The Judas Sheep (20 page)

The inquest heard evidence of identification and was adjourned. It looked as if an open verdict was on the cards, with a rider about walking the dog near deep water after dark. Mrs Noon was given permission to dispose of her husband’s remains, and I made plans to entertain my favourite person in the whole world at my cottage on the coast, on expenses.

I couldn’t face the journey in the Transit, and I didn’t want Kevin to know about the Cavalier, so it had to be the E-type Jaguar. Sometimes I feel I’m just a victim of circumstances. I loaded it with everything off the spare bed, down to the electric blanket, and took it all to the cottage on the Thursday afternoon. I made the bed, vacc’d round everywhere, washed the windows and plumped up all the cushions. I stocked the fridge and made sure there was a corkscrew. Annabelle’s photographs had prompted me to develop the film in my camera. The picture I’d taken of her on Ingleborough, with Batty Moss viaduct in the background, was a smasher. I propped it on the mantelpiece above the fireplace, to add a personal touch to the room, and just to be on the safe side I went to see Kevin.

‘Hi, Kev,’ I said when he opened his door. ‘I, er, just thought I’d tell you that I’m bringing a visitor over for the weekend. Female, you know. So, er, stay away, eh?’ I gave him a knowing wink.

‘OK, no problem. You still all right for the following weekend?’

‘Yeah, great. Where are we going?’

‘Not sure, yet. How long ’ave you known this bird?’

I hadn’t expected him to ask that. ‘Since yesterday,’ I improvised.

‘Blimey, Charlie, you’re a fast worker.’

I pointed towards the Jag. ‘Not me, Kevin, the car. See you.’ I drove home, wondering how much of this conversation I ought to relate to Annabelle.

I told her it more or less verbatim, while we were driving over on Saturday morning, and she feigned indignation. ‘He’ll think I’m a tart,’ she protested.

‘Kevin probably thinks all women are tarts,’ I told her. ‘I’ve warned him to stay away, so hopefully he won’t meet you.’

‘Thank you very much!’ Annabelle jerked her hand away from mine and turned to study Drax power station as it slipped by on her side of the car. I shrank into my seat and put my foot down – speed is supposed to be an aphrodisiac.

She liked the cottage. ‘It’s sweet,’ she pronounced, surveying the whitewashed exterior.

I pulled a face. ‘Sweet? What does sweet mean?’ I asked, lifting her overnight case out of the boot.

‘Well, it is ordinary – unprepossessing – on the outside, but with the promise of hidden delights, providing you are willing to modify your expectations.’ She leant over and pecked me on the cheek. ‘Bit like you,’ she added, and skipped out of my reach.

The April sun was shining straight into the front
room, making it warm and homely. Annabelle saw the photograph on the mantelpiece of herself standing in front of the Batty Moss viaduct, and observed: ‘That’s a sturdy piece of Victorian architecture if ever I saw one,’ inviting further comment from me.

I accepted the offer. ‘Yes, and the bridge looks quite substantial, too,’ I smirked.

‘This is the kitchen,’ I said, holding the door open so she could see through into it. ‘I think you’ll find everything you need in there.’ I was rewarded with a scowl.

‘Bathroom,’ I said, pointing, when we were upstairs. ‘And this is your bedroom.’ I put her case on the bed. ‘There’s a wardrobe if you want to hang anything up.’ Annabelle nodded her approval and followed me out. ‘And this is the master bedroom. I sleep here.’ The sun was in this room, too, and it looked much more inviting than the small back bedroom. I demonstrated the springiness of the mattress with my fingertips.

After a cup of tea we drove into Hull and had a fun afternoon, dodging the showers. It’s a fascinating place, the only disappointment being the Land of Green Ginger, which Annabelle discovered was a street of solicitors’ offices. The indoor market was a delight, and we bought a fresh salmon, for tea.

We had the fish with new potatoes and garden peas, followed by bread-and-butter pudding, all washed down with two bottles of Riesling. I made coffee and we watched some TV, with the fire on at full blast, cosy as two hermit crabs sharing one shell. The television wasn’t
very entertaining, so we switched it off and talked. Annabelle told me more about her trip to Africa, I told her about growing up with a policeman for a father.

About ten o’clock I drained the last of the wine into our glasses and said: ‘How about … a game of Scrabble?’

Annabelle’s eyes lit up. ‘Scrabble? Do you have a set?’

‘Yes, ma’am, we certainly do.’ I rose to fetch it from the cupboard in the kitchen.

‘I have to warn you that I was the Mombassa junior champion,’ she called after me.

‘In that case,’ I declared rashly, as I returned with the box, ‘you should be able to give me a good game.’

We arranged the chairs around the little coffee table and spread the pieces out on the board. I was playing upside down, so Annabelle had to keep score. ‘Marquis of Dews-bury rules,’ I suggested. ‘Anything goes?’

‘Of course. Two spelling mistakes and you are off the field?’

‘Oh, absolutely.’

I slid seven plastic tiles towards me and turned the first one over just as the phone started ringing in the kitchen.

‘Jeez!’ I muttered under my breath, managing to abbreviate the blasphemy as I rose to my feet. It was Heckley nick.

‘Sorry to trouble you, Mr Priest, but a lady’s just been after you. I think she expected this to be your
home number. Asked if you could ring her, sometime.’

‘No problem, Arthur. Presumably she left her name?’

‘Mrs Dooley. Do you want the number?’

‘I know her. Yes, please.’

I’m not very good at holding back, waiting for a more opportune time. I rang the number with the Cornwall code that Arthur had relayed to me. She was still there.

‘Hello, Diane,’ I said. ‘It’s Charlie Priest. You’ve been after me.’

‘Hello, Charlie. Hope I haven’t caused you any embarrassment – I didn’t realise it was your station number.’

‘My fault, I must have written the wrong one down.’ I might have added something about being confused in the presence of an attractive woman, but the kitchen door was ajar. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘I’ve just been watching a chat show on local TV, and guess who was on it?’

‘Er … no idea.’

‘None other than Richard Kidderminster, the man who Guy saved. He’s an MP.’

‘Ah, yes. I found out he was an MP,’ I confessed. ‘I didn’t say so because I knew that we’d be sending someone to interview Guy. Didn’t they let you know?’

‘No, never mentioned it. They were a pair of real smoothies.’

‘We’re all smoothies,’ I told her. ‘What did Kidderminster have to say?’

‘Oh, usual stuff. They were talking about Tom Noon falling in the river. That was near you, wasn’t it?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, apparently, Tom Noon had a very small majority – second smallest at the last election. Two or three recounts. The smallest majority just happened to be Mr Kidderminster, with a magnificent
twenty-three
votes. That is his major claim to fame, hence the invitation to be on TV.’

‘Sounds like riveting viewing. How are you both keeping?’

They were well. I promised to ring Guy and prised myself away as politely as possible. Annabelle looked resigned when I returned to the front room.

‘Sorry about that,’ I apologised. ‘Lady with some information she thought I might be interested in.’

‘And were you?’

‘Not really.’ I placed my Scrabble pieces on the little holder. There was only one vowel. ‘She’d just learnt that Tom Noon had the second smallest majority at the last election, pipped for that doubtful honour by Richard Kidderminster with twenty-three votes. He’s MP for somewhere in Dorset.’

Annabelle was frowning, peering at her letters. ‘Fascinating,’ she mumbled.

‘It’s a long story. I’ll tell it to you some rainy Sunday afternoon, when conversation is flagging. This is a terrible hand.’

Terrible was putting it politely. I’d drawn A – that
took care of the vowels – followed by J, V, K, Q, Z and F. ‘You start,’ I generously suggested.

‘We’ll draw for it,’ she insisted. ‘Nearest to the beginning goes first.’ She lifted a tile, not allowing me to see the letter. ‘X,’ she sighed, and placed it face-down back with its fellows.

I chose one, flipping it right over. ‘M. My go.’

I was in trouble. Intellectually, Annabelle could have me for hors d’oeuvre, I had no illusions about that. I wasn’t thick, but it might take some proving. I studied my row of little plastic squares with growing panic.

‘This is a dreadful hand,’ I complained again.

‘Mine’s rather depressing,’ she told me, preoccupied. There was no sympathy for me there.

Five minutes later I said: ‘I, er, don’t think I can go.’

Annabelle smiled. ‘Nonsense, you must be able to.’

Ah well, I thought, when in difficulties, play it for laughs. It was a philosophy that had done well for me so far.

I placed a single tile on the star in the middle of the board. ‘A,’ I said.

‘A?’

‘Yes. Indefinite article.’

‘It should have at least two letters.’

‘I can’t do a two-letter word.’

‘Of course you can.’

‘No, I can’t.’

‘Then exchange your tiles.’

‘C’mon, it’s your turn.’

Annabelle studied her hand and I studied her. The corners of her mouth kept twitching upwards, as if she were trying to contain a smile, and the pinkness of her cheeks ebbed and flowed, like a glowing coal when you blow on it. I drummed my fingers in feigned impatience.

Slowly and deliberately she laid her letters next to my A, one after the other, until only a single tile remained in her hand. ‘There,’ she said, triumphantly.

I read her word, upside down, with undisguised dismay. ‘AXOLOTL?’ I said.

‘Yes. It’s a South American lizard.’

‘I know.’

Annabelle totted up the score and wrote it next to the point I’d earned. ‘Fifteen-one to me,’ she declared with a wicked grin.

‘My word scored two,’ I complained. ‘One for vertical, one for horizontal.’

‘Gosh, yes. I am sorry.’ She made the correction. ‘That makes it only fifteen-two.’ She giggled and fell back into her easy chair.

I put up a brave fight, but never recovered that early deficit. And I was subjected to some terrible distractions. Nearly two hours later we were filling the top of the board, Classic FM playing softly, earning odd points where we could. I was holding BELL, hoping for an opportunity for a big finish, but it looked unlikely. Earlier, in a burst of inspiration, I’d put THE. Annabelle had promptly made it into ETHER and now, with her
last play of the match, converted it to WHETHER.

‘Right into my trap,’ I declared with glee. ‘Priest wins with the last kick of the game. How about this: BELL-WHETHER. Triple score.’

Annabelle looked puzzled.

‘It’s a sheep,’ I told her. ‘With a bell round its neck, like a Judas sheep.’

‘Judas goat.’

‘Same thing.’

She shook her head. ‘Sorry, Charles. A brave attempt, but there is no H in the middle.’

‘Honest?’ I asked, downcast.

She looked sorry for me. ‘Honest,’ she confirmed. ‘But I’ll let you call it a draw.’

I took my pieces back. There was a stray D over on the right-hand side. In that case,’ I said, ‘how about … BED?’

‘Yes,’ she agreed. The fire in her cheeks had caught hold. ‘That is a good idea.’

I turned the board round to study it. All the best words were hers. I read the little table at the bottom that told you how many times each letter occurred. There were twelve Es, nine As, but only one each of X and Z.

‘Wait a minute!’ I declared. Annabelle was now bright scarlet, and her nose was wrinkling. ‘According to this, there should only be one X. You said you’d drawn an X at the beginning, but you put another one down, in AXOLOTL.’

She collapsed back into the chair and wrapped her arms around herself. ‘Oh Charles, your face!’ she spluttered.

I reached over and grabbed her wrist. ‘Of all the cheatin’, lyin’, connivin’ wimmin I’ve ever met …’ I squeezed into the chair and held her in a bear hug, crushing her. She smiled up at me and we kissed. ‘You play a helluva game of Scrabble,’ I said, when we came up for air.

‘You bring out the best in me,’ she replied.

‘Dammit. That wasn’t the intention.’

We put the game back in the box and washed our glasses. ‘You go up to bed,’ I suggested. ‘I’ll check that everything is secure.’

Annabelle pecked me on the cheek. ‘Good night, then.’

‘Switch your electric blanket off,’ I called after her as she vanished up the stairs. ‘It’s been on about four hours. Good night.’

I locked the front door and carried the Scrabble box into the kitchen. Plumbing noises came from above, followed by the creaking of floorboards in the back bedroom and the click of the electric blanket switch. I checked the back door and put the glasses away. More creaking of floorboards. I turned the gasfire off and pushed the chairs back. I checked all the lights,
double-checked
the fire. When I couldn’t find anything else to check I went upstairs.

In the bathroom I stripped off all my clothes and
wrapped them in a bundle. I gave my teeth the best cleaning since I had a crush on the school dental hygienist and washed myself all over with smelly soap. I pulled the lightswitch and padded silently, in the dark, into the front bedroom.

There was no electric blanket on the big bed. I slipped under the duvet but never noticed the chill of the sheets, because Annabelle was there, waiting for me. 

Everything worked, for both of us. It all worked again, when the shape of the room was slowly being revealed like a grainy print in a developing tray, and the first blackbird was clearing his throat on the rooftop. In between, I lay wide awake, not caring to sleep, arms and legs wrapped around Annabelle, as if I were scared that she’d escape if I relaxed for a second. I listened to her breathing, feeling her body rhythmically moving in my arms, and wondered which god I’d pleased, and if I could hold on to it, this time.

Lots of thoughts passed through my mind. Most of all, I was glad that I hadn’t become involved with Diane Dooley. The slate was clean for once, the cupboard empty of skeletons. There was still work, of course. That wouldn’t go away. I was learning to adjust my
priorities, but I was still a detective. The rat-like body of Bobby Noon floated across my thoughts, as did Tom Noon and Richard Kidderminster. I drove them away by re-playing the game of Scrabble, and chuckled to myself. That had been fun.

‘Bellwether!’ I said out loud. Annabelle stirred, shifted her position, and slumbered on.

I did fall asleep, much later. I woke to find an empty place next to me, and heard the scrape of a pan on the hob coming from downstairs. Annabelle reappeared, bearing a tray loaded with orange juice, coffee, and neat little bacon sandwiches. She was wearing my clean shirt and little else. There was a mirror on the far wall, and as I watched her reflection she stooped to place the tray on the bedside table and a tiny white triangle of her knickers winked at me.

‘You look uncommonly pleased with yourself,’ she said.

‘Happy,’ I confirmed. She slipped back under the covers and passed a plate across. ‘This is wicked,’ I told her. ‘What would your neighbours think?’

‘I know – bacon sandwiches in bed. They would probably organise a petition to have me drummed from the street.’

When we were sipping our coffee Annabelle asked what we were doing for the rest of the day. I brushed a few crumbs off the duvet, on to the floor. ‘I’ll go and buy all the Sunday papers,’ I suggested, ‘and we’ll spend the morning reading them and drinking tea. Then we will
go to a local hostelry for lunch, and afterwards – this afternoon – we could always come back here and – try for the hat trick.’

She turned and smiled at me. ‘I’m not sure that that is a good idea,’ she said. ‘You are at a dangerous age, Charles. You should practise restraint in these matters.’

I pulled my glum face. ‘True,’ I admitted. ‘Sad, but true.’

We went for a walk. It was a bright breezy morning, and we wandered off like a couple of teenagers on honeymoon. We headed for the shore, but were frustrated by fields with no paths, and a wide dyke.

‘You talk in your sleep,’ Annabelle told me.

We were on a bridlepath, my arm across her shoulders, hers around my waist. ‘Oh heck,’ I said. ‘I hope I didn’t mention any girls’ names.’

‘No, just sheep.’

‘Sheep!’ I laughed.

‘Yes. What’s so funny?’

‘Nothing. You don’t accuse a Yorkshireman of dreaming about sheep, that’s all.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because.’

‘You’re blushing!’

‘No, I’m not.’

‘What is so funny about Yorkshiremen and sheep?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Tell me!’

‘There’s nothing to tell. What did I say?’

‘You just said: “Bellwether”.’

I hadn’t been asleep. I said: ‘Oh yes. I remember.’

‘So what were you dreaming about?’

Once, I would have avoided the discussion, made an evasive reply, but I was determined to change, be different. I didn’t want to exclude Annabelle from my work as a policeman, and I wanted to be a part of her work, her life. We’d reached a five-barred gate, a big solid custom-made one, a sign of prosperity. I rested my arms on it and Annabelle did likewise, looking towards the silver streak of the Humber, which didn’t appear to be any closer.

I said: ‘Do you remember the Brighton bomb?’

Annabelle looked puzzled. ‘When the IRA tried to assassinate Mrs Thatcher?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Yes, I remember. Tory party conference, about, oh, nineteen eighty-four. Several people were killed by it.’

‘That’s right. The IRA were successful because they knew exactly where Mrs Thatcher would be at a given time. So, three months, maybe six months earlier, they planted a bomb with a long time-fuse. Probably put it behind a bath panel, or under floorboards. They nearly did what Guy Fawkes failed to do.’

‘And where is this leading us?’

‘OK. Let’s say that someone, possibly this organisation called TSC – The Struggle Continues – wants to murder the current Prime Minister. How might they go about it?’

Annabelle shrugged her shoulders. ‘I don’t
know. They would have to be very familiar with his movements.’

‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘They’d have to know where he would be at a given time. But security is intense at all the usual functions he attends. We learn by our mistakes. So instead of following him, they might try to lead him.’

‘Sorry, Charles, I don’t understand.’

‘Neither do I; this is just me thinking aloud. The phone call I had last night, when you fixed the scrabble pieces―’ I looked across at her and she blushed and smiled. ‘It was from a lady I met in Cornwall. Her son foiled an attempt to kill Richard Kidderminster. No, not to kill him – they could easily have done that. To kill him and make it look like an accident – that was their intention, if my theory is correct. Kidderminster had the lowest majority recorded at the last General Election. Right now the Government needs a
by-election
in a marginal seat like Saddam Hussein needs his legs waxing. If one were called, all the big guns would flock to support their local candidate, including the Prime Minister. Most of all, the Prime Minister. It wouldn’t take a genius to guess where he would address meetings, or stay overnight. Two months after the attempt on Kidderminster, the Member with the second smallest majority dies under suspicious circumstances. It looks like an accident, but it could be murder. Maybe it was another attempt to dictate the Prime Minister’s movements, lead him to the slaughterhouse. That’s
what I meant by bellwether. Tom Noon was a Judas goat, but this time the goat had to die.’

Annabelle looked doubtful. ‘It … it seems so unreal,’ she said.

‘Yes, I agree. Out here with everything so fresh and new, it’s hard to believe that there are men plotting daft schemes like this. But there was nothing unreal about what we saw at Bolton Abbey; that was real enough.’

‘Yes, it was. So what will you do?’

‘Pass on the information, that’s all. I have friends in high places.’ I put my arm back around her. ‘They’ll probably have a little chuckle amongst themselves and put a cryptic comment on my secret file in the personnel department: Prone to believing in conspiracy theories.’

We turned to walk back, and were met by a wall of black cloud, building up like burning-tyre smoke, with Persil-white gulls wheeling against it. The storm hit us before we reached home, and there wasn’t a tree within three miles. It was brief and savage. Annabelle’s coat had a hood, but mine didn’t and she didn’t offer to lend me hers. In two minutes it was over, but cold water was running down my neck, under my leather jacket, to merge again with the rain soaking through my jeans.

‘Brrr!’ I shivered. ‘The weatherman didn’t warn us about this.’

‘Or even the bellwetherman,’ she teased, in spite of the discomfort.

The last half-mile was made bearable by thoughts of drying each other with big warm bath towels, but I don’t
know what sustained Annabelle. I was worried when I saw the red Sierra parked outside Kevin’s cottage.

We dashed inside and warmed ourselves by the gasfire. I fetched towels and rubbed my hair. ‘Go have a quick shower,’ I suggested. ‘That will warm you up.’

‘You go first, you are soaked to the skin.’

Before we could fight over it, or, better still, come to a compromise, there was a knock at the door. It was Darren.

‘Hello, Charlie, mind if I come in?’ he said.

I rubbed my neck with the towel and held the door wide. ‘No, be my guest.’

‘I was in the area, so thought I’d call to see you and Kevin, know what I mean?’ He stared at Annabelle.

‘Yeah. This is, er, Sharron,’ I said. ‘Sharron, this is Darren.’

‘Hi, Sharron.’

‘’Ello, luv.’

I dropped the towel. This was not what I had planned.

‘You all right for next weekend, Charlie?’ Darren asked. He turned to Annabelle, a.k.a. Sharron. ‘Business,’ he explained with an expansive gesture.

‘I’m all right, if the terms are.’

‘Mmm. I think we’ll be able to meet your requirements, but you drive a hard bargain.’

‘You know what they say, Darren. If you pay peanuts, you’ll get monkeys.’ With a nod of my head towards the dividing wall I added: ‘Like Kevin.’

‘Hey, that’s good,’ Darren laughed. ‘I like that. If you pay peanuts you’ll get monkeys. I’ll remember that – thanks.’

‘You’re welcome.’

He turned to Annabelle. ‘He’s a great one with words, you know.’

‘I ‘adn’t noticed, luv,’ she said, with a flick of her eyes at me. The dimples were back in her cheeks – she was enjoying this. She moved away from the fire, and Darren saw the photograph on the mantelpiece at the same instant as I did.

‘Hey, that’s, er, don’t tell me, er, Batty Moss viaduct,’ he said.

‘That’s right,’ I agreed. He seemed more interested in the bridge than in the beautiful lady in the foreground. ‘Do you know it?’

‘Yeah, we were there last week. Just for a look, if you know what I mean.’

I hadn’t a clue what he meant, if anything. I said: ‘It’s a big so-and-so.’

‘Yeah. Hundred feet high, four-forty yards long and twenty-four arches.’

‘You know some stuff, Darren.’

‘Yeah, well, I like to know what I’m talking about.’

I managed to get rid of him, on the understanding that he would make the arrangements for the next run with Kevin. As soon as he was out of the door I patted Annabelle on the bottom and said: ‘Go get a shower, love. Right now. I’ll do the potatoes,’ I couldn’t
resist calling: ‘Sharron,’ after her as she headed for the stairs.

We were having jacket potatoes and lots of trimmings for lunch. I loaded the spuds into the microwave and brought my change of clothing downstairs. I dried myself and dressed right there in the kitchen. My clean shirt smelt nice. The conversation taking place next door wasn’t hard to imagine: Darren would tell Kevin what a smashing piece of crumpet Sharron was; Kevin would say it was the car she was after, and Charlie only met her two days ago; Darren would say: ‘That’s funny, he has a photograph of her on the mantelpiece, taken when there was frost on the ground.’ That’s the trouble with lies. They go everywhere with you, like loose shoelaces, waiting to trip you up.

The weather made it easy for me. Another freak storm rattled the windows, and there were a couple of loud thunderclaps. It looked, as we say, set in. After lunch I suggested that we went home, maybe calling at the multiscreen cinema on the way. Annabelle agreed. I didn’t want to frighten her, but Darren wasn’t the cuddly simpleton that I made him out to be. He could be dangerous, and I wanted her far away from him.

I wrote my reports and phoned Fearnside, telling him that I’d had enough of being off sick and suggesting that we try to lift the gang the following weekend. After discussions with the Technical Support Unit it was decided that we would plant tracking devices in
the holdalls and set up an operation to follow them. When all that was settled I called in at the nick to let Superintendent Wood know that I was intending to resume duty.

He was absorbed by the crossword puzzle in one of the tabloids when I strolled into his office.

‘Good morning, Gilbert. You look busy,’ I said.

‘Boss’s perks. Morning, Charlie, do I detect a new spring in your step?’

‘Possibly.’ I pointed at the paper. ‘Any you need help with?’

He looked down at it again. ‘Yes, there is one. How’s your Shakespeare? Here we are, four down. “Falstaff’s page”. Any ideas?’

I said: ‘Bottom?’

‘No, can’t be. Starts with an R.’

‘Rectum?’

He removed his spectacles and folded the paper. ‘Yes,’ he sighed, ‘I can see that you’re back in the Land of the Living again.’

‘I’ve come to see if you need a new detective, lots of experience?’

‘Great. Start tomorrow, on nightshift.’

‘Oh. I was thinking about next Monday, and only part-time.’

‘Is that what Dr Evans suggests?’

‘I don’t know. I haven’t told him yet.’

I explained about the drugs bust, and there might be a few loose ends to tie up, and he agreed for me to have
a low-profile return to duties. ‘Young Newley’s doing a great job,’ he declared. ‘First time we’ve ever been in front with the budgets.’

‘Then we’ll let him keep doing them,’ I suggested.

Downstairs, Nigel was engrossed in a serious conversation with Dave Sparkington about the deprivations of Sparky’s childhood, growing up in the cobbled streets of Old Heckley.

‘And on Tuesdays it was always tripe and onions,’ Sparky was saying, ‘unless our mam could find a nice cow heel.’

‘There’s gonna be some changes in here,’ I declared, as I marched in.

Nigel looked up arid said: ‘Hi, boss. Are you back with us?’

Sparky swivelled in his seat. ‘Hello, Charlie. I was just telling Nigel about when we were young ’uns. You used to have pigs’ trotters when you were a kid, didn’t you?’

I looked down at my hands and said: ‘No, little fingers and toes, like all the other children.’

I rang Eric Dobson and arranged to borrow the van again at the weekend. He promised to relay any messages from Kevin straight to me. I read a few files, to bring myself up to date, and made another appointment to see Sam Evans. Annabelle was down in London presenting her paper to the charities, and leaving the one about tobacco with Andrew Fallon’s office in Westminster. It was doubtful if she would see the man himself. It was a
sunny day, so I drove home and polished the Jaguar.

Nigel called in to see me, for a meaningful, quality time, man-to-man talk about his prospects. He was well regarded, and due for a full Inspector’s job, but he’d have to move. Promotion would almost certainly mean a spell back in uniform, too. I warned him that he was being sucked in by the cosiness of Heckley, and advised him to make the break.