The Judas Sheep (8 page)

‘Oh, that’s all right, then.’

Nigel pushed away the papers on his desk and swivelled his chair round. ‘Morning, Mr Priest,’ he said. ‘You’re not really having another month off, are you?’

‘’Fraid so, Nigel, but from what I’ve heard you were coping quite well without me.’

‘Coping isn’t the word I’d have used, boss.’

‘Improving? Succeeding?’

‘Mmm, something like that.’

‘Flourishing?’

‘That’s the word.’

‘I see. I am suitably chastened. Still, it’s nice to know the shop is in good hands. Tell you what, why don’t you have a go at the budgets? That would really earn you some Brownie points with Mr Wood.’

‘All done, boss.’

‘Great. In that case, you could do next year’s, while it’s all fresh in your mind.’

‘Done them.’

‘Oh. Good. Good.’

‘And last week we caught a sheep rustler, so that will please a few people.’

‘Did you? Great.’ I was feeling less wanted by the minute.

‘How’s Annabelle?’ he asked.

‘Whaddya mean, how’s Annabelle?’ I demanded.

Nigel, Acting Detective Inspector, blushed like a naturist who’d walked into a naturalists’ convention. He was saved by the telephone. After listening for a few seconds he waved a hand to hush the rest of us. He was making notes, but I couldn’t read his hieroglyphics. ‘OK,’ he said, after a few minutes. ‘We’ll be over there as quickly as possible.’

He replaced the phone and looked at me. ‘A woman’s body was found in Liverpool early this morning,’ he said. ‘They started the PM about an hour ago and found she was wearing an expensive wristwatch. Solid gold. A local jeweller has said it could be worth ten thousand pounds. The bit that interests us is that it has the initials MN engraved on the back.’

‘Marina Norris,’ I said.

‘Could be. Dave, you dig out the descriptions, and see if Mr Norris is in this country. I’ll pop up to tell Mr Wood.’

They dashed off, going about their business, leaving me sitting there remembering the time I turned up for the Cubs only to discover that they’d all gone to the circus without me. I’d been away the previous week, when it had been organised, and nobody told me. I was nine years old.

As soon as the dust settled I trudged upstairs to see
Gilbert Wood, my Superintendent. ‘Hello, Charlie,’ he said. ‘Put the kettle on as you’re passing.’

I tested the kettle’s weight, decided it was full enough and flipped the switch.

‘Have you heard the news?’ he asked.

‘Yes. I was downstairs when the call came.’ When we were both armed with a brew I passed the sick note across to him.

‘Another four weeks,’ he read out loud.

‘’Fraid so.’

‘And how are you feeling?’

‘Guilty. He’s given me a note for terminal guilt, and the more I’m off work, the more guilty I feel.’

Gilbert shook his head in sympathy. ‘That’s a hell of a catch, Charlie.’

‘Best there is, Gilbert.’

‘So,’ he said brightly, walking over to the table in the corner to fetch the milk. ‘Does this mean you’re going down to the cottage?’

‘Please. If you don’t mind.’

‘Of course not. Want you to go. Do the place good to have someone in it. Actually … I’ve been thinking about it. Why don’t you take Annabelle with you? Be a nice break for both of you.’

‘Ah! I was going to ask you about that. So it’s all right if she joins me for a few days?’

‘No problem. There’s everything there you could need. Central heating is on very low, so it should soon warm through.’

‘Great. Smashing. Thanks. What about, er, bed linen? Is there a duvet or something for the spare bed?’

Gilbert’s head jerked up and he stared at me as if I’d asked him for a donation to Hezbollah. ‘The spare bed! Why should you want a duvet for the spare bed?’

‘C’mon, Gilbert. You know what I mean,’

‘What’s wrong with the big bed?’

I looked him straight in the eye and pronounced: ‘My relationship with Mrs Wilberforce is not of that nature.’

He shook his head and chuckled. ‘Jesus Christ, Charlie. If the rest of the world were like you two, the human race would have died out fifty thousand years ago.’

Before I left Gilbert’s office he suggested I wait a few days before venturing to Cornwall.

‘Oh. I was thinking of going at the weekend,’ I told him.

‘Wouldn’t advise it. Have you seen the weather they’re having around New York?’

‘Yes. Twenty feet of snow. But that’s three thousand miles away.’

Gilbert shook his head. ‘We always get it a week after them. Mark my words.’

Daft old bugger, I thought, as I came out of Heckley nick and found my car in one of the visitors’ places, where I’d left it because Nigel had commandeered my DI spot. I drove into town and had a Chinese Lunchtime Special, followed by some shopping.

If I’d known I was going to find a body on the beach I’d have worn my wellies. From the top of the cliff it looked like a giant tadpole, stranded where the morning tide had dumped it. A sinister circle of black-backed gulls stood round it, like Pharisees at a stoning. They weren’t eating it yet, so maybe it wasn’t dead. I decided to find a way down and take a closer look.

Gilbert had been right about the weather. It had snowed for a week, and everything came to a standstill. Then we had floods, so everything stayed at a standstill, but floating; and I topped off the misery by catching flu, so it was late February when I eventually drove down to his cottage in Cornwall.

Leaving the murder enquiry behind wasn’t a wrench because it had slipped away from us. The wristwatch
had once belonged to Mrs Norris, but the body hadn’t. A little girl had wandered into a Liverpool station pushing a baby in a buggy and said their mother hadn’t been home since the day before. The kids were sent to a foster-home and their mum’s background investigated. There was the usual deafening silence, but it looked as if she’d been a part-time street girl, bolstering her social security giro. Nobody had seen her, but whoever strangled her had a taste for necromania and a reckless disregard for forensic science. He’d left a sperm sample inside her that would have stuck the wallpaper in a small attic. Everything led to Liverpool, apart from Hurst’s body being found on our patch, so they took over the bulk of the investigation.

I found a path about a quarter of a mile further on, leading to the beach, and picked my way down it, trying to avoid the worst of the mud. I’d had a good morning. Sam Evans, the Police Surgeon, had been serious about me seeing a counsellor, but I hadn’t wanted to consult the one who worked for the force. It was supposed to be confidential, but someone paid him, and I was concerned that a little note would appear on my record. Irrational? Maybe. Outdated prejudice? No doubt about it. But that’s the way I felt.

More importantly, Annabelle agreed with Sam about counselling, so I found one of my own. I’d just been to see her, in St Ives, and was walking the three miles back to the cottage along the cliff-path. It had been a good
experience and the sun was shining, so I was in a happy enough mood.

Her consulting rooms were in an old imposing house that had been converted into a centre for various therapeutic activities, mainly of the alternative variety. Acupuncture, homoeopathy, that sort of thing. After a short wait I was directed by a receptionist to the surgery.

She shook my hand warmly. ‘Hello. I’m Diane Dooley. Please call me Diane. And you’re … Charles Priest, I believe. May I call you Charles?’

‘Charlie,’ I mumbled, settling in the chair I had been directed towards.

It was a pleasant airy room, with prints of flowers on the walls. The chairs were neither high nor low, and were both in front of her desk. The clock on the wall was behind me, and the window, through which I could see only the bare branches of trees, was to my left. The whole place was planned to offer the minimum of distraction to the client, but they’d wasted their time.

Diane had long Titian hair and the peaches and
low-cholesterol
double cream complexion that goes with it. She was wearing a full-length skirt and an ethnic blouse in bright greens that showed off her hair. Diane Dooley was a five-foot-two stunner.

She was explaining about charges. I think she said the first session was half-price, but I wasn’t listening. I have difficulty concentrating in the presence of attractive women.

‘… and each session lasts about fifty-five minutes,’ she concluded.

‘Er, right.’

‘So, Charlie, perhaps you’d like to explain why you are consulting a counsellor?’

‘Er, yes, well, mainly because my doctor told me to see one.’

‘I see.’

She was waiting for me to go on, but I decided not to. I wanted to do the full fifty-five minutes, but doubted if I could spin things out that long.

Diane broke first: ‘But what about you, Charlie? Do you think you need a counsellor?’

‘No.’

‘Mmm.’ Then: ‘Go on.’

‘I, er, fell down some stairs.’

‘You fell down some stairs?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why was that?’

‘I had a dizzy spell.’

‘Just one, or do you have many?’

‘A few, but not too many.’

‘I see. And what do you think brings them on?’

‘Stress.’

‘Stress?’

‘Mmm.’

‘So you fell down some stairs when you had a dizzy spell, and your doctor thinks that these are caused by stress and has suggested that counselling might help?’

‘Yes.’

‘I see.’

No enlargement from yours truly. Diane went on: ‘What about you? Do you think counselling might help?’

The setting was carefully planned so that the balance of power was evenly shared. Equal chairs, no desk between us, first names all round. Trouble was that I was a good foot taller than her. I tucked my legs under my chair, shrank down into it and said: ‘No.’

She nodded, almost approvingly. ‘Do you know how counselling works?’ she asked. ‘Have you any experience of any sort with it?’

‘I’ve read a book about it,’ I offered.

She looked relieved. ‘Oh, yes? Tell me about it.’

‘Something about how to choose a counsellor. I forget who wrote it.’

‘I know the one you mean. Did you find it interesting?’

‘Mmm, fairly.’

‘And did it help you?’

‘A little.’

‘In what way do you think it was helpful?’

This took some thinking about. I decided to increase the stakes, go on the offensive. I said: ‘There was a long chapter in the book about the relationship between the client and the counsellor. It said that the client was in a very vulnerable position, and often fell in love with his – or her – counsellor. Sometimes, but
more rarely, it happened the other way round, too.’

‘Yes, it does happen,’ she confirmed.

I said: ‘I was worried that it might happen to me.’

She pursed her lips and told me: ‘You could easily have chosen a male counsellor. There are plenty on the register.’

I stared straight into her eyes – they were green, with big brown flecks in them – and said: ‘Maybe that’s why I chose a female counsellor.’

Diane Dooley didn’t flicker an eyelid. ‘Of course,’ she said. We fenced around for another five minutes, before she declared: ‘It looks to me, Charlie, that counselling isn’t for you. There’s nothing unusual in that. Most people rely on the natural healing process to overcome their problems. After all, that’s what we’ve been doing for thousands of years. If, after a suitable passage of time, you haven’t made any progress, it might be worth giving counselling another try. Meanwhile, it’s been nice meeting you and I’ll wish you good luck. We haven’t been very long, so there’s no charge.’

That was it. I was dismissed. ‘But, I, er, don’t mind paying,’ I blustered.

‘No, not at all.’ She stood up to see me off the premises.

‘I’d like to pay,’ I admitted. ‘I, er, need a receipt for my doctor; to prove I’ve seen you.’

‘That’s soon solved. I’ll give you one of my receipts, for nil payment. How’s that?’ She moved round her desk, to the side where the drawers were.

I felt a complete louse. She signed a receipt and passed it across to me. Still in my chair, I folded it into a long spill and placed it in my wallet. ‘Mrs Dooley—’ I began ‘—Diane, how long is it before your next appointment?’

She looked up at the clock. ‘About forty-five minutes.’

‘Could we start again, please?’

She sat down and waited for me to talk.

‘I’ve been a prat,’ I confessed, ‘and I owe you an apology.’

‘No, Charlie, you don’t owe me anything. Counselling is a two-way process, and requires a willingness to take part from both parties. But if it isn’t for you, it – isn’t for you. There’s no right or wrong way of doing things.’

‘Please. Let me explain. May I?’

‘Of course.’

‘I’m a police officer. Detective Inspector. I had a bad time. A little girl had vanished, and we were fairly certain that she had been murdered, but it took us six months to prove it. I had pictures of her all round my office walls. Have you any children?’

She nodded. ‘A son.’

‘I haven’t. She was a plain Jane, wire spectacles and a gap in her teeth. But she had a smile that would have melted a chocolate cake. Every day she was there, grinning down at me. And at night, too. I think I grew to love her, wish she were my daughter. I’ve never admitted that to anyone before. It was me that found
her body, what was left of it, wrapped up in a plastic bag. And it was all a bit too much for me.’

Diane looked across her desk at me. ‘It must have been a horrible experience,’ she murmured.

‘So—’ I smiled and lifted my hands. ‘That’s it. I don’t think I need counselling. I’ll get over it, all in good time. Thanks for listening.’ I stood up to leave.

‘When did all this happen?’ she asked.

‘Three, four months ago.’

‘That’s not very long. You are probably right, but you always know where you can find us.’

‘Thanks.’

The body on the beach was a porpoise, I thought, or a small dolphin. Or a very very small whale. I threw a pebble at the gulls as I approached. They stretched their wings and were instantly airborne, landing thirty yards downwind without a single flap.

‘Bloody show-offs!’ I shouted at them.

It looked dead, but they hadn’t started to peck at it. It would have been a heck of a job trying to roll it back into the sea. I found an empty Fairy Liquid container and used it to pour some water into the poor creature’s blowhole. No bubbles – it was a gonner.

The gulls were growing braver, sneaking up on us. I yelled and waved my arms and chased them off. This time one or two paid me the compliment of shaking a wing. As soon as I’d left they would gorge themselves flightless. Those big limpid eyes, deep as oil wells, would be first to go. It didn’t seem right.

I decided to bury it. Some people climb Everest, others walk backwards from Land’s End to John O’Groats. I decided to bury a porpoise on the beach, just outside St Ives.

On the sea’s strand, where all the rubbish collects, I found a discarded fertiliser sack and draped it over the porpoise’s head, held down by some big pebbles. Then I went back to the cottage for a shovel and a pair of Wellington boots.

There was a message for me on Gilbert’s ansaphone. Would I ring Mr Fearnside when I had the opportunity? He was a Chief Superintendent with the Serious Fraud Office. That could wait.

When I arrived back at the beach, I found that someone had beaten me to it. A boy, aged about sixteen, was digging a hole next to the porpoise. I clumped towards him in Gilbert’s size ten wellies, a spade and a shovel over my shoulder. As I reached him he looked up from his task.

‘Hi,’ he said, with a nervous smile.

‘Hello.’ I nodded at the dead beast. ‘You beat me to it.’

He was puffing with exertion, and took the opportunity to have a rest, leaning on his shovel. ‘Was it you who covered its head?’ he asked.

‘Yes.’

‘That was a good idea. Protect it from the gulls. It’s a lot more difficult than I expected.’

‘In that case,’ I told him, ‘two of us will do it quicker. Move over and let’s have a go.’

He stepped out of the hole and I extended my hand towards him. ‘My name’s Charlie,’ I said.

He shook my hand. ‘Guy. Pleased to meet you.’

I liked this youth. He had good values. ‘My pleasure, Guy. Now let’s get this goddamn critter buried.’

It was a lot harder than I had expected, too. An hour later the hole was about two feet deep and full of water. I was climbing out at the end of my stint when I left a wellie behind. I balanced on one leg for a few seconds, sock flapping in the breeze, before plunging my foot back into the freezing water.

‘Sh-sh-shilo!’ I cursed.

My boots were slightly taller than Guy’s. He stepped gingerly down into the hole and the water came over the tops. ‘Aw, shit!’ he complained.

We buried the porpoise with all the dignity we could muster. When we rolled its body in, it sent up a tidal wave second only to Krakatoa, drenching the pair of us.

‘Would you like to say a few words at the graveside?’ Guy asked solemnly, dirty water dripping off the end of his nose.

‘Good riddance?’ I suggested. We weighted it down with a few rocks and shovelled the sand back over it. When we looked around there wasn’t a seagull in sight.

I straightened my aching back and nodded at Guy. ‘Well done,’ I told him.

He grinned back at me. ‘You don’t half look a mess, Charlie.’

‘I know. Burying porpoises always does this to me. Did you have any lunch?’

‘No. I missed it.’

‘Me too. Fancy a bite in the Jolly Burger?’

Guy hesitated, looking embarrassed. ‘Come on,’ I told him. ‘My treat. You deserve it. Don’t forget your shovel.’

We put all the stuff, including our wet socks, in the car boot, and drove barefooted to the café, the heater blowing full blast on to our freezing feet. I’d rolled my trousers up around my calves.

‘Oh, that’s better,’ Guy sighed as the heat came through.

At the café he walked round to the back of the car, stiff-legged and toes pointing skywards, expecting to put his boots back on. ‘You don’t need them,’ I told him, and we padded silently into the Jolly Burger.

‘Smoking or non-smoking?’ the seating hostess asked, glancing nervously down.

As there was nobody else in the place it was rather academic. ‘Near a radiator,’ I growled.

We’d warmed through by the time the food came. Guy’s face was glowing pink and I could see steam rising off him. I suspected we both smelt fishy. He took a bite of his Superburger and mumbled: ‘Are you always doing crazy things, Charlie?’

I looked affronted. ‘Me? No. Never.’

‘So this is normal?’

I swallowed a morsel of one hundred per cent beef
which felt like hoof. ‘Yeah. Just an average day.’

Guy squeezed another dollop of ketchup over his fries. ‘What do you do for a living?’ he asked.

He was a talkative bugger. ‘Oh, this and that. What about you? Why aren’t you at school?’