Shooting Elvis (8 page)

‘How are the daughters, Donovan?’ I asked. ‘Have they forgiven you for ruining their Christmas?’

‘Yeah,’ he replied, blushing and looking sheepish. ‘It was a long time ago. We ’ave a laugh about it, now and again. I’d been on the Carlsberg Special. She’s forgiven me, except…’

‘Except what?’

‘Oh nowt. Just the job thing. It ain’t right, the wife working an’ me at home, is it? But there’s noffing for me. Not now. Not wiv my record.’

I stood up and Eddie did the same. ‘If you think of anything else, give us a ring.’

He followed us to the door, his brow furrowed as if he were working at some imponderable puzzle. ‘There is somefing,’ he said as we stood at the door.

‘What?’ I asked.

‘I’m not sure. It’s just that Smallwood ’ad a name for Alfie. Called ’im it behind ’is back.’

‘A name. What sort of name?’

‘I’m trying to fink. Midnight, or somefing like that. Yeah, that was it: Midnight. ’E called ’im Midnight.’

‘Midnight?’ we replied in unison.

‘Yeah. I’m sure of it. Midnight.’

Four of them were stooped over Jeff Caton’s desk, looking businesslike, when we arrived back. I wandered over to see what they were doing.

‘Anything I should know about?’

Jeff looked up, grinning. ‘Hi, Chas,’ he greeted me. ‘There’s been another memo about this memorial seat for the old codger who’s died. Can
we suggest a suitable location for it?’

‘Right. Well, no doubt the collective brains of the CID can come up with something suitable.’

‘We’ve a few ideas. If it was for you, where would you like it to be?’

‘What? If the seat was for me? Do you mean for me to sit on or in memory of me?’

‘In memory of you. The Charlie Priest Memorial Seat.’

‘No idea.’

‘C’mon, Chas, there must be somewhere where you’ve spent many a happy hour, just enjoying the view?’

‘Um, I suppose so,’ I agreed.

‘Where, then?’

‘Oh, let me see… How about… Yes, I’d like my seat to be overlooking Heckley Girls Grammar School netball courts.’

They smiled and chuckled and straightened their backs. Jeff said, ‘Right, then. That’s two for Robin Hood’s Bay, one for somewhere in Nidderdale, one for Fountains Abbey and one for overlooking Heckley Girls Grammar School netball courts.’

When I was safe in my own office I rang High Adventure and asked to speak to Sonia. ‘What’s the chances of having an afternoon off tomorrow?’ I asked.

‘Sorry, Charlie. Can’t do. We’ve some corporate people coming to use the ice wall and they expect the boss to be available. They’re from the motor
trade. Sales people from one of the big outlets.
Cars U Like
, or something equally naff. It’s all about bonding. They share the dangers, or what they perceive as dangers, and become closer to each other as a result. And trust. They learn about trust. Trust in each other, trust in the equipment and trust in themselves. The sales people bond with other sales people, the managers bond with the typists, that sort of thing. They pay good money and expect value for it. And they all go away with a photograph to put on the office wall. They have a whale of a time and…’

‘Sonia!’

‘Sorry?’

‘I’ll take that as a negative, shall I?’

‘I’m afraid so, Charlie. What had you in mind?’

‘Oh, nothing special. I need to go up to Leyburn and it would have been nice to have some company.’

‘Can’t you take Dave?’

‘Not really. It’s a bit of a wild goose chase. And you’re handsomer than he is. I don’t get the same wobbly feeling when he’s sitting next to me.’

‘You say the nicest things.’

‘What time tonight?’

‘Seven.’

‘Don’t be late.’

I put the phone down and sat looking at it. A couple of months earlier there had been this article in the paper about a youth who’d had this tattoo
put on his upper arm at great pain and expense. He’d asked for the Chinese symbols for Loyalty, Respect and Courage, assuming, presumably, that the tattooist was fluent in Mandarin. The irony of being a convicted thief and girlfriend-beater never occurred to him. Afterwards, he’d taken to wandering the streets wearing a singlet, even though it was February, showing off his newly acquired status symbol. Until, one night in his local takeaway, the chef, who was educated at Leeds University but had a smattering of his parents’ native language, told him that having
Best before the year of the rat
tattooed on his arm was very amusing, very droll, very English. He loved the English sense of humour. The youth went straight round to his tattooist and broke the man’s jaw.

It appears that not many tattoo artists are familiar with Chinese script, so when somebody comes in and asks for a Chinese cipher to be emblazoned across their torso, they turn to whatever they have handy in an attempt to oblige. This means that there are thousands of young men, and a few women, wandering around with memorable legends such as
Do not exceed the stated dose
and even
Warning!
This product may contain peanuts
etched into their skin.

The youth’s defence was that the tattoo had made him look like a twat. The prosecution argued that
all
tattoos make you look like a twat. Cops don’t like tattoos. Correction: cops don’t have
tattoos. On other people, we love them. Usually. There’s nothing we like more than looking at a grainy CCTV frame and picking out the letters LUFC on the scally’s forehead but, generally, we don’t like them.

We were lying in bed, last Christmas, just as dawn broke. It was warm in the room because we’d left the heating on all night and the duvet had worked its way halfway down the bed. Sonia was breathing rhythmically and occasionally mumbling something that I couldn’t make out. Probably nonsense. I was wide awake but content to lie there, close up behind her, our bodies moulded together like two spoons.

I traced my finger down her spine, marvelling at this miracle of a woman –
La Gazelle
– who at one time could outrun almost any other female on the planet; at my good fortune in being the man here with her; the one she chose to be with. I kissed her neck lightly, to say thank you, and she snuffled and turned onto her stomach. My fingertips continued their journey until they reached the top of her bum. I pushed the duvet further down, and that’s when I saw the tattoo.

It was only a rose, a red rose, but dismay engulfed me like snow falling off a roof. For a few seconds it felt as if a big gaping chasm had opened between us and was widening by the second. I’d seen lots of tattoos on women, often wondered why they did it, what they were for, and never come anywhere near
understanding. The feeling of disappointment only lasted a few seconds but its power took me by surprise, hit me like a blow. I pulled the duvet up over our shoulders and settled back down beside her, trying to put things in perspective. She was with me, and that was all that mattered. I said a silent prayer of gratitude to whatever gods might be listening, added an apology for being so juvenile and tried to go back to sleep. But I couldn’t sleep. I wondered if she’d had the tattoo done for him, tried to push the thought out of my head. It’s a terrible thing, jealousy, when it overtakes you in the wee small hours.

There was a tentative tap at the window of my door and I looked up to see Maggie standing there with a steaming mug in her hand. I gestured for her to come in.

‘Am I disturbing you, Charlie?’ she asked. ‘You looked miles away.’

‘No,’ I replied. ‘I was just thinking about the usual: Love; Life and the Universe.’

‘So how’s it going?’

‘The universe? Plodding on, much as before.’

‘And the love life?’

Maggie’s an old pal, tends to mother me, or big sister me, and we’ve cried on each other’s shoulders once or twice. That is, she’s cried on mine once, I’ve cried on hers too many to mention. ‘Oh, so-so,’ I told her.

‘That’s not what I hear. How’s the jogging going?’

‘We’re runners now, not joggers. It’s going OK.
Brilliant. Sonia’s entered the Oldfield 10K race on Sunday. It’s her comeback.’

‘Great. Have you entered?’

‘No way. I’m not good enough.’

‘She’s a super girl, Charlie. Why don’t you make an honest woman of her?’

‘We’ll see.’

‘What’s the problem?’

‘Twenty years age difference, Maggie. That’s the problem. Twenty years.’

Dave and I went to see Eric Smallwood again, mainly to check out his Scalextric. Daniel, Dave’s son, had an early model when he was a kid, but we never really mastered it. Perhaps the modern cars stayed on the track better. We went in mine, with Dave driving.

‘Tell you what,’ I said as we turned out of the nick yard. ‘Let’s go see Simon first. Head out on Batley Road.’

Halfway there Dave said, ‘Ooh! Folic acid,’ out of the blue.

I glanced across at him. ‘What about it?’

‘Can we stop at a health food store for some on the way back, please?’

‘For folic acid?’

‘Hmm. I’ve been reading about it. There’s been a big survey and they’ve discovered that it delays the onset of memory loss and Alzheimer’s. It’s got B vitamins in it.’

‘Does it? I’d better have some, then.’ We were both at an age when we worry about these things.

‘It sounded pukka gen. All done scientifically.’

‘Where was this?’

‘In the
Sunday Times
. The trials were in Finland.’

‘Why is it always Finland?’ I wondered. ‘Did you know that Finnish children can read and write better than any other children in the world?’

‘What? Read and write English?’

‘No, read and write Finnish.’

‘Well, they should be able to, shouldn’t they?’

‘Um, well, when you put it like that, I suppose they should.’

We were rapidly approaching Five Lane Ends with its abundance of direction signs. ‘Where are we going?’ Dave demanded.

‘God knows,’ I replied.

Simon was painting his garage door when we arrived. He wrapped the brush in cling film so it wouldn’t dry out and invited us into the kitchen.

‘Have you got anyone, yet?’ he asked.

‘For killing Alfred? No, not yet.’

‘So how can I help you?’

Before I could answer his telephone rang. ‘Excuse me,’ he said as he lifted the receiver. We heard the usual half of the conversation. ‘Um, yes it is. Um, yes. It’s a bit awkward at the moment. Can I ring you back? What’s your number, please?’ At a guess somebody wanted some gardening done. Simon was working in the black
economy, but it wasn’t our business.

‘Eric Smallwood,’ I said when he was back with us. ‘We had a word with him, as you suggested, and he told us some more names. Do you remember Donovan Bender?’

‘Bendy? Sure I remember him. He was alright. Drove the van sometimes. He got done for robbing a bank after he left. It was in all the papers. Can’t see him being a murderer, though.’

‘Someone is,’ I replied. ‘Was there ever any conflict between Donovan and Alfred that you know of? Might, for instance, Donovan have been stealing the odd item of scrap and Alf warned him about it?’

Simon shook his head. We questioned him some more, mainly about security, or lack of it, but it was a waste of time. As we stood up to leave Dave said, ‘Does the name Midnight mean anything to you?’

Simon looked puzzled for a second, before saying, ‘Yeah. It does. One of them used to call the other it. Don’t know why.’

‘One of whom?’

‘Smallwood and Alf. That’s right. Midnight. Smallwood used to call Alf it, and Alf got really annoyed. It really wound him up. Then, all of a sudden, he stopped, but it was never the same between them again. Someone said that Alf had sent him a solicitor’s letter, but I don’t know if it’s true.’

‘Do we still have solicitor’s letters?’ Dave wondered as we drove away.

‘I suppose so,’ I replied. ‘Although I haven’t heard of one for years. These days people are more likely to dive straight in with litigation. A solicitor’s letter was like a shot across the bows to warn someone that you were thinking of taking action against them.’

‘Stop it or I’ll sue.’

‘That’s it. A
letter before action
. I think that’s the proper name for one.’

‘It’ll be interesting to hear what Mr Smallwood has to say about it.’

‘It will, won’t it?’

But first we wanted to see his Scalextric. We used the standard ploy to get into the house – we’d like a statement, and perhaps he’d prefer to come down to the station to make it – and were admitted into his surgically clean habitation.

‘One of your officers came to see me yesterday,’ he protested, his tone suggesting that we were wasting public money, which we probably were. He was wearing his cycling helmet and I had great difficulty not looking at it. Every few seconds my eyes flicked towards it as if it might light up or start doing tricks.

‘That would be DC Carmichael, sir,’ Dave said. ‘Unfortunately he’s gone off work with shingles and taken his notebook with him, so we’re trying to catch up.’

I winced at the explanation, but heaved a small sigh of relief that he hadn’t said that Eddie had been killed in a car crash and his notebook destroyed in the resulting conflagration.

‘Very painful, shingles,’ Smallwood told us.

The room he took us in was furnished in dark wood and leather, with everything looking expensive and well looked after. The chesterfield gleamed and smelt of leather polish, the windows sparkled and he’d taken his Christmas cards down. Well, it was May. A glass-fronted fire with artificial flames flickered in the hearth and above it was a print of elephants, signed by the artist.

‘When DS Carmichael rang in he said you had a big Scalextric set,’ Dave was saying as I studied the print. It was a David Shepherd. The big bull elephant in the middle was looking extremely stroppy.

‘Yes,’ Smallwood replied. ‘He looked through all the windows before he knocked on the door, but I didn’t let him in.’

‘Quite right, sir. Sometimes he is a bit overenthusiastic, gets carried away with the job. I’m thinking of buying a set for my son. Nothing too elaborate, unless he really takes to it. Is there any possibility of seeing yours, and I’d be very grateful for any advice you have to offer?’