big time.
I washed my hands and had another coffee, sitting in the captain’s chair at the head of their dining room table. It was all mahogany in there, with more striped wallpaper. The only picture on the walls was a limited edition signed print of Damon Hill winning the British Grand Prix. Number fifty-six of eight million. His room again, I thought.
I had a pee in the downstairs loo. It was the standard type, like the one in my 1960s house. I pulled the lever and watched the water splash about and subside. I’d have thought that a house as modern as this one would have had those low-level ones, where you watch everything swirling around, convinced it will never all go down that little hole. Personal preference, I supposed. I might even have chosen the same ones myself. I went upstairs into the master bedroom and, lo and behold, the en suite bog was the modern type, in coral pink. I did a comparison flush and decided that maybe these were better after all, but it wasn’t a convincing victory. Just for the record I looked in the main bathroom. Old type, in stark white. Flushed first time, like the others. I didn’t write any of this in my notebook.
I sat in one of the hard leather chairs for half an hour, thinking about things. I enjoy being alone with my thoughts, and the seat was more comfortable than I expected. You had to sit well back and upright, but it wasn’t too bad. Probably good for the posture, I thought. Next time I saw Silkstone I’d check his posture. A brandy and a cigar would have gone down well, or perhaps a decent port.
Jim Lockwood and Martin Stiles were coming out of the front door as I arrived back at the nick. Jim was wearing a suit and tie, Martin a short-sleeved shirt and jeans. They looked worried men.
“How’d it go?” I asked.
“He’s sacked us,” Martin blurted out.
“We’re suspended,” Jim explained.
“He can’t sack you,” I replied.
“He wants us sacked,” Martin declared.
I looked at Jim. “Yeah,” he confirmed. “He made that clear. Mr Wood tried to stand up for us, but the DCC went ’airless. Said we’d made a mock’ry of the force, and all that. It was on TV again this morning, apparently.”
“Well he can’t sack you,” I repeated. “You know that. And next time you’re in for an interview make sure you have the Federation rep with you. Don’t let them two-one you.”
“Right, Mr Priest,” Martin replied.
“Meanwhile,” I flapped a hand at the sky, “make the best of the decent weather. Paint the outside of the house, or something. It’ll be a nine-day wonder, you’ll see.”
“Thanks, Boss,” Jim said, and they skulked away like two schoolboys caught peeing off the bike shed roof.
I made a pot of tea — all that coffee makes you thirsty — and ate the M amp; S cheese and pickle sandwich I’d bought on the way back. The lab at Wetherton confirmed that I’d have the DNA results tomorrow, but otherwise they had nothing to tell me. I rang the CPS and agreed to a meeting with them on Monday afternoon.
The hooligans down in the briefing room had a recording of the Dick Lane Massacre and were delighted to show it to me. It was worse than I expected. Some local chancer had recorded the whole thing on his camcorder and networked it. He took up the story as Jim and Martin were trying to extricate themselves from the jammed car. Unable to climb into the back, they eventually reclined their seats and crawled out of the rear doors on hands and knees. It wasn’t a picture of noble policemen fighting crime against impossible odds with courage and dignity. It was a fourteen-year-old twocker making two fully-grown cops look complete pillocks. The only good thing was that Jamie wasn’t named. That would have made a folk-hero of him. Jim and Martin’s so-called colleagues jeered and catcalled throughout the showing, relieved they weren’t the subjects of such ridicule.
“If the car had caught fire and they’d been burnt to cinders, we’d be saying they were heroes,” I said. I stomped back upstairs, wondering if that was the reason why I hated Jamie Walker.
The troops filtered back, empty handed. Dave called into my office and asked if I’d had a report on the DNA.
“Tomorrow,” I replied. “You know they said tomorrow.”
“Just thought you might have rung them and asked.”
“I did. They still said tomorrow. What about you? Find anything?”
“Nah. Waste of time. His mates think he might be in Manchester, but the little toe-rag’s screwing a bird from the Sylvan Fields, so they say he won’t stay away long.”
“Video games and sex,” I said. “Kids today have it all.”
“What did we have?” Dave asked. “Train spotting and snowball fights. Makes yer fink, do’n it?”
“Do’n it just.”
“I called at this house in the Sylvan Fields estate,” he said, “and there was this great big Alsatian in the garden, barking an’ slavering. A woman was leaning out of an upstairs window and she shouted: ‘It won’t hurt you, love. Just kick its balls for it.’ So I went in and kicked it in the balls and it ran away yelping and the woman shouted down: ‘No, not them! Its rubber balls that it plays with.’”
I laughed, against my wishes, and said: “You’d think they’d learn, wouldn’t you?”
Annette knocked and came in, just as Dave said: “Well, I’d better report to Jeff. Hi, Annette.”
“Hello Dave,” she replied, holding the door for him. “Find anything?”
“Mmm. Ronald Biggs did the Great Train Robbery. Nothing on Jamie, though.”
“Perhaps he’s hiding in Brazil,” she said.
“Could be. See you.”
Dave went and I waved towards the spare chair. She sat in it and crossed her ankles. Her jacket was tweed, what might have been called a sports coat or hacking jacket a few years ago, and her blouse spilled from the sleeves and unbuttoned front in splashes of colour. She looked carelessly dishy, with extra mayonnaise.
“Hard day?” I asked.
“Waste of time,” she replied. “Running about after a will o’ the wisp. Word is that he’s gone to Manchester. When he was in care his best pal was a youth from there called Bernie, so all we have to do is track down all the Bernards who were in care at the same time as our Jamie. Methinks he’ll resurface long before then.”
“Methinks you’re right,” I agreed. She was wearing a ring on the third finger of her right hand. A delicate gold one with a tiny diamond. Wrong hand, I thought.
“So,” Annette began, “I was just wondering if anything had come through from Wetherton about the samples?”
“No, they said tomorrow,” I told her.
“Oh. I thought you might not be able to resist giving them a ring and asking if they’d found anything.”
“I couldn’t,” I admitted, “but they haven’t. We should have the full report at about ten in the morning.”
“Right.”
She uncrossed her ankles, as if to stand up and leave. I said: “Thanks for coming with me last night, Annette. It was nice to have some company for a change.”
“I enjoyed it,” she replied. “Thanks for inviting me.” She smiled one of her little ones, barely a movement of the corners of her mouth, but her cheeks flushed slightly.
“As a matter of fact,” I went on, “tomorrow night I’m going to the Steakhouse with Dave and his family. It’s a bit of a celebration. If you’re not doing anything I’d love for you to come along.”
“Saturday?” she asked.
“Mmm.”
“No, I’m sorry, I can’t make it.”
“Oh, never mind. His daughter has just finished her A-levels, and she’s been accepted for Cambridge if she gets the grades, so we’re taking her out. They do good steaks there. That’s the Steakhouse, not Cambridge. I think she needs two As and a B. Sophie’s my goddaughter. And other stuff, if you’re not a steak eater.” I waffled away. See if I care.
“Sophie?” Annette asked. “Dave’s daughter Sophie?”
“Yes. Have you met her?”
“Of course I have. She used to come on the walks.”
“That’s right, she did. You’d just joined us. I used to wonder what you kept in that great big rucksack you
