‘Yeah.’
‘So where did you look?’
‘Where didn’t we? We rang directory enquiries until they recognised our voices. “Not friggin’ you again,” they’d say. St Sebastian didn’t have many churches named after him, fortunately, and no pubs, but we could have been talking about anywhere between London and Yorkshire. It was hopeless. Then this happened.’ He raised his gammy leg. ‘Bit later, Johnny was killed. I decided I’d just ’ave to be patient, see what they offered me for being their running boy.’
‘Or what your cut was for being the driver,’ I suggested.
‘I wasn’t on the job, Mr Priest,’ he insisted.
‘If you say so. Do you reckon there are a few people out there, waiting to get their hands on the stuff?’
‘I wouldn’t know.’
‘Are you happy that Johnny’s death and your accident weren’t related?’
‘Yeah. This bird what ’it me was coming up a slip road the wrong way. You couldn’t plan anyfing like that.’
‘Mmm. Probably not,’ I agreed, lifting my glass and draining the last of my pint.
‘So what ’appens now?’ he asked. He sounded scared. I’d revived too many ghosts.
‘I’ll go home,’ I replied. ‘Type up my report. I’ll have a word with N-CIS suggesting your file be quietly disposed of, as you have been very cooperative, and hopefully, we’ll all live happily ever after. You’ve got it made here, Jimmy,’ I told him. ‘You’ve got it made. Why don’t you accept it?’
‘Yeah, you’re right, Mr Priest. Trouble is, the grass is always greener at the other side of the wall, innit?’
‘That’s because of all the shit that’s there.’ I took a CID card from my wallet and signed it, saying, ‘If you think of anything else, let me know. Thanks for your help, Jimmy, and look after yourself.’
The original plan was to eat in Brid but I wanted to get back, so I skipped lunch. It might be the seaside, but experience had taught me that their fish and chips are not as good as ours. The fish has still been frozen in a factory ship, somewhere off Cape Farewell, and they cater for a passing trade. I listened to Classic FM on the journey back to Heckley, and thought about Jimmy and his cryptic clues. They were meaningless to me, but he could have been bullshitting. I had a suspicion that he would quietly sell his little business and sneak away to fresh pastures, without his name over the door. That’s what I’d have done, in his shoes.
Maud was coming down the stairs as I went up them. ‘Hi, Maud,’ I greeted her. ‘Looking for me?’
‘Hello, Charlie. Yes, I’ve left you a note with Sparking plug.’
‘You mean old Grumpysod? Coming back for a coffee?’
‘No, if you don’t mind. I want to be off early. We’ve identified all the Jones boys accounts, so I’ve left you a breakdown. Oh, and while I was at your desk I took a message from a PC Young. He’s our new DVLC Liaison Officer. Could you ring him, please?’
‘Oh, right. Wonder what he wants.’
Sparky was sitting at the word processor, typing a report. ‘Hello, Dave,’ I said. ‘Where’s this message from Maud?’
‘I left it on your desk,’ he replied. ‘Can I have a word, Charlie?’
‘Sure.’ This was Sparky at his most formal. I hung my jacket behind the door and pulled a chair out, alongside him.
‘I, er, heard about the car, the Jag,’ he said.
‘Yeah,’ I replied. ‘I nearly cried when I saw it, but I soon put it in perspective. That reminds me — I need to collect a claims form. Don’t suppose you’ve heard if the SOCO has had a look at it, have you?’
‘It was Sophie’s fault, wasn’t it?’ he said.
‘No, of course not.’
‘It was,’ he insisted. ‘She must have told the photographer at the Lord Mayor’s parade who the car belonged to. That’s how someone knew it was yours. I’ll have a word with her, Charlie.’
‘No, you won’t,’ I told him. ‘They’re growing up fast enough as it is. It’s not Sophie’s fault that some maniac has a grudge against me.’
‘Well, I’m sorry.’
I thumped his knee with my fist. ‘Let’s have a look at these figures from Maud,’ I said.
The gist of it was that the seven Joneses, whoever they were, had deposited between two and three thousand pounds each with Goodrich, nearly every week, for just over two years. That amounted to the tidy sum of?1.78 million.
Four hundred thousand had gone into diamonds, and therefore down the drain; and another eighty-eight thousand was safely deposited in legitimate investments. That left nearly?1.3 million unaccounted for, possibly converted into something else, like, she suggested, gold. Her footnote commented that seven bank managers were heading for a bleak Christmas.
Not long ago a mugger stabbed a pensioner in Heckley for fifty pence. There was no shortage of candidates who’d kill for a share in a million and a bit.
PC Young’s number was written on the bottom of the report. I dialled it.
‘Hello, Mr Priest,’ he said, after I’d introduced myself. ‘I’m the DVLC Liaison Officer. I understand you own an E-type Jaguar, licence number…’
Any enquiries about car numbers and owners have to be directed through each force’s liaison officer, who then talks directly with the licensing centre in Swansea. ‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘Want to buy it?’
‘Sorry, but no. Maybe if it had been a Ford Escort… According to Swansea you have a block on your number.’
‘Yes, and I’ve instructed all my staff to do the same.’
‘That makes sense. What I rang for is to tell you that the West Pennine Liaison Officer took a call from one of their PCs this morning, asking for the name and address of the owner of your Jag. I just thought you’d like to know about it.’
‘You bet I’d like to know about it!’ I declared. ‘Did he give it to him?’
‘No, of course not.’
‘Good. Thanks. It might be legitimate: maybe he’s seen me speeding somewhere — not that I do, you understand.’
‘Wouldn’t dream of suggesting it, sir.’
‘I should think not. Look, on Saturday night someone trashed the Jag for me. Slashed the tyres and seats, poured hydraulic fluid over everything else. I’m afraid I’m going to have to follow this up. Can you find out the name and number of the PC for me, please?’
There are informal ways of dealing with situations like this. We go on courses, get drunk together, stray over into each other’s territory, and slowly build up a network of inter-force contacts. In my case, with my service, it’s more like a labyrinth. I rang a DI in West Pennine that I once shared a park bench with when we were locked out of the academy and asked him to do some nosing around.
I wanted to write my report on the meeting with Jimmy the Fish, but the telephone wouldn’t stop ringing. We grumble at Superintendent Wood, but miss him when he’s not there to field all the calls that come down the channels. The chief constable’s secretary rang from Force HQ for our projected figures for crimes of violence and burglaries, needed for a meeting he was attending tomorrow.
‘Ah!’ I improvised. ‘Haven’t they arrived, yet?’
‘No, I’m afraid not,’ she replied in her snootiest voice. She rarely addresses anyone as low in the pecking order as me.
‘Right. Well, I can’t remember the actual numbers, and the computer’s playing up, but crimes of violence are expected to rise by, er, three per cent, and burglaries by, er, four per cent. If you have the last figures there, could you work them out, please?’
She said she would, but wasn’t pleased about it. Tough Tipp-Ex, I thought. Reports, I’m keen on. I give every member of the team plenty of time to do their reports, and sometimes we catch a criminal through them. Statistics are for politicians. All they catch are votes. We were really hoping for a decrease in crime, but it wasn’t in our interest to admit it. I slammed the phone down, grabbed my coat and fled before it could ring again.
Jimmy Hoyle helped me fill in the claims form I collected on the way home. We surveyed the Jaguar in his garage, walking round it with glum faces, as if it were the last, dying specimen of an endangered species, which, in
