The Judas Sheep (12 page)

On the way back to her place I drove along making vroom-vroom noises at every gear change.

‘You’re longing to buy it, aren’t you?’ she laughed.

‘No, not at all,’ I lied. I went on: ‘The Yorkshire puddings you cooked were very superb, and very appropriate. Remind you of what you’ll be missing in Africa. How about me taking you for a nice English cream tea tomorrow afternoon, just to make you even more homesick?’

‘Ooh, that sounds like an offer I can’t refuse.’

‘Have you ever been to Shirley’s Cafe?’

‘In Harrogate?’

‘Harrogate, York and Bath. Mmm.’

‘No, never.’

‘Good. Shirley’s it is. I’ll pick you up about one.’

First thing in the morning I rang the police
photographer, to learn his recommendations on cameras and films, but mainly to find out who’d give me thirty per cent discount. Then I went into town and purchased the latest state-of-the-art, until the new one comes out next week, Olympus with a zoom lens. It was a superb piece of work, and small, too. Like the man in the shop said, ‘Just point and shoot; and pray they don’t shoot back.’ I bought twenty films and a few odds and ends to go with it.

I was a few minutes late arriving at Annabelle’s place, so I caught the first item of the one o’clock news on the car radio. Through the night there’d been a big fire at a DIY store in Manchester. Millions of pounds of damage and a couple of hundred jobs gone. Now a group calling itself TSC – The Struggle Continues – was claiming responsibility. Someone with an Irish accent had rung a newspaper before the fire, but had not said where it would be. The editor had decided it was a hoax. The DIY chain was in the process of opening new stores in both Northern and Southern Ireland, and all the combined political pundits of the BBC could not agree whether the blaze furthered the Republican cause or the Nationalist. Neither could I. I drew to a standstill outside the Old Vicarage and switched it off.

‘Happy Birthday, a bit early,’ I told Annabelle as I presented her with everything.

‘I … I don’t understand,’ she uttered.

‘It’s called a present.’

‘For me?’

I looked over both my shoulders. ‘Yes. For you.’

‘Oh Charles, it looks frightfully expensive.’

‘They gave me a discount.’ A measly ten per cent, but when they are handing out the life jackets you don’t argue about the colour.

‘You shouldn’t have.’ She embraced me, squeezing so hard I could scarcely breathe. ‘You are so good to me, Charles.’ When she released me she said: ‘Thank you. I know you are not happy about me doing this, but I promise to be careful.’

I said: ‘Just don’t draw attention to yourself, and don’t tell anyone what you are doing. Understand?’

She nodded and squeezed me again.

It was a bright but breezy day. Just outside Harrogate I saw a large advertising billboard and pulled off the road.

‘Lesson one,’ I said. ‘Let’s see you put a film in.’

I read the instruction book while Annabelle fiddled with the camera. It was easier than buying a timeshare.

‘OK. Out of the car. We’ll have a photo of the hoarding.’ It was for Benetton. They make racing cars, I think, but I couldn’t see the relevance of the picture.

I showed her how to use the tripod, or something solid, like a tree, to eliminate shake; and how to use the zoom to compose the shot.

‘Move in close,’ I told her, ‘then move in closer just to make sure. And take several shots at different settings.’

When she’d mastered that, I had her set me up for a portrait, with the camera on the tripod.

‘Now press the self-timer and come and join me.’

‘Where’s the self-timer?’

‘Should be a button somewhere.’

‘Is that it?’

A red light had appeared on the camera. ‘Yes. It’s running. Hurry up!’

She dashed towards me and I lifted her off her feet. It was a long wait, but the camera clicked before a vertebra did.

At Shirley’s we had Earl Grey and a cream tea each. The waitresses wore black uniforms with little white hats and aprons, and some of them looked as if they might have manned the Red Cross tent at the Siege of Mafeking. I enjoy sculpting great dollops of butter, cream and strawberry jam, balanced on crumbling pieces of pastry, and then popping them into my mouth. The secret is to keep your nose well out of the way. A certain piquancy is added by the element of danger in all that cholesterol. It’s like bungee-jumping for the sedentary.

Annabelle ate hers with delight, making a lot less mess on her plate than me, and I decided that even though this might be what I wanted second-best in all the world, it was still pretty good. When the bill came it looked as if they charged by the calorie.

Walking back to the car, Annabelle took some pictures of the Pump Room and the Old Swan Hotel,
where Agatha Christie accidentally locked herself in a wardrobe for three days and swore she’d been abducted by aliens. Annabelle didn’t believe me, but it’s true.

Leaving Harrogate, I wondered if we had time for a small diversion. The sun was low but the sky was still bright, so I decided we had. Trouble was, we were in the wrong lane at a set of traffic lights. I set the
left-hand
indicator flashing and looked over my shoulder. The driver behind gave a nonchalant lift of the hand and I pulled across, into the lane signposted towards Wetherby.

On the outskirts of town we drove alongside a big cemetery, with ornate gates and Gothic tombs visible over the hedge.

‘We didn’t come this way, did we?’ Annabelle asked.

‘No. I want to show you something.’

‘Oh. Are you allowed to tell me what?’

I gestured towards her left. ‘A graveyard,’ I said.

At the end we turned down a narrow lane, and I parked half on the grass verge, half on the road. We entered through a well-maintained wrought-iron gate, and I turned to see Annabelle’s reaction.

In front of us were row upon row of identical white headstones, casting long shadows across the tailored lawns. Blackbirds, foraging for worms, flew off, chattering angrily at our intrusion.

‘War graves,’ she said quietly.

‘It’s called Stonefall. They’re all bomber crew, mainly
Canadian. I think it must be Yorkshire’s best-kept secret. My father brought me once, when I was about eleven. I’d kept pestering him to tell me about the war. He brought me here.’

We walked up the slope, over the grass, to the first stone and read the inscription. It said: J.L. Hodgson, aged 23, pilot, Royal Air Force, 30th June 1943. A few days later they laid W.C. Taverner, a twenty-one-
year-old
Australian, next to him; and a couple of days after that it was the turn of a Canadian, C.M. Johnson. He was also twenty-one. They continued until there were forty of them, side by side, and then they started a new row. When there were fifteen rows the field was
half-full
, so they turned around and filled the other half.

Annabelle lingered, reading all the details. I walked ahead, just scanning them. The pilots were the oldest – usually about twenty-five, but a couple were only twenty. The gunners were seventeen-or eighteen-
year-olds.
Sometimes a whole crew of seven were buried together.

One grave had faded flowers on it. When I saw the date I realised that we’d just had the anniversary of his death. I bent down and read the note on the blooms. He’d been a navigator, and a lady in Winnipeg was still carrying a torch for him. She’d be in her seventies, now.

I wandered back to the car and leant on it, waiting for Annabelle. She returned about fifteen minutes later, looking pale. I unlocked her door.

A few miles down the road she said: ‘That was a strange place to take me, Charles, but I’m glad you did.’

I said: ‘Did you see the one with the fresh flowers on it?’ My voice sounded as if it belonged to someone else.

‘Yes. I read the note. It made me cry.’

‘You’re a softy.’

‘And you’re not?’

She reached across and placed her hand on my knee. I dropped my left hand from the steering wheel and took hold of it.

After a while I said: ‘What I think I’m trying to tell you … in my clumsy way … is that we don’t achieve anything in this world unless we are prepared to take a few risks. So you’d better make sure that these pictures you bring back from Africa are good ones.’

She gripped my hand tightly, and shook it from side to side. ‘It’s a promise,’ she said.

I wanted to seal it with a kiss, but the Harrogate Road has a fearful reputation, and we were doing over sixty miles per hour.

Two days later, early in the morning, I took Annabelle to Manchester Airport and saw her on to a British Airways 767 bound for Nairobi, via Athens. Goodbyes are like listening to people discuss their vasectomies – they make your eyes water. I didn’t let the side down, but it was a close thing.

The plan had been to breakfast at the airport, but
I wasn’t hungry. Commuter traffic was building up as I drove towards the motorway. We were travelling at about fifty up the slip road, bunched too close to the traffic in front and behind, when I caught a movement in my wing mirror. Some idiot in a Peugeot was making a do-or-die effort to overtake us all, driving on the shaded area where the lanes narrow. He came by me and dived into the gap I’d left, slapping his brakes on to get down to our speed. I hit my anchors and leant on the horn.

He glanced up at his mirror and gave me two fingers.

I slammed the gearbox down into third and shot out of line. Alongside him, I held my warrant card at arms’ length and pointed at the hard shoulder. His expression changed from arrogance to fear, and he pulled over.

I parked behind him. ‘Oh, Charlie,’ I said to myself, drumming my fingers on the rim of the steering wheel. ‘What the fuck are you playing at?’ My windscreen wipers were swishing from side to side, even though it hadn’t rained for three days.

The driver of the Peugeot was sitting ashen-faced with his window down, waiting for me. The car was a typical rep’s vehicle: bog standard, with his jacket on a hanger behind his seat. He looked about sixty and should have known better. That made two of us. Traffic was tearing by barely five feet away, the wash from a lorry nearly knocking me off my feet.

‘DI Priest,’ I yelled over the noise, poking my ID
up his nose. I leant in through his window and looked at the mileage on his speedo. He’d done twenty-two thousand miles, and the car couldn’t be more than six months old. Rather him than me.

‘Not very considerate driving, sir,’ I said, mustering my reserves of restraint.

‘Er, no, Officer.’

‘Well, mind how you go. We’re all in a hurry, you know.’ I walked back to my car, and thought I heard him call ‘Thank you’ after me. I followed him in the slow lane for a couple of miles, before he sneaked away to resume his mad chase to wherever.

I wasn’t proud of myself. It wasn’t the sort of behaviour expected from one of Her Majesty’s police officers. I’d lost control. Once upon a time I arrested a kid of fourteen who’d mugged a seventy-year-old lady. He’d knocked her over and she’d broken her thigh. She spent six months in hospital and seven in an old people’s home, which she hated. Then she died. The youth skipped bail and gave us the runaround before we got him in court, by which time the old lady was in a happier place. Because she took longer than a year and a day to die we could only charge him with robbery.

He was given a probation order, and as he left the dock he gave me a one-fingered up-yours gesture, carefully shielding it from the magistrates with his body. I’d shrugged my shoulders and concentrated on the next job.

And now, here I was risking my life to bollock a
motorist who’d carved me up. What would I do if faced with a youth like that again? Tear his legs off and play hockey with him? Very probably. I reluctantly admitted that maybe I wasn’t ready to go back to everyday policing yet, but I had to do something.

At home I put the car in the garage and made myself a giant bowl of cornflakes, with a chopped-up banana and additional cream. A quick calculation told me that Annabelle’s plane would be approaching Athens by now, for refuelling. It was going to be a long four weeks. After I’d emptied the teapot I sprawled on the rug in front of the fire and listened to Dylan’s Blood on The Tracks. It’s my favourite routine when I’m feeling sorry for myself, but I don’t make a habit of it.

Fearnside was in when I rang him. ‘It’s DI Priest,’ I said. ‘I’ve changed my mind. What’s the address of this house in East Yorkshire that you want me to rent, and the name of the drugs courier?’

‘Good man, Charlie,’ he responded. ‘Good man. I’ll send you the file.’

When Nigel called for me the following Saturday morning I was surprised, and pleased, to see that he had Dave Sparkington with him. Sparky’s a good cop – the best – but he takes a delight in rubbing people up the wrong way. Nigel was learning how to handle him. It’s easy enough – just let him do what he wants.

‘Where’s the Harold Hurst enquiry going?’ I asked as soon as I was settled in the back seat.

‘To Liverpool,’ Sparky replied. ‘Or Northern Ireland.’

‘Why? What’s happened now?’

‘The gun that killed him – the AK47 – it’s been used again. Back end of last week, a lorryload of fags were hijacked from Shenandoah. It was found burnt-out
and empty at a service centre outside Birmingham. The driver was in the back with three bullets in him from the AK.’

I said: ‘Shenandoah? Norris’s company?’

‘Norris’s company and Harold Hurst’s, too, in a way.’

‘So Hurst may have been an inside man for the hijack?’

‘Possibly,’ Sparky replied. ‘Or maybe he had wind of it, so they eliminated him. Either way they’re a bunch of ruthless bastards.’

‘So it’s out of our hands now.’

‘That’s right.’ He gestured towards Nigel. ‘The Brain of Britain here pops over to Liverpool now and again for a morning out, don’t you, Sunshine?’ He punched him on the shoulder. ‘Otherwise it’s in the hands of the Scouses and Special Branch.’

There was a big brown envelope on the seat beside me. I caught Nigel’s eyes in the rearview mirror and asked: ‘Is this the file from Fearnside?’

‘I imagine so, boss. It came yesterday.’ He was wearing cavalry twill trousers, a hacking jacket and a spotted bow tie.

‘Cheers. Haven’t you had a look?’

‘It’s marked for your eyes only.’

‘Right. What’s with the tie? Brightening up your image?’

Nigel straightened the tie. ‘You told me to dress like an estate agent,’ he replied.

‘Oh, good. For a moment I wondered if I’d said theatrical agent.’

‘Looks more like a bloody gynaecologist to me,’ growled Sparky. After a few seconds’ silence he added: ‘Hey, do you know why gynaecologists always wear bow ties?’

‘Yes, thank you,’ we chorused.

The file wasn’t very thick. The address of the house was 2, Longdyke Cottages, Wickholme, North Humberside. My new neighbour was Kevin Jessie, small-time drug smuggler, with form for receiving and possessing. The gang had been picked off, one by one, but Kevin had been left untouched, to increase his credibility and act as a focus for when they regrouped. Word was that he was active again, and this time we wanted the big boys.

Dealing is a serious offence, but the courts have their own criteria to differentiate between dealing and possessing for your own use. The gangs know the figures, and split their holdings into small quantities, inside the limit, and disperse them. The big men who finance the operations do their deals on mobile phones and never touch more than a single snort at any time. ‘Don’t look at me, man,’ they protest, holding their hands up. ‘First time I’ve ever tried it.’ And we let them out on police bail and their flashy girlfriends drive them home in the Porsche and six months later a magistrate fines them fifty quid.

‘M62 to Hull,’ I directed Nigel. We were in the
middle lane, doing about seventy, when a brand new Range Rover came steaming past, its spray making it necessary for Nigel to switch the wipers on for a few seconds.

‘Look at that!’ Sparky enthused. ‘Now that is what I call one-upmanship.’

‘What?’ Nigel queried.

‘A Range Rover without a personal number.’

‘He might be called Ulysses Yorath Xylophone,’ I argued. ‘Take the A1033 out of Hull, past the jail, heading towards Spurn Head.’

‘It’s called Spurn Point,’ Sparky insisted.

I peered at the map. ‘It says Spurn Head here,’ I told him.

‘Well, it was always called Spurn Point when I was a kid. Flamborough Head, Spurn Point.’

‘Maybe they changed it.’

‘Why?’

‘To confuse the Germans.’

‘How would that confuse the Germans?’

‘Well, it’s confusing us. If they landed, they’d think they were in the wrong place.’

‘Big deal. So they’d get back in the landing craft and bugger off somewhere else. “Achtung! Vee are all in zee wrong plaitze. Let’s invade Sveeden instead.”’

‘Which way?’ Nigel cried. We were rushing at a roundabout.

‘Up here,’ I said, unhelpfully.

‘Up where?’ he protested, swinging on the wheel.

‘No, not this one.’

The car rocked from side to side as he changed direction.

‘I think it’s this one, unless they’ve altered all the names.’

Historical influences are heavy in that part of the world. The villages have neat nameplates as you approach, brightened by the local coats-of-arms. Some of the names, such as Roos or Hedon, look as if they’ve lost a few letters off one end. Others, like Thorngumbald, look as if they’ve found them. The land is a rich alluvial plane, sodden wet in early March, the tractor tracks in the fields reflecting the pale sky. We passed a church that had a spire every bit as elegant as Salisbury Cathedral, contrasting sharply with the solid Norman blockhouse of a building in the next village. Nigel commented that he might come back to do some exploring, and I wondered about bringing Annabelle.

Near our destination, the familiar sign of a Jolly Burger came into view and I suggested we have a coffee. I couldn’t believe it: the youth who showed us to our places had terminal acne, just like the one in Cornwall. I wondered if Spotted Cow disease could pass through the food chain to humans. We decided to leave Sparky in the café while Nigel and I reconnoitred, Number 2, Longdyke Cottages. ‘He’ll pay,’ I told the youth as we left, nodding towards Dave.

It was one of a pair of white-walled semis, perched on the roadside in the middle of nowhere. They were both
neat and tidy, but Number 2 had the slightly forlorn look of the unoccupied. A dilapidated Opel Manta stood in next door’s garden. The Manta was once a desirable car, rival to the Capri amongst a certain group of enthusiasts, but this one was pock-marked with rust and sagging on its suspension. Drugs trafficking was evidently going through a recession in this part of the world. Maybe we could revive it.

‘OK, Nigel, do your estate-agent act,’ I told him, as we got out of his car.

‘Right, Mr Priest. First of all I’ll show you the delightful aspect of the rear, if you’ll just follow me.’

I followed him, but found nothing delightful about his rear, I’m pleased to report. We stood in the back garden and Nigel pointed upwards. That,’ he said, ‘is what we call a roof.’

‘A roof?’

‘Yes. All decent houses have one. My advice to you is: never touch a house without a roof.’

‘Thank you. I’ll remember that.’

‘Those things there …’

‘With the glass in them?’

‘Yes. Now they are called windows.’

From the corner of my eye I saw a face briefly appear at one of the windows next door, then vanish. He was in – we weren’t wasting our time.

We walked round the front, and Nigel told me all about drainpipes and gutters. He read the name of the person he was supposed to be, from the To Let
sign, and noted the address. His Head Office was in Withernsea. Across the low-lying fields we could see the River Humber, with one of the big ferries moving slowly towards Hull docks. The sun made a brief appearance, turning the river into a long bar of silver that looked to be higher than we were. After wandering round and chatting for a few minutes we went back to collect Sparky.

We used the Jolly Burger toilets and I gave the cashier a fiver, saying, ‘I’ll get these,’ to the other two.

‘That will be seven pounds twenty, sir,’ he said.

‘For three coffees!’ I exclaimed.

‘Four coffees and an American breakfast,’ he replied.

‘I, er, was hungry,’ Sparky mumbled.

I swapped the fiver for a tenner.

‘Was everything satisfactory?’ the youth asked as he handed me my change.

‘No. His grits were cold,’ I told him.

Thank you. Have a nice day.’

I was about to let him know that I was determined to have a bloody awful day, but Sparky dragged me away.

We took the coastal route to Withernsea. Nigel had never been there.

‘Jewel of the Yorkshire coast,’ I informed him as we headed north. ‘You’re in for a treat.’

‘Lovely place,’ Sparky agreed. ‘Me and the wife spent our honeymoon there. Thought about going to
Torremolinos, but in the end Withernsea won, hands down.’

‘Torquay’s nice,’ I said.

‘Very nice,’ Sparky nodded. ‘Very nice indeed.’

‘But not as nice as Withernsea.’

‘Oh no. Not as nice as Withernsea.’ After a few moments he said: ‘The Yorkshire Riviera.’

‘That’s what it is,’ I agreed. ‘The Yorkshire Riviera. Well, it would be, if there was a river.’

‘But that’s not the point, is it? Eh, Charlie?’

‘Of course not, David. There’s not a river at Torquay.’

‘Exac’ly. Exac’ly. That’s just what I’m trying to say. There doesn’t have to be a river to qualify as a riviera.’

‘It’s just an expression.’

‘Exac’ly.’

‘Exac’ly.’

‘Like … Dennis.’

‘Dennis?’

‘Yes. Have you noticed that firemen always call their engine Dennis?’

‘That’s true. I’d never realised it before, but now you come to mention it …’

Nigel protested: ‘Dennis isn’t the name of the engine. It’s what they call the company that makes them.’

‘Is it?’

‘Gerraway.’

When you are not driving you can observe the scenery. The sea, to our right, was the colour it gave
to battleships, with blue-black cloud shadows dappled across it. Wind-whipped waves crowded towards the shore, flags flying, in a ceaseless battle to reclaim the land – a battle they are winning.

Withernsea in winter is where the astronauts practised for landing on the dark side of the moon, before they decided that it was too inhospitable and called off the mission.

‘Was that it?’ Nigel asked as we drove out of the other side.

Sparky made a clicking noise and said: ‘Glorious!’

We turned round and looked for the estate agent. It wasn’t difficult to find, tucked between a launderette and Kurl Up ‘n’ Dye hairdressers, both closed for the winter. The bored girl behind the counter seemed astonished that I wanted a three-month lease on Number 2, Longdyke Cottages. I had no references, but my story was that my wife had kicked me out and I needed somewhere desperately. I needn’t have worried. She accepted my cheque, including a month’s rent as bond, and gave me the key. While I was waiting for her to write me a receipt I studied the photographs on the wall. They were big in caravans and did a nice line in ‘shallies’.

Sparky complained that he wasn’t hungry, but still managed a sirloin steak and chips in one of the local pubs. Over a pint we brainstormed a new persona for me, so that I could ingratiate myself with Mr Kevin Jessie, drug smuggler and neighbour.

‘I think you should borrow a Rottweiler,’ Sparky said. ‘He’s bound to be into Rottweilers.’

‘Or a big snake,’ Nigel enthused. ‘A boa constrictor. I had a glimpse of him through the window and he definitely had a look of the herpetologist about him.’

I shook my head. ‘Uh uh. No dogs, no snakes. I might run to a budgerigar, though.’

Sparky said: ‘Nah, unless you could find a particularly evil budgerigar.’

‘With a foul mouth,’ Nigel added.

‘And then you ought to have a few tattoos,’ Sparky told me.

‘Definitely,’ Nigel agreed. ‘LUFC on your forehead and some barbed wire twined round your neck.’

I wiped my last chip in the remnants of French mustard on my plate and popped it into my mouth. ‘Look,’ I said, pausing to swallow. This is serious.’ I placed my knife and fork on the plate and picked up my empty glass. ‘Same again?’

‘Yes, please.’

‘Better not, if I’m driving,’ said Nigel.

‘Something else?’

‘Er, tonic water, please. I can’t say that I enjoyed that beer.’

Me too. I studied the various refreshments on offer and by way of a complete change ordered half a pint of draught cider. It was worse than the beer, but it gave me an idea.

Back on the M62, heading west, Sparky turned round
and said: ‘So what’s it to be, Charlie? A souped-up XR2 with Sharron and Charlie on the sunshield?’

I’d been deep in thought, thinking about Annabelle. After Kenya she was making a circuit round Lake Victoria that would take her through Tanzania and Uganda. Then it was up into Somali and Ethiopia. It was a gruelling schedule – she wouldn’t be having a picnic.

‘Sorry, I was miles away. No, more subtle than that. The draught cider I had – it was called Crossbow. Don’t suppose you know anyone I could borrow one from, do you?’

Policemen have a variety of options open to them when they retire from the Force, which is fortunate, because most need to maintain their income. PCs and Sergeants retire at fifty-five, and Inspectors, because their role is supposed to be less physical, can keep going until they are sixty. If you have your full thirty years in it’s not too bad for Inspectors and above, but lower ranks receive lower pay, and a drop to two-thirds salary, just when the kids are at university, can be awkward. So some are forced to find jobs in security, social services or insurance. Others, who have always had a hankering to work for themselves, become painters,
cabinetmakers
or chiropodists. I never cease to wonder at the varied talents of my fellow officers. Eric Dobson, one of our motorcycle patrols and a two-wheeled enthusiast, started a firm of couriers called Merlin, specialising in delivering bits and pieces for the various hospitals in the
area. Bits and pieces of people, usually, like hearts and kidneys. Business was good, and when he expanded to four wheels he asked me to design a logo for the sides of his vans. I gave him a ring.

‘Merlin Couriers,’ he sang into the phone.

‘Two hedgehog vindaloos to 12, Woodland Avenue, quick as you can,’ I said.

‘Charlie Priest! You old skulldugger. What on earth are you up to these days?’

I gave him the full story, and asked if I could hire one of his vans for the occasional weekend.