country music station, because I can't stand country-fucking-music, and drove home.
The postman had been. Lying on my doormat was an envelope with a window, postmark and style of typing that told me exactly from where it came. It was the same as the ones my monthly salary statements come in, except the next one wasn't due for another three weeks. That was quick, I thought. Pay section had been on the ball, for once. Maybe they wanted rid of me. I put the envelope on the telephone table, unopened. If I didn't open it I could always swear I hadn't received it.
I love my shower. When I'm lost for something to do, or have twenty minutes to spare, or people in the office start giving me sideways glances and moving away, I have a shower. I do some of my best thinking with the hot jets impinging on my back and soap running into my eyes. Annabelle had given me some smelly stuff for my birthday. I finished it off with a lavish portion that had the plug hole struggling to cope with the foam. Tonight I'd smell nice, for nobody in particular, and one reminder of her would be consigned to the bin.
I pushed my thought processes in other directions. Rodney would be in a drugged sleep. Maybe he was the lucky one. I turned the temperature control up a few degrees and rinsed my hair. It was now too hot, but I left it at that. Tomorrow we'd have to start looking at the abortions, all five thousand of them. Most of the shampoo suds had gone. I slicked my hair back with my hands and turned my face into the hot jets. If there really was a gene for homosexuality, like the scientist in California was claiming the so-called gay gene surely they would all have died out by now, wouldn't they? I opened my mouth and let it fill with water, struggling to inhale through the storm. Autoerotic asphyxiation, that's what the MP died of, with his head in the plastic bag. They say it increases the intensity of the orgasm. I tipped my head forward so the water ran from my mouth, grabbed a breath and looked back into the spray. I reached up and swung the shower head to one side, keeping my face directly under it, and leaned back against the tiled wall. And I made a discovery.
Chapter Eleven
They were gathered around Sparky like the apostles around Jesus, expressions of beatitude on their upturned faces. I'd been up to see Mr. Wood to tell him what he didn't want to know that we were roughly in the same place in our enquiry as we were when Dr. Jordan's body was found. I didn't mention the rape and he didn't ask, and I certainly didn't tell him about my revelation in the shower. He wasn't ready for that, yet.
Sparky was in full flow: '… and the French television reporter looked at them and said: 'Wait a minute, wait a minute…'
'Un moment! Un moment!' Jeff Caton interrupted, one hand raised with the fingertips together, as if plucking a grape.
'I'm translating for Nigel's benefit,' Sparky told him.
'Oh, sorry.'
'That's all right. So this Frog reporter says: 'Wait a minute. You don't like our wine. You don't like our food. You don't like our ladies. So just why do you keep coming back to France all these times?' And the Siamese twin on the left says: 'It's the only chance I get to drive.'
They drifted away, morale boosted, back to the tedium of reports and observations and the frustrations of court. Nigel and Sparky stayed behind. them at half Sparky 'Where's Maggie?' I asked.
'She went straight to the clinic,' Nigel said. 'Wanted to collar Barraclough before the daily grind of executive meetings started. I've told her I'll join her, soon as I can, if you don't need me.'
'Fair enough.'
'There's a package on your desk,' Sparky informed me. 'Special delivery from Wetherton. A hell's angel from traffic brought it a few minutes ago.'
'That was quick,' I said. 'I only rang past seven.'
'You could tell he was happy at his work,' declared.
'Who?'
'The biker.'
'How?'
'He had dead flies on his teeth. What's in it?'
'In January? It's just a little something I wanted to borrow,' I replied. 'I'll tell you all about it when I've had a think. Meanwhile … I'm going to set you some homework.'
'This sounds omnibus, Nigel,' Sparky complained.
'It does, doesn't it?' he replied.
'Nigel, are you still going out with that red-headed WPC from City?' I asked. He opened his mouth to speak but I cut him short. 'On second thoughts,' I said, 'are you going out with anyone?'
'Er, sort of,' he answered.
'Right,' I said, turning to Sparky. 'And you're still in a blissful relationship, I presume?'
'Ye-es,' he replied, cagily.
'OK, here's what I want. Tonight you will both make love to your respective partners in the shower, and be prepared to discuss same tomorrow. Understood?'
'Is that all?' Sparky said. 'I was expecting something exciting.'
'Forget the 'respective partners' bit, if it helps,' I suggested.
'Will, er, you be joining in this research?' Nigel wondered.
'No,' I told him. 'I did the initial fieldwork; your job is to confirm my findings.' I didn't mention that I was alone at the time.
When they'd gone I pulled the piece of equipment I'd borrowed from Wetherton lab from the package and found the instructions. It sounded simple. I tested it against the palm of my hand and discovered that I was fit enough to survive the day. In that case, I'd carry on. On the way out I stopped at the front desk to see if there was a female officer available to accompany me, but I was out of luck. Ah well, never mind.
Janet Saunders was in when I knocked because I could hear Radio 2 filtering quietly through the door. I knocked again and the volume lowered. There were footsteps inside and a key turned in the lock. The door opened a fraction and she peered out at me, a chain bridging the gap.
'Yes?' she asked, timidly.
I held my ID in front of her face. 'DI Charlie Priest,' I said. 'I met you when you came to Heckley Police Station. I wonder if I could have a word with you?'
'Who is it, Mummy?' a tiny voice asked, and I looked down to see a little face framed with platinum blonde hair gazing up at me.
'I didn't recognise you,' Janet said, steering her daughter to one side so she could close the door to unfasten the chain.
She led me through into the living room and invited me to sit down, 'If you can find an empty seat.' There was a scattering of toys and clothes, but the place was clean and fairly tidy.
'You must be Dilly,' I said to the angel face that came to stand alongside me. She nodded.
'And how old are you?'
Dilly looked up at her mother for a prompt.
'Tell the gentleman how old you are,' she said.
'I'm five.'
'Five! You're a big girl for five. I thought you were at least six.'
Sparky would have been proud of me. 'And how long have you been five?'
I asked.
She thought about it, swinging her body from side to side. 'Um, since my birthday,' she calculated.
I decided I was out of my depth and looked across to Janet for rescue.
She suggested that Dilly go up to her room and put some different clothes on, suitable for a trip to the shopping mall.
'She's back with you,' I said, when we were alone.
'Yes,' Janet replied, walking over to a portable radio and switching off Terry Wogan or one of his clones. 'Her father is working away Edinburgh so I've got to have her, all this week.'
