I began, "I am arresting you for the possession of material of an obscene nature. You need not say anything…"
I was aware of Mrs. Handley rising to her feet as I droned the caution. "Oh no," she sobbed. "Oh no."
The three of them took him back while I waited for her to lock up. We rode to the station in the patrol car we'd had standing by and I seated her in reception and told her about the allegations against her husband. It wasn't enough to stop her looking at me with hatred in her eyes, as if it were all my doing. Maggie would interview her, stalling for long enough for the porn squad to lift the stuff we'd found. I trudged upstairs to my office to read the mail and wondered if it was all worthwhile.
The ten ex-chemistry students we'd contacted told us very little, so we pressed on. After another couple of blips I decided to concentrate on the female members of the course, on the doubtful grounds that they'd be more likely to remember a male colleague and, being the more sentimental gender, might possibly have retained any photographs. Also, there were only sixteen of them. Also, if they went to university in 1975 they'd be in their early forties now, which is a dangerous age. I didn't mention that last reason to Sparky.
Four of them remembered Duncan, and confirmed the dropping-out bit. One supplied us with a first-year class photograph and a lady working for the EEC in Belgium said she had some pictures taken at a party. Duncan was there and he might have been with a girl, but not one with purple hair. She wasn't sure if she still had the pictures but would be going home in about six weeks. The others were all doing quite well for themselves: one had just resumed a career as an industrial journalist after rearing three kids, and we had accountants, an advertising executive, a megabyte of computer boffins and, would you believe, several chemists among the rest. All of which was about as much use to us as dog poo on the doorstep.
"How," I said to Sparky, 'do you fancy going to university?"
"I'd a feeling this was coming," was his glum reply.
"We're getting nowhere, and we need to know who the girl with purple hair was. So far, all we've established is that Duncan dropped out.
She was probably the reason but almost certainly wasn't on the chemistry course. She's the key to his problems and ours. I'll have a word with Roper-Jones, the registrar, and maybe you could have a day or two over there, going through the records of all the other students.
For Christ's sake, surely someone can remember a girl with purple hair!"
"How many is "all the other students"?"
"There's twenty-two thousand there at present, but it would be a lot fewer in '75."
"That's a relief."
"Are you OK for tomorrow?"
"University, here I come. Wait till I tell Sophie that I've got there before her."
Sophie is Dave's daughter and my goddaughter. She'll be starting university soon, when she decides where to go. Her results were brilliant and she's spoilt for choice.
"Tell you what," I said. "Why don't you take her with you?"
"You mean… to help?"
"I don't see why not, there's nothing confidential about the records.
I'll mention it to Roper-Jones; he didn't strike me as being a job's-worth. If he doesn't agree she could always explore the campus or do some shopping."
"Great. She'd like that. Do you mind if I tell her it was my idea?"
"Why?" I demanded, suspicious.
"I'm in her bad books. Not enough time to give her driving lessons."
"Well, pay for them."
"At twenty quid a throw? I should cocoa!"
When he'd gone I rang Jacquie and arranged to see her that night. I felt ready for another steak, possibly followed by a session of aroma therapy She was telling me that too much could be dangerous for my health and I was clarifying whether she meant steak or pongy massage when my other phone rang. I said a hasty goodbye and picked it up.
"Pop up, please, Charlie, if you don't mind," Superintendent Wood said.
He had Gareth Adey, my uniformed counterpart, with him, and they both had problems. Gilbert was catching hell from the Chamber of Commerce over the number of street traders who were selling fake jeans and T-shirts, and Gareth had double-booked three teenagers who were coming in to be cautioned. I agreed to do the youths and Gareth promised a blitz on the street traders at the weekend.
The first of the cautions was a young man with low aspirations; he'd been caught shoplifting at Everything a Pound. "It says here that you are a thief," I told him, waving his case notes. He was standing in front of Adey's desk in the downstairs office, his mother on a chair to one side. He nodded his agreement.
"Do you know what I normally do?" I asked him. He didn't. "Well, I'll tell you. I chase murderers, and here I am wasting time because you stole a cheap musical box from a two-bit shop." He didn't look impressed. "Yesterday," I continued, 'we had a meeting about you. Four strangers, round a table, discussing what to do with you. How do you think that makes your mother feel, eh?" He didn't know. "Don't think you've got away with it," I told him. "The reason you are not going before a court, and possibly to a young offenders' institute, is because we decided it wasn't best for you. We decided to give you another chance because we don't want you to waste your life. What do you want to do when you leave school?" He shrugged his shoulders.
"Pardon?" I said.
"Speak to the inspector," his mother told him.
"Get a job," he mumbled.
"And what chance do you think you'd have with a criminal record?"
"Dunno."
"If you had six people apply for a job and one had a record, who would you choose?"
"One of the others."
"Right."
I told him that shoplifting cost every man, woman and child in the country about a hundred pounds a year and ranted on until I reached the point where I was boring him. He signed to accept the caution and I kicked him out. His mother apologised and swore he wouldn't be back.
Funny thing is, most of them don't come back.
The other two were much the same. I made a coffee with Adey's fixings and read the contents of his in-tray. That was much the same, too.
There was a canister of a new CS gas in his drawer that he was supposed to be appraising. I gave a bluebottle on his window a quick squirt and it keeled over. Good stuff, I thought as I closed his door behind me, tears running down my cheeks.
Fresh air, that's what I needed. I cleared my desk and went for a wander round the town centre. I have a policeman's eye for detail, the unusual, and girls' legs. The warm weather certainly brings them out.
The new mall has taken a lot of trade from the high street shops, and the place is a ghost town through the week compared to a few years ago.
The only street vendor at work was O'Keefe, at his usual place near the entrance to the market. He'd be tall if he straightened his back, with a craggy complexion eroded by years of neglect and outdoor life. He plays the Old Soldier, unable to work because of the wounds he suffered in Korea and, later, the Falklands. Soon it'll be the Gulf.
His right eye has a wedge of white where it ought to be brown and it points off to the side. O'Keefe sells jeans and football shirts.
"Anything my size, O'Keefe?" I said.
"Ello, Mr. Priest," he replied warily. "Didn't recognise you for a minute. All a bit short in the leg for you, I'd say."
"How much are the Town shirts?"
"Eighteen quid to friends. Cost you forty-two at the club shop."
"Are they any good?"
"Course they're any good. They're just the same. No middle man, that's the deal."
"And no rates, rent, electricity, National Insurance and so on. How's business?"
"Pretty fair, Mr. Priest. Pretty fair. And with you?"
"Oh, you know. It's a bit like sex. Even when it's bad, it's good. Or so I'm told."
He threw his head back and guffawed, the afternoon sun shining straight into his mouth and illuminating his teeth like a row of rotting sea de fences "You're a case,
Mr. Priest," he said, wiping his chin with the back of his hand.
"Anything to tell me?" I asked.
"Aye, there is sum mat
"Go on."
"Pickpockets, Saturday morning. About five of 'em. Not from round 'ere."
"I'll send someone to have a word with you. What about burglars?
Someone is causing me a lot of grief."
"You mean, these where they ties 'em up? Old folk?"
"Mm' "Nasty jobs, them, boss. I'll let you know if I 'ear owl."
"Ask around, will you? They take orders for stuff they can buy on credit cards. Expensive stuff, like sets of alloy wheels and televisions. Washing machines, anything like that."
"Right."
"One more thing," I began. "Find another pitch at the weekend. We're having a crackdown. Spread the word if you want to earn some kudos, then ask about the burglars."
"Yeah. Right. Thanks, Mr. Priest. Thanks a lot."
It was only half past four, but I went home. I rang the office, had a shower and set the alarm clock for seven. When it rattled into life I thought it was early morning and nearly went back to work, but the jaunty tones of the Archers signature tune saved me.
The prawn cocktail was tasteless, the steak dry and the mushrooms like bits of inner tube dipped in oil. I'd have preferred a curry but Jacquie doesn't eat them she has her customers to consider. She had to be up early so I forsook the massage and dropped her off at the door.
My ansa phone was beeping when I arrived home.
"Hello, Uncle Charles," a female voice said. "If you are home before midnight could you please give me a ring." It was my favourite woman:
Dave's daughter Sophie. Apart from my mother, my previous girlfriend was the only person who had ever called me Charles. Sophie had been as besotted by her as I was and almost as devastated when she left.
Calling me by my Sunday name was an echo from the past. I sat down on the telephone seat and drummed my fingers on my knee, just for a moment wishing that things were different. But they weren't. Never would be.
Never could be. I dialled Sparky's number.
His son, Daniel, answered the phone. "Is that Mustapha?" I whispered.
He said: "If you're another one who wants to know if the coast's clear, ring the flipping coast guard I said: "There were some very handsome camels for sale at the market today."
He said: "A handsome camel has a price beyond rubies."
I said: "Beyond Ruby's what?"
Sophie's voice in the background asked: "Is that Uncle Charles?" and Daniel said: "Hang on, Charlie, Slack Gladys wants a word with you," rapidly followed by: "Owl That hurt!" He's four years younger than she is and a good foot shorter.
"Hello, Uncle Charles," she began, 'did you have a nice meal?"
"Not really. That sounded painful."
"Mmm, it did hurt my hand a bit. It was me who found her."
"Found who?"
"The girl with purple hair, of course. She's called Melissa. Melissa Youngman."
I loosened my tie and unfastened the top button of my shirt. Tonight I'd gone out smart. "You found her?" I repeated.
"Just after lunch. It was looking hopeless, so I said to myself: "What course was a weirdo most likely to be on? Let's try psychology." I rang one of the postgraduates who still lives in Leeds and she remembered her, told us that she was called Melissa Youngman and had been the first punk at the university. Brilliant, aren't I?"
I told her she was. I wanted to take her in my arms and hug her, squeeze her to pieces, ask her to marry me, but she was only eighteen and there were three miles of telephone cable between us. And I'd have caught hell from her dad.
The weather was breaking. The Saturday-morning forecast said widespread thunder, followed by a cooler spell. I breakfasted early and gathered my walking gear together. I'd have a couple of hours in the office then hotfoot it up into the Dales for the afternoon. I was taking my boots out to the car when I saw him.
The spider, that is. It was a dewy morning and he was suspended in space, halfway between the wing mirror and the outside light, welding a cross-member into position. I pretended not to notice him as I sidled down the side of the house, then I struck. "Yaaah!" I yelled and severed his web with a well-aimed karate chop. He fell to the ground, rolled expertly back on to his feet with a bewildered look on his face and fled for safety under the front tyre. He was definitely having a bad hair day. I flexed my fingers but no damage was done. Weight for weight, spider web is six times stronger than high-tensile steel.
Dave came in and told me all about it over bacon sandwiches in the canteen. They'd been getting nowhere fast until Sophie had her brain wave Jeremy in the students' office had taken her to the pub for lunch, much to Dad's disgruntlement, and she'd come back with the idea about looking for courses that might attract someone with purple hair.
Psychology had been the first guess. Dave suspected it was really Jeremy who'd thought of it, but who cares? It had saved us ploughing through several thousand records.
"I'd better buy her a present," I said. "She's saved the tax payers a few quid."
"Er, not another Alice Cooper CD, if you don't mind," Dave requested.
"Why? What's wrong with Alice Cooper?"
"She's a bit noisy, for a start!"
"She! He's a he!"
"A he? Well why do they call him Alice?"
"Er, weller because Alice is an ancient abbreviation of, er, Alexander.
Who, as you know, was a Greek. The name was popular among Greek immigrants to the States at the turn of the century and handed down through the male line."
"Really?"
"Well, either that or he's living in Wonderland."
I suggested Dave collect his boots and maybe the kids and come walking with me, but his mother-in-law's windows needed a final coat of Dulux gloss and Daniel had gone off with his pals. I didn't suggest Sophie tag along and neither did he. I bought a sandwich at the cafe across from the nick and drove to Bolton Abbey, about an hour away.
The Valley of Desolation is aptly named in winter, but in good weather it's a pussycat. I watched a succession of people crossing the Wharfe on the stepping stones, waiting for someone to come to grief on the low one in the middle. There's always one, halfway across, that's wobbly or slippery; it's a law of stepping stones. They weren't going anywhere, just crossing for the hell of it, determined to get the most from their day out. I decided not to risk it and used the bridge ten yards downstream. A rumble of thunder rolled down the valley, followed by a second of silence as every face turned towards the sky and noticed the black clouds above the trees.
In twenty minutes I'd left the tourists behind and was scrambling up the path that headed out on to the fells and towards Simon's Seat, a magnificent fifteen hundred feet above sea level. No chance of altitude sickness today. As I emerged above the tree line I saw a figure ahead of me, laden down with equipment, and shook my head in amazement at the amount of stuff some people take with them. They believe all they read about the dangers of walking on the moors.
It was a young woman. She stopped, looked around her, and decided this was the place. As I approached I saw that she'd been carrying painting equipment and I made a silent apology to her. She was struggling to set up an easel while holding her artist's pad under her arm, trying not to put it on the ground.
"Can I give you some help with your easel?" I asked with uncharacteristic boldness.
"Easel!" she gasped, red-faced. "Easel! The man said it was a deck chair I laughed and took the pad from under her arm. She was quite small, with fair hair pulled back into a short ponytail, and a mischievous smile. "Lift that bit upright," I said, pointing, 'and tighten that wing nut." She did as she was told and turned the nut the right way first time, which was a surprise.
"Well done," I said. "Now pull the middle leg back and tighten that one."
"Ah!" she exclaimed. "Now I see how it's done. You're a genius." She extended the legs and locked them in position.
&nb
sp; "I've done it before," I told her. "Maybe you're not mechanically minded."
She tested the easel for rigidity and said: "A body will remain at rest or in motion until it is acted upon by a force. Isaac Newton said that and I agree with him. You can't be more mechanically minded than that.
Do you paint?"
"A body will remain at rest until the alarm clock goes off. I said that. I went to art school, many years ago."
"In that case," she told me, looking up into my face and smiling, "I'm not starting until you are a mere speck disappearing over that hill."
"I'm going, I'm going." I hitched my bag on to my shoulder and said:
"You've picked a nice spot."
"It's lovely, isn't it? Enjoy your walk and thanks for your help."
"Thank you."
She'd given me a new zest for life. I walked too fast, buoyed by her cheerfulness, and was soon puffing. Grouse flew up around me, clucking and whirring like clockwork toys before they dived back into the heather further away, and another roll of thunder sounded ominously near.
Big blobs of rain were staining the path by the time I reached the Rocking Stone, pock marking the dust with moon craters. I made it to the top and sheltered in a shooting hut while I donned my cagoul. Then the rain came in earnest, dark and powerful, Mother Nature showing us that the brief respite we'd had was at her whim. The path outside the hut became a stream and visibility dropped to about fifty yards, grey veils sweeping over the moor, one after another. I leaned in the doorway, dry and warm, and marvelled at it.
Five minutes later the storm had moved along, leaving a rainbow and a steady shower in its wake. I had intended to do a circular route, but I wasn't sure of the way and now the paths were sloppy with mud. I pushed my arms through the straps of my rucksack and went back the way I'd come.
It had been quite a downpour. The lazy river had become a torrent and the stepping stones were submerged. The bridge hadn't been swept away, thank goodness, but all the tourists had vanished. I soon found them.
They were in the cafe, drying off. I unhooked my bag and edged between the stools and push chairs looking for an empty place at a clean table.
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