"Oh, Charles, I am sorry."
"Tell me about yours," I said.
"My wedding reception?"
"Yes. Where was it?"
"In Kenya."
"Whereabouts?"
"A little township called Navashonga, in the north."
"Go on. I like to hear you talk about Kenya."
We were at the traffic lights. They changed to green and I eased forward, Annabelle's hand on my knee. When I was in top gear again I put mine back on it.
"It was the start of the long wet season," she began, 'so the acacia trees were in blossom. The church was made of breeze blocks and flattened oil drums, with a piano that had several keys missing. After the service we had a picnic, everybody invited. People came from miles around half of Africa must have been there and the Samburu danced for us. It was wonderful."
I could picture it, through her eyes. She'd shown me her photographs and books and the images were as vivid to me as if I'd been there myself: the flat-topped fever thorn trees, the cattle, swirling dust and pogo-stick dancing of the Samburu, close cousins of the Masai. She was happy when she reminisced, and that usually made me happy, too.
But tonight it was different. Tonight, as I listened to her reminisce, her voice far away, on another continent, with another man, the ache in my stomach felt as if something was trying to suck my entrails from me, and I knew it wasn't the halibut.
"Am I invited in?" I asked as we drew up outside the Old Vicarage.
"Of course, silly. Besides, we're home a little earlier than expected."
"Mmm, that's true."
We spread the drawings of the restaurant on the refectory table in her kitchen. The paper wasn't substantial enough for watercolours, so I suggested she purchase coloured pencils from the art shop in town.
Using an HB which she found I demonstrated how to do it and watched as she tried herself. Some people have a knack for drawing, some don't, and to them it's like being tone deaf. A foreign language. Annabelle had the ability, but had never practised. It was only colouring squares, so she'd soon get the hang of it. She explained her ideas, for my approval, and I told her about the silver and gold pens you could buy. They'd do for highlighting the borders.
"Do you want me to take you to the station in the morning?" I asked as I finished my mug of decaff and stood up to leave.
"It's kind of you Charles, but I've.ordered a taxi. For six thirty, would you believe?"
"You know I'd be happy to take you down there; go with you."
"No. We want to take a look at a couple of restaurants in the West End and Docklands. See if they inspire us. There's a limit to how many times you can do that in a weekend."
"So when are you coming home?"
"Monday."
"You'll put on weight."
"Probably."
I put my arms around her for my customary goodnight kiss. She melted into them but buried her face in my neck.
"You're a very thoughtful person, Charles," she said as we separated.
I pecked her on the nose. "Goodnight."
"Goodnight."
Halfway out of the door I hesitated. I wanted to tell her not to go to London. Not to go running to this mysterious millionaire with his grandiose schemes whose spell she'd fallen under. "Annabelle, what would you say if I asked you not to go?"
But I didn't. If I'd asked, and she'd not gone, it would always have been there between us, like an invisible strand of barbed wire with bits of wool dangling where something had blundered into it. I pulled the door shut and strode down her garden path.
I drove straight off, but stopped around the corner at the end of her street. Perhaps I should have said more? Maybe I should go back? But what would I be going back to? Her eyes had been on the edge of tears as we said that last goodnight, and I was scared of the reason. I put the car in gear and drove away, fairly close to them myself.
Darryl Buxton's Mondeo was in his spot outside the Canalside Mews, but there was no light showing in his apartment. I don't know what I'd expected. I sat and watched for fifteen minutes but nobody came, nobody went. "Go home, Charlie," I said to myself. "Go home. You shouldn't be here." Common sense got the better of me, for once. I went home.
The ansa phone was beeping. A visit from the mailman used to be a delight as you anticipated the message he'd brought, read the envelope and wondered who it was from. Now, envelopes with windows contain bills or computer-generated claptrap that makes your heart bleed for the rain-forest dweller that your personal consignment has rendered homeless. You scan the pile on the doormat and dump the lot in the bin without a second thought.
Not so the ansa phone It still has the power to raise a minute thrill of expectancy as you press the replay button. Double glazing companies and charities do not leave junk messages on ansa phones They know you're not going to ring them back. And, now of all times, there was the possibility that it was Annabelle…
The electronic lady told me that I had one message. There were the usual bleeps and clicks, followed by a brief silence and the noise of a handset being replaced, breaking the connection. "Your message timed at eleven sixteen p.m.," the lady told me, which made it about ten minutes ago. I pressed 1471 and she gave me the number for Heckley police station.
"Hello, Arthur, it's Charlie Priest," I said when they answered.
"You've been after me."
"Hello, Boss that's right, a few minutes ago. We've contacted DS Newley and he's taken it, so you can go to bed safe in the knowledge that it's all in good hands."
"What was it?"
"Girl well, a young woman on the Sylvan Fields estate. Badly beaten up. She staggered into a neighbour's and they drove her to the General."
"Right. I think the young Mr. Newley should be able to handle that.
Let me know if there are developments." In other words, if she dies.
"Will do, Boss. And thanks for ringing."
On the other hand, I was still wearing my shoes and jacket, the car engine was warm, and sleep was about as far away as the cure for snoring. I squealed the tyres as I set off, just to let the neighbours know that the forces of law are vigilant around the clock.
A Heckley panda was parked outside the Accident and Emergency entrance.
We always used to call it Casualty. Inside I found a PC I knew and WPC Kent, who I didn't.
"Hello, Graham," I said. "What have we got?"
"Hello, Mr. Priest. DS Newley's here, you know."
"Is he? I must be slowing down in my old age. Where is he?"
"Talking to the doctor in IC
"What happened?"
"The hospital contacted the station, after she was brought in. They say she's obviously been done over pretty bad. She's called Samantha Teague, from an address on the Sylvan Fields."
"What happened to the people who brought her in?"
"They've gone home."
"OK. In that case let's find Nigel."
I led the way to Intensive Care. It was a journey I knew too well. As we followed the yellow line painted down the length of the corridor floor I turned to WPC Kent and said: "I'm sorry, I don't know your first name."
"It's Claire, sir."
"And you don't mind me calling you Claire?"
"Of course not, sir."
"Good. Pleased to meet you. I'm Charlie Priest. I object strongly to you calling me sir, unless it's absolutely essential. Graham will tell you all about it."
Nigel and a ridiculously young doctor were standing outside the doors of IC, deep in conversation. They turned as we approached and Nigel introduced me. "She's stable," the doctor said. "We'll have her in surgery in the morning and she should be able to go straight on to a ward, if we've picked up everything."
"What are her injuries?" I asked.
"Broken jaw, depressed fracture of the cheek, several broken ribs, concussion, extensive bruising and a few lacerations. I'd say she was given a good thumping round the head and then he put the boot in."
"Nice man," I said. "You
mentioned concussion, when can we talk to her?"
"She's drifting in and out of consciousness. You can try having a word, for a minute or two, but she won't be able to speak."
"Thanks." I turned to Nigel and suggested that he take Graham to the Sylvan Fields and they interview whoever brought her to the hospital.
Maybe they knew her assailant.
Which left me with Claire Kent. I hadn't planned it that way, it was just how things worked out. "Let's have a word with Samantha, then," I said to her.
From the contours of the sheet draped over her it was easy to see how thin she was. There was a skeleton under there, and little else. The face was a different story. An oxygen mask covered her nose and mouth, resting uncomfortably on the swelling. One eye was closed-up completely and the other was blackening. Her left cheek was the colour of a dip so s liver and in the midst of the bruising I could see three, then four, small deep lacerations.
"What do you think caused those?" I asked the doctor. Claire leaned over to inspect them.
"I wondered if he was wearing a ring," he suggested. "A signet ring or, say, one of those with a sovereign in it."
But wouldn't that have made a sharper cut? These are, like, intense bruises, with the skin bursting in the middle."
"Yes, I see what you mean. Unless he was wearing gloves over the ring."
"Well done, Doc," I said. "I think you're right. We'll have them photographed."
"There's two more down here," he said. He slackened off the elastics holding the oxygen mask, saying that her face was still swelling, and pulled it down to reveal her mouth and jaw.
"She had a ring through her lip," he told us. "We found it in her mouth, hanging on by a strip of skin. That didn't help."
"Oh, you poor kid," I whispered. "You poor kid." I straightened up and took in the battered face. Man's inhumanity to Woman in all its glory. Some men have the need to do it, some women endure it for years. This was as bad as it got the next step was murder.
Her hair was spread out to one side, loose and flowing against the crispness of the linen, and the words of the song flashed through my mind: "Your head upon the pillow in a fair and a golden storm." What if it did come from a bottle? Nobody ever said Marilyn Monroe was a natural.
I put my hands on the rail at the bottom of the bed and turned away.
The walls were revolving around me.
"Are you all right?" the doctor asked, laying a hand on my arm.
"I know her," I said. "I know her."
"You know her?"
"Yes."
I sat on the edge of the bed and leaned across her. "Samantha," I said, softly. "Can you hear me?"
The third time I asked she opened her good eye.
"Hello, Samantha," I said. "My name's Charlie. I saw you last week, in your office. Remember?" There was no response.
"I came to see Darryl," I continued, 'and he sent you out to do some shopping while we talked." I swear her body tensed at the mention of his name, and I wondered if the instruments wired to her recorded it.
Her face was incapable of showing emotion.
"Can you hear me, Samantha?" I asked. "Blink your eyes if you can hear me."
She did better than that. She gave a barely perceptible nod of the head.
"She nodded, Mr. Priest," I heard PC Kent say.
"I know," I replied. "She's a brave girl. Do you remember me, Samantha?"
Little nod.
"You're in hospital, Samantha. Someone attacked you. But you're safe, now. No one can hurt you here. Do you understand?"
Nod.
"I'm a policeman, Samantha. I want to catch the person who did this to you and put him in jail, where he belongs. Can you hear what I'm saying?"
Nod.
"That's very good. You're doing well. Now listen very carefully to this next bit, Samantha. Was it Darryl who did this to you. Was it your boss, Darryl Buxton?"
Her head jerked sideways, away from me, and she winced with pain.
"Was it Darryl?" I repeated.
No response.
"I think that's enough, Inspector," the doctor said.
"OK," I told him, raising a hand to fend him off for a few more seconds. "Samantha, look at me." Her head came back round and the good eye pointed in my direction. "This lady," I said, reaching out towards PC Kent, 'is called Claire." She came and stood by me. "She's going to stay with you, to make sure you are safe. Outside there are ten policemen with guns, just to look after you. That's twice as many as Prince William has. Claire is in charge of them. All you have to do is have a good rest and get better. Understand?"
She nodded.
"Good. There's nothing to be frightened of, now." I stood up and turned away.
The doctor walked to the door with me and I beckoned for Claire to join us. "I'll send for the photographer, get those wounds recorded, if that's OK, Doc?"
"Mmm. No problem."
"Thanks. Claire, have you heard of a dying declaration?"
"Yes sir, Mr. Priest. You mean that if she thinks she's about to die she might change her mind about telling us who did this to her?"
"That's right. She works for a man called Darryl Buxton who is a right thug. There's a good chance this is his handiwork. Keep your notebook with you just in case."
She looked concerned. "Do you think it might come to that, sir?"
I turned to the doctor, deflecting the question in his direction. "I'd say she was off the critical list," he told us, 'but we don't know how bad the internal damage is. She's not out of the woods just yet."
I was dozing behind my desk, feet on radiator, when Nigel rang. If I'd been at home in bed I wouldn't have slept a wink. It's as if you need some discomfort to divert your attention. It was just before one a.m."
Saturday morning.
"We've spoken to the neighbours," he said.
"Go on."
"Samantha lives in a council house that she rented with her boyfriend, but he left months ago. The neighbours who brought her in say they heard a noise at their door at about a quarter to eleven and found her slumped on the floor. They don't have a phone so the husband decided to bring her in himself, thought it would be quicker. The neighbours at the other side heard a car door, possibly a bit before that, and the sound of it driving away. Nothing special, possibly a diesel."
"Or a taxi?"
"Possibly."
"Great." I told him who Samantha was, and that I was going to ask uniformed to arrest her boss, Darryl the Rapist.
"On what grounds?" he asked.
"On the grounds that Samantha was scared stiff when I mentioned his name. Whoever worked her over was wearing gloves. If we can find them we have him. See you here about ten, eh?"
"Ten it is, Boss."
"Get some sleep. Darryl and his solicitor are about to have theirs disturbed."
It took another hour to organise lifting Darryl and searching his house. I rang a lady magistrate I do regular business with and she agreed to sign a warrant. We despatched a panda to collect it. After that I went home and set my alarm for seven o'clock, five hours away. I slept quite well, but was waiting for the alarm.
I drove straight round to Canalside Mews. Two pandas were parked outside and young Graham opened the door for me.
"Any luck?" I asked.
"Fraid not, Mr. Priest. We haven't found any gloves at all. There's three gold rings in the bedroom, and SOCO's taken imprints."
"Right," I said.
The flat was a dump. Men who live alone are granted a certain amount of dispensation in the field of housekeeping, but this went beyond that. His white tux and the frilly shirt were thrown on to the settee, next to several days' tabloids. A dirty plate and mug were on the table, and my detective skills told me that his last meal had been sardines. I wandered through the rooms, taking in the squalor and wondering what his classy neighbours would have thought. He hadn't washed up for two days and his bedroom smelled like a horse box I opened a window. On a chair was a pile of pages from newspapers
. I picked a bundle up and thumbed through them. He'd saved every page-three girl for the last six months.
"Gather round, boys and girls," I called out.
There were three of them, Graham's partner Claire still being at the hospital. When I was a rooky PC on nightshift my partner was David Sparkington. Such is life.
"I appreciate it's Saturday and you should all be home in bed," I said, 'but are you all right for staying a little longer?"
They nodded.
"Good. I want to widen the enquiry. First of all, though, let's have a think about Darryl's movements." I told them about Samantha and gave a brief resume of what we presumed had happened.
"If he was wearing gloves," I went on, "It's imperative that we find them. Let's suppose that he did go round to Samantha's and did beat her up. How did he get there?"
"Taxi?" one of them suggested.
"It looks like it. So he does the deed. How does he get back here?"
"Another taxi?"
"How do you get a taxi in Sylvan Fields at eleven o'clock at night?"
"Ring on your mobile. He sounds the mobile type."
"Very good," I said. "He rings for a taxi on his mobile. Meanwhile what does he do? Wait at Samantha's? Or sit under a street lamp?"
"Start walking?"
"What do you think?"
They all agreed that he'd start walking home, looking out for the taxi coming to collect him.
"Right," I agreed. "And I reckon he'd walk downhill towards the town centre. And maybe he got rid of the gloves on the way. I'll organise some more help. When it arrives, start looking for the gloves along the route he might have taken. I'll have a word with the taxi firms.
Meanwhile, there's something else, but it's off the record."
I told them about the rape, and asked them to make a note of anything that gave a clue towards his sexual inclinations. It wouldn't be admissible as evidence, but these days nothing is if it incriminates the accused.
Mr. Turner didn't look pleased when I passed him in the foyer of the nick, waiting to be taken to his client. Nigel was in the office, brewing up.
"You're early," I told him.
"Eager," he replied.
"I think I'll let you talk to Buxton," I said. "Keep the enquiries separate. Otherwise they might just assume that I'm pursuing a vendetta against him and not take it seriously."
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