* * *
Rosie was in when I rang her, after I’d dined and washed the dishes. ‘How are you?’ I asked.
‘Oh, so-so.’
‘Have you eaten?’ If she hadn’t I could always force something else down.
‘Yes. Have you?’
‘Meat and three veg, with an M&S bread-and-butter pudding to follow. Heaven. What did you have?’
‘Poached egg on toast.’
‘That’s not enough.’
‘I had a school dinner at lunchtime.’
‘You are what you eat, you know.’
‘Then I must have eaten some rubbishy meals.’
‘School dinners. Aren’t you feeling too good, love?’
‘I’m…struggling, a bit.’
‘Listen, Rosie,’ I said. ‘No strings, no chatting you up, but I’ve managed to borrow Tony Krabbe’s photo albums. There’s some terrific stuff in there; I’m sure you’ll find them interesting. I want to go through them and make a list of all the names. How about if I brought them round and we went through them together?’
‘I don’t…’
‘C’mon, Rosie. It can’t do any harm, and I promise to behave. Scouts’ honour.’
‘You haven’t caught his murderer yet?’
‘No.’
‘Do you think there might be a picture of him in there?’
‘I doubt it, but its possible.’
‘All right then. I’ll watch out for you.’
She hadn’t baked a cake, like she used to do, and something else was missing. Her face had lost its glow and the force field that normally surrounded and defined her was switched off. I missed its sparkle and crackle. She brightened briefly as she let me in and I noticed that she was still wearing her school ma’am clothes: longish skirt and bulky sweater. Normally Rosie changed into jeans within seconds of coming through the door. She rinsed two mugs and made coffee.
We sat close together at her table and turned the pages of the albums. Apart from being a history of climbing they were also a catalogue of the changes in photography over the last 30 years. The first pictures were minute squares in fading black and white, the latest ones ten-by-eights in glorious Kodachrome.
‘I’ve been there,’ Rosie said, as we peered at three figures sitting on a summit cairn in the Lake District. ‘Good place to explore the Borrowdale Volcanic Series, and there’s supposed to be a Stone Age axe factory on the fellside, but I’ve never found anything.’
‘Me neither.’
‘And there,’ she declared. ‘Went with a chap I knew, briefly. And there.’
‘Me too.’
But within two or three pages our amateur efforts in the Lake and Peak Districts were left well behind. The photos grew bigger, the slopes steeper, the names more romantic. Soon we were clinging to rock faces in the Dolomites, the Alps and the Karakorams. Napes Needle and Pike of Stickle were replaced by Lhotse, Annapurna and the dreaded K2.
As I turned the pages I could feel Rosie’s arm warm against mine. I wanted to reach out across her shoulders and pull her close. Every instinct I had told me it was the most natural thing in the world to do, a thousand films and stories had imbued me with the belief that she would respond favourably, but I knew, deep down, that they were false. My only chance of staying friends with Rosie was to maintain the distance between us. Softly, softly, catchee monkey, but for how long I could play the game I had no idea.
We stared in wonder at vast landscapes of ice-clad peaks, me envious of the people who had the single-mindedness to sacrifice their careers and relationships, and sometimes their lives, to go off to these beautiful, inhospitable places. We didn’t speak for the last few pages, because our superlatives sounded banal. I turned over the final page somewhat reluctantly, and there he was: Tony Krabbe with another man, each cocooned in full climbing gear, but with their hoods down to take advantage of the brief sunshine as they grinned at the camera. Their teeth shone like Aldis lamps in their scabby, sun-blackened faces, and the peaks behind the camera were reflected like a saw blade in their snow goggles.
The two of them were sitting on a snow step with their feet, bristling with the evil-toothed crampons, towards the camera. The caption read: With Jeremy, Camp IV.
I touched the photo with a forefinger. ‘That’s on Everest,’ I said, my voice a whisper. ‘Last camp before they pushed to the summit. Jeremy is Jeremy Quigley. They became separated. Krabbe made it to the top and back down. Jeremy perished.’
‘Which one’s Jeremy?’
‘That one, I think.’
‘Poor chap.’
‘Yeah, poor chap.’
The eastern leg of the M62 is probably the quietest stretch of road in the country. Its construction, and that of the Humber Bridge, was more to do with pandering to the electorate than with needs of the traffic lobby. Gabrielle Naylor ran an animal sanctuary, called High Chaparral, near Barton, on the south side of the bridge.
Dave touched 110 on the motorway, out of sheer exuberance, and conned his way through the tollbooth by flashing his warrant card.
‘I, er, had a word with Sophie last night,’ he’d said to me on one of the slower stretches.
‘You rang her?’
‘Mmm.’
‘How is she?’
‘She’s OK. I, sort of, told her it was all right.’
‘So you’re friends again.’
‘I suppose so. She said you were good to her.’
‘We came to an agreement.’
‘An agreement?’
‘Yeah. If it’s a boy she’s calling him Charlie.’
‘Over my dead body.’
Once it was called Lincolnshire, then it became South Humberside, and now it’s something else but nobody knows what. Businesses are waiting before they order new stationery in case the name changes again. Armies fought over the land and now county councils do the same. God knows why. It’s flat, barren and bleak, fit only for growing potatoes, and the most prominent colour is mud. Everything about it feels as if it were designed by a committee. The people are good and nice, of course they are, and, when the sun comes out it’s probably as pretty and welcoming as anywhere in the country. But on the few occasions I’ve ventured over there it’s either been grizzling with rain or swept by winds from the Urals. The folks of South Humberside buy their clothes with the collars already turned up.
We were lost, thumbing through his book of maps, when Dave said: ‘I think we’ve found it.’
I looked up and followed his gaze. A lugubrious head on the end of a long neck was peering over the hedge, studying us. ‘You could be right,’ I agreed.
‘Can we call you Gabrielle?’ Dave asked after she’d met us at the gate; our presence announced by three liquorice-allsorts dogs that leapt and cavorted in a friendly way when they saw us. We’d seen her in the distance, heaving straw bales on to a stack, and were wondering how to attract her attention when the dogs did it for us. Gabrielle had ordered them away and opened the gate.
‘Gabi,’ she replied. ‘Everybody calls me Gabi.’ She was small and dark, with a tip-tilted nose that no-doubt had a band of freckles across it when she was younger.
‘Was that a llama we saw?’ I asked as she led us towards her small bungalow.
‘Yes. We rescued him – he’s called Santiago – from a farmer who’d died and he didn’t fit in with the new owner’s plans. That’s how we get most of our animals.’ Several donkeys were tethered in a field with a flock of geese grazing amongst them. Hutches outside the bungalow held rabbits and guinea pigs, and a purpose built run housed a selection of cats.
Another donkey was standing by the door. ‘This is Pedro,’ Gabi told us. ‘He’s our longest-serving resident.’ Pedro stuffed his muzzle in Dave’s jacket and he rubbed the donkey’s ears.
‘Behave, Pedro,’ Gabi said, pulling him away, adding, with a chuckle: ‘You’ll have to excuse him, he’s from Barcelona.’ We entered her tiny, cluttered kitchen and she spooned coffee into three mugs without asking if w
e’d like one. ‘Find a seat, if you can. Sorry about the mess, but this is tidy for me.’
An Aga cooker took up almost one wall and a table occupied most of the remaining space. We pulled chairs from beneath it and sat down.
‘Doesn’t Pedro find it a bit cool in this part of the world?’ I asked, grateful for the warmth of the Aga.
She stirred the mugs and put them before us, with a jug of milk, saying: ‘Sorry, but I don’t have any sugar.’
‘That’s OK,’ we said.
‘Pedro?’ she repeated. ‘No, he’s happy here. He was rescued from a festival to one of the saints, by a tourist in one of the remote villages. They hold it every year, so Pedro was lucky. The fattest man in the village rides around on the unfortunate animal until it’s near collapsing, then all the other so-called men of the village climb on with him. The donkey is crushed to death.’
Her hands were wrapped around her mug and I noticed that the little finger of her left hand was missing. Paperwork was neatly sorted into four piles on the table, each one held in place by a pebble. I said: ‘There are some evil people out there, Gabi. You probably see more evidence of it than we do.’
‘Animals don’t let you down,’ she replied. ‘You always know where you are with them. I used to work here when I was a teenager. Then, when I was looking for a change, the owner became too frail to manage, so I took it on. You said you wanted to talk about Tony.’
‘How well did you know him?’ Dave asked.
‘Quite well. We’d met several times over the years, at various nights out and climbing functions. Book launches, fundraising, that sort of thing. First time I met him was on a rock-climbing course.’
‘You’re a climber?’
‘Was a climber, but never too seriously. I just went along for the beer.’ A smile lit up her face and the corners of her eyes crinkled into a patchwork of criss-crossing creases. In that moment I realised how beautiful she was. Outdoor girls, I thought. Give me an outdoor girl every time. ‘And then, she went on, hesitantly now, ‘after Jeremy died, we started dating. Just a bit. He found me some work, but it didn’t last.’
‘What sort of work?’
‘With a TV company he was well-in with, as a researcher. We made outdoor documentaries. I loved it, but…it didn’t last.’
‘How close were you to Jeremy?’ I asked.
‘We were engaged. We’d set a date, conveniently after the Everest expedition. But I never saw him again.’ Her head lowered and she lined her coffee mug up with the pattern on the table cover, equidistant from three corners of the design. ‘Tony came to see me, told me what had happened. He sounded grief-stricken, as I was. I suppose we comforted each other. At that level, Mr Priest, it’s an incestuous world. Outsiders don’t understand what drives them on. But…that didn’t last long, either.’
I reached across the table and touched the stump of her little finger with the tip of my forefinger. ‘What happened to that little piggy?’ I asked.
She smiled again and withdrew her hand. ‘Climbing,’ she explained. ‘In Derbyshire. The leader dislodged a stone and it fell on my finger. Chopped it clean off.’ She illustrated her words with a chopping motion.
‘I don’t suppose it was Tony Krabbe leading?’ I asked.
‘No,’ she replied. ‘Actually, it was Jeremy. He was devastated. Leaders are not supposed to do that. He half carried me to the road and rushed me to hospital, but they couldn’t save it. This may sound unbelievably corny to you, Mr Priest, but that’s when we fell in love with each other.’
‘No, it sounds perfectly natural to me, Gabi,’ I replied, smiling at her, ‘and totally understandable.’
Santiago and Pedro were standing by the door as we left. ‘It’s their feeding time,’ Gabi explained, pushing them away.
‘Do you need a hand with those straw bales?’ Dave asked.
‘No, I can manage. I’m as strong as an ox, but it’s kind of you to offer.’
‘I think you took your eye off the ball,’ Dave declared on the journey back to Heckley.
‘No I didn’t. It’s the way I work. I like to create the illusion that my mind has been diverted, but my razor-sharp investigative intellect is completely focused on the job in hand, all the time.’
‘You could have fooled me.’
‘Well…she is rather attractive, now you come to mention it.’
‘Chop her other pinkie off and she could be yours.’
‘So what did you think?’
‘I’m not sure. She didn’t sound too devastated, but Krabbe certainly has an eye for the ladies. No wonder you were so jealous of him. Hey, you never told me how you got on with the other love of his life: Sonia Thornton.’
‘Didn’t I?’
‘No. And Robert’s a bit dis-chuffed that you didn’t take him with you.’
‘He’ll get over it. Actually, she’s an ice-maiden. I’ve had warmer conversations with the contents of my fridge. He can do a follow-up, if he wants.’
‘That bad, was it? And what about a follow-up with Gabrielle? Want me to do that one?’
‘Um, no, Dave, I might just take that on myself. Inspector’s prerogative.’
We re-crossed the bridge and joined the motorway westbound. As we drove inland the sun came out briefly and the traffic thickened. South of Leeds it slowed and finally ground to a standstill.
‘Some people have to endure this every day,’ Dave said.
‘Poor sods.’
‘So how’s Rosie these days? You don’t mention her much.’
‘I’m not sure. I saw her last night and she said she was OK.’
‘We could have a foursome, one night, if you wanted.’
‘Thanks. I’ll mention it,’ I replied, untruthfully.
But I did ring her. I spent the afternoon filling in the diary, studying a summary of reports compiled by the reader and discussing the case with Gilbert and the SIO. Soon as I was home I rang Rosie.
‘Listen, Rosie,’ I said, after asking about her well-being, ‘I don’t want to crowd you but I’ve an invitation to a function on Saturday night. It’s partly work – I want to have a look at some of the people there. It’s at Heckley football club, in the new hospitality suite. Should be fun.’
‘If it’s work wouldn’t it be better to take one of your policewomen?’ she replied.
‘Possibly, but their husbands object to me borrowing them on a Saturday evening. And…and…’
‘And what?’
‘…and they all have big calf muscles. We’d stand out like a pair of toby jugs.’
‘Charlie, have you ever kissed the Blarney stone?’
‘Um, no, but I once had a romantic relationship with a bag of cement.’
‘Really?’
‘I was all mixed up, those days. No strings, Rosie, and I promise not to ring you again for…oh, a month. No, a fortnight. How’s that sound?’
‘Saturday, did you say?’
‘That’s right.’
‘What time will you pick me up?’
‘I’ll let you know. There is just one other thing.’
‘Oh yes? What’s that?’
‘You’ll have to watch a football match first.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
‘You’re to put these on,’ Duggie said, handing her a small holdall. ‘And make yourself look nice. If you don’t the boss will be very annoyed, and he’ll come round wiv his little ‘lectric friend.’ He made several stabbing motions towards her with a forefinger, laughing and hissing pssst pssst between his teeth just in case she was in doubt as to his meaning. ‘Understand?’
Ludmilla cowered and nodded. She knew too well what he meant. She took the holdall into the bathroom and slowly changed. There was lipstick and perfume in the bag, and a pair of high-heeled shoes; items she’d once dreamt of buying but now symbols of a world she hated. She applied far too much of the lipstick and perfume, achieving, at first attempt, the look and smell that were the trademarks of her new profession.
Duggie’s
car was not as luxurious as the boss’s, as she thought of him, and it stank of cigarette smoke, but it was still far above anything else she’d known. They drove for nearly twenty minutes, over some hills where there were no lights from houses, until they were in another small town. She was in the back seat. Duggie had opened the door for her, and placed his hand on her head as she stooped to enter. She could see his face in the driver’s mirror, his eyes constantly flicking her way, so she slid into a corner, out of his sight. At one point they stopped at a traffic signal and she could see a group of people waiting at a bus stop. She could run over to them and ask for their help. There were men amongst them. Duggie would be outnumbered.
Ludmilla slipped off the high-heeled shoes, slowly raised her hand and curled a finger behind the door handle. Very gently, she pulled it towards her but the door wouldn’t spring open as she’d expected. She let go of the handle and sank lower in the seat as the light changed to green and they drove off.
The house was in a cul-de-sac illuminated only by the glow from windows and from carriage lamps on each side of every door. All the houses were big, with double garages, and one or two had a car standing outside. There were no fences or walls around the gardens, but most had small trees growing in them. A door opened and she saw a woman standing silhouetted as a cat sniffed the air before stepping decorously into the night. Ludmilla couldn’t believe that ordinary people could live in such a fairytale world. The woman closed the door and was gone. The cat scratched the turf, arched its back and strolled around the corner, out of sight.
Duggie drove to the end of the street and stopped, peering at the numbers on the doors. ‘This is it,’ he said.
She tried the car door again but it still didn’t open. Duggie walked round and opened it from the outside. ‘Childproof locks,’ he said, grinning, but she didn’t know what he meant. ‘C’mon, it’s pissing down.’
He took her by the elbow and steered her up the short drive to the front door of the house. There was a name on the wall at the side of the door, but it meant nothing to her. She had no coat on, just a thin silk dress, and she shivered with cold.
Over the Edge Page 10
