degree. Mine was taken and printed by the Heckley Gazette.
This one had a similar stamp on the back. Both sides were trimmed to isolate this girl only, and one edge of the stamp had gone, but it told me that the photographer had worked for the Burdon and Frome Exp…and the serial number was 2452…? We were in business.
Five minutes later I was on Latham’s phone, dialling a Somerset number. A small intuitive leap had told me that the picture came from the Burdon and Frome Express and I was right first time. Sometimes, you have to trust your instincts.
“Gillian McLaughlin,” a voice said, after I’d asked to be put through to the editor in charge. I introduced myself and asked if she were the editor.
“Deputy editor,” she stated. “Mr Binks is not in at the moment. How can I help you?”
“In the course of an enquiry,” I began, “we have come across a photograph which apparently comes from your paper.” I explained what it was and told her the number on the back.
“Shouldn’t be a problem, Inspector,” she replied, and went on to tell me that the number was the edition number and only the digits which identified the actual page and photograph were missing. They were now up to edition 3,582.
“So this picture was taken just over a thousand editions ago,” I stated.
“Um, yes, which is about, um…”
“Are you a weekly?”
“Yes, we are.”
“About twenty years, then.”
“Um, yes. Twenty years,” she agreed.
She also agreed to extricate the full article from the archives and fax me a copy. I told her that we were trying to track down a dead person’s relatives, and we suspected this girl might be one of them. If there was a story in it, I assured her, she’d be the first to know.
Nothing was spoiling back at the nick so I went home. My house wasn’t as tidy as Latham’s, I decided, so I made the bed, just in case, and washed and dried a two-day pile of crockery. When you live alone you don’t notice how the sloppy habits slowly overtake you. The decay starts in the unseen corners, then spreads like mould on a bowl of fruit. For tea I had boil-in-the-bag cod with pasta. If you put the pasta in the same pan as the cod it saves on washing up. The telly cooks never tell you useful stuff like that.
Big Jim Lockwood was leaving the car-park as I arrived on Tuesday morning, wheeling an upright bicycle that was last used when Whitehall one-two one-two was the number you dialled after the villains had said: “It’s a fair cop, Guv.” I wound the window down and spoke to him.
“Back with us, eh, Jim?”
“Looks like it, Mr Priest,” he replied, “but we’re still grounded.”
“Have they said how long for?”
“Indefinitely. Calling it a new initiative. Bobbies in the community and all that. It’ll get me fit, lose some weight.”
“That’s one way of looking at it.” I drove into my space, shaking my head at the stupidity of it.
Gillian McLaughlin’s fax was waiting for me when I came out of the morning prayer meeting. “Come and dig this,” I said to all and sundry as I bore it into the office. They gathered round and peered at it. There were four girls on the photo, all carrying the letter B on their chests. They were, the text told us, the victorious Under 13s relay team at the recent Burdon schools sports day, and the girl second from the left was called Caroline Poole.
“Caroline Poole,” I heard Annette whisper. “Where are you now?”
“With looks like that,” someone said, “I’m surprised she’s not on t’telly. I bet she grew up into a right cracker.”
“She’s certainly a bonny ’un,” another agreed.
“Let’s find her, then,” I suggested. “And the others. Should be easy enough. They’ll be in their early thirties, now.” I turned to Annette. “Can I leave that with you, Ms Brown?”
She smiled, saying: “No problem, Boss.”
“No hurry,” I told her. “There’s nothing in it for us, more than likely. She’s probably a relative of Latham’s, that’s all.”
Four of us, including Annette, went down to the canteen for bacon sandwiches. “Mr Wood’s sent Jim Lockwood and Martin Stiles out on the beat, on bikes,” Jeff Caton stated.
“It wasn’t Mr Wood,” I disclosed. “The order came down from above.”
“What, God?”
“His deputy.”
“Bloody crackers, if you ask me.”
“It’s a new initiative. Get the bobby back on the beat.”
“On a 1930s bike that weighs half a ton and has rotting tyres. They’ll be laughing stocks.”
“They became that when they got the car stuck.”
We chuckled at the memory. “You’ve got to admit it was bloody funny,” Jeff said.
Annette and Dave came back from the counter carrying the teas. Annette placed a mug in front of me, saying: “No milk or sugar for you, Charlie.”
“Wait a minute. Wait a minute,” Jeff demanded. “How come you know that the boss doesn’t take milk or sugar?”
“The same way as you know,” she told him, without hesitation.
“Oh. And did you know he liked his belly rubbed with baby oil?”
“Cut it out,” I said. “You might not be embarrassing Annette but you’re embarrassing me. I don’t want everybody in the station knowing my little foibles.”
I was sitting with my back to the canteen counter, and a phone started ringing behind me. I raised a finger in a listen gesture, and after a few seconds was rewarded with a call of: “Mr Priest, it’s for you,” from the office manageress.
The other three stirred, with mumbles of “I’ll get it,” but I beat them to it.
“Priest here,” I said.
“Detective Inspector Priest?” The voice was new to me.
“That’s right. How can I help you?”
“This is George Binks, editor of the Burdon and Frome Express. I’ve just discovered that my deputy has faxed you a photograph that you were interested in.”
“Hello, George. That’s right. Ms McLaughlin found what I wanted. Pass on my thanks to her, please.”
He said he would, and asked me why I was interested. I gave him the sanitised version, without mentioning dead bodies, and then he explained why he’d rung. I was sprawling across the canteen counter, leaning on my elbows because the phone cord wasn’t long enough. “Wait a second,” I told him, putting the phone down and going behind the counter. I picked it up again, found a seat and said: “Go on.”
Annette had said something funny and they all laughed out loud as I approached the table. They quietened as they saw me and Jeff pushed a chair towards me with his feet.
“Are you all right, Chas?” Dave asked. “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”
I shook my head and sat down.
“What is it, Charlie, bad news?” Annette added, concerned.
“That was the editor of the Burdon and Frome Express,” I told them. “He’s just seen a copy of the fax on his desk. Apparently, the girl in the photograph…Caroline Poole…four years later, in 1984, when she was sixteen…she was raped and strangled. Nobody was ever done for it.”
Annette said: “Oh God no!” and her hand reached out and covered mine. She pulled it back as I said: “I’m afraid so. We’d better take another long hard look at Peter John Latham.”
Chapter Six
