'Drago? DI Drago? Sorry, Mr. Priest, I've never heard of him.'
I looked at the date on the front of the Almanac. It was eight years old. 'Oh,' I said. 'He must have moved on. Doesn't time fly? Peter Drago owed me a favour and I was calling it in. We were at the Academy together a long time ago, and one night I saved him from a six-foot bald-headed nymphomaniac. I wonder if you can help me. How's your local knowledge?'
Not brilliant, I'm afraid. Only been here three weeks. I was at Chester before that.'
'Right. Well, I'd be very grateful if you could make a few enquiries on my behalf with your intelligence officer or any other local men.'
'I'll see what we can do, Mr. Priest.'
'Good. Thanks. We are about to have a talk with a character called Darryl Buxton, about an alleged rape on Christmas Eve. He has no form, but we think he may have come from Burnley. If I give you his description do you think you could see if he's known to anyone, please?'
'You mean, informally?'
I winked at Maggie. 'Yes, informally. Just between ourselves.'
He told me that I wouldn't be able to use it and I said yes, I was aware that I wouldn't be able to use it and he eventually said he would, so I gave him the description Computers are good for storing information, but there are some things you just daren't put on them. I wanted to know if there was anything like that for Darryl Buxton. All's fair in love and law.
'What was all that about?' Maggie asked as I replaced the handset.
'What's Burnley got to do with it?'
'It's a long story,' I replied, settling back in the chair 'It all started in the First World War.'
The East Lancashire Regiment was in the thick of it In 1914 they recruited locally: men from one town, or one street, enlisting together to form what were known as Pals Battalions. Brother trained and fought side by side with brother, father with son. They escaped the drudgery of mill or coal mine to take the King's shilling and fight to make the world a better place. They yelled blood-curdling war-cries as they stabbed bags of straw with their bayonets and imagined they were killing Germans. The only difference, they were assured, was that the real thing would be running away from them. Nobody told them that their enemy was probably a blond-haired Adonis who'd grown up in the fields and mountains of Bavaria, not stooped over loom or shovel breathing foul air for twelve hours per day.
Nobody told them about machine guns.
Nobody told them about the Military Police who followed behind and shot anyone who turned to run, even though their comrades were falling around them like over-ripe plums in the first autumn gale.
And nobody ever mentioned the firing squads that were waiting for the frightened or the feeble or the ones who simply saw more suffering than anyone could bear.
When it was over, when the politicians saw the opportunity to save face, when Satan himself was sickened by the carnage, those that remained limped their way back towards the Channel, towards home. They left behind their friends, their sight, their youth and, some of them, their sanity.
For the East Lanes, a ragged remnant of their former selves, luck changed. They regrouped and billeted at Fecamp, in Normandy. Centuries before, the Benedictine monks who lived there had devised the medicinal brew of grape and herbs that now bears their name. It was offered to the soldiers of the East Lanes to soothe the pain, and, being fifty per cent proof, it worked. They asked for more. To men who were still young enough to remember every pint of weak beer they'd had, it had a kick like a field gun.
They brought the pestle-shaped bottles home with them, to stand on the sideboard alongside the shell cases, the uniformed photograph and the framed message from the King. And they brought a taste for the contents with them, too.
Like the gene for brown eyes, or cystic fibrosis, or the belief in God, it passed down the generations. Eighty years later a handful of pubs and clubs around Burnley still do a thriving trade in Benedictine, serving it to the great-great grandchildren of that ragtaggle army that left its dreams 'hanging on the old barbed wire'.
Sparky had joined us. 'You know some stuff,' he said, when I'd finished.
'It doesn't win quizzes,' I admitted.
'So you reckon he comes from Burnley,' Maggie said.
'I'd bet on it.'
She was picking at her fingernails, absent-mindedly removing imaginary dirt from under them with her thumbnail, a faraway expression on her face. 'It'd be nice if they could come up with something,' she said.
She wanted Darryl behind bars.
'Day after tomorrow,' I told her. 'We'll have a word with him then.
Put it in your new diary.'
Sparky was pulling his coat on. 'I'll get down to the squat, Boss,' he said. 'See if they need any help.'
'OK. I'll probably be here if you want me, but try not to.' I didn't envy them, having to cope with all the residents, plus children and animals. It'd be a pantomime.
'What are you doing tonight?' he asked.
'Not sure. Haven't thought about it.'
'In that case, come round. See the New Year in with us.'
'Aren't you going out?'
'No. Sophie's going to a party, so Daniel would be left on his own.
We'll stay in with him.'
'Right, thanks. I'll come round late on, if that's OK?'
'See you then. I might have to tear myself away to fetch Sophie. The joys of fatherhood,' he added, making a face.
A copy of the Sun was lying on Jeff Caton' sdesk, with the headline '5,000 New Cops'. I picked it up and read the story.
It didn't take long. The streets were about to be reclaimed for the people. The PM's new initiative would meet the muggers and vandals and drug pushers head-on, make them realise that they had no future in the New Society. Suddenly, we had Society again. They made it sound as if our towns and villages would be flooded with policemen. You'd be able to walk your dog at two in the morning, safe in the knowledge that a friendly bobby would be standing on every street corner.
I pulled out my calculator and typed 5,000 into it. Divide by forty-three forces, except that the Met would get the lion's share, then by the seventeen divisions in East Pennine and the number of stations in Heckley. We cover twenty-four hours per day, seven days per week, but each officer only works five eight-hour shifts. I tapped the appropriate keys. Then there's holidays, training courses and sick leave. I hit the equals button and watched as minute electrical forces shuffled molecules into new locations, spelling out a number. It said that at any given time the citizens of Heckley would have the benefit of an extra 0.49 of a policeman on duty. Allowing for meal breaks, paperwork and time in court, it worked out as the equivalent of a rooky wolf cub. Halle-flipping-lujah.
I did a report for Makinson and caught up with the burglaries. Lunch was a mug of tea. The doctor in Wandsworth was on his rounds, I was told, but I'd catch him about ten to four. Sparky rang to say that they'd found nothing of interest at the squat and Nigel told me that Skinner's brother-in-law had been traced. He'd be having a word with him shortly.
It had never looked good, and then it all fell to pieces. Nigel came in with the till receipts and they sounded just like the one a Traffic officer from Cambridgeshire described to me. The doctor in Wandsworth verified that he had been contacted by Dr. Jordan, and Skinner had collected his prescriptions from him like a good little boy. Jim and Mary were stalwarts of the local church and supported Skinner's story, and finally, we didn't have a weapon.
'Let him go,' Superintendent Wood said.
'Let him go,' Chief Superintendent Isles concurred.
'You can go,' I told Skinner. The only bright spot was the thought of the look on Makinson's sunburnt face when he learned the news, and I wondered how I could wangle being there at the time.
I hung around in the office until I knew the Bamboo Curtain would be open and had my favourite, duck in plum sauce, for tea, washed down with a pint of lager. There was no reason why I shouldn't have a little celebration of my own. The place was almost empty, so early in the evening, and the proprietor came and shared a
