‘There was this high-ranking police officer…’ I began. ‘In fact, he was a chief constable. Being a chief constable he owned a very nice car — an extremely desirable vintage Rolls-Royce. There was nothing he liked more than swanning around in his Rolls, driving through town on a sunny Saturday afternoon, showing it off. One day, out of the blue, a young lady who lived a few doors away asked him if he would be kind enough to take her to the church for her wedding, the following weekend. She would, of course, be willing to pay him the going rate for his services. Sadly, while everybody was in the church, a lorry reversed into the Rolls-Royce and drove away, leaving over five thousand pounds worth of damage behind… Fortunately, the Chief Constable was insured…’
When I finished the story one or two of them were shuffling around uncomfortably. I like to think they were wrestling with their consciences, but it may have been boredom. I talked about how the miners’ strike had overturned our guidelines, and about more recent problems with animal-rights activists and road protesters. How do we balance the rights of protesters with the rights of those who earn a living exporting veal calves and horses? It must have all been highly bemusing to anyone from Nigeria or Saudi Arabia. With five minutes to go I asked for questions and sat down. Timed to perfection.
It was the accents, not the questions, that caused me problems. I muddled through, and the chairman helped out a couple of times with responses that caused me to wonder which of us had misheard. At fifteen seconds to four a swarthy character with a complexion like the dark side of the moon rose to his feet. General Noriega’s ugly brother. His voice was eerily light, as I imagine a torturer’s to be, and I craned forward, hand cupped over an ear, to catch his words. He seemed to be asking why we didn’t just shoot protesters, and cure the problem once and for all?
‘That’s an interesting point of view,’ I declared. ‘But unfortunately we haven’t enough time to explore it fully. Perhaps it will make a good topic for you to discuss over a drink in the bar, this evening. Thank you for listening, gentlemen — and ladies — and I hope you enjoy the rest of the course.’
They applauded, but nobody stood on a chair and waved. Several of them did ask for copies of the paper, which didn’t exist, so I promised to send it. The course director invited me to stay for dinner, but I declined and left as quickly as politeness allowed. I ate at the motorway services. It would have been cheaper at the Savoy, but I was on HQ’s expenses.
There were no messages on the answerphone when I arrived home, just after ten, and no mail waiting on the doormat. I made a pot of tea and sank into my favourite chair, exhausted. It had been a long, stressful day, and I felt in need of something to unwind me. Nigel’s phone call came as a relief.
‘Hi, boss. How did it go?’ he asked.
‘Oh, so-so,’ I told him. ‘Nobody threw money at me, but they applauded at the end. That’s all you can ask for.’
‘I bet it was the highlight of their week,’ he replied.
‘Well, naturally. I was top of the bill, after all. What about you? Anything interesting happen today?’
‘There’s a couple of things you ought to know about. I went to see Davis, but he wasn’t in. Apparently a pal had collected him and they’d gone for a game of golf. I had a fairly long talk with his wife and told her that Michael Angelo Watts might be freed soon, so no doubt he’ll get the message. Apparently they didn’t see much of Lisa, because Justin and K. Tom didn’t see eye to eye, which we already knew.’
‘Did she expand on the reason?’
‘I encouraged her to. She said it was just the normal stepfather thing. General resentment. She expressed her grief over Lisa but it was hard to tell how sincere she was. She certainly wasn’t overwrought about her.’
‘I’ll bet. So she didn’t say anything about her husband and Lisa having an affair?’
‘No. I asked how close they were and she said they had a business arrangement, that’s all.’
‘Mmm. Maybe we ought to be less circumspect with Mrs Davis senior, the next time. Did you have a chance to ask about her alibi?’
‘Didn’t have to ask. She said she went to bed with a migraine. K. Tom stayed in, watching TV. Lisa rang him twice; she said she heard him on the phone.’
‘Fair enough. What about the rest of it? Is everybody behaving?’
‘No problems. As I left K. Tom’s I wondered about leaving one of your bullbars stickers behind his wipers, but I decided it was inappropriate. There’s one other thing. I thought that K. Tom might try to skip the country, so I put out an APW on him. Is that OK?’
‘Yes. Good idea, except they don’t work, since we all became Europeans. Did you do it through the FIU?’
‘No. As you say, they’re not very efficient, these days. Jeff and I spent an hour ringing all the ferry companies’ security departments. They all promised to feed his details into their computerised booking systems. With luck, if he books a ticket they’ll let us know.’
‘Smashing. Anything else?’
‘No, that’s it. What are you doing tomorrow?’
Good question. Annabelle was due home, but I wasn’t sure if I was still an item in her life.
‘Oh, I’ll call in to the office for a couple of hours,’ I told him. ‘Make sure everything is nice and tidy for Mr Wood, on Monday.’
‘I can manage, if you fancy the weekend off,’ Nigel volunteered.
‘I had most of last weekend off,’ I reminded him.
‘Well, have another.’
It was tempting. ‘You sure you don’t mind?’ I asked.
‘Of course not.’
‘Right. Thanks. I’ll have a day out walking.’ They’d be calling me one of the ESSO boys, soon: Every Saturday and Sunday Off. Before I went to bed I recovered my hiking gear from the spare bedroom and studied the Ordnance Survey map for the north-west lakes.
Hard physical exercise, fresh air and a change of scenery are a good cure for most kinds of blues. And I needed some time to think. I was up with the sun again, but there were still plenty of cars on the verge at Seathwaite when I arrived. There’s always room for another, providing you don’t mind parking halfway up a drystone wall.
Great Gable is a proper mountain. There’s no need for ropes or anything at this time of year, but towards the top you can touch the rocks in front of your face and pretend you are on K2. First there’s the long drag up to Styhead Tarn to put behind you, with a fearful drop into a raging beck just a twist of the ankle to your right. Then the ground levels out and it’s decision time: Scafell or the Gables? I turned right, up Aaron Slack towards Windy Gap, which separates Green Gable from her big sister.
The rain spoilt it. I donned my waterproofs and from then on it was just a challenge to get to the summit. I ate my soggy banana sandwiches talking to a couple from Bolton, huddled behind the pile of stones, and accepted a square of mint cake from them. It rained all the way back to the car. I trudged on, carefully watching my footfalls, anorak hood knotted tightly under my nose. I was warm and cosy in there, and the going was all downhill. It was quality thinking time, but I didn’t answer any questions. Something Nigel had said was troubling me.
The Chinese restaurant in Skipton did a decent won ton soup, followed by duck in plum sauce. I arrived home about nine. I was outside, unlocking the door, when I heard the answerphone making its beeping noises. Annabelle, I thought. I made a cup of tea and collected the mail. My AA subscription was due, the dentist wanted to see me and someone was offering to make me rich if I made them rich first. Why doesn’t anybody send letters any more? I stuffed a custard cream sideways into my mouth, soggyfied it with a swig of tea and pressed the play button.
The electronic lady told me I had one message. There was a long pause, longer than usual, before a man’s voice said, ‘We got your car, Priest. Next we’ll get your woman. Then we’ll get you.’
I swallowed the mush in my mouth and let the tape rewind. The lady told me that the time announcement was off. I played it again then flicked the lid open and removed the cassette.
Annabelle didn’t answer the phone. I grabbed my leather jacket and drove straight round to her house. Her little car was parked on the drive for the first time in a fortnight, but she wasn’t in. The house was in darkness, all the curtains still wide open.
Next stop was Heckley nick. The duty inspector listened to the tape and arranged for a car to keep observations. I sealed the cassette in an envelope and obtained a new one from the pool while he rang the hospitals. Then I went looking for her.
A patrol car was there when I arrived back at her house, where the vicars of St Bidulph’s had once lived. I sat
