‘Inspector!’ he exclaimed. ‘Are you suggesting we do a deal? That is not the way I thought justice worked in this country. Whatever happened to innocent until proved guilty?’
It went out of the window, along with full employment and respect for old people. ‘Not a deal,’ I replied. ‘Just cooperation. You were laundering money through Goodrich. First of all into diamonds, then into gold. We’ll find the proof, slowly. You’d be making it easier on yourself if you realised that and helped us.’
He leant his chin on his fists and nibbled his thumbnails. After a while he asked, ‘Has Michael been arrested?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘We can’t find him.’
‘He’s a good boy. He would never kill anyone, I swear it.’
Not by drawing a Stanley knife across their throat, I thought. But he’d feed them drugs until they crawled away and choked on their own vomit in a dark corner. ‘If you say so,’ I replied.
We were talking in his cell. Ten by eight, eau-denil walls and a grille on the door. He was sitting on the bunk and I was on a plastic chair I’d taken in with me. Someone had brought him his own clothes — a pair of slacks and a polo shirt. Very Anglo. He leant forward, conspiratorially.
‘Is it safe to talk in here, Mr Priest?’ he whispered.
‘There’s no one in the cells next door,’ I told him. The Friday night drunks had all gone home and the other remandees were across the corridor. ‘Business is bad. And the custody sergeant is at his desk. You can talk.’
He moved forwards, squatting on his heels close to me. ‘This…cooperation you mentioned, Mr Priest.’
‘What of it?’
‘I think a spirit of cooperation might be to our mutual advantage.’
‘In what way?’
‘Nothing very heavy. Just, let us say, helping each other. Believe it or not, I trust British justice — it is the police I have no respect for. Eventually the courts will set me free and prove that Michael is not a murderer. Then life will go on, for all of us. We are not evil people. We are businessmen, and business is difficult in the present economic climate, as I am sure you are aware, Mr Priest.’
‘I read the papers,’ I said. And clean up the debris, I thought.
‘I am sure you do. Someone in your position could be very useful to us. We could call it a…consultancy. I imagine you have not many years left before you retire. On half-wage, if I am not mistaken. That would make running an expensive car very difficult, would it not, and I believe you have a certain penchant for the good things in life. Why don’t you go away and think about what I have said, Mr Priest?’
Two-thirds salary, actually, but yes, the Jag would have to go. I stood up and hooked my arm through the chair and lifted it. ‘Sorry, Watts,’ I said, ‘but that’s not the kind of cooperation I had in mind.’ I tom-ti-tom-tommed on the cell door and heard the latch click on the outer gate. A few seconds later the grille slid back and the jailer peered in at me.
‘All done?’ he asked.
I nodded, then turned to Watts as the door swung open. ‘The nuns let you down,’ I told him. ‘They forgot to drill into you the golden rule of English grammar.’
‘And what is that?’ he snarled.
I gave him my most disarming smile. ‘Never start a sentence with a proposition,’ I said, and walked out. My visit had been a waste of time, but at least I got the one-liner in. Sometimes, that makes it all worthwhile.
CHAPTER TEN
Then came the icing on the cake. As I strolled out of the main entrance I recognised the back of DCI Makinson, briefcase in hand, ogling the scarlet torpedo parked in the chief constable’s place.
‘Good morning, Mr Makinson,’ I said as I walked round him and unlocked the door. I drove away without giving him another glance. I was having a magnificent day, and it was still early. Enjoy it while you can, I thought. It won’t last.
At the supermarket I stocked up with bananas and cornflakes and purchased an aerosol of car polish. I looked for some white ribbon, but couldn’t see any, and they didn’t have any Occam’s razors, either, so I settled for Gillette. The wedding was scheduled for three. I had an early lunch, then waxed and buffed the Jag until my fingers ached and my eyes were burning from the glare. I was determined the bride wouldn’t regret that the Rolls-Royce people had let her down.
I put my best suit on and went to collect her with plenty of time to spare. For a few minutes it looked as if the car would steal the show, but when she appeared from her old home for the last time she looked beautiful. It struck me that she wasn’t much older than Sophie.
Her father folded himself into the back seat, ruining the creases in his trousers, and we went to the church the long way, via a few laps of Heckley town centre. I did a final flourish down Annabelle’s cul-de-sac when we reached the church, but her car wasn’t there. I hadn’t expected it to be.
I sat in the Jag for the service, and afterwards posed, hand on door, for the photographer.
‘Are you sure you won’t stay for the reception?’ the bride asked, as I drove her and her new husband to the Masonic Hall. ‘It’ll be no problem to fit you in.’
‘We’d like you to stay,’ the groom added.
‘No,’ I insisted. ‘It’s kind of you, but I’ve a few things to do.’
‘Then what about the disco, tonight?’ he asked.
‘Yes!’ the bride enthused. ‘Then you can dance with Aunty Gwen. I think she’s taken a shine to you.’
I couldn’t think of a reason to refuse. Annabelle was incommunicado and the bride’s father was a great storyteller. He was a rep with Armitage Shanks, which made you smile before he started. It was either the disco, the local, or stay in. One of the bridesmaids was attractive. ‘What time does it start?’ I asked.
After I’d eaten, carefully checking the list of ingredients on the side of the packet for garlic, I showered and floppped on the bed for a nap. I felt relaxed for the first time for ages, and fell asleep. When I awoke it was nearly dark and I was under the duvet.
It was half past nine when I arrived back at the Masonic Hall, still in the Jag because I’d forgotten to swap the cars round again. I had to park it in the alley round the back.
‘We thought you’d changed your mind,’ the bride’s father told me. ‘You missed some great speeches at the reception. What’ll you have?’
He bought me a pint and propelled me towards the buffet. It looked as if a bomb had hit it, but I found some chicken drumsticks and little sausage rolls. I leant on the wall, plate balanced in one hand, watching the dancers.
They were probably the bride’s old schoolfriends, boys and girls. I was always tall for my age. These days, I’d be considered average. Junk food must be good for you. The girls wore baggy T-shirts that reminded me of those sheets they drape over new models in car showrooms, hiding, but hinting at, the bodywork concealed underneath. One wore fishnet tights, and her legs were so long they resembled twin, if upside-down, Eiffel towers.
My free hand was in the pocket of my leather jacket, and I fingered the keys of the finest bird-pulling car God ever invented. I did a little calculation and smiled, wistfully. Biologically speaking, and possibly legally, too, I was old enough to be her granddad. I let go of the key and reached out for my glass.
Aunty Gwen hit me as I finished my last drumstick. She was too much of everything. Too much Estee Lauder, too much make-up, too much…Aunty Gwen.
The group was playing seventies stuff, so I allowed myself to be dragged on to the dance floor and pretended to enjoy it. Twenty minutes later the sweat was running down Aunty Gwen’s face like a flash-flood in the Kalahari and she begged to sit down again.
That’ll learn her, I thought, and went back to my wall, collecting an orange juice on the way.
I stayed a polite hour, wished the happy couple all the best and turned to leave. The bride’s father followed me. At the door he said, ‘Er, Charlie. Thanks for stepping in like you did. It was good of you. Made her day. A hundred and twenty, was it?’ He pulled a roll of notes out of his top pocket and offered them to me.
‘Don’t be silly,’ I said. ‘Call it a wedding present.’
‘Nonsense. You can’t be expected to do it for nothing.’
