I shook my head.
'Fair enough. So how are you then?'
'Not bad.'
'Good. Did we tell you that we've traced Annabelle's sister and her husband? They live in Guildford. She has a brother, too, but he's somewhere in Africa.'
'He's in India,' I said.
'India?'
'Mmm.'
It was Gilbert's turn to shake his head. 'Isn't that typical of the FO?' he declared. 'Scouring the wrong bloody continent.'
'Friday night,' I said, 'when I met Annabelle…'
'Yes?'
'I've been thinking about it, racking ny brain. I believe we may have been followed.'
Gilbert's brow furrowed with interest and he sat back so hard his chair protested. 'Go on,' he encouraged.
I picked up his ball pen and turned it over and over in my fingers.
'When she came to the door she… she looked beautiful…'
'She's a lovely lady, Charlie; one in a million. Everyone who knows her is devastated. Take your time.'
'We were talking. When I drove out of her street into the Top Road I looked in my mirror. There was a car close behind me. I hadn't seen it when I stopped at the junction, it came from nowhere. Maybe I wasn't concentrating and hadn't looked properly. I gave myself a reprimand and took more care. It followed us all the way into town.
Now I can't help wondering if it had been waiting for us.'
Gilbert said: 'Well done, Charlie. Well done.' He wasn't crass enough to ask the obvious, and waited for me to volunteer the information.
'It was a little car, possibly a Fiesta, although it could easily have been something else. Colour? Possibly one of those insipid beiges that you wonder why people buy. Sorry, Gilbert, your last Granada was a similar colour, wasn't it?'
'They gave me a good discount. It was called cat shit If it was a Fiesta, what mark would you estimate?'
'I'm not sure, but one of the older, more angular ones.'
Gilbert picked up the phone and dialled. 'Hello, Maggie. Charlie's with me. Could someone bring the Ford colour charts up to my office, please.'
Maggie brought them herself. I stood up and she gave me a hug. She said: 'Oh, Charlie, we're all so sorry. How is she?'
I gave her an extra squeeze and told her that Annabelle was still unconscious but holding on.
Gilbert waited until we were through before saying: 'Peterson's in the building somewhere. Do you mind if he sits in on this?'
I didn't, so he asked Maggie if she could round him up. When she left he said: 'I know one thing, Charlie. You certainly have the knack of getting the best out of your WPCs. They never throw their arms around me.'
'Treat them all the same, Gilbert. That's the secret.'
'What about sexual harassment?'
'I've learned to put up with it.'
Peterson came puffing in, complaining about the number of stairs and how cold it was in this godforsaken part of the world. He looked embarrassed when he saw me, but didn't offer any words of sympathy, for which I was grateful.
Gilbert told him about the car and we examined the colour charts. There was coral beige, sierra beige, cordoba beige, nevada beige, Sahara beige and tuscan beige, and I only thought it might be beige. Peterson wasn't impressed by the standard of my evidence, and I offered a silent apology to all the useless witnesses I'd cursed over the years.
He pretended I'd given him the big breakthrough he was waiting for.
After a few transparent nods of approval he said: 'What can you tell me about Mrs. Wilberforce?'
'Nothing,' I declared. 'Nothing relevant.' Nothing that was any business of his. I didn't want to discuss her with him. The little I had was precious to me, not for writing in notebooks before going on to the computer, to be picked over by hard men looking for a murderer. Let them read someone else's entrails.
The tone of my voice didn't deter him.' She had no enemies that you know of? Were her views regarded as controversial within the Church?'
'Of course not!' I snapped. 'And could I remind you that she is still alive, if only just.'
Gilbert said: 'Mr. Peterson, if Mr. Priest had any information that would help this enquiry, don't you think he would have offered it?'
Peterson ignored him. 'Did you know,' he announced, for it wasn't a question, 'that Mrs. Wilberforce was is — considering ordination?'
'No, I didn't,' I hissed, gripping the edges of my chair.
'Well, she is. I had a long talk with the Bishop. He suggested it to her and she said she'd think about it. Apparently her ex-husband was a hell-fire-and-brimstone man.'
I took deep breaths while he was talking. When I felt I was under control I sat back in my chair and folded my arms. 'Inspector Peterson,' I began, 'first of all, Mrs. Wilberforce's husband died after a long illness. He was her late husband, not her ex-husband.
Secondly, he was a traditionalist, not a hell-fire-and-brimstone man, as you put it. And to say that Mrs. Wilberforce agreed to think about ordination is hardly the same as saying she is seriously considering it.'
'Mmm. Perhaps.' He stood up to leave. There was a knock at the door and Nigel entered, carrying a piece of paper and looking smug.
Peterson said: 'This car. I don't suppose you managed a glimpse of the driver?'
I shook my head.
'Or the number?'
'No.'
'Of course not. Silly question. Still, I have to ask.'
Nigel was holding the door open. Peterson was almost out when he changed his mind. 'Oh, nearly forgot,' he said. 'Nine people have contacted various newspapers confessing to being the gunman eight Mushroom Men and one Destroying Angel. I think we can safely say that a religious nut is on the loose.'
When he'd gone, Gilbert said: 'We'll have that coffee now, with a drop of lotion in it. Yes, Nigel. What can we do for you?'
He stepped forward, face glowing with enthusiasm. 'Message for Char..
er, Mr. Priest. It reads: 'Mrs. Wilberforce conscious and breathing without the aid of the ventilator. Taken off critical list.'
Message timed fifteen thirty-seven.'
My prayers were being answered.
Chapter 20
Gilbert had misjudged me when he told Peterson that I would have offered any information I had. They'd put an armed guard on Annabelle in case the attacker came back, but they were guarding the wrong person. The one vital piece of information I had withheld was that Annabelle was not the intended victim. The shot in the town hall doorway was aimed at me, not her. Annabelle had been directly behind me, her hands on my hips. She was hit because I skipped to one side as the trigger was pulled. I wasn't running away or hiding; maybe he'd come back.
I bought chocolates and salmon-pink roses and made myself look smart. I was back in my own car, thank
