Last Reminder (16 page)

No.
Only
if she could be there. And if she was there, everything else was secondary. Who needed a swimming pool? Or a conservatory? I didn’t. In
fact, I wouldn’t have had a swimming pool and a conservatory given. So stuff ’em!

Phew! That was a narrow squeak. Sometimes, middle class values sneak up on you.

I tried the sliding door, not sure what I would do if it opened. But it didn’t. The garage was detached, and designed for two cars, with separate doors that had little diamond-shaped windows in them. I assumed the diamond shapes to be coincidences. Mrs Davis’s VW Golf convertible was inside, but the Range Rover was nowhere to be seen. They were probably out in it.

There was a side door to the garage. Breaking into the garage wasn’t as serious as breaking into the house, I decided. At this point, according to popular fiction, I should have removed my credit card from my wallet and slid it behind the catch. That only worked on the first day that credit cards were invented. On the second day, every lock in the world was modified to make it credit card proof. Besides, I have difficulty extracting money from a cash dispenser with mine.

I have a different technique. I stood, gracefully poised on one leg for a moment, and thumped the door good and hard with the sole of my other foot, close to the handle.

Wood splintered and the door flew open. If doors opened outwards, it would be impossible to do that. Maybe I should tell someone.

I broke off a few pieces of the shattered frame and carefully closed the door behind me, grateful that no alarm had sounded. It was gloomy in there, but I could see well enough. A sit-upon lawnmower stood in the space for the other car, and there was a workbench, with lots of tools, along the back wall.

The Golf was locked, so I turned my attentions to the other stuff. In a corner was a big gas-fired barbecue with a butane cylinder beside it that wouldn’t have looked out of place on an oil rig. Maybe he had the contract for feeding Brent Spar. Under the workbench was a rusty iron gas-ring, standing on three legs, with a couple of ladles and some tongs like blacksmiths hold hot horseshoes with. This man took his barbecues deadly seriously. Hanging on a hook were a pair of thick gloves and some dark goggles.

A motorbike, if you could call it that, leant against the far wall, under a sheet. I uncovered it, revealing a spindly frame and a huge engine, with handlebars that were wider and more threatening than a Texas longhorn. Its smell took me back to when I was a kid, when dope was what you painted model aeroplanes with.

Tyres scrunched on gravel. I threw the sheet back over the bike and tiptoed over to one of the little windows. A car, only half visible, was parked in front of the house. Someone slammed a door. The Davises had a visitor.

I stood back from the shaft of light, peeking out, but my view was limited. Surprise, surprise, nobody answered the door to him. After a few minutes he wandered round the side of the house and I saw their visitor for the first time. That was another surprise.

Spying on people isn’t fair. After a good scout around he relieved himself into a drain, with much shaking-off of droplets, then cross-pollenated his nostrils with an elegantly curled middle finger. He was dressed so cool you could have chilled a sixpack of Mongolian lager on him, but the manner was agitated, restless, which wasn’t really surprising. In a burst of inspiration he removed a portable phone from a pocket and stabbed at the keys. He spoke a few words and looked puzzled, then stared at the instrument and tried again. I’m not the only one who has difficulty with them, I was pleased to see. After another couple of futile attempts he gave that a shake, too, and put it away.

He opened the passenger door of his car and slid in. Shit, he was waiting. Ah, well, I was wanting to be incommunicado for a few hours – Davis’s garage was as good a place as any. He cranked the seat back a couple of notches and settled down. I perched on the lawnmower, facing the wrong way, and watched.

It was a short wait. Ten minutes later the Range Rover swung round the end of the house and
parked nose-up in front of the garage door, six feet from me. Davis jumped out, apologising for being late. His wife followed him, removing several carrier bags from the back of the vehicle. There must have been big queues at the Sainsbury’s checkouts.

I watched them move out of sight, towards the front door, and gave them five seconds to unlock it and step inside. When I calculated they’d be there I pulled the garage side door open and left. Keeping as much blank wall as possible between me and them I sneaked down the garden and out through a gate. I crossed the paddock, about a hundred yards long, and climbed a fence. I was in the Sculpture Park. Apart from not having a ticket, I was safe.

The first one I saw was about fifteen feet high, made of bronze, twisting and writhing towards the sky. Six-inch nails stuck out from it at intervals, like footholds put there for the man who changed the light bulb on top. Except there wasn’t a lightbulb on top, just a round thing a bit like a bicycle wheel. I didn’t rate it.

The next one, sitting in the middle of the field like something out of
The Prisoner,
could have been a Moore, but he has many imitators. I strolled towards it in a long arc, to lose the buildings of the local college and the distant motorway from my field of view, and stopped to admire. It was uphill from me, with a line of trees behind, and looked
perfectly natural, but like nothing you’d ever seen before. I smiled my approval. When I reached it I saw the little plaque on a post. It said, ‘Henry Moore,
Hill Arches,
bronze,’ with some dates.

I was supposed to be working. I passed another couple of pieces on my way back to the car and memorised their names. When I brought Annabelle I’d impress her with my knowledge.

Nigel and Sparky were in when I rang the nick, and the news was bleak. Assistant Chief Constable Partridge wanted me in his office at ten in the morning, or else. Death was the only excuse.

The best way to deal with trouble is to charge headlong at it. But only after all else has failed. I went home to bury my head in the sand.

On the way I called at the supermarket to stock up with comfort food. I still had a sheaf of bullbars posters in the glovebox, so before I went in I wandered round the car park and left five of them behind the windscreen wipers of offending vehicles. I pinned one on the store’s notice board and when I came out I found homes for another two.

There was an envelope with familiar handwriting waiting on the doormat for me, along with a glossy brochure from the council telling me how lucky I was to live under their protection, a catalogue from a thermal underwear company and the new edition of the
Gazette
. On the front page of the paper was a photograph from the Lord
Mayor’s parade, with the promise of more inside.

I binned the unsolicited stuff and tore open the envelope. It contained a picture postcard from Annabelle, put there because she’d taken up all the space with writing. I put the kettle on and perched on a stool, reading.

She’d decided to visit her sister, Rachel, for a few days, then was moving on to Winchester, where Peter’s mother now lived. I wasn’t flattered. Annabelle and Rachel go together like marshmallow and mustard, and it looked as if I’d always be standing in Peter’s shadow. She’d left on the spur of the moment, she said, and would be very grateful if I could have a look at the house, if it was convenient, to make sure it was all right. She’d be home a week on Saturday, at the latest. Love, Annabelle.

The only ray of sunshine was the picture on the other side of the card. It showed traffic on the Guildford by-pass, taken about forty years earlier. I could imagine her rejecting the views of the South Downs and the floral clock and choosing that one especially for me. I pinned it to the fridge door with Sophie’s magnet, but I didn’t feel any happier.

Life goes on, I thought, searching in my wallet for the scrap of paper with a telephone number on it. I dialled the number, and a few moments later C. Priest Taxi Services had confirmed its first booking for a wedding.

I wasn’t too sure about my next call. After picking up the receiver I hesitated until the warbling noises came. I flicked the cradle again and dialled Kim Limbert’s home number.

‘It’s Charlie Priest,’ I said.

‘Hello, Charlie. This is a pleasant surprise. What can I do for you?’

‘I was just wondering if you’d reconsidered your decision. You were rather hasty, you know.’

She laughed. ‘Aw, Charlie, that was five years ago. You’re not still carrying a torch for me, are you?’

‘I said I’d give you some more time to think about it.’

‘Five years!’

‘And six days. I’m a patient man.’

‘Ah ah! Shall I tell you something, Charlie. Once or twice, when I’ve been really low.
Really
low. I’ve wished you’d meant it.’

I said, ‘Gosh, I never realised you got that low. Didn’t you consider suicide?’

‘Oh, yes. This was long after I’d rejected suicide. So how are you?’

‘I’m having a little local difficulty, Kim. I’d like you to make a written statement, saying that I once proposed marriage to you.’

‘It doesn’t count if you were drunk at the time. What have you done now?’

‘Sometimes it’s the real you that comes out when
you’re drunk. I’m on a fizzer. Mr Partridge wants me standing before his desk tomorrow morning. I think it’s to ask me about my racist attitude, and about harassment of one of our citizens called Michael Angelo Watts.’

‘Oh, Charlie! I am sorry. Watts, did you say?’

‘You know him?’

‘Heard of him, and of his father, Dominic. Is it big trouble for you?’

‘Listen, Kim, if you can’t help, it’s OK, I’ll understand. This morning we called at Michael’s house, on the edge of the Sylvan Fields. A little boy answered the door, wearing a T-shirt with “Make my day, kill a pig” written on the front.’

‘With a picture of a pig wearing a policeman’s helmet. I’ve seen them.’

‘That’s right. Well, apparently, father Dominic owns several sweatshops and outlets selling all this funky gear, and I was wondering if one of your many nephews might be able to obtain one for me, to be used in evidence at my hearing. What do you think?’

‘Is it Dominic who’s making the complaint?’

‘I’m assuming so.’

‘Is it official, or “Leave it with me”?’

‘I don’t know, yet.’

‘Mmm. For the record, I have two nephews.’

‘Noted. Look, if you’d rather not involve them, it’s OK. I’m not relying on this for my defence.’

‘They won’t mind. I’ll leave it at the desk.’

‘Great. And good luck with your panel. We’ll be rooting for you.’ Kim was up for Inspector, and I expected her to go further.

‘Thanks. Let me know what happens. And if you need me, shout.’

I replaced the phone and sat there for a few minutes, biting my knuckles. It had been a long time ago, and I was drunk. But I’d meant it. Every word of it.

I was drinking my last cuppa of the evening, Radio Four’s
Book at Bedtime
droning in the background, when I noticed the still-folded copy of the
Gazette.
I opened it at the middle pages, where all the photos from the parade were, and saw Sophie and Daniel smiling at me, leaning on the Jag like a couple from
Bugsy Malone.
The registration number was plainly visible, and the caption said it was the proud possession of Detective Inspector Charles Priest, head of the Heckley CID.

Seven thirty next morning saw me ringing Van Rees from the office. He promised to have a written report ready by lunchtime. ‘There is something in solution over and above what one would expect,’ was as positive as he would be. Cautious buggers, these scientists.

As the second-hand on the wall-clock slipped silently over the minute hand at eight o’clock I lifted
the phone again and thumped in the City HQ code.

‘Assistant Chief Constable Partridge, please,’ I told the telephonist.

‘Mr Partridge’s office,’ came the reply.

‘DI Priest, from Heckley. Could I speak to him please?’

After a short silence he was barking in my ear. ‘That you, Priest?’ he demanded. Usually it’s Charlie.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘What the bloody hell have you been playing at?

I want you in my office at ten sharp. Didn’t you get my order?’

‘Yes, sir. But I was hoping that we could delay things until some results come in from Wetherton. Then I’ll be able to answer all charges and prove that my actions were justified.’ I sounded as convincing as a government minister in the Iraqi supergun enquiry.

‘This had better be good, Priest. You know how delicate we have to be with these things. Bloody Sylvan Fields is a tinderbox – actions like yours could ignite the place. How long do you need?’

Emotional bullshit. Sylvan Fields was ninety per cent white, and the only revolutions the white residents understood were made by car engines. ‘Could we make it two o’clock, please?’ I suggested.

‘Two o’clock I’m seeing the complainant. Supposed to be placating him. I’ve already
persuaded him to keep it unofficial, leave it with me.’

‘I’ve no objection to you seeing us together, sir. Kill two birds with one stone.’

‘Two it is, then. I’ll tell him, so he can please himself whether he comes then or later. But I’m warning you, Priest, this had better be good.’

‘Thank you, sir. It will be.’

Traffic were next on my list. ‘DI Priest here. Could you please send your fastest car over to the Wetherton lab and pick up a report for me at lunchtime today. It’s very important. It should be ready about noon and I need it here at, er, thirteen hundred hours, prompt.’ They use the big clock in Traffic.

‘Right, sir. We’ll do that for you.’

‘Thank you. As I said, it’s very important, so tell the driver that if he crashes, on no account must he burst into flames.’

I was politely but firmly informed that all Traffic drivers were highly trained and did not crash. Finding a sense of humour in Traffic is as likely as discovering life on Mars, but I like to launch a probe in their direction, now and again.