doctor's subscriptions to the RSPB and the British Medical Journal were due. A Christmas card from a lady called Melissa, who was still thinking about him, had been redirected from an address in Chesterfield. I dumped the junk and put a rubber band round the other stuff.
My desk was as clear as it ever gets. Nigel had left a list of people he thought we ought to interview again. I pushed everything to one end and covered the rest of it with used sheets of paper from the flip board, held down by strips of Sellotape. That's the nearest we have to table covers in CID. I fetched an extra chair out of the main office and the salt and vinegar from Sparky's bottom drawer. The kettle was just coming to the boil as they breezed in, closely followed by the familiar aroma.
We ate the fish and chips with our fingers, out of the paper. The first ones after Christmas always taste especially good. Nigel and Sparky had been to the General Hospital, to talk to the doc's former colleagues. 'One bloke's a bit cagey,' Sparky said. 'A registrar.
That's one below a consultant, isn't it?'
Nigel confirmed that it was.
'How do you mean, cagey?' I asked.
'He wasn't as fulsome in his praise as most of the others. I got the impression he didn't like him.' He screwed his paper up and put it back in the plastic bag the fish and chips came in. Nigel produced a roll of kitchen towel for him to wipe his hands on.
'That's because our dead doctor was having an affair with his wife,'
Nigel told us.
'Oh,' I said. 'Go on.'
He wiped his own hands and took a drink of tea. 'I enjoyed those. One of the ward sisters took great relish in telling me about the doc's sexual exploits. Actually, he wasn't a doc. Being a consultant made him a mister. She went all misty-eyed at the memory. She said there was a story going round that he was doing a bit for the registrar's wife, who knew all about it but turned a blind eye.'
'Is this in the reports?' I asked.
'No. She thought it wasn't important and it didn't seem right to mention it so soon after his murder.'
'How jolly considerate of her,' I said.
When we'd finished the currant squares Nigel had brought in from the bakery over the road I reached out for the list he had compiled. 'We'll talk to all these again,' I said. 'No doubt they have all remembered something new, or there's a little titbit they didn't like mentioning earlier.' I studied the list.
'I wouldn't mind going back to the General,' Sparky said. 'One or two who worked with him don't come on until one.'
'OK. That's you sorted. Nigel, how do you feel about going to York to see his parents?'
He nodded. 'Mmm. No problem.'
'Fine. This is his mail, collected from the flat. Take it over there, ask them if they want to let people know before they learn it from us.
Keep copies of anything that might be useful. And that leaves me. Now let me see…' I held the list at arm's length and studied it. 'I think I'll have a word with, oh…' I gave them a big smile. '…
The girlfriend, Natasha Wilde, whoever she is.'
Ill
Chapter Six
I knew Natasha Wilde was an actress in a soap, I'd read it in the reports. I washed my hands in the smelly stuff that comes out of the dispenser and cleaned my teeth. I wasn't swayed by her fame I'd have done the same for any royalty.
Appletreewick is a neat little village in Wharfedale. It s a proper working dales village, hardly touched by oft comers I've done plenty of walking around there, when scenery and a decent pub for lunch were more important than packing the miles in. Most of my walking is like that, these days. She lived outside the village, towards Burnsall, in Apple Tree Cottage. 'You can't miss it,' she'd told me on the phone when I arranged to see her. 'It's the last cottage on the right, with the lovely crooked chimneys.'
It took me nearly an hour and a half to get there, and although it was still only mid-afternoon the light had nearly gone as I left the main street behind and cast my eyes chimney-wards. The sky was heavy with snow and I realised that I had a sporting chance of being snowed in with her. Who'd be a cop? I found the cottage first time and walked up the long path to the front door. There was aparcel on the doorstep.
I picked it up and pressed the bell. the parcel was addressed to Miss N. Wilde and came from Star amp; Media Photography of London.
The door was opened by a vision in pink. The pants were tight enough to protect the wearer from a ten G turn and the blouse shone and shimmered like a mirage.
'Hello,' he said. 'Can I help you?'
'My name's Priest,' I told him. 'Miss Wilde is expecting me.' I thrust the parcel forward. 'And your postman's been.'
He studied the parcel for a moment, then turned and shouted: 'Natasha!
Your policeman has arrived, and your photos are here.' He looked back at me, smiled as if he meant it, and invited me in.
For a so-called cottage the rooms were huge. The frontage appeared reasonable, but it must have stretched back for ever. The walls were stone and a big fire blazed in the hearth. I've been in smaller saloon bars. At the far end of the room was a baby grand piano with the lid propped open, as if someone had just stopped playing it. Mr. Pink invited me to sit down on a spindly easy chair with Laura Ashley loose cushions and said Natasha wouldn't be a moment. He started to open the parcel.
She made her entrance just as he pulled the first photograph out. She was about five foot tall and not much less from front to back. It's a fact of life that actresses are on average two cup sizes larger than their non-thespian sisters.
'Inspector!' she gushed, approaching like an attacking shark. I stood up and held a hand out, wondering if I should kiss her on the cheeks or curtsey. We settled for a simple shake.
Her hair was ash blond, in a style that I last saw on Doris Day. The complexion was perfect and her teeth looked as if they had been precision machined from a billet of the finest marble. They were small and regular and could have inflicted serious damage on small animals.
She was good looking beautiful, even but I found her curiously sexless.
It's something I've been experiencing more and more, recently. Maybe I should have a word with someone.
'Sit down, please, Inspector,' she insisted, graciously, and sat opposite me, with the fire between us.
'Your pictures are here,' Mr. Pink said again, handing one to her.
'Ooh, that's just lovely,' she replied, after examining it, and passed it across to me.
'Very nice,' I concurred.
She was wearing exactly the same oufit as in the photograph skin-coloured jodhpurs and a white polo-necked sweater. The jodhpurs on the real thing were so tight they left nothing to my imagination. I could have done a reasonably accurate anatomical drawing right there and then. In the photo the camera angle was chosen to show off her other physical charms.
'Can I keep this?' I asked.
'Of course you can.'
I placed it on the floor alongside my chair. 'Right. Thank you. First of all, can I introduce myself? I'm DI Charlie Priest from Heckley CID
'Oh, what must you think of me?' she interrupted, putting a hand to her head. 'I'm Natasha Wilde and this is Peter Khan, but everybody calls him Genghis.'
I nodded towards him. 'How do you do.'
'Genghis is an arranger,' Natasha went on. 'One of the best in the business, and a very good friend of
