like talking to a bloody tableau. She read the letter, then passed it back to me. “You’ve had a wasted journey,” she said. “There isn’t a baby any more.”’
There, I’d done it. Annabelle placed her fingers over mine and twisted to look up at me. ‘Oh, Charles,’ she whispered, very softly, ‘I’m so sorry.’
I gave her neck a final rub and disentangled my hands. I walked round and flopped in an easy chair, facing her. ‘Now, I think it was for the best,’ I told her, with a dismissive wave, but the gruffness in my voice betrayed me.
After a silence I said, ‘Annabelle. I know you loved Peter, in spite of what happened between you. I don’t want to replace him or compete with him. Your time in Africa was an important part of your life, probably the most important part, and I like to hear you talk about it. But Vanessa means nothing to me, now. She was just part of the growing-up process. As far as I’m concerned, all that was just…something that happened to someone else, in the past.’ I stood up, not knowing how much more to say, how much to tell her about my feelings. I decided to leave it at that. ‘Come on, love,’ I said, ‘you’ve had a long day. I’ll take you home.’
Annabelle didn’t move, just sat there, looking at me. Her hair was nearly dry and some colour had returned to her cheeks. Little lines in the corners of her eyes gave her age away but only underlined her beauty, like the date on a bottle of wine confirms its quality. Hers had been a good year. ‘Charles,’ she began, ‘I want to stay here tonight, with you. If you’d like me to.’
We’ve been lovers for quite a while, but never slept overnight at either house. Annabelle has a fear of the tabloids writing scurrilous stories about the Detective and the Bishop’s Wife, put up to it by her neighbours after seeing me sneak away. Car engines don’t know how to be discreet at seven a.m. on frosty mornings, and editors don’t care whose lives they ruin, if it sells a few papers. We go away for weekends, or spend rainy afternoons in bed. I’ve no complaints.
‘Right,’ I said, vainly trying to suppress a smile. ‘In that case, I’d better show you where we keep the cornflakes.’
On the pretext of putting the car away I went outside and rang the nick on my mobile, telling them that Mrs Wilberforce had been found, safe and well. She wouldn’t need any protection, tonight. The information was received without comment, but no doubt knowing glances were exchanged at the other end.
We sat talking for a while, and I told Annabelle about the Jaguar and the threats, playing them down as much as I could. Staying here saved me the discomfort of camping in the car at the end of her street. She wasn’t afraid — a few Heckley villains were small fry compared with what she’d seen in Biafra — but her recklessness worried me.
At Christmas young Sophie had given me a compilation CD of popular classics — all the good bits from a variety of composers who were too inconsistent to achieve superstar status. When we went to bed I put it on the CD player and left the doors open so that the music infused the house with its melodies. I’ll never be able to hear the final movement of Respighi’s Pines of Rome again without a warm glow creeping through me, a tiny smile creasing the corners of my mouth, and whatever task I’m supposed to be engaged in slipping clean out of my head.
CHAPTER TWELVE
I hadn’t expected a lodger, so breakfast was frugal. We’d agreed that Annabelle would stay at my house for the weekend, so we visited the supermarket to stock up. Old habits die hard. I headed straight for the single portions, before the OAPs could hit them, then remembered we were catering for two. It was fun. I could get used to this, I thought. Unfortunately, her friends, Marie and Toby, were coming to stay with her on Monday, so she’d have to go home then. I reluctantly agreed that she’d be safe with them in the house with her.
Nigel told me, when I rang him, that everything was running smoothly. It was a warm autumn day, so after lunch I took Annabelle to the Sculpture Park. The trees were turning colour, their shadows striping the cropped grass as we headed for the first piece.
‘Oh, Charles, this is wonderful,’ she declared. ‘Why haven’t you brought me here before?’
‘I didn’t know it was here until last week,’ I fibbed.
‘So what is that one? A Henry Moore?’ she asked.
‘Yeah, that’s one of our ‘Ennery’s famous ones, from his, er, Industrial period. It’s called…oh, Spindle Piece, or something, I think. I studied Moore at college, but it was a long time ago.’ I turned away, so she couldn’t see my facial contortions. Annabelle walked over to read the little plaque, while I stood well back, admiring the view.
‘Spindle Piece,’ she confirmed. ‘I’m impressed.’
I got the next one right, too. It was called Hill Arches, but I couldn’t resist showing off when we reached 2- piece Reclining Figure no. 2, by telling her the material, number of copies made and the date.
Annabelle came back from reading the nameplate with her lips pursed, casually scanning the sky. As she reached me she said, ‘You’re a fraud, Priest,’ and thumped me in the chest. I fell over backwards, partly from the blow, partly because my legs collapsed with laughter.
We had a look round the shop and bought some postcards, and wandered amongst the temporary exhibits. Most striking of them was a crowd of life-size rough bronze figures, standing to attention. They were all headless. Slowly, subconsciously, I steered us towards the far side of the park, adjacent to where K. Tom Davis’s home lay.
‘Right, Clever-clogs,’ Annabelle said, ‘what is that one called?’
It was the last statue between us and the fence, beyond which was Davis’s paddock. I remembered it, tall and spiky, with a bicycle wheel on top. It was the first one I’d seen when I climbed over the fence, and I hadn’t known about the name tags.
‘Er, don’t know,’ I admitted. ‘It’s not a Moore. I specialise in Moores.’
‘Well, have a guess. What image does it convey to you?’
‘Mmm. Long and skinny,’ I said. ‘Bit like you. Is it called Mrs Wilberforce, balancing bicycle wheel on her nose?’
She wandered over to it. I could see the house through the trees, and the garage where I’d hidden. Beyond them, through the gap, was what looked like his Range Rover, but I couldn’t be sure. I should have brought the binoculars.
‘No, it is not that,’ she called back to me.
‘Right,’ I shouted. ‘How about…Tour de Force?’
‘No, but you are close.’ She was back with me now.
‘Tour de France?’
‘Ha ha! Well guessed. What are you staring at, Charles?’
‘Er, pardon?’
‘I just asked you what you were staring at. Something has caught your attention.’
‘Yes. I’m sorry. I, er, just remembered something Nigel told me, a few days ago. You see that house, through there.’
She turned and nodded.
‘Well, we think it belongs to a villain. If possible, I’d like to watch it for a while, a few minutes, see if I can get a bit closer and read the number of the vehicle.’
Annabelle rolled her eyes in a here-we-go-again expression. I couldn’t blame her, and I realised I was lying, breaking my resolution. I knew the number; it was written in my reports. What I’d remembered, coming off Great Gable, was that Nigel said he’d almost left a bullbars poster behind the wipers, but decided it might not be appropriate. Why would he want to do that? When I’d seen the vehicle, a few days earlier, it hadn’t been fitted with bullbars.
The park was busy with people enjoying the fine day, Michael Angelo was in jail and I was certain we hadn’t been followed. Tailing another car without being noticed in a city centre is fairly straightforward, but it’s nigh impossible on country roads. We were safe enough. I put my arm across Annabelle’s shoulders. ‘Quarter of an hour,’ I said. ‘It is rather important. You have a coffee, while I sit on that fence and watch for a while.’ I gave her the keys to the car. ‘I’ll see you in fifteen minutes,’ I promised. ‘Either in the cafe or the car.’ I pecked her cheek
