"He joined the Merchant Navy, I've never seen him since."
"Your dad sounds a bit like mine," I told her. "He was interested in everything, taught me to ask questions, never to be afraid of making a fool of myself. 'There's always someone wanting to know the same thing but daren't ask,' he used to tell me. Was your dad a teacher, too?"
Rosie gave a tiny involuntary jump, coming back from wherever she'd drifted off to, and smiled as she said: "No, he was a baker. We owned a bakery in South Wales, near a village called Laugharne. Mum was a great fan of Dylan Thomas, who had lived there for a while. That's how we came to know the place."
"So you're Welsh. You don't have the accent."
"No, I'm English. We originated in Gloucestershire and moved to Wales when I was three. And that part of Wales used to be known as Little England. Then… afterwards… we moved to East Anglia. Cromer and a couple of other places."
Afterwards, she'd said, with some emphasis, but I decided not to pry. I wanted to see her again, not learn her life-story. I decided to stay on safe ground. "So it was fresh bread every morning," I stated. "My mouth is watering at the thought of it."
"It was wonderful. We lived over the bakery and awoke to the smell. Dad started work at three in the morning but he'd be finished by noon, so he was always there to meet us from school and that's when we'd go walking on the beach. We looked for fossils and collected various shells and pebbles. He taught me how to identify minerals by doing scratch and hardness tests. Things like that."
I felt envious, and my stomach reminded me that I'd had a canteen pie for lunch and a bowl of cornflakes before I dashed out to the class. OK, so it was a large bowl, and I'd had a sliced banana with honey on the flakes, but I'm a big lad.
"It sounds idyllic," I told her. "So what brought you to Yorkshire?"
"It was, but it couldn't last. Dad… he died, and Mum started to follow the same route as her hero, Dylan Thomas. She hit the bottle. We went from warm, loving, nuclear family to totally dysfunctional in less than three months. I scraped into university and married a fellow student who turned out to be a total waster. Took me twelve years to realise it, unfortunately. I walked out on him and headed north, in search of no-nonsense, northern straightforwardness and hospitality."
"Ha! And did you find it?"
"I'm not sure."
"I'm sorry about the family. I take it you have no children?"
"No. Have you any?"
I looked straight at her, face composed, as I replied: "I imagine so," but I couldn't maintain the look and broke into a grin. "No, no children," I admitted.
"And is there a Mrs Charlie Priest, as in Roman Catholic?"
"That's my line."
"I know. That's what you told me when I asked you your name at enrolment."
"You remembered. I'm flattered." I held her gaze and saw that hint of a blush again. "No, there is no Mrs Priest. Same story as you, except she walked out on me, left me holding the J-cloth."
"She found herself a rich boyfriend," I added, in an attempt to clear myself of any responsibility for the break-up.
"Same again?"
"I'll get them," I said, reaching for my wallet.
"No, it's my turn. G and t?"
"No, just an orange juice, please, with lemonade."
I watched her go to the bar and decided that there was something I liked about Rosie Barraclough, and it wasn't just those slim hips and that handsome face. There was a strange mix of vulnerability and strength in her character, a joy that hid a deep sadness, and I knew for certain that I wanted to play a part in trying to ease that sadness. I never dreamed how wrong I could be; how I would make it a million times worse.
"So what about you, Charlie?" she said as she placed my drink in front of me. "You've learned my life-story, now it's your turn."
When you are a cop, a detective, you learn techniques for getting people to open up and confide in you. You learn all there is about them without giving away a single thing about yourself. Sometimes it's like opening a bottle of ketchup: nothing comes out for a while and then suddenly you're covered in it. In the police station, on the job, that's good, but you find yourself doing it in your private life, too, and that's not good. I had nothing to hide from Rosie, nothing at all, but I don't like talking about myself. If you keep quiet, people give you the benefit of the doubt. Why open your mouth and prove them wrong?
"There's not much to say," I told her. "I've lived in Heckley all my life, went to Heckley Grammar School where I was captain of the football team, then art college, one marriage, met Rosie Barraclough whilst studying geology. I do quite a lot of walking, occasionally paint a large abstract when I'm feeling fraught, and like to do all the normal things that you see in the personal ads. I've a GSH and WLTM an NS for an LTR, or something."
Rosie eyes crinkled as she smiled at me. "Have you ever advertised?"
"No, honest. Have you?"
"I've never been so desperate. I suppose some people are trapped by their circumstances and that's their only chance to meet people."
"I suppose so." I was going to add that night classes were a better way, but decided not to. We talked about our families for a while and I learned that Rosie's mother was still alive, in a nursing home in East Anglia.
"Another?" I asked, pointing at her empty glass, but she shook her head and said she ought to be off. As we walked across the car park I told her that I'd like to see her again. Rosie said she'd look forward to that and we agreed to meet on Saturday night. When you are single it's the weekend evenings that are most difficult to fill. She wrote her phone number on a pay-and-display ticket for me and I put it in a safe place.
"Drink, Chinese, curry, pictures, theatre?" I said. "If we want to go to the theatre I'll have to get the tickets." We were standing alongside her car as she held the driver's door open, and a light drizzle had started to fall.
"Not the cinema or the theatre," she replied. "Let's go where we can talk."
"Chinese and a drink?"
"Lovely, and perhaps then I'll learn a little bit more about the enigmatic Charlie Priest."
"I'm afraid there's no more to tell. I'm a very shallow person."
"That I don't believe. I'm still worried about that ammonite."
"The ammonite?"
"The crinoids. You knew perfectly well what they were, so why did you call them an ammonite? Was it to encourage Miss Eakin, which would be kind of you, or was it because you're a control freak, laughing at everybody from behind your sleeve?"
"Damn, you've rumbled me. It was because I was trying to win the heart of Miss Eakin. Either one. "[he pair of them would have been beyond my wildest fantasy."
"I'll believe you. And you can tell me all about the secret art of the graphic designer. It's a mystery to me what they do."
"A graphic designer? Who said I was a graphic designer?"
"You did, the first night. We were admiring the drawing you did of a trilobite and Tom asked you what you did for a living. I thought you said you were a graphic designer."
"Ah! No. I'm sorry. I didn't think you'd heard that. It's just a defence mechanism. If I say what I really do people start asking me all sorts of questions, telling me their problems, laying down the law as they see it. It's a lot easier to tell a fib. I always say I'm a graphic designer and that usually silences them."
"So what do you do?"
"I'm a policeman. A detective. I'm sorry if I misled you, it wasn't intentional. You're getting soaked."
I'm not sure if it was the lie or the fact that I was a cop that dismayed Rosie, but something did. Her eyes narrowed and the smile left them. "Oh," was all she said.
"It's an honourable profession." I'd lined myself up to lean forward and give her a peck on the cheek as we said our good-nights, but I didn't get the chance. Rosie slipped into the driver's seat and I said: "I'll ring you."
"Yes," she replied as she pulled the door shut. I gave her a wave and walked over to where my own car was parked. She was embarrasse
d about being misled, I decided. When I'd plied her with one of Mr Ho's special banquets and her fingers were wrapped around another gin and tonic she'd want to know all about my best cases, of that I was sure. Women always do.
Chapter Two
"Crime pattern analysis, Charlie," Superintendent Gilbert Wood said. "I need figures, not excuses."
"Remind me," I replied. "I've lost the list."
"Percentage increase or decrease in burglary. Percentage increase or decrease in street crime. Percentage increase or decrease in car crime. By this afternoon. I need them for tomorrow."
"Right. It shall be done. Do you want to show that we are a thin blue line manfully struggling against overwhelming odds, or that we are really on top of the job?"
Gilbert looked exasperated. "The truth would be nice, for once. Do you think we could have an accurate picture of what's happening? The idea is to give the public, the newspapers and politicians some inkling of the way trends are heading. It helps formulate government policy, believe it or not. And, as a matter of fact, I'd be quite interested myself."
"The truth is the hardest option,"
"I know, but just bloody do it."
"And it will be meaningless. An informed guess by someone with my experience would give a much clearer picture of the situation."
"Oh no it wouldn't. And when you've done that, get your hair cut. You look like an unemployed violinist."
"Do you know how many mobile phones were stolen in 1982, Gilbert? I'll tell you: none. Not a single one. Or how many cars were stolen in Yorkshire in 1950? You could count them on your fingers. That's at least a ten thousand percent increase. If you don't weight the figures to compensate for other factors, like nobody had a mobile phone a few years ago, the numbers are meaningless. And do you know how much a haircut costs these days? I don't have someone to cut mine, in the kitchen with a tea towel round my neck."
"I'll mention your concerns to the Chief Constable. This afternoon, please?"
"Your wish is my command, mein Fulirer. I'm sticking round the office if I can, in case the result comes through."
"It will. They gave it what — four hours? — yesterday. They'll give it another couple this morning to make it look respectable and qualify for lunch, and then they'll announce their verdict. It's cut and dried, Charlie, believe me."
"God, I hope so. The longer it takes the less promising it looks. How's young Freddie?"
"On the mend, thanks. They took his appendix out and he sounded cheerful when his mum rang him."
Gilbert's daughter's son had been stricken with appendicitis while on a school trip. "Where is he?"
"In the General. Apparently they'd just set off when he started complaining of stomach pains. One of the teachers recognised the symptoms, thought it might be appendicitis, and they took him straight to Casualty."
"Lucky for young Freddie. OK, I'll get those figures."
I skipped down the stairs, singing a happy tune — "I don't want to set the world on fi-yah," and burst into the CID office. Big Dave "Sparky" Sparkington was sitting on the corner of a desk with his jacket hooked over his shoulder, like he was ready to be off somewhere, and Pete Goodfellow was tapping away at a keyboard. Everybody else was out making the streets of Heckley safe for children and little old ladies.
"I just want to start… aflame in your heart."
"Blimey, you sound cheerful."
"But I'm always cheerful. Peter, are those figures available?"
"Won't take a second to run them off."
"Good. Deliver them personally to Mr Wood at about ten to five, please. Loosen your tie, roll up your sleeves and splash water on your brow. Make it look as if you've spent all day wrestling with them. You might even crawl in on your hands and knees… No, on second thoughts, forget the crawling."
"Will do."
I turned to Dave. "Where are you going, Sunshine?"
"Sylvan Fields. A burglary last night and it looks as if the phantom knickers thief has struck again."
"Happy going on your own?"
"Yeah, no problem. In spite of its reputation, most of the people who live there are quite decent."
"Blimey, I never thought I'd hear you say that."
"I know. I must be mellowing with age. All the rest are toe-rags, though. Will you ring me if the verdict comes through?"
"You bet."
Off he went and I settled down in my little enclave to attack the pile of paperwork that had accrued. I'd spent an awful lot of the last six weeks in court, at a murder trial, and now the jury was out. Most of the time I'd been hanging around in the corridor, in case I was needed, with a couple of days in the witness box. Timothy Fletcher had murdered seven people, seven that we knew about, but had died whilst resisting arrest. He fell off Scammonden Bridge on to the M62, at rush hour, under a six-teen-wheeler loaded with Yorkie bars, but nobody was mourning him. The trial had been to decide how involved his girlfriend was in the murders. Was she an innocent dupe, as she claimed, or was she a fully paid-up partner? We went into court convinced that she had been instrumental in luring at least three victims into Fletcher's car, but our chief witness was still trau-matised by the attack and we had decided not to expose her to cross-examination. Meanwhile, the prisoner and her legal advisers had had six months to prepare a case and they'd done a good job. Now we weren't so cocky.
I read a policy document about Positive Crime Recording rules but most of it went straight over my head. As I understand it, when somebody comes into the station and says: "I don't want to make a complaint, but…" we've got to record it as a complaint. Normally the desk sergeant would nod gravely, make sympathetic noises, promise to have a word in the appropriate ear, and completely forget the whole thing as soon as the non-complainant walked out through the door. Or, if he deemed it serious enough, he might "have that word in somebody's ear. Either way everybody was happy. Now he has to initiate a trail of paperwork longer than Haley's comet. When the villains learn about it they'll have a field day. If every one of them came into the nick and said they didn't want to make a complaint, the whole legal system would grind to a halt. It nearly has already.
I wasn't in the mood for paperwork so I went for a wander. The typists were too busy to chat and the briefing room was deserted. "Where is everybody?" I asked as I drifted into Control.
"Hello Charlie, waiting for the verdict?" the controller replied, turning to face me.
"Mmm. This is the worst bit."
"She'll go down, sure as Christmas. They're all at the hospital. Been a bit of trouble there. Not sure what it's all about, yet."
I looked at him. "At the hospital?"
"That's right. They're not admitted, although one or two of them are contenders for the malingerers ward. We answered a call and they asked for backup. Bit of a riot outside, by the sound of it."
"Is Gareth aware of what's happening?" Gareth Adey is my uniformed counterpart.
"Yeah. He's at headquarters, in a meeting. Said to let him know if it grew serious."
"Is that our serious or his serious?" Gareth has a reputation for magnifying things.
"Ah! Good question. Let's see what I can find out."
He swivelled his chair round to face the console again and started speaking into his mouthpiece. At the second attempt the PS answered.
"What's the position, Paul?"
"Confused. Apparently there's some sort of infection loose in the hospital. They stopped all admissions yesterday afternoon, and this morning they're refusing to release anyone, including the staff. The doors are locked and the only contact is by telephone or the intercom on the door. There's people arriving all the time to pick up patients but the hospital won't discharge them, so they're growing restless, and visitors are arriving all the time too, which doesn't help."
"Any ideas what sort of infection?"
"No."
I said: "Tell him I'll try to contact the hospital manager."
"Mr Priest's with me. He says he'll try to contact the hospital manag
er. We'll get back to you, out."
But the hospital manager wasn't answering his phone and nobody else was, either. I replaced the handset after ten fruitless minutes, saying: "No doubt all will be revealed in the fullness of time," because that's the nature of infections. They flourish or they wither, but either way, they pull the strings.
I walked across the road to the sandwich shop, bought a cheese and pickle and a curd tart and sauntered back to the office. The phone rang six times. Three were to ask if I'd heard anything; one was a reporter wanting a quote — I gave him You don't need a weatherman to know which way the wind blows — and two were business. Rosie Barraclough didn't ring. I hadn't given her my number but she could have worked it out if she'd been really keen. There again, if she'd been that keen I'd probably have run a mile. I found a tabloid and a magazine in the outer office, made myself a coffee and lunched with my feet on the desk. The magazine was Dave Sparkington's copy of Naked Female Mud Wrestling USA. He takes it for the crossword.
The phone rang for the seventh time. "Priest."
"Hi Charlie. It's that time of year again." It was an inspector from another division who organised the force's contribution to the annual Heckley Gala. Part of the show is an art exhibition, open to all but with a special class for cops. We have a surprising number of respectable watercolourists helping keep law and order on the streets. And one mad abstractionist.
"Oh God," I said. "I haven't anything prepared."
"It's not for three weeks," he told me "Plenty of time for you to make a few daubs on some hardboard."
"A few daubs!" I exclaimed. "A few daubs! You're talking about fine examples of abstract expressionism."
"That's what I said. Can I put you down for two, as usual?"
"I suppose so."
"Do they have titles?"
"Yes."
"What?"
"Untitled 1 and Untitled 2."
"You're a toff, Chas."
"I know. Have you rung Woodturner Willie yet?"
"No, he's next on my list."
"Ask him to make me two frames for them, please."
"Okie-dokie. How big?"
"Um, oh, about four by three."
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