Chapter Thirteen
We took him to the charge office, read him his rights under PACE and showed him the menu. Our natty paper suits do not come in a full range of sizes, and the one that fitted his shoulders was rather long for him. The crutch was level with his knees and the legs were concertinaed around his ankles. All part of the dehumanising process, of course, but sometimes it doesn't bother me a bit. As soon as he was settled in we left.
As we walked out of the headquarters Sparky thumped me on the upper arm and said: 'Well done, Squire! Bloody brilliant.'
I rubbed my arm. 'You don't know your own strength,' I complained. As we'd missed the Saturday morning remand court we'd have to keep Buxton until he could appear before a magistrate on Monday, and not 'tomorrow', as I'd told him during the interview. It would give him another twenty-four hours to reflect on his misspent youth. I drove us both back to Heckley nick.
'I'll sort out the remand file in the morning, if you don't mind,'
Sparky said as he unbuckled his seat belt. 'I promised to take Daniel to the match, if we got done early enough.'
'I've nothing on,' I told him. 'I'll pop upstairs and do it myself. It won't take long.'
'Come on, then. We'll both do it.'
'What about the match?'
'We've plenty of time. Why don't you come with us? I could ring Shirley, arrange for an extra place for dinner.'
I considered his offer for two milliseconds, nodded and said: 'Mmm, thanks, that'll be nice. Let's go upstairs and sign Mr. Buxton's card for him, then.'
There was a big white envelope on my desk, where I couldn't miss it.
Inside I found a resealable plastic bag containing a catalogue for Magic Plastics 'filled with all those essential things you've been waiting for someone to invent.' I put it where I wouldn't forget it and turned my mind back to Darryl Buxton.
You can work fast when the office is empty and free from distractions.
Dave typed and I dictated. The Crown Prosecution Service are interested in two main areas: evidence and public interest. The former didn't look too convincing in print, so we laid it on thick about the risk to the female population.
'That should do it,' Sparky said, tapping in the final full stop. Now it was up to the CPS prosecutor.
I asked him to ring Maggie before we left, so she could inform Mrs.
Saunders of the latest developments, and then we drove in convoy to Dave's house.
As we arrived, I was surprised to see young Sophie with a team scarf around her neck. She'd changed her mind and decided to come along at the very last moment. Thanks, Sophie, I thought.
We won, four-nil, and celebrated with pints of shandy in the pub outside the ground. Dinner had been postponed until after the match, and Shirley had put in an extra Yorkshire pudding for me. Whisper it softly, but her puddings are better than my mum's were.
Dave washed, I dried and Shirley put them away. 'Are you taking Annabelle anywhere tonight?' Shirley asked.
'Er, no,' I replied, passing a dish back to Dave with a terse, 'rejected.'
He examined it and gave it another scrub. 'Tell yo what,' he said, 'why don't we all go to the Eagle tomorrow, for lunch? We'll get in if I give them a ring.'
'That's a good idea,' Shirley agreed. 'Will you and Annabelle be able to make it?'
'No,' I mumbled. 'We'veer something on.'
'Oh, what a pity,' she said. 'Are you going anywhere special?'
'Yes.'
There was an uncomfortable silence. I started on the cutlery as Sparky emptied the bowl and reached for the first pan.
'The kids ought to be doing this,' Shirley said.
'We're too soft with them,' Sparky concurred.
'Leave them alone,' I protested. As their uncle-by-proxy, it's my role to defend them.
'Now I know why Dave's hands are always so soft,' I told her.
'No, his head's just as soft,' she responded. 'Annabelle loaned Sophie some books,' she went on. 'I'll find them, so you can return them, otherwise they'll be forgotten.'
'It doesn't matter,' I replied.
'Oops, how did that escape,' Sparky said, finding a plate in the bottom of the bowl and passing it to me.
'Of course it matters,' Shirley continued. 'They look expensive. And tell Annabelle: 'Thank you,' when you see her. As well as having a crush on you, I think poor Sophie has one on Annabelle, too. I'm not sure which I disapprove of more.'
One fib you can get away with. Any more and you start to build a house of cards. That's how we catch crooks.
'I won't be seeing her,' I replied. Before they could comment I went on: 'Truth is, Annabelle and I have finished. We're not together any more.' I carefully dried the Denby plate I was holding and offered it to Shirley. She didn't attempt to take it.
Dave's hands stopped swishing about in the sink. 'Sorry, Chas,' he mumbled. 'I didn't know.'
'Finished?' Shirley repeated, eyes wide. 'Finished? You and Annabelle?'
'Yep,' I managed to say, biting my lip.
'Oh, Charlie,' Shirley began. 'I'm so sorry. I thought… I thought you and Annabelle were… I don't know, you just seemed so right together. You must be devastated.'
'I'll get over it,' I said, gently placing the plate on the work surface before I dropped it. More lies.
Shirley put her hand on my arm. 'I'm sorry, love,' she said. 'I…
I'm sorry. Are you sure it's, you know, final?'
'Yep,' I said.
'Oh, I am sorry. Well, you know where to come if you want to talk about it.'
Sunday I dedicated to housework. My parents had lived in this house, but I'd be in big trouble if they could see it now. Decorating it myself was out of the question. I'd ask around, see if I could find anyone who did a good job, cheap. I vandalised all the cobwebs, consigned various books and ornaments to a box destined for Help the Aged and gave the place a thorough hoovering. It was a big improvement. I found several items that belonged to Annabelle: a bottle of Mitsouko; her hiking socks; toothbrush; that sort of thing. I dropped them in a carrier bag and went out to the dustbin, then changed my mind and stuffed it to the back of a cupboard.
Later, I showered and had a can of lager. The Magic Plastic catalogue was on the coffee table, with the squash club membership list, alongside my favourite chair. I made a mug of tea, found my place near the middle of the list, and resumed plodding through the names.
My finger was on Davis, James Ashley, when I realised that my brain hadn't registered a thing for God knows how long. I folded the pages, put them to one side and went to bed. I never looked at the Magic Plastic catalogue.
I'd run out of shirts again. Ever since Mrs. Tait returned from her daughter's I'd been struggling to re- establish my routine for taking them round to her for ironing. I found the denim Wrangler with the mother-of-pearl studs and pulled that on. No doubt Mr. Wood would make his usual comment about me looking like Jesse James, so I wriggled into the tightest pair of jeans I could find, just to irk him. I can be a real mean hombre, at times. One day, I promised myself, I'd buy a pair of snakeskin boots with high heels and silver buckles. As I was leaving home I saw the theatre tickets behind the clock and put them in my inside pocket. Nigel might have a use for them.
The good news that Monday morning was that Darryl Buxton appeared before a stipendiary magistrate, charged with rape. It's an indictable offence, which means it has to be dealt with by the crown court the appearance in front of the mags is just to set the wheels in motion.
