Or maybe a blizzard was raging — I forget. I drove away from the Old Vicarage as quietly as I could. At the end of the street I mixed up the gears and stalled the engine. Then I switched on the wipers when I tried to indicate.
The wind and rain had scrubbed the air clean, so you could see for ever. All the lights of the valley were stretched out below, prickly bright against the blackness of the night. Just above the horizon, barely broken free from the earth, was the slenderest arc of a new moon I had ever seen. It was red, like the imprint of a thumbnail dipped in blood. The thumbnail had belonged to a madman called Purley, the blood to the late Michael Ho. Bad memories came pressing in, trying to dislodge the good ones, but I didn't let them.
Chapter 18
Dewhurst didn't die. He was charged with murder and transferred to the hospital wing at Bentley Prison. CPS didn't envisage any problems with my evidence. We have some good friends in the Chinese community, so instead of going to the police social club and getting rat-arsed I suggested we have a speciality banquet at the Bamboo Curtain. To my surprise, everyone agreed.
It was a memorable meal. Ten of us sat round the table and the dishes kept coming until we could eat no more. Sparky earned our displeasure by snaffling all the won tons He said he liked junk food. Nobody laughed. Then we went to the social club and got rat-arsed.
Houses were still being burgled in Heckley. Old ladies were having their pensions snatched and cars were being taken from unconsenting owners. Three tortoises had been stolen from different addresses.
'Tut tut,' I said. 'We can't have this, can we? Three tortoises purloined. What has the world come to while I've been busy? We'd better send a posse out.' We were in the Super's morning meeting and I was looking at the print-out of of fences 'Don't mock,' rebuked Gilbert. 'They're an endangered species and mean a lot to their owners. Ask the pet shops to look out for them.
Apparently it's an offence to sell one these days.'
'Yes sir!'
'I've heard it said,' Sparky informed us, his face a mask of solemnity, 'that some members of our immigrant population like to gamble huge sums of money on tortoise fights.'
Gilbert removed his spectacles. 'Listen, you cocky sods,' he said.
'While you've been swarming around at vast expense to the force looking for a murderer who was under your noses all the time, everybody else has been up to their ar… ar… ar…'
'Arseholes?' '… armpits in proper crime. Earning their bread and butter. So go to it!'
Getting back to normality was difficult. I sent the troops out and settled down to writing thank-you letters to various people. Towards the end of the morning DI Peterson called in to offer his congratulations. He wanted to sit and talk, and had a defeated air about him. The library trail had grown cold so he was retreating back to Trent Division. The Mushroom Man had dropped out of the newspapers, until the next time. As Peterson left, Sparky came in.
'Morning, sir,' said Sparky, holding the door for him.
'Good morning, Constable,' he replied.
I rocked back on my chair and scratched my head with the blunt end of the ball pen 'What was it that Oscar Peterson played?' I asked.
'Don't ask me,' Sparky answered. 'I'm useless at sport.'
The best phone call of the day came in the middle of the afternoon.
'Carmina Burana, Carl Orff,' said the voice on the other end.
'Er, er, let me think… Schubert, The Trout,' I answered.
It was Bill Goodwin, a DI at City HQ. They are based in the town hall, and Bill is my source of concert tickets. He has a standing order with the box office for first refusal on any cancellations, and sometimes lets me know about them, although I hadn't done business with him for a long time.
'Congratulations, Charlie. I hear you did a good job.'
'Aw shucks, it was nuthin',' I replied.
'Well done all the same. What about these tickets?'
'What tickets?'
'For Carmina Burana.'
'Are you serious?'
The concert season lasts six months and normally all the tickets go in the first week of sales. For a big showpiece concert like this there would be a waiting list longer than a wet Wakes Week in Morecambe.
'I'd love them, Bill. When are they for?'
'Friday.'
'Tomorrow? Someone's left it a bit late.'
'They're mine. Joyce was rushed into hospital yesterday. Appendicitis.
They operated this morning. The tickets are yours if you want them.'
'Oh. I'm sorry to hear about Joyce. How is she?'
'The op went off OK, but she's still groggy. I'll go to see her straight from here.'
'Good. Good. Give her my love, Bill, and I hope she's fit and well before too long. Can I ring you back in five minutes about the tickets?'
Annabelle was at home, fortunately, and Carmina Burana was one of her favourites, although she had never heard a live performance. 'It sounds wonderful, Charles. They were sold out months ago. How on earth have you done it?'
I told her that when I said I needed two seats they promised to kick two students out of theirs. 'What's the point in being a fascist if you don't reap the benefits?' I said.
'Oh, absolutely,' she replied.
I was saying the usual goodbye formula when Annabelle interrupted me.
'Food,' she said. 'I expect you intend grabbing a pork pie or a bowl of breakfast cereal, so I'll prepare something for afterwards. We can come back here and eat. All right?'
'Oh, are you sure? It seems a lot of trouble…'
'Nonsense. See you tomorrow.'
I rang Bill and accepted his offer. After a few quiet moments I said a little thank you, to no one in particular.
First thing Friday morning I announced that I would be leaving at five p.m. come fire, flood or assassination. Three nasty muggings were done during the day by a gang of steamers. Two youths make the initial grab while five or six others hover nearby ready to combat any attempt at resistance. They were all Afro-Caribbean, so descriptions were sketchy. 'He was black,' they say, and expect us to recognise them immediately. I put everybody I had on the streets looking for them.
Knives are only a grasp away in these cases. Mugging turns to murder as easily as spring snow turns to slush.
Myself, I went shopping. I thought about a haircut but decided it would look as if I were trying too hard. Besides, it had just reached that indolent bohemian stage; good for my new image. I bought a bottle of Glenfiddich for Jimmy Hoyle he deserved the credit for retrieving the bin-liner from under Dewhurst's car and some aftershave for myself.
I searched high and fairly low but couldn't find Nigel's anywhere. I settled for some called Charlie. The biddy who served me was wearing enough make-up to grout a shower cubicle.
On the way home I topped up the petrol tank and bought a bunch of salmon-pink roses. After a quick cup of tea and a slice of toast I set both alarm clocks and grabbed an hour's nap. I was taking no chances.
