‘That’ll do.’ I wrote artisan on the board. ‘What else.’
‘He’s police aware.’
‘Why?’
‘The white van. It’s not on any CCTV cameras. He left no prints. He had the sense to park some distance away.’
‘I’m convinced, but he could have picked that up from watching Crime Scene on TV.’ I wrote it on the board. ‘What about his education?’
‘Above average intelligence,’ someone said and everybody nodded. We like to think we’re up against master criminals. Up it went.
‘Marital status?’ I asked.
‘Divorced, with twin boys and another on the way.’
‘Keep it serious, please.’
‘Sorry, boss, but we’re getting into conjecture.’
‘I know, but let’s try.’
‘A sad loner,’ I was told.
‘No, they’re usually married to a devoted wife who thinks the moon and stars rise out of their backsides,’ someone argued.
‘OK, we’ll leave that one. Anything else?’
We kicked ideas around for another hour. Our murderer didn’t take risks, probably had a criminal record and lived not too far away. None of the normal motives fitted. He was a sociopath, incapable of recognising another person’s feelings, and he’d done what he did for the hell of it. He was a sadist and would probably kill again.
‘So what was the purpose of the killing?’ I asked.
‘He did it for fun,’ I was told. ‘Or just to feel what it was like. He’d probably fantasised about it for years.’
‘And how did he pick his victim?’
‘He looked for a lonely old man that nobody would miss.’
‘So it wasn’t personal?’
‘No.’
‘Perhaps the killer’s a gerontophile,’ one of the young guns suggested, showing off.
‘In that case, wouldn’t there have been some form of sexual interference?’ I responded.
‘Um, yeah, probably, boss.’
‘That’s it, then,’ I told them. ‘Remember, this is not evidence. Hopefully it’s given us an insight into the type of person we are looking for, but in itself it’s not worth a hill of beans.’ God, I wished I’d said that.
Eddie Carmichael hung back after the meeting, waiting for me. ‘Are we going to see this plonker bank robber?’ he asked.
‘Right now,’ I said, pulling my jacket on. I asked one of the DCs to make a note of what was on the board and headed for the door.
‘I need to collect a gun,’ Eddie said as we passed through the foyer.
‘A gun? What for?’
‘Because he’s a convicted armed robber.’
‘He was using a carrot in a paper bag.’
‘Only because he didn’t have a gun. He’d have used it if he’d had one.’
‘He’d have used a cucumber, if he’d had one,’ I argued.
‘With respect, guv, you’re relying on your memory of the case. The file has him as an armed robber, so I want to be armed, just in case.’
‘Have you got authorisation?’
‘Right here.’ He waved it under my nose. ‘I saw Mr Wood, first thing.’
The armoury is what was intended as number eight cell, hastily converted when the Yardies started shooting each other, with a counter inside, racks for the few guns we have and shelves for the ammo. There are Heckler and Kochs, Glocks, a sniper rifle that will shoot off a gnat’s left testicle at half a mile, and a sawn down shotgun for firing lead powder-filled cartridges that can blow a door off its hinges. The H & K machine gun is the standard weapon, with a Glock pistol as standby for when the Heckler jams, but in this case Eddie would just take the Glock.
It’s fairly routine. If there’s a faint chance that a suspect or witness may have a gun we might carry one concealed in a belt holster, just in case, although I’ve never bothered and neither has Dave. I killed a man, once, but that was on a raid. He fired at me and I fired back, three times. I didn’t know his gun was empty, but I don’t lie awake at night wondering about it. Not too often.
The desk sergeant led the way with Eddie hard on his heels, me loitering. He unlocked the thick door and let himself behind the counter.
‘One nine-millimetre Glock 17 semi-automatic,’ he said, as he placed the weapon in front of Eddie. ‘You want a holster for it?’
‘Yes please.’
‘’Spect you’ll want a bullet, too.’
‘A bullet! A full magazine, if you don’t mind.’
‘You can have fifteen. They cost money, y’know.’
‘How many does it hold?’ I asked. I’d never used a Glock. In my days it was all Smith and Wesson revolvers. I picked it up, felt the weight of it and how it fitted my hand.
‘The mag holds seventeen,’ the Sergeant told me, ‘but we only put fifteen in to avoid compressing the spring too far. It helps prevent jams, not that they jam too often. You don’t want one, do you, Charlie?’
Eddie strapped the belt round his waist, put the gun in the holster, checked the hang of his jacket. I swear he looked round for a mirror.
‘No,’ I replied. ‘A carrot in a brown paper bag is all I ever use.’
‘How do you like the Mondeo?’ Eddie asked as he settled into the passenger seat.
‘Love it,’ I replied.
He ran his finger over the console with the delicacy of a devotee, checking the numbers, the quality and God knows what else. ‘Two litres?’
‘Yes.’ I started the engine and steered us out onto the road.
‘Hmm. It feels nice. What do you get to the gallon?’
‘Thirty… something,’ I told him.
‘Press the button on the end of the stalk.’
I did as I was told.
‘Thirty-six point five,’ he read from the digital display. ‘Not bad. Press it again.’
I pressed it.
‘At an average of 38.4 miles per hour.’
That kept him happy for the rest of the journey. Donovan Bender lived in one of the project blocks at the bottom end of the Sylvan Fields estate. Bottom end geographically and socially. The lift stank of the usual, the car parking area held the standard array of shopping trolleys and wheel-less vehicles, and if a window cleaner had ever ventured into the flats he’d have found a sanding machine more useful than a wash leather.
‘Police,’ Eddie shouted through the door in response to Donovan’s ‘Who is it?’
He let us in and asked us to sit down. His wife was at work, behind the desk at a local filling station, and he was preparing vegetables for when the kids came home from school. The TV was showing cartoons but he switched it off. The room was surprisingly neat and tidy.
‘What am I supposed to ’ave done now?’ he asked, wiping his hands on his jeans and sitting down.
‘We don’t know. What have you done?’ Eddie responded.
‘Noffing. Noffing at all.’
‘Where were you on Sunday the ninth? That’s a week last Sunday.’
‘Nowhere. I never go anywhere, do I? Down to the pub on a Saturday, watching cricket or football at the rec. in the afternoon, and that’s it. Can’t afford to go anywhere, not wiv two growing kids. If I do go anywhere it’s wiv them, innit?’
‘When did you last see Alfred Armitage?’
‘Huh! So that’s worrits about, is it. Loopy old Alf. I thought it was ’im when I saw it in the paper, but I wasn’t sure.’
‘You haven’t answered the question.’
‘When did I last see Alfie Armitage?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Dunno. Probably the day Ellis and Newbold’s closed down. I’ve certainly never seen ’im since.’
‘What did you do at Ellis and Newbold’s, Donovan?’ I asked.
‘I was just a labourer and van driver, wasn’t I?’
Eddie quizzed him some more, gave him a hard time, suggested he might prefer to come down to the station to make a statement, but he had nothing to offer us. Donovan remembered Eric Smallwood, sai
d he was weird, and that the two men hardly spoke to each other, but it never came to violence. He couldn’t think of anybody at the factory who might want Alfred dead. Nobody cared that much about him.
‘How are the daughters, Donovan?’ I asked. ‘Have they forgiven you for ruining their Christmas?’
‘Yeah,’ he replied, blushing and looking sheepish. ‘It was a long time ago. We ’ave a laugh about it, now and again. I’d been on the Carlsberg Special. She’s forgiven me, except…’
‘Except what?’
‘Oh nowt. Just the job thing. It ain’t right, the wife working an’ me at home, is it? But there’s noffing for me. Not now. Not wiv my record.’
I stood up and Eddie did the same. ‘If you think of anything else, give us a ring.’
He followed us to the door, his brow furrowed as if he were working at some imponderable puzzle. ‘There is somefing,’ he said as we stood at the door.
‘What?’ I asked.
‘I’m not sure. It’s just that Smallwood ’ad a name for Alfie. Called ’im it behind ’is back.’
‘A name. What sort of name?’
‘I’m trying to fink. Midnight, or somefing like that. Yeah, that was it: Midnight. ’E called ’im Midnight.’
‘Midnight?’ we replied in unison.
‘Yeah. I’m sure of it. Midnight.’
Four of them were stooped over Jeff Caton’s desk, looking businesslike, when we arrived back. I wandered over to see what they were doing.
‘Anything I should know about?’
Jeff looked up, grinning. ‘Hi, Chas,’ he greeted me. ‘There’s been another memo about this memorial seat for the old codger who’s died. Can we suggest a suitable location for it?’
‘Right. Well, no doubt the collective brains of the CID can come up with something suitable.’
‘We’ve a few ideas. If it was for you, where would you like it to be?’
‘What? If the seat was for me? Do you mean for me to sit on or in memory of me?’
‘In memory of you. The Charlie Priest Memorial Seat.’
‘No idea.’
‘C’mon, Chas, there must be somewhere where you’ve spent many a happy hour, just enjoying the view?’
‘Um, I suppose so,’ I agreed.
‘Where, then?’
‘Oh, let me see… How about… Yes, I’d like my seat to be overlooking Heckley Girls Grammar School netball courts.’
They smiled and chuckled and straightened their backs. Jeff said, ‘Right, then. That’s two for Robin Hood’s Bay, one for somewhere in Nidderdale, one for Fountains Abbey and one for overlooking Heckley Girls Grammar School netball courts.’
When I was safe in my own office I rang High Adventure and asked to speak to Sonia. ‘What’s the chances of having an afternoon off tomorrow?’ I asked.
‘Sorry, Charlie. Can’t do. We’ve some corporate people coming to use the ice wall and they expect the boss to be available. They’re from the motor trade. Sales people from one of the big outlets. Cars U Like, or something equally naff. It’s all about bonding. They share the dangers, or what they perceive as dangers, and become closer to each other as a result. And trust. They learn about trust. Trust in each other, trust in the equipment and trust in themselves. The sales people bond with other sales people, the managers bond with the typists, that sort of thing. They pay good money and expect value for it. And they all go away with a photograph to put on the office wall. They have a whale of a time and…’
‘Sonia!’
‘Sorry?’
‘I’ll take that as a negative, shall I?’
‘I’m afraid so, Charlie. What had you in mind?’
‘Oh, nothing special. I need to go up to Leyburn and it would have been nice to have some company.’
‘Can’t you take Dave?’
‘Not really. It’s a bit of a wild goose chase. And you’re handsomer than he is. I don’t get the same wobbly feeling when he’s sitting next to me.’
‘You say the nicest things.’
‘What time tonight?’
‘Seven.’
‘Don’t be late.’
I put the phone down and sat looking at it. A couple of months earlier there had been this article in the paper about a youth who’d had this tattoo put on his upper arm at great pain and expense. He’d asked for the Chinese symbols for Loyalty, Respect and Courage, assuming, presumably, that the tattooist was fluent in Mandarin. The irony of being a convicted thief and girlfriend-beater never occurred to him. Afterwards, he’d taken to wandering the streets wearing a singlet, even though it was February, showing off his newly acquired status symbol. Until, one night in his local takeaway, the chef, who was educated at Leeds University but had a smattering of his parents’ native language, told him that having Best before the year of the rat tattooed on his arm was very amusing, very droll, very English. He loved the English sense of humour. The youth went straight round to his tattooist and broke the man’s jaw.
It appears that not many tattoo artists are familiar with Chinese script, so when somebody comes in and asks for a Chinese cipher to be emblazoned across their torso, they turn to whatever they have handy in an attempt to oblige. This means that there are thousands of young men, and a few women, wandering around with memorable legends such as Do not exceed the stated dose and even Warning! This product may contain peanuts etched into their skin.
The youth’s defence was that the tattoo had made him look like a twat. The prosecution argued that all tattoos make you look like a twat. Cops don’t like tattoos. Correction: cops don’t have tattoos. On other people, we love them. Usually. There’s nothing we like more than looking at a grainy CCTV frame and picking out the letters LUFC on the scally’s forehead but, generally, we don’t like them.
We were lying in bed, last Christmas, just as dawn broke. It was warm in the room because we’d left the heating on all night and the duvet had worked its way halfway down the bed. Sonia was breathing rhythmically and occasionally mumbling something that I couldn’t make out. Probably nonsense. I was wide awake but content to lie there, close up behind her, our bodies moulded together like two spoons.
I traced my finger down her spine, marvelling at this miracle of a woman – La Gazelle – who at one time could outrun almost any other female on the planet; at my good fortune in being the man here with her; the one she chose to be with. I kissed her neck lightly, to say thank you, and she snuffled and turned onto her stomach. My fingertips continued their journey until they reached the top of her bum. I pushed the duvet further down, and that’s when I saw the tattoo.
It was only a rose, a red rose, but dismay engulfed me like snow falling off a roof. For a few seconds it felt as if a big gaping chasm had opened between us and was widening by the second. I’d seen lots of tattoos on women, often wondered why they did it, what they were for, and never come anywhere near understanding. The feeling of disappointment only lasted a few seconds but its power took me by surprise, hit me like a blow. I pulled the duvet up over our shoulders and settled back down beside her, trying to put things in perspective. She was with me, and that was all that mattered. I said a silent prayer of gratitude to whatever gods might be listening, added an apology for being so juvenile and tried to go back to sleep. But I couldn’t sleep. I wondered if she’d had the tattoo done for him, tried to push the thought out of my head. It’s a terrible thing, jealousy, when it overtakes you in the wee small hours.
There was a tentative tap at the window of my door and I looked up to see Maggie standing there with a steaming mug in her hand. I gestured for her to come in.
‘Am I disturbing you, Charlie?’ she asked. ‘You looked miles away.’
‘No,’ I replied. ‘I was just thinking about the usual: Love; Life and the Universe.’
‘So how’s it going?’
‘The universe? Plodding on, much as before.’
‘And the love life?’
Maggie’s an old pal, tends to mother me, or big sister me, and we’ve c
ried on each other’s shoulders once or twice. That is, she’s cried on mine once, I’ve cried on hers too many to mention. ‘Oh, so-so,’ I told her.
‘That’s not what I hear. How’s the jogging going?’
‘We’re runners now, not joggers. It’s going OK. Brilliant. Sonia’s entered the Oldfield 10K race on Sunday. It’s her comeback.’
‘Great. Have you entered?’
‘No way. I’m not good enough.’
‘She’s a super girl, Charlie. Why don’t you make an honest woman of her?’
‘We’ll see.’
‘What’s the problem?’
‘Twenty years age difference, Maggie. That’s the problem. Twenty years.’
Dave and I went to see Eric Smallwood again, mainly to check out his Scalextric. Daniel, Dave’s son, had an early model when he was a kid, but we never really mastered it. Perhaps the modern cars stayed on the track better. We went in mine, with Dave driving.
‘Tell you what,’ I said as we turned out of the nick yard. ‘Let’s go see Simon first. Head out on Batley Road.’
Halfway there Dave said, ‘Ooh! Folic acid,’ out of the blue.
I glanced across at him. ‘What about it?’
‘Can we stop at a health food store for some on the way back, please?’
‘For folic acid?’
‘Hmm. I’ve been reading about it. There’s been a big survey and they’ve discovered that it delays the onset of memory loss and Alzheimer’s. It’s got B vitamins in it.’
‘Does it? I’d better have some, then.’ We were both at an age when we worry about these things.
‘It sounded pukka gen. All done scientifically.’
‘Where was this?’
‘In the Sunday Times. The trials were in Finland.’
‘Why is it always Finland?’ I wondered. ‘Did you know that Finnish children can read and write better than any other children in the world?’
‘What? Read and write English?’
‘No, read and write Finnish.’
‘Well, they should be able to, shouldn’t they?’
‘Um, well, when you put it like that, I suppose they should.’
We were rapidly approaching Five Lane Ends with its abundance of direction signs. ‘Where are we going?’ Dave demanded.
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