"Sorry, Oscar, I'm not laughing. I think you misunderstood him." I was struggling for an explanation. "What he, er, really meant was, er, God willing. That's it. God willing you'll get your share of the good morning."
"Bollocks!"
I was warming to my theme. "No, it's true. It's just a cultural thing. It's like… well… if you said to an Englishman: "Look, no hands," he'd assume you were showing off. But if you said it to a Saudi Arabian he'd come to an entirely different conclusion. Wouldn't he?"
"You're a bullshitter, Charlie."
"Maybe you're right. Leave it with me, Oscar. I'll have a word with him."
Moorside school was one of the smaller ones on our list, but the nearest to Lally's address. It comprises a flat-roofed building, not very old, and a couple of portakabin classrooms to cater for some unforeseen demographic blip. I tried to remember if we'd done well in the World Cup about ten years ago. We hadn't it must have been a power cut.
Everybody was at lunch. I wandered down the corridors looking for the school office and pausing to admire the kids' paintings that brightened all the walls. Some of them were terrific. I was less enthusiastic about the smell of the place. I hadn't enjoyed my own schooldays, and the cocktail of sour milk, sweaty bodies and furniture polish brought the memories back.
Mrs. Quigley would be back in her office at one thirty, the school secretary told me. I went outside and sat in the car, listening to the news. A cabinet minister had been sacked for having a happy marriage; otherwise it was all depressing. At one thirty-one I rat-tatted on Mrs. Quigley's door with my right hand. In the other I carried a large manila envelope.
What profession makes policemen feel old? Headmistresses who look about twenty-two certainly do. She was brusque and efficient, though, and wore these qualities like armour.
"Inspector, I have nothing further to add to what I said to your constable this morning. I really don't see how I can help unless the board of governors sanction it. I'm afraid I cannot allow photographs of my children to be used in a criminal enquiry."
"We are talking about very serious of fences Mrs. Quigley, and with your cooperation we could bring the perpetrators to court. All the photographs will be destroyed as soon as ' "Yes, yes," she interrupted. "The constable went through all that."
I gestured to a spare chair. "May I sit down, please?" I didn't wait for the answer. "Mrs. Quigley," I went on, 'yesterday we raided a house and found evidence of a paedophile ring, operating from Heckley.
To put it bluntly, someone is having sex with what the law terms children of a tender age. These children must go to school somewhere, and we'd like to find them, protect them from further abuse. I'd have thought that you would, too."
"My concern is completely for the children, Inspector. If the school governors give their approval I will cooperate fully, but meanwhile my answer has to be no."
"And while we wait for that approval the birds will fly. Right at this moment they are probably destroying the evidence, until they can set up in business again somewhere else. I want to save those kids, even if you aren't so concerned."
This wasn't the way I'd intended to handle it. She turned on me: "Save them from what, Inspector?" she shrieked. "At least they have parents. What do you think will happen to them if they go into care?
Do you believe they won't be abused there? Have you asked the children if they want their families destroyed? I'll give you the name and address of the chairman of the governors; you can take it from there."
That was meant to be her last word. I unfolded the flap of the manila envelope, extracted two of the ten-by-eight prints and slid them across to the headmistress. She looked at the confusion of arms and legs, turned a print round because she thought it was upside down and turned it back when she realised it wasn't.
"That's what I want to save them from," I said very quietly.
Mrs. Quigley's eyes scanned rapidly from one picture to the other and her hands began to shake. "Oh my God!" she gasped, and was sick into the wastepaper bin at the side of her desk. Unfortunately it was at the end where I was sitting. School dinners haven't changed much since my day they'd had shepherd's pie, broccoli, and jam sponge pudding.
I grabbed her coffee cup and nipped out to the cloakroom I'd noticed earlier. After giving her a moment to compose herself I went back in with a cup of water. She accepted it gratefully.
"Mrs. Quigley," I said. She looked at me. Her face was the colour of an old man's legs. "Please may I send a photographer and a lady police officer round to photograph your children?"
"I think you'd better," she whispered between sips.
It wasn't as difficult as we'd expected. On some jobs you learn as you go along. When we briefed the WPCs who would be acting as secretaries to the photographers we realised that they would be able to eliminate most of the kids there and then. With luck they might be able to make a positive identification.
I was with Gilbert. "Your fortnight's up, Charlie," he told me.
"Partridge travels to the conference at Bramshill on Monday and wants his moment of glory on Tuesday. Where's this pornography job taking us?"
"It's taking us to court with a bunch of paedophiles, Gilbert, but it's nothing to do with the Georgina case."
"Mmm, pity. So do you think we should spin Dewhurst?"
"You know I don't."
"Right. Do you still want taking off the case?"
"You couldn't manage without me."
"Once I couldn't manage without sugar in my coffee, but I do now. Tell you what, let's have a cup."
Gilbert has a secretary, but he brews his own tea and coffee in the office. He doesn't make a political song and dance about it, just gets on with it. It's one of the little touches that makes him popular.
He turned round, coffee jar in one hand, spoon in the other. "Well, if you're staying I suppose we'd better play it your way. The ACC will just have to make do with a smashed paedophile ring to impress the conference. Now then; if I put all the sugar in yours and all the milk in mine they should be somewhere near."
The phone and the kettle started making the appropriate noises at the same instant. I grabbed the phone. "Superintendent Wood's office."
"Is that Mr. Priest?"
"Yes." It was me they wanted. I listened. And listened.
Gilbert appeared at my elbow with two steaming mugs. "They've positively identified one of the little girls in the photographs," I whispered to him. I pulled his writing pad towards me. "Give me the address again." It was a block of flats, but one of the more respectable ones. They are not all disaster areas. "What time does school finish?"
"A quarter to four."
"OK, that gives us… just over an hour. That's enough. You carry on there, I'll organise a posse and see if her dad is at home. Well done."
I put the phone down and told Gilbert the details. "A little girl called Anne-Marie Briggs matches the fair girl in the photographs. She has pierced ears and identical jewellery, plus a mole over her eye in exactly the right place. The WPC says she appears shy and withdrawn.
She'd have picked her out as a contender without a description. Sorry about the coffee, Gilbert, but I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep; and miles to go before I sleep."
"Stuff the coffee, I'm coming with you."
We rang the Child Protection Unit at Divisional HQ and arranged to meet one of their specialists near the flats. I also alerted Social Services.
The flats were not as tidy as I remembered them. The downward spiral that started with general neglect and went through graffiti to vandalism and ultimately abandonment was well underway. Gilbert knocked so hard he nearly broke the window.
The door was answered by a woman wearing tiger-striped leggings and a top that said Armani across the front, although I think Georgio would have sued for defamation had he seen the state it was in. Her hair was the colour of dead cabbage leaves, and a look of fear flashed across her face as she surveyed us.
"Superintendent Wood
," said Gilbert, 'and this is Acting DCI Priest and WPC Rawcliffe. May we come in?"
I'd forgotten I was supposed to be an Acting Chief! We didn't wait for an answer and marched straight past her.
"Ere, what's going on?" said a voice in the dismal recesses of the flat, and a skinny figure appeared from one of the rooms.
"It's the police," the woman told him.
"What the 'ell do you want?" His T-shirt advertised the Dallas Cowboys and the gold chain round his neck could have anchored a respectable liner. His hair was cropped short on top but was long at the back.
"Mr. Briggs?" I asked.
"What of it?"
"We'd like to ask you a few questions, and have a look around."
"You got a warrant?"
"No, but I could have one in fifteen minutes. I'd prefer not to wait until Anne-Marie comes home from school, though."
Mrs. Briggs sank on to the sofa and her putty complexion moved several little squares towards the pale end of the colour chart.
"Questions about what?" she murmured, dreading the answer.
"Child abuse," I said, confirming her fears.
We didn't find anything. The flat was cheaply furnished but clean and tidy. It was nearly four o'clock and our search had not been particularly thorough, but the little girl would be coming in through the door any moment. Gilbert and WPC Rawcliffe were uncertain, but I wasn't.
"Paul Briggs, I'm arresting you on suspicion of being involved in paedophilia. You are not obliged to say anything unless you wish to do so, but anything you do say may be put in writing and given in evidence against you. Do you understand?"
He didn't reply. Back at the station he wasn't any more talkative. We tried an interview but it was a waste of time. It was like talking to a donkey with ear muffs on. I told him that we'd keep him in police custody overnight and have him in front of a nice, upstanding lady magistrate next morning, to be remanded. All we had, though, was a collection of photos, some bearing a likeness to him, others to his daughter. It wasn't an impressive case.
"Put him in number four," the custody officer told me when all the paperwork was completed and Briggs had been informed of his rights.
I grabbed him under the arm and lifted him off his chair. "This way,"
I said, propelling him forwards. He tried to shrug off my grip but I didn't let him. WPC Rawcliffe was hovering nearby, about to go back to Division, or, more likely, her husband and kids. I caught her eye and signalled for her to follow me.
In the cell I said: "Shoelaces, please."
"Shoelaces?"
"That's right. We don't want you making a rope ladder and escaping, do we? Or, heaven forbid, doing yourself a mischief."
He removed the laces and thrust them towards me. "Right, on your feet and face the wall," I ordered. I went through the motions of frisking him. "Better take your belt, too," I said. I extended my arms around his waist, skinny as a girl's but not a zillionth as alluring, and undid his belt buckle. Before he knew what was happening I'd flicked open the top button of his jeans, hooked both thumbs over the top and yanked the lot down.
He yelled a curse and tried to turn on me, but it's difficult with your pants round your knees. I grabbed his shoulders and pinned him against the wall.
On his arse was the distinctive tattoo with the Union flag and the number 18.
"Seen one of those before?" I asked the WPC.
"No. Not since the video of the royal wedding," she replied.
Chapter 14
Gilbert was a lot happier when I told him about the tattoo on Briggs's backside, although he'd have preferred to have authorised my inspection before I committed the deed. We found several photographs of Briggs, some with little Anne-Marie. More than one officer asked me if they could have five minutes alone with him in his cell.
"How much further do you want to take it?" Gilbert asked. He'd called to collect me on his way out of the station. It was nearly seven o'clock.
I pulled my jacket on and made sure the drawer containing the photographs was locked. "I think it's the end of the road for us," I replied. "It was important that we act fast, but now we might as well hand it over to the Porn Squad. Unfortunately we haven't found any mailing lists or other names. Maybe they'll have better luck." I'd turned off the light and was pulling the door closed when the phone rang. Gilbert didn't put it into words, but his look suggested that I ignore it. I couldn't, though.
"Inspector Priest," I intoned wearily.
"Oh, thank God," said the voice. "It's Miles Dewhurst here. I've just had another message."
I waved a frantic hand at Gilbert. "A message from the kidnapper?" I asked.
"Yes."
"Another letter?"
"No, a phone call."
"When?"
"Just now."
"Ok, Mr. Dewhurst, now please tell me exactly what the message was."
"He said it was a man he said: "Go to Little John's Well. There'll be a note for you. Don't tell the police."
"And that's all?"
"Yes."
"I take it you are at home?"
"That's right."
"Well, stay put and I'll be with you in about ten minutes. We'll go together."
"No, he might be watching. I'm going now."
And he hung up.
"Bugger!" I exclaimed, and repeated the bits that Gilbert hadn't heard. After a few moments' thought I said: "How's this sound, Gilbert? I'll try to beat him to the note. If you radio Traffic they might be able to hold him up while allowing me a few liberties with the speed limit."
"Yes, no problem. Then I'll raise Sparky and Nigel and have them standing by. Once you find the note we can take it from there."
I grabbed my book of numbers and wrote out a couple for Gilbert. After stuffing a few plastic bags into my pockets I was down the stairs faster than a lighthouse keeper with diarrhoea and an outside toilet.
Twenty minutes later, cruising at a cool hundred and ten near the Castleford turn-off of the M62"I passed a Traffic BMW and a white Toyota Supra parked on the hard shoulder. So far, so good.
There were five assorted drinks cans in the well, but only one had an end cut off with a tin opener. I didn't pick it up immediately. No tyre marks or imprints of obscure trainers announced themselves. Only crisp packets, fast food containers and a disposable nappy. I put my usual curse on my fellow men and their habits and retrieved the Coke can. The note, printed by computer, said:
Al NORTH. 69 MILES. LAY-BY BEFORE B6275.
I had a book of maps in the car but I happened to know the B6275. It starts just past Scotch Comerand was an interesting route to Scotland before the motor ways were built. On the map it looks as straight as a centurion's backbone, but the map is flat. The B6275 is the biggest switchback in the country.
Nigel was in the office when I rang on the mobile, and he said Sparky was hovering by the phone at home. I relayed the contents of the note and told them to follow me. "And fetch the Almanac, please. We might need it."
Traffic was heavy, so it took me well over an hour to find the lay-by, and the light was fading fast. An elderly couple were having a picnic in a Maestro. They watched me walk to and fro as they masticated their ham sandwiches, faces devoid of expression. A miniature television was perched on the dashboard of their car they were having a night out.
Maybe they have obnoxious neighbours, I decided, struggling to justify their behaviour.
The Coke can was wedged in the branches of a hawthorn bush, five yards in front of the Maestro. I pulled an exhibit bag over my hand and retrieved it. The couple's jaws moved up and down in unison, as implacable as a steam engine. I wrote down their registration number.
The note in the can read:
CAP STICK COLLIERY. BLACKSMITHS. 35 MILES
Now I had to consult the book of maps. There'd been a big fuss about a pit closing somewhere about six months ago. Last coal mine in the area. They'd held marches and meetings, and a couple of MPs had staged an underground sit-in; but it had clos
ed just the same. I had a feeling it had been Capstick.
I needed longer arms. Either that or a pair of spectacles. The thought dismayed me soon it'd be the teeth. By holding the book directly under the light and squinting I could just read the index.
Then I found Capstick on the map. I made a note of the road numbers, rang the other two and set off. It was right where the map said it should be. A sign at the entrance to the town told me they were twinned with a place that sounded like a bad hand at Scrabble.
The weekend starts on Thursday amongst the young. The narrow main street was alive with youths dressed in jeans and T-shirts, in spite of the drizzle, and girls in the shortest minis I'd seen in years. They were in single-sex groups of three or four. Presumably some sort of pairing-off process would be enacted throughout the evening, after the ritualistic consumption of large quantities of lager. Ah, those were the days.
I drove slowly past the curry houses and the taxi drivers dozing in their Ladas, waiting for the evening's trade to begin. Many businesses were boarded up and there was the usual smattering of charity shops.
Prosperity was reluctant to come back to the area. A level crossing marked the end of downtown Capstick. I paused in the middle and looked both ways. The rails didn't exactly shine like silver threads in the gloom. Probably disused. Must have run near the pit, though, once upon a time. Quarter of a mile further on I found the sign.
I turned right down a concrete road for another half a mile. The night was blacker than a mole's armpit, the only illumination coming from the car's headlights. Eventually they shone on a British Coal notice board at the entrance, with the manager's name proudly displayed. Someone had scrawled an obscenity next to it. I crawled along in first gear, the tyres squelching in the thin mud that covered the road.
I reached a cluster of buildings. Away to the right a glow in the sky marked the town centre, where people would be drinking and swearing and lusting for each other's bodies. For a lucky few their dreams would come true. The rest would find consolation in a skinful of booze, until tomorrow night brought another chance.
The Mushroom Man dcp-2 Page 15
