The rain had stopped. I suggested that she withdraw if she wasn’t feeling good, but she said she was better. She dressed carefully in her neatly pressed kit, her number sewn on the front of her vest. It was a double-figure number, showing her to be among the elite. Two tracksuits, towel around her neck, water bottle, comfy trainers on her feet, the lightweight ones for the race in a bag that I carried. We parked the car where we could and made our way to the start.
Sonia finished tenth, bless her. From the start she didn’t latch on to the leading group and allowed a gap to open. At the halfway mark she broke away from the main pack but couldn’t make any headway on the leaders, so she had to run the final 5K on her lonesome ownsome. Her finishing time was half a minute slower than at Oldfield.
I gave her a peck on the cheek and draped the towel across her shoulders. She wasn’t disappointed. It was a classier field and a tough course, and she’d done her best. We skipped the presentation and went looking for a motorway services that had shower facilities for lady lorry drivers.
All the names from the Mitre were put through the PNC to check on backgrounds, and we scored hits with twenty-nine of them. Offences were evenly spread between drunk and disorderly, drink driving, receiving, theft and possession of class C drugs. We had odd hits for more serious drugs offences, burglary and GBH. Three girls were under age, one being only fifteen, and they were dressed like whores from the cheap end of Marseilles docks. The DC who spoke to them thought they were on the game. I detailed Maggie to have a word with whatever parents they had.
I had egg and chips in the café over the road and went to see the GBH offender. He lived in the twilight zone, where I’d seen the kids playing football, with a woman who wasn’t his wife and her two sons. He’d beaten up a previous girlfriend, a long time ago, and put the man she’d been having an affair with in intensive care, for which he’d received four years.
He sat me down and his lady friend made herself scarce.
‘How’s things, Malc?’ I said.
‘Not bad, Mr Priest,’ he replied. ‘I’m settled, these days. Not much money, what with t’kids, but we get by.’ I knew he was on sickness benefits because of epilepsy and asthma, and was on constant medication.
‘You’ve put weight on,’ I told him.
He laughed and tugged at the waistband of his trousers. ‘I know. Rich living, not ’elped by the steroids. What about you? You look like a whippet.
I’ve seen more meat on a butcher’s pencil.’ ‘Stress, Malc. Pure stress. What can you tell me about Jermaine Lapetite?’
‘Stress! You? Pull the other one. He was a nasty piece of work, that’s for sure. Not what you’d call real evil, if you know what I mean, but bad.’
I said, ‘No, I’m not sure what you mean.’
‘Well, you know, he wasn’t mixed up with the ’eavy boys, didn’t get people whacked, anything like that. He was small-time, but he ’ad about ten kids all over the estate. That can’t be right, can it? He poked the womenfolk of Heckley as casually as the rest of us poke the fire. It was what proved him a man, he thought. He used to come into t’Mitre dripping in gold, dressed up like Tommy Ward’s donkey, and t’young birds were attracted to him like moths to a candle. Mind you, way they dress, these days, they’re asking for it. If it’s not on offer they shouldn’t put it in t’shop window, that’s what I say.’
‘So he had enemies?’
‘I suppose so. How would you feel if your fifteen-year-old pride an’ joy, the apple of your eye, suddenly presented you with a little curly headed piccaninny? Some’d call it a killing offence, don’t you think? An’ that chopping his dick off and sticking it in ’is mouth… It all fits, dunnit?’
‘I suppose so,’ I agreed, not bothering to put him straight. We chatted for another fifteen minutes but I didn’t learn anything. Malc had stepped out of line just once, but big time. He’d done his bird and settled down. Sometimes, now and again, the system works. I thanked him for his help, wished him all the best, and left.
Sonia rang me on my mobile, so I pulled off the road.
‘Heckley Help the Aged,’ I said.
‘Oh, I’m sorry, I must have…’
‘It’s me, dumbo!’
‘Is that you, Charlie?’
‘Of course it is.’
‘What are you doing in Help the Aged?’
‘I’m not in Help the Aged. I’m in my car.’
‘Were you having me on?’
‘Yes. I’m sorry. I’ve had a stressful day and had to take it out on somebody.’ It wasn’t true but I thought it might placate her. Sonia isn’t slow, but she is naïve. She believes everything she’s told, trusts everyone. It had hurt her in the past and it could hurt her again, but it was one of the qualities that made her so loveable. ‘I’m missing you,’ I said. ‘What time will you be home?’
‘I should be early,’ she replied. ‘Are you coming for a run?’
‘I don’t think I’ll be finished in time. Why don’t you give yourself a rest day? You had a hard day yesterday.’
‘Discipline, Chas. Start knocking the sessions out and soon you’re missing more than you’re doing.’
‘Nobody would know.’
‘I’d know. It’s all psychology at the top. You’ve got to convince yourself that you’ve done everything possible. Some go out on Christmas day, because one day, when they’re battling for a place, if they’ve missed a session for Christmas they know it and it eats away at their confidence. I’ll just do a couple of steady laps at the golf course to keep loose.’
‘OK. You’ve convinced me. I’ll be home as soon as I can. What’s for tea?’
‘Um, I’m not sure. Any chance of you calling in Marks and Sparks for something quick?’
‘Can do, but I get to choose.’
‘Fair enough.’
I was back at the office, reading somebody’s Daily Express, when Maggie walked in. I watched her hang her coat on the back of a chair and lift her hair from under the collar of her blouse. As she walked over to the table in the corner where we keep the electric kettle I poked my head out of my office and shouted, ‘No sugar in mine, please.’ She flapped a hand to say she’d heard me and I pulled a chair across to the end of her desk.
‘Any joy?’ I asked, when she brought the coffees and sat down.
‘I’ve been to talk to the underage girls. Who said they were on the game?’
‘I’ve forgotten. They certainly looked as if they were on the game.’
‘Blame Christina Aguilera and Britney Spears for that. It’s what they wear, these days. If you’ve got it, flaunt it. Subtlety isn’t in the vocabulary.’
‘You can say that again. I wouldn’t let my daughter, if I had one, go out looking like that.’
‘But Charlie,’ she began, ‘you haven’t seen their mothers. You can’t always go on appearances, you know.’
‘Don’t remind me,’ I told her, remembering the two posh cars. ‘Did they have anything to say about Lapetite?’
‘One of them thought he was wonderful, the other two said he was a creep. Take your pick. I suspect he was shagging one of them and had turned down or finished with the other two. He was good fun; always had some pot; never tried them with anything harder.’ Pink spots appeared on her cheeks as she added, ‘Drugs, that is.’
I said, ‘Maggie, you blushed.’
‘Sorry.’
‘I didn’t know you had a blush in you.’
‘Neither did I. They think Jermaine was killed by a jealous boyfriend.’
The door banged and there was a burst of voices as Eddie, George and Brendan came in. They hung up their coats, complained that the kettle was empty, scraped chairs and said their hellos. When they were settled I asked if they had anything interesting to report, but the question was answered with headshakes. ‘You find anything, guv?’ Eddie asked.
‘No,’ I replied. ‘General consensus is that young Jermaine was a human sex machine with the morality of a goat, and that’s what got him to
pped. Except, of course, the local populace doesn’t know that we are linking his murder with that of Alfred Armitage.’
‘You mean, they were both executions,’ Eddie said.
‘That’s right.’
Dave came in, saw us in a cluster, and sat down at his own desk, yards away. George asked Eddie what his wife had thought of the T-shirt from the Harley shop.
Eddie laughed. ‘She’s threatened to cut it up if I ever wear it.’
George said, ‘One day she’ll cut you up.’
‘Nah,’ Eddie assured him. ‘She knows which side her bread’s buttered on.’
Brendan turned to me, asking, ‘Did the psychiatrist have anything to say, boss?’
I nodded. ‘Yes, he’s convinced both murders were done by the same person, and he said he’ll kill again. According to Adrian, the killer – the Executioner – is getting his act in order and next time it will be a bit special.’
‘Special? What did he mean by that?’
‘I dread to think.’
‘We’ll catch him then.’
‘I wish I had your faith.’
I picked up my mug and walked over to my office. ‘A word, Dave,’ I said as I passed his desk, and he followed me. I closed the door.
‘Fancy a pint, later?’ I asked him.
‘Mmm, could do. How did the race go?’
‘She finished tenth. Poor thing woke up with a cold, didn’t feel too good. She did well. I notice that you studiously didn’t join us, just now.’
‘Nothing personal, Chas. I prefer not to be in the company of that arrogant sod if I can help it.’
‘Any more poodle drawings?’
‘Who told you about that?’
‘I have my spies. You don’t have to work with him, as long as it doesn’t interfere with the job, but I know what you mean. I wish he’d stop calling me guv.’
‘It’s a military thing,’ Dave told me.
I said, ‘You mean, like, he says it to keep a distance between us?’
‘That’s right. In the army, on exercises, you might drop most of the bullshit, use first names, that sort of thing. But if you didn’t like an officer you’d keep it formal.’
‘Well that’s reassuring. Thanks for that, Dave.’
‘Don’t mention it. What time tonight?’
‘I’ll give you a ring.’
I spent the rest of the afternoon reading reports and processing all the other stuff that piled up on my desk. Jeff came in with a smile on his face and his ears more prominent than usual.
‘I’ve been to see Angie,’ he told me.
‘Angie of the sex shop fame?’
‘That’s right.’ He stroked each side of his head twice with his fingertips. ‘Gave me a trim, on the house. I’ve told her that we’ve given young Terry Hyson a good talking to but he denies it was him. She says he’s a lying toad. Anyway, she’s changing the name of the shop to Kurl up and Dye.’
‘In memory of Hyson?’
‘Probably. I told her that it isn’t very original, so she said we’ve to think of something better.’
‘You mean like Herr Kutz, the Hair Port, and all those?’
‘Mmm, but original.’
‘Right, if I can’t sleep tonight I’ll give it some thought. How’s everything else?’
‘No problems, except we haven’t traced that Merc yet.’
‘Keep at it.’
I decided on lasagne and bread and butter pudding and sneaked out to buy them before they sold out for the day, but I was too late: they’d had a run on the bread and butter pudding. M & S bread and butter pudding is my favourite, next to homemade apple pie, but they were right out of it. Ah, well, it would just have to be rhubarb crumble. I put the bag in the car boot and went back to the office. I could have finished reasonably early and made it home in time for a run, but I didn’t feel like it, and being late in from work was the easiest way of dodging it. I went upstairs and talked with Gilbert, reminded him of the way we were tackling the case. Going over things sometimes helps, but not this time. When the rush hour traffic had subsided I placed everything in neat piles on my desk and drove home.
I decided I’d do the crumble and the lasagne in the oven rather than the microwave. Microwaves are quick but they are savage. Rhubarb crumble requires gentle treatment, and there was plenty of time. Sonia’s run would take her about an hour and a half, including driving to and from the golf club.
Men were walking about in their shirtsleeves and shorts, the women in minuscule tops with thin straps. I wound the car window down and started to sing a happy song, out loud, but not loud enough for anybody else to hear:
‘Sometahms Ah feel like a mudderless chile,
Sometahms Ah feel like a mudderless chile…’
That one always cheers me up. A girl in a cotton dress was approaching a zebra crossing in front of me, so I slowed and gestured her across. She gave me a smile and I flashed my lopsided one at her. It would be a good evening for a steady run. I could have done it bare-chested, worked at my tan. I’d need a tan if I went to South Africa with Sonia. I’d prefer to go to Arizona, I thought, but Sith Ifrica would do.
Curlew! It just came to me, out of the blue, like being hit by an aeroplane door. Curlew Hairdressing, with a curlew logo. I’d tell Jeff in the morning. I’d never seen a Curlew Hairdressing salon anywhere. Why doesn’t inspiration like that come to me about important things, though, I wondered?
‘Sometahms Ah feel like a mudderless chile…’
I was pulling into my driveway as I reached the end of the stanza…
‘A long wa-ay from home.’
Sonia’s car wasn’t on the drive, but she’d left a note under the kettle, where I couldn’t miss it. ‘Back about half seven. Have the tea ready,’ it said. The clock on the oven was showing 19:09 and the lasagne needed 30 minutes at 190 degrees. The oven would take at least five minutes to reach that temperature, so Sonia would have enough time for a quick shower before we ate. Perfect. I switched the oven on and washed my hands. Our breakfast things were on the draining rack, so I put them away and removed the lasagne and the pudding from their cartons. There was some broccoli in the fridge’s salad tray, so I decided we’d have that too. It was hardly five portions, but I sometimes wonder if the people who come up with these recommendations live in the real world.
When the little red light went out I put the lasagne on the top shelf of the oven and set the timer for 14 minutes. The pudding only needed 16 minutes, so it could go in then. When the broccoli came to the boil I turned the heat off and placed the lid on the pan. That would cook itself in thirty minutes. I could have been a chef, if I hadn’t made the grade as a cop.
I placed knives, forks and spoons on the table, with an empty glass for each of us. When the pips went I placed the pudding on the middle shelf and reset the timer for another 16 minutes. The clock was showing 19:28, so La Gazelle should have finished her run and be setting off home. I had a drink of water from the tap and settled down to snooze in the rocking chair.
The timer announced that the lasagne was cooked at 19:44, but Sonia still hadn’t arrived. I went in the front room and flicked round the channels, with the usual disappointing result. Back in the kitchen I put Sonia’s Robbie Williams in the player and settled down to wait. He’s no Frank Sinatra. After a couple of songs I went outside and sat on the bench with the sun on my face until the character next door started his petrol mower and began to chug up and down his garden. Some people are never content to let nature take care of things. They trim and prune, dead-head and weed, and their gardens don’t look any better than mine. Not if you’re a bird or a hedgehog. Maybe we’d have to have a blitz on it, next weekend, before the neighbours organised a petition.
Marks and Spencer’s lasagne contains beef, egg pasta, tomatoes, milk, water, onions, mushrooms, cream, wheatflour, cheese, butter, olive oil, cornflour, oregano, pepper, bay and nutmeg. All good stuff. A portion of their rhubarb crumble provides fifteen per cent of the daily energ
y requirement of an average man. I worked it out from the figures on the box. I opened the oven door to stop our dinner drying out and put the kettle on. She must have met someone she knew, and perhaps they’d called for a drink in the clubhouse. When she hadn’t arrived home or rung me by 8.30 I began to worry. What if she’d fallen in the woods and sprained an ankle or damaged her knee again? I gave her another ten minutes, then drove to the golf club.
The dog-walkers had long gone and her car was standing all alone where we always park. The doors were locked and the engine cold. I walked round it, as if expecting it to speak to me, but it didn’t. All four tyres were inflated. It just stood there, enigmatic, like the Mary Celeste. The steward of the golf club wasn’t much help. No, nobody in running kit had been in for a drink that evening. From the clubhouse you can see right round the golf course, and she wasn’t there. I decided that she must be in the woods.
It took me nearly 40 minutes to walk our route through the woods, and it was almost dark when I arrived back at the cars, without Sonia. I rang Dave.
‘Dave, it’s Charlie,’ I said. ‘I’m worried stiff. Sonia’s missing.’
‘Missing? What do you mean by missing?’
Poor Dave. He thought I was trying to tell him that Sonia had walked out on me. ‘She went out for a run,’ I explained, ‘and she’s lost somewhere. She should have been back two hours ago. I’m at the golf club and I’ve walked her route, but she’s not there.’
‘Where are you now?’ he asked.
‘I’m in the golf club car park, standing next to her car.’
Dave was silent for a few moments, then he said, ‘OK, Charlie, how’s this sound: her car wouldn’t start, or she lost the key, and she’s jogged home?’
It sounded so obvious. ‘Yeah,’ I agreed. ‘It’s a possibility.’
‘Right. So you go home and see if she’s there. Ring me on my mobile, either way.’
‘I’m on my way,’ I told him, convinced he was right. The simple explanation is always the right one.
But she wasn’t there. I shouted her name, dashing from room to room, upstairs and down, turning lights on. There was no sign of her, no sound from the bathroom of a running shower, no pile of running kit on the bed, no other note. I reread the one she’d left, double checked the time, and found myself soaked in a cold sweat.
Shooting Elvis Page 17
