don't you just cross out our address and write your own there, and I'll set this thing going right now and drop it in on my way home. How does that sound?'
'Very cooperative. Thanks a lot.' I reinstated her as a contender.
'Did yer want them in alphabetical order?'
'Yes please, if possible.'
'No problem. Nice meeting you, Inspector.'
'And you.'
The office was empty. I ate the prawn sandwich I'd bought on the way back and shut myself away. A plan of action was required. I wrote my reports to clear my mind and made notes on a sheet of A4. First thing we needed was a suitable venue. I put my coat back on and drove to City HQ.
Superintendent Isles wasn't in, which suited me fine.
'Are the old Bridewell cells still in use?' I asked the desk sergeant.
City HQ is attached to the town hall, and parts of it date back to Victorian times. The old cells, known universally as the Bridewell, were down in the basement. He seconded a young PC to help me and we went exploring.
The one we chose was used to store sports equipment. We manhandled a wobbly ping-pong table into the cell next door, along with assorted cricket pads and a one-armed bandit. The PC, called Martin, tried the fruit machine and wondered if the social club would let him have it.
There was a bit of dust around, but not enough to make the place uninhabitable. We'd ask the cleaning ladies to give it a quick once-over. There was a power point and the fluorescent light on the high ceiling worked. The walls were covered from top to bottom in white tiles, broken only by a thin blue line running round the room at waist height. I ran a hand over them, wondering how many frustrated prisoners had found their glazed surface unyielding to scratch or skull. You couldn't buy tiles like these any more. They had curved edges and special corner pieces, and were as hard and unforgiving as tungsten carbide. Just what I wanted.
I took Martin upstairs and introduced him to the technical support wizards. They found one of the portable tape recorders we used before the new interview suites had them built in, and showed him how to drive it. I dithered over a video camera, then decided to go for it. They gave Martin a crash course on that, too. We carried the lot down to the Bridewell and I left him practising. I told him to make sure the batteries were charged, the tapes were blank and the lights worked. If all went well, I'd buy him a fruit machine. He nodded enthusiastically and went to fetch a table and some chairs.
Maggie was in when I arrived back at Heckley. 'How did it go?' I asked.
'Like drawing teeth,' she sighed. 'Slow and painful. Patient confidentiality, all that crap. I don't know who they think they are.'
'Did you tell them that our investigation overrides any duties of confidentiality they may have towards their patients?'
'Till I was blue in the face.'
'So how have you left it?'
'I had a long discussion with the counsellor who talks to all the young women who go in for abortions. She said most of them know exactly why they are there and are not interested in counselling. A few sad ones seize the opportunity but usually decide to go ahead. Not many back out. She said that she has had one or two disturbing cases, possibly unbalanced, and nothing they did would surprise her. One involved an irate boyfriend. Trouble is, she wouldn't name names. I had a word with Barraclough and suggested that if she told him they might then be able to come to some arrangement where he could pass the information on to us, whereby she wouldn't have contravened the etiquette of her profession.'
'Mmm, maybe. I'd rather you leaned on them. Tell them that we are not interested in their consciences or the sexual transgressions of their clientele. We're trying to catch a killer. Make that a serial killer.
Say we have reason to believe that one of them is next on his list.
That should focus their attention.'
'Ha!' she laughed. 'Some serial killer. He's only done one, so far.'
'That's the best time to catch them, Maggie. That's the best time to catch them.' I decided to change the subject. 'Have you,' I asked, 'ever heard of a company called Magic Plastic?'
'Magic Plastic?'
'Mmm.'
'No. What have they done?'
'They haven't done anything. I want to know where they are. They produce a catalogue of a hundred and one things for the home that you never thought you needed, and employ door-to-door salesmen. I'd appreciate it if you could track them down and tell them to send me a catalogue, soon as possible.'
'Right, no problem. Is this police work?'
'Maggie!' I exclaimed. 'Of course it's police work. When did I ever do anything else?'
If you sit still too long in this job everybody learns that you are at your desk and rings you. By five o'clock my right ear was numb and my brain was reeling, so I trudged upstairs for a decent cup of tea with Gilbert. The atmosphere is always more relaxing in his office. I refused to answer questions about crime but told him that I was on the verge of solving the great tea bag disposal problem. He wasn't impressed.
We were on the way out, walking past the front desk, when a voice shouted: 'Mr. Priest!' I turned to see the desk sergeant coming out of the office. 'Packet for you,' he said, reaching under the counter.
He handed me the self-addressed envelope I'd left at the squash club.
'Thanks,' I said, taking it from him.
'A big green Sheila brought it in,' he told me. 'Said it was special delivery, for you and you alone. Wish you'd tell me how you do it.'
'That's the problem with Australian women,' I replied, winking at him.
'They keep coming back.'
I drove out of town on the old Oldfield road, quiet now, since the coming of the motorway. There is a transport cafe, famous for its wholesome meals and warm atmosphere, where all the truckers stopped on their journey over the Pennines. It has had to contract, grass over the lorry park, and change the menu, but it has, thankfully, survived.
Nowadays they make a decent living from a handful of drivers who remember where they are and hordes of senior citizens who know where to find a tasty bargain. And now me. One time, I was a regular at all the cheap eateries. I'd have to start finding my way around them again. No more sneaking away at lunchtime for trout in almonds at Annabelle's. I'd miss that. I ordered lasagne, with salad, and sat facing the telly, to give me something mindless to think about.
A man in a jacket the colour of a ruptured gall bladder was reading from a sheet of paper. 'For five points, Dorothy,' he whispered intimately, as if asking for her dying testament, 'can you tell me the name of… the first man to run the mile in four minutes?'
'Roger Bannister!' she screeched, as the camera panned to an open-mouthed matron clutching her hands to her head. The whole world was ganging up on me. I moved to the chair at the opposite side of the table, my back to the telly.
The lasagne was not bad, for lasagne. I followed it with rhubarb crumble and a refill of tea. Today, I'd eaten well. Annabelle would be proud of me. No, she wouldn't. There I go again, I thought.
When I reached home I took the envelope in with me. A list of a couple of thousand names and addresses is my idea of bedtime reading. The mailman had left an avalanche of correspondence spilling halfway along my hall. I gathered them up and took them into the kitchen to look at while the kettle boiled. One from the bank was put to one side for future reference and I binned missives from the AA, Damart and Reader's Digest. A note from my window cleaner said I was three payments behind. I put fifteen quid in an envelope and took it round to my neighbour's. The final piece of mail was from the Playhouse, containing two tickets for Romeo and Juliet. It was hard to believe, but Annabelle had never seen a stage performance of it. The repertory theatre in equatorial Africa prefers Shakespeare's more violent offerings. They were for Monday evening, and I'd wanted it to be a surprise. I placed them back in their envelope and stood it behind the clock.
There was a programme about the mating habits of termites on Channel 4, so I watched that until I remembered the list from the squash club.
