That sounds like a good idea. Cornwall in winter can be delightful. Gilbert is a good friend, Charles, I’m sure you don’t have to earn your keep. Why not just go there and relax for a while?’
‘Chill out, as we say in Heckley.’
‘Precisely.’
‘Yeah, you’re right. I was thinking – it’s a big cottage, well, big enough. But not too big to lose that cosy feeling. Has all the amenities. If you liked, if you wanted, what I’m trying to say is: if I did go, it’d be nice for you to come down for a few days, too.’
Annabelle opened her eyes wide, in mock horror, but after a few seconds her nose wrinkled like it always does when she smiles. I could hear the noise of the bus’s engine, toiling up the hill. She said: ‘Charles! Are you suggesting an … assignation?’
‘Mmm … yes,’ I told her. ‘Or to put it another way … yes.’
‘Is it a nice cottage?’
‘Very nice.’
One of Carter’s Luxury Coaches came round the corner and headed towards us.
‘Roses round the door? It must have roses round the door.’
‘Floribundas. In floribundance.’
‘Oak beams and an inglenook fireplace?’
‘I’ll fix it.’ I was smiling now; this was sounding promising.
The bus stopped in front of us and the door folded back with a hiss of hydraulics. I picked up my rucksack and boots and stood aside to allow Annabelle on first.
‘I’ll have to consult my social diary,’ she said as she passed in front of me.
‘Ratbag!’ I snarled, and followed her up the two big steps.
The bus was only about half-filled, but it still had a few more calls to make. ‘Morning, all,’ I hollered to the familiar faces.
‘Morning, Charlie,’ they chorused cheerfully.
‘This is Annabelle,’ I told them.
‘Morning, Annabelle,’ they chanted back.
‘Good morning, everyone,’ she responded.
‘Never knew you had a daughter, Charlie,’ someone said.
We put our stuff up on the luggage rack and found a seat about halfway back. The bus did a circuit of Heckley, picking up the remainder of the passengers. Dave Sparkington is one of my Detective Constables, the one I usually work with, and I was looking forward to Annabelle meeting him. We stopped near his house, where he was waiting with two of his children, but he didn’t get on the bus. The kids were wearing bobble hats and anoraks, but Sparky had his raincoat over his shoulders.
His daughter, Sophie, came down the aisle, looking for me. ‘Good morning, Uncle Charlie. Dad says can he have a word with you.’
‘There’s been a murder,’ his son, Daniel, informed me, and was promptly reprimanded by his big sister for listening to other people’s telephone conversations.
I felt Annabelle tense in the seat beside me. Her body language was saying: Oh no, not again. ‘Don’t worry,’ I told her. ‘I’m not working.’
‘Morning, Chas,’ Sparky greeted me when I stepped off the coach. ‘Sorry about this, but something’s cropped up. Do you mind if the kids come with you?’
‘Of course not. Why, what’s happened?’
‘Farmer out shooting rabbits in Heckley Wood a couple of hours ago. Found a body. Patrol boys report that his head was nearly blown off, no gun around, so it looks like we’ve a murder on our hands.’
‘Sugar. Sounds as if it could be a gangland job,’ I said.
Sparky read the disappointment on my face. ‘Aha,’ he laughed. ‘So you have a nice day out with my kids while me and Nigel catch the villains, eh? He sends his apologies. I’ve told the two of them to behave and said you can clip them round the ears if they’re cheeky.’
‘Great, thanks.’
I climbed back aboard and we lurched away as I introduced Sophie and Daniel to Annabelle. Dave is one of the best policemen I know, even if he is as Yorkshire as Harry Ramsden’s and as blunt as a punt. Nigel is just the opposite. DS Nigel Newley was standing in for me and on the accelerated promotion scheme. He hailed from deepest Berkshire and had the manners of a P.G. Wodehouse flunkey. They were an ill-sorted pair, but after an uneasy start were beginning to work as a team. It was interesting to observe how they influenced each other: Nigel had started wearing crew-neck sweaters and Sparky had bought some aftershave.
Ingleborough Hill used to be 2,376 feet high, but now it measures a mere 723 metres. It sprawls like a sleeping lion, dominating the landscape. It is not the highest hill in Yorkshire, but it is the most majestic. Legend has it that the Brigantes held out against the Romans here. Remains of their dwellings and fortifications are plainly visible on the summit. We like to think that this bit of Yorkshire, like much of Scotland, was never conquered by the Romans, but that’s bunkum. Today the top was lost in the clouds, as it so often is.
The bus parked in the Hill Inn car park, where we donned our gear and stuffed ourselves with sandwiches to lighten the loads in our rucksacks. Sophie’s and Daniel’s would have taxed a paratrooper yomping across Dartmoor, so I made them off-load most of it. We milled around, stamping feet and rubbing hands to keep warm, criticising each other’s clothing. There were several pairs of navy-blue serge trousers on show.
‘They look nice,’ I told one wearer. ‘Do they sell them in camping shops?’
‘I can let you have a couple of pairs. Trouble is, they only walk at one speed,’ he replied.
Nigel had organised the trip, so in his absence we were leaderless. I waved my arm like John Wayne at the start of a cattle drive. ‘Let’s go!’ I shouted.
Nobody stirred.
‘The pub’s open!’ I tried. Several faces turned towards it.
Slowly, we moved off. At the first stile we were reduced to a long straggling procession, winding sluggishly towards the mountain. Our route took us up the lion’s armpit, where it was steep and rocky, and then over its mane.
Sophie and Daniel had latched on to Jeff Caton, one of my Detective Sergeants. He knew them well enough and was twenty-odd years nearer their age group. I looked back every few minutes to make sure we weren’t leaving anyone behind.
Climbing is a private activity, however many of you are together. You lift your feet forward and suck in air and try to let your mind wander away from the tiredness in your legs. I let my own mind focus hungrily on Dave Sparkington’s news.
They’d be making a fingertip search of the murder scene about now. An incident room would have been set up and the body moved to Heckley General Hospital for a PM. Identifying the victim was a priority. If he carried any ID the enquiry would make an immediate leap forward.
I usually do the murders that come into Heckley nick. Mostly they are domestics, and we have someone in a cell within twenty-four hours. There’s nothing glamorous about it, just sadness and a sense of gratitude that we were born at the other side of the tracks, or had the wit to drag ourselves across them. But then there are the others … I had an overwhelming sense that this was one of the others, and I wanted to be a part of it.
As we crested the brow on to the summit plateau, the wind hit us like a buzz-saw. I pulled up my hood and helped Annabelle with hers. ‘OK?’ I yelled above the roar.
‘Mmm, super.’
We bent into the gale and headed, hand in hand, towards the stone wall that provides some shelter up there.
It’s not the ideal place for a picnic, so we just snatched a quick sandwich and a cup of soup. By the time everybody arrived we were chilled through, but as we dropped off the summit again the air felt unnaturally calm and it was possible to hold a normal conversation.
‘Phew,’ Annabelle said, pulling her hood back and brushing her fair hair from her eyes. This is better. Is it always like that on the top?’ Her cheeks were pink and her eyes shone like sapphire pools.
‘Always,’ I told her, ‘but the windswept look suits you. How are you feeling?’
‘I feel fantastic, thank you. And you?’
‘OK, thanks. I was puffing a bit at the top, though.
’
Our descent was via a slightly different route. As we moved off the hill, the Batty Moss viaduct at Ribblehead came into view, three miles away. The sun was punching a hole through the mist, illuminating the curving masterpiece of railway architecture.
‘Look,’ I said, pointing and tugging at her sleeve.
‘Oh, what a beautiful view,’ she replied.
‘It’s a watercolourist’s dream,’ I declared. ‘Or maybe a Turner’s.’
‘Is that the line they are always wanting to close?’
‘Yes. The Settle to Carlisle.’
‘Why don’t you paint it, Charles?’
A long time ago I was an art student. I still dabbled, occasionally – mainly posters for police dances. ‘Yep. Could do, one day.’ I remembered that I had my camera in my bag. ‘Hey,’ I said. ‘Let’s capture it for posterity.’
I took two pictures of the viaduct and one of Annabelle. She tipped her head to one side and smiled, and as I framed her in the viewfinder my stomach turned to mercury. I swore that I’d do anything I could, go anywhere I had to, to make her mine. No, that was impossible. Spend the rest of my life with her, share her bad times as well as the good, that’s what I wanted.
‘That was a smasher,’ I enthused as I lowered the camera. She insisted on taking one of me.
Jeff Caton and his charges caught up with us. They were making a race of it. ‘Hi, boss,’ Jeff gasped. ‘When are you coming back?’
‘You don’t need me, from what I’ve heard.’
‘We don’t need bellybuttons, but we’d miss them if they weren’t there.’
Sometimes I wonder if I trained them all wrong. I said: ‘Did you hear any more about that drug addict who injected himself with curry powder?’
‘Yes, he went into a khorma,’ Jeff replied. Sophie and Daniel clasped their hands over their ears and staggered about making rude noises.
When they left us, Annabelle and I trudged across the fell towards the Hill Inn with our arms across each other’s shoulders. Tour staff are obviously terrified of you,’ she said.
‘Does it show?’ I asked.
‘Yes. You must be really cruel to them.’
‘I like to think I run a tight ship.’
She gave me a squeeze. ‘It’s been a lovely day out,’ she told me. ‘It’s good to blow the cobwebs away. We should do this more often.’
‘It’s not over yet. First there’s the pub, then there’s the community singing. They’re the best bits.’
She was quiet for a few moments, then she said: ‘Charles?’
‘Uhuh.’
‘What we were saying, this morning …’
‘Mmm?’
‘Well, now I think I understand why you don’t want to leave.’
‘Thanks. I’m glad you do. But we can only postpone things. One day I’ll have to go.’ I looked across at her and pulled her closer. ‘That’s why I’m trying to develop other interests.’
She dropped her arm so it was around my waist. ‘I see. So I’m just an alternative to night classes or trainspotting.’
‘Some of the happiest days of my life were spent trainspotting,’ I replied, and kissed her, out there on the moor, somewhere between Hardrawkin Pot and Braithwaite Wife Hole.
In the pub we couldn’t find a seat near the log fire so we leant on the end of the bar and I ordered two halves of Old Peculiar.
‘Mmm, that’s good,’ Annabelle confirmed as she took a sip.
‘Not bad,’ I agreed after a longer draught. We stood and smiled at each other, pleased with our morning’s exertions and enjoying the rewards.
‘So,’ I said. ‘What went wrong with the conference?’
Annabelle looked away from me and gave a big sigh. ‘Oh, nothing went wrong. I suppose, in fact, that it was a huge success. We certainly made some good decisions. It’s just that, well, they want someone to go out to Africa to assess the effectiveness of our programmes. They’ve asked me if I’d consider going.’
‘Oh. How long would it be for?’
‘Initially, four weeks.’
‘When?’
‘Quite soon.’
‘Sounds right up your street. You said “initially”. What happens after four weeks?’
She was fiddling with her glass, turning it in circles on the bar. ‘That would depend on what we found. If necessary, it could turn into a permanent posting.’
I felt as if I’d woken from an anaesthetic to find they’d amputated the wrong leg. I said: ‘Oh,’ again. A couple vacated two stools amongst the throng near the fire. I sipped my beer and went on: ‘So, do you think you’ll accept?’ I could hear that my voice was an octave gruffer than normal.
‘I don’t know what to do, Charles.’
After a long silence I said: ‘If someone goes for a month and decides that it ought to be a permanent position, does it have to be the same person who gets the job?’
‘No, I don’t suppose so.’
‘Then I think you should go, if that’s what you want.’
‘Is that what you really think?’
I shook my head. ‘No, but—’
A hand touched my arm. It was Jeff. ‘Excuse me, Annabelle,’ he said, ‘but there are two seats over here.’
We joined the rest of them until it was time to get back on the coach for the journey home. It was dark soon after four, so we couldn’t see anything through the windows. After a while Annabelle went to sit with Sophie and they had a long and earnest conversation. Sophie will probably go to a decent university in a couple of years, so I imagine Annabelle was explaining her options to her. Annabelle was accepted for Oxford when she was seventeen, but went to Africa instead. I like women who are brainier than me.
Young Daniel came to sit with me. We discussed England’s prospects in the World Cup and then had a serious talk on the chances of Martians landing in Trafalgar Square and paying off the national debt for us. There was no community singing on that trip, so I had plenty of time to wonder how the murder enquiry was going.
CHAPTER TWO
Nine-thirty Monday morning I was drinking the first cup of tea of the day and reading my mail when Gilbert rang. My only letter was a not-to-be-missed offer of a decorative plate that would enhance any room, as well as becoming a sought-after collector’s item. It depicted a wooden bald eagle hovering over a lake. The blurb said that if you looked carefully at the mountain in the background you might see the spirits of the timber wolf, the elk and various other creatures of the West, skilfully portrayed by the artist. I hadn’t realised it was a mountain. I thought it was a pile of dead creatures waiting to be skinned. I projected Call of the Wild into the waste bin and answered the phone at the same time.
‘Good morning, Charlie. How are you?’ Gilbert asked.
‘Sleepy. And hungry, I also appear to be out of milk and what’s left of the loaf has mould growing on it. But thank you for asking.’
‘Don’t mention it. The Assistant Chief Constable has just had me on the phone and—’
‘That sounds precarious.’
‘What does?’
‘The Assis … Oh never mind. What did he want?’
‘He wants you on this murder enquiry. Seems to think the moon and the stars shine out of your backside. Otherwise he’s going to take it off us.’
‘Recognition at last. Why can’t Nigel handle it?’
Too inexperienced. And it’s looking as if it could develop into something interesting. Plus we had three ram raids last night and I’m expecting to catch hell from the Chamber of Commerce. It’s the fourth time Binks’s Hi-Fi has been hit.’
‘He could always call it a crash-and-carry.’
‘Don’t you know when to give up, Charlie?’ He sounded exasperated.
‘Sorry, Gilbert, but I’m supposed to be off sick.’
‘I realise that,’ he replied, ‘but it’s not proper sick, is it? It isn’t as if you’ve broken your leg or got appendicitis. It’s just this stress thing, isn’t it?’
&n
bsp; ‘That’s what I keep saying. It’s you that keeps telling me to resign!’
‘Right, but this is important.’
‘I thought you wanted me to go down to the cottage?’
‘I do – so how about coming back here for a few days, just until the pressure dies down, then throwing off again?’
‘Doc Evans won’t wear it.’
‘He’ll do it for you. Maybe just part-time, to begin with.’
‘Mm, we’ll see. So bring me up to date.’ I popped the used tea bag back into my mug and re-filled it with hot water.
‘Good lad. I want you to nip over to Liverpool and talk to a man called Norris. He’s a multi-millionaire; right up your street.’
When did all the millionaires suddenly become multi-millionaires? I stirred two sugars into my tea and took a sip. ‘Tell me all about him.’
‘Coming up. First of all, we’ve identified the body as a man called Harold Hurst. He had Wendy tattooed on his arm, in a rather tasteful hearts and flowers design, and a lady of that name walked into a nick in Liverpool on Saturday morning and filed a Missing From Home report. She’s described his clothing and we’re checking the fingerprints, but it looks like poor Harold. He’d been shot from close range in the back of the head by a single shot from a seven-point-six-two millimetre. That’s Kalashnikov calibre. It exited through his face, hence the lack of a visual ID.’
‘But you found the bullet?’
‘Yes.’
‘It sounds like an execution. What else?’
‘It does, doesn’t it? Tyre tracks. The last three vehicles up the lane into the wood were a Vauxhall Astra with a blue light on top – they’re in for a bollocking, a mid-range vehicle with a popular tyre size, and something big and expensive.’
‘Any ideas what?’ I asked.
‘Possibly a Rolls-Royce. Hurst was employed as chauffeur to the aforementioned Mr Norris, who owns a Roller. That’s why I’d like you to demonstrate your undeniable charm and rapier-like interviewing technique on him.’
‘How could I refuse? Where do I find him?’
‘Are you coming in to look at the file?’
‘No. Since when did I let the facts influence me? Where does he live?’
The Judas Sheep Page 2
