Last Reminder

by Stuart Pawson

  I swallowed the mush in my mouth and let the tape rewind. The lady told me that the time announcement was off. I played it again then flicked the lid open and removed the cassette.

  Annabelle didn’t answer the phone. I grabbed my leather jacket and drove straight round to her house. Her little car was parked on the drive for the first time in a fortnight, but she wasn’t in. The house was in darkness, all the curtains still wide open.

  Next stop was Heckley nick. The duty inspector listened to the tape and arranged for a car to keep observations. I sealed the cassette in an envelope and obtained a new one from the pool while he rang the hospitals. Then I went looking for her.

  A patrol car was there when I arrived back at her house, where the vicars of St Bidulph’s had once lived. I sat in with them for ten minutes, gave them her description and told them about the Jag being vandalised. They made concerned noises and assured me she’d be all right.

  Villains don’t usually carry out their threats. They didn’t threaten Lisa and they didn’t threaten to do the car. They just got on with it. No warning, fait accompli, this is what we are capable of. Giving a warning is dangerous and pointless. I knew the theory, but it didn’t convince me.

  I took the long way home, meandering round the streets of town, not really knowing why. When I arrived I left the car out in the road, under the street lamp, because I hoped I’d be using it again before too long. My outside light casts a black wedge of shadow down the side of the house. As I opened the gate I saw a pair of long legs, clad in jeans, jutting out of the darkness where the doorstep was.

  Annabelle was sitting there, hands stuffed in her pockets, head back against the wall to avoid the drizzle.

  ‘You look frozen,’ I said, sitting on the step beside her.

  She nodded, and agreed that she was.

  ‘How did you get here?’

  ‘I walked.’

  ‘It’s five miles,’ I said.

  ‘The map is wrong – it’s ten,’ she replied. She still had a sense of humour.

  ‘Why?’

  She shrugged her shoulders. ‘I came out for a walk, to do some thinking. And my legs brought me here. That’s all.’

  ‘You have very sensible legs,’ I told her, putting my hand on her left knee. ‘You should listen to them more often. How long were you going to wait?’

  ‘As long as it took.’

  I’m not usually lost for words. After a few seconds I said, ‘Thank you,’ and helped her to her feet. We went inside and I put the kettle on. Standing in the kitchen I asked her, ‘Did you hear about Lisa?’

  ‘Yes. It was horrible.’

  ‘It was me who found her,’ I admitted.

  ‘I thought it was.’

  I folded my arms because I didn’t know where to put them and turned to face her. ‘You read about it in the papers?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I can explain. I…’

  She interrupted me by placing her fingers across my lips and shaking her head. ‘You don’t have to,’ she said.

  We carried our coffees through into the front room and pushed the settee closer to the fire. ‘Do you want something dry to put on?’ I asked.

  ‘No, I will be all right, thank you.’

  ‘Music?’ I suggested, leaning towards the CD player.

  ‘No. I want to talk.’

  ‘Oh. Right.’ I took a sip of my coffee. ‘I did Great Gable today,’ I boasted. ‘I wanted to do some thinking, too.’

  ‘I wish I’d been with you.’

  ‘So do I.’

  ‘Did you come to any conclusions?’

  ‘No. It’s all out of my hands. Did you?’

  ‘Yes.’ She sipped her coffee, looking into the pretend flames of the gas fire. We sat in silence for several long minutes, until she began, ‘When we were in Africa – Kenya…’ She stopped and tried another tack. ‘I want to try to explain why I’ve been so stupid, so difficult with you.’

  ‘I’m the one who was stupid,’ I confessed. ‘Insensitive. In this job you…’

  ‘No. It was me. When we were in Kenya…I left Peter. He had an affair, was unfaithful, so I came home, back to England.’

  ‘I’m sorry…’ Once or twice before there’d been hints that the perfect romance between the hard-working bishop and his young, glamorous wife had not been as blissful as the world had been led to believe, but I’d never dreamt it was this.

  She continued. ‘There’s still the Happy Valley syndrome out there. Lots of bored women with nothing to do but gossip and drink gin. And have affairs with each other’s husbands. Did you ever see White Mischief?’

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘Not much has changed since then. Well, not in some circles. An eager young clergyman was fair game to them. All the more fun if he had a naive wife they could be charming to, afterwards. At first I thought that was the worst part, the humiliation, the laughing behind my back. But it wasn’t. I soon forgot that. A chance remark gave him away, and suddenly lots of things fell into place. I caught the next flight home, left everything behind, arrived on Rachel’s doorstep carrying a duty free bag containing my allowance of booze. The worst part, Charles, was the sense of betrayal. That never went away.’

  ‘I know. And Peter followed you?’

  ‘Yes. He’d been ill with malaria, so he used it as an excuse to come back. We patched things up, in a way, kept up appearances like we were taught to do, and the rest, as they say, is history.’ She looked at me for the first time and gave me a little smile.

  ‘I’d…no idea…’ I began.

  ‘So, when this handsome detective appeared on the scene and swept me off my feet…’ This time the smile wrinkled her nose. Some women use tears, Annabelle wrinkles her nose and brave men fall at her feet.

  ‘You mean I’ve a rival?’ I said.

  ‘I owe you an apology, Charles. Can we try again?’

  ‘You owe me no apology. Don’t be too hard on him, Annabelle. The temptation was just too much. None of us can be certain how we’d behave under those circumstances, no matter how strong our resolve. Most men might have gone the same way, who knows?’

  She tried to smile again, saying, ‘But you wouldn’t have been able to stand in your pulpit and quote the seventh commandment while keeping a straight face. I doubted you, Charles, because of something Peter had done. For that, I’m very sorry.’

  I took her cup from her and walked into the kitchen with them. When I returned I stood behind her and placed my hands on her shoulders, rotating my thumbs against her neck muscles.

  ‘Mmm, that’s good,’ she said, rolling her head.

  Over the fireplace I had an original painting of a World War II Halifax bomber that the squad presented to me when I made inspector and moved on. Every six months or so I rotate my pictures, and it was the Halifax’s turn to have pride of place. Not great art, but I love it. A gang of us had been walking, and we found the remains of wreckage on Brown Tor. We did some research, found out all about it. Vaguely, I could see the outline of my reflection embracing the four engines, with an RAF roundel where my eye should have been. When I spoke, I talked to the reflection.

  ‘When my wife – Vanessa – left me,’ I began, ‘I went a bit crazy. Nothing clinical, just hit the booze, you know. Did some silly things, took risks. One day, about a month after she’d gone, a letter came for her, in a Heckley General Hospital envelope. I wasn’t sure where she was, so I carried it about with me for several days, thinking I’d ask the force doctor to read it, decide if it was important. One day, I found it there and thought, what the hell, and opened it.’

  A Halifax bomber had a crew of seven, average age about twenty. The chances of surviving ten raids were less than fifty per cent. The one we found had flown into Brown Tor on a training flight in bad weather – they didn’t even make the starting line. I’d never told anyone else about the letter, and I wasn’t sure if I could make the words come out. ‘It was from the ante-natal clinic,’ I went on, ‘fixing her an app
ointment. She was pregnant.’ My hands had stopped massaging Annabelle’s neck, but I left them on her shoulders. ‘I was fairly certain that she was living with a tutor from the art college. I went straight round there, gave her the letter, told her she had to come home with me. I wasn’t having my baby brought up by him. He was sitting on the arm of her chair, all protective. It was like talking to a bloody tableau. She read the letter, then passed it back to me. “You’ve had a wasted journey,” she said. “There isn’t a baby any more.”’

  There, I’d done it. Annabelle placed her fingers over mine and twisted to look up at me. ‘Oh, Charles,’ she whispered, very softly, ‘I’m so sorry.’

  I gave her neck a final rub and disentangled my hands. I walked round and flopped in an easy chair, facing her. ‘Now, I think it was for the best,’ I told her, with a dismissive wave, but the gruffness in my voice betrayed me.

  After a silence I said, ‘Annabelle. I know you loved Peter, in spite of what happened between you. I don’t want to replace him or compete with him. Your time in Africa was an important part of your life, probably the most important part, and I like to hear you talk about it. But Vanessa means nothing to me, now. She was just part of the growing-up process. As far as I’m concerned, all that was just…something that happened to someone else, in the past.’ I stood up, not knowing how much more to say, how much to tell her about my feelings. I decided to leave it at that. ‘Come on, love,’ I said, ‘you’ve had a long day. I’ll take you home.’

  Annabelle didn’t move, just sat there, looking at me. Her hair was nearly dry and some colour had returned to her cheeks. Little lines in the corners of her eyes gave her age away but only underlined her beauty, like the date on a bottle of wine confirms its quality. Hers had been a good year. ‘Charles,’ she began, ‘I want to stay here tonight, with you. If you’d like me to.’

  We’ve been lovers for quite a while, but never slept overnight at either house. Annabelle has a fear of the tabloids writing scurrilous stories about the Detective and the Bishop’s Wife, put up to it by her neighbours after seeing me sneak away. Car engines don’t know how to be discreet at seven a.m. on frosty mornings, and editors don’t care whose lives they ruin, if it sells a few papers. We go away for weekends, or spend rainy afternoons in bed. I’ve no complaints.

  ‘Right,’ I said, vainly trying to suppress a smile. ‘In that case, I’d better show you where we keep the cornflakes.’

  On the pretext of putting the car away I went outside and rang the nick on my mobile, telling them that Mrs Wilberforce had been found, safe and well. She wouldn’t need any protection, tonight. The information was received without comment, but no doubt knowing glances were exchanged at the other end.

  We sat talking for a while, and I told Annabelle about the Jaguar and the threats, playing them down as much as I could. Staying here saved me the discomfort of camping in the car at the end of her street. She wasn’t afraid – a few Heckley villains were small fry compared with what she’d seen in Biafra – but her recklessness worried me.

  At Christmas young Sophie had given me a compilation CD of popular classics – all the good bits from a variety of composers who were too inconsistent to achieve superstar status. When we went to bed I put it on the CD player and left the doors open so that the music infused the house with its melodies. I’ll never be able to hear the final movement of Respighi’s Pines of Rome again without a warm glow creeping through me, a tiny smile creasing the corners of my mouth, and whatever task I’m supposed to be engaged in slipping clean out of my head.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  I hadn’t expected a lodger, so breakfast was frugal. We’d agreed that Annabelle would stay at my house for the weekend, so we visited the supermarket to stock up. Old habits die hard. I headed straight for the single portions, before the OAPs could hit them, then remembered we were catering for two. It was fun. I could get used to this, I thought. Unfortunately, her friends, Marie and Toby, were coming to stay with her on Monday, so she’d have to go home then. I reluctantly agreed that she’d be safe with them in the house with her.

  Nigel told me, when I rang him, that everything was running smoothly. It was a warm autumn day, so after lunch I took Annabelle to the Sculpture Park. The trees were turning colour, their shadows striping the cropped grass as we headed for the first piece.

  ‘Oh, Charles, this is wonderful,’ she declared. ‘Why haven’t you brought me here before?’

  ‘I didn’t know it was here until last week,’ I fibbed.

  ‘So what is that one? A Henry Moore?’ she asked.

  ‘Yeah, that’s one of our ‘Ennery’s famous ones, from his, er, Industrial period. It’s called…oh, Spindle Piece, or something, I think. I studied Moore at college, but it was a long time ago.’ I turned away, so she couldn’t see my facial contortions. Annabelle walked over to read the little plaque, while I stood well back, admiring the view.

  ‘Spindle Piece,’ she confirmed. ‘I’m impressed.’

  I got the next one right, too. It was called Hill Arches, but I couldn’t resist showing off when we reached 2-piece Reclining Figure no. 2, by telling her the material, number of copies made and the date.

  Annabelle came back from reading the nameplate with her lips pursed, casually scanning the sky. As she reached me she said, ‘You’re a fraud, Priest,’ and thumped me in the chest. I fell over backwards, partly from the blow, partly because my legs collapsed with laughter.

  We had a look round the shop and bought some postcards, and wandered amongst the temporary exhibits. Most striking of them was a crowd of life-size rough bronze figures, standing to attention. They were all headless. Slowly, subconsciously, I steered us towards the far side of the park, adjacent to where K. Tom Davis’s home lay.

  ‘Right, Clever-clogs,’ Annabelle said, ‘what is that one called?’

  It was the last statue between us and the fence, beyond which was Davis’s paddock. I remembered it, tall and spiky, with a bicycle wheel on top. It was the first one I’d seen when I climbed over the fence, and I hadn’t known about the name tags.

  ‘Er, don’t know,’ I admitted. ‘It’s not a Moore. I specialise in Moores.’

  ‘Well, have a guess. What image does it convey to you?’

  ‘Mmm. Long and skinny,’ I said. ‘Bit like you. Is it called Mrs Wilberforce, balancing bicycle wheel on her nose?’

  She wandered over to it. I could see the house through the trees, and the garage where I’d hidden. Beyond them, through the gap, was what looked like his Range Rover, but I couldn’t be sure. I should have brought the binoculars.

  ‘No, it is not that,’ she called back to me.

  ‘Right,’ I shouted. ‘How about…Tour de Force?’

  ‘No, but you are close.’ She was back with me now.

  ‘Tour de France?’

  ‘Ha ha! Well guessed. What are you staring at, Charles?’

  ‘Er, pardon?’

  ‘I just asked you what you were staring at. Something has caught your attention.’

  ‘Yes. I’m sorry. I, er, just remembered something Nigel told me, a few days ago. You see that house, through there.’

  She turned and nodded.

  ‘Well, we think it belongs to a villain. If possible, I’d like to watch it for a while, a few minutes, see if I can get a bit closer and read the number of the vehicle.’

  Annabelle rolled her eyes in a here-we-go-again expression. I couldn’t blame her, and I realised I was lying, breaking my resolution. I knew the number; it was written in my reports. What I’d remembered, coming off Great Gable, was that Nigel said he’d almost left a bullbars poster behind the wipers, but decided it might not be appropriate. Why would he want to do that? When I’d seen the vehicle, a few days earlier, it hadn’t been fitted with bullbars.

  The park was busy with people enjoying the fine day, Michael Angelo was in jail and I was certain we hadn’t been followed. Tailing another car without being noticed in a city centre is fairly straightforward, but
it’s nigh impossible on country roads. We were safe enough. I put my arm across Annabelle’s shoulders. ‘Quarter of an hour,’ I said. ‘It is rather important. You have a coffee, while I sit on that fence and watch for a while.’ I gave her the keys to the car. ‘I’ll see you in fifteen minutes,’ I promised. ‘Either in the café or the car.’ I pecked her cheek and watched her walk away. If she was disappointed she didn’t let it show.

  I didn’t sit on the fence. That’s never been one of my failings. I leapt straight over it and crossed the paddock, veering off to the right in case they were having drinky-poos in the conservatory. At the other side I sneaked along the fence until I reached the corner of their garden. They didn’t appear to be in there, having a post-prandial swim or sipping piña colada while swatting the odd passing humming bird.

  It was definitely the Range Rover. I let myself in through the gate and put the garage between me and the house windows. I listened for a while before peeping round the end of the garage. He might have been washing the cars, or decoking his barbecue, but he wasn’t. The Golf – I always thought it a daft name for a car until someone told me it stands for Goes Like Fuck – was there, so they were probably both in. Thinking about it, it’s a daft name for a game, too.

  Fortunately, the big Range Rover was nose-up to the garage. Nigel was right. I squeezed between the front of it and the up-and-over door and ran my fingers over the bullbars that I was certain hadn’t been there before. If anyone came out, I’d be caught. ‘Just happened to be passing, Mr Davis. Thought I’d pop in to see how you are.’ Feeble, but it’d do.

  Unless he shot me, and asked questions afterwards. There was a precedent, where a detective had been killed as an intruder, and the householder, a known villain, was unconditionally discharged and given fifty pence from the poor box for the cost of the cartridge. I made a mental note to check if Davis was a shotgun licence holder.

  There was something fishy about the bullbars. When I ran my hands over them the feel of the paint was inconsistent. The ends, which curl over the headlamps and are designed to mash the kidneys of any pedestrian who gets in the way, were coated in what felt like enamel, or maybe even some sort of epoxy paint. A good solid finish. What you’d expect on a vehicle of this quality. But the horizontal tubes across the front of the radiator, put there to break femurs, spinal columns or children’s skulls, were different. They were just spray-painted with black cellulose. The sort of job you could do yourself with a couple of aerosols from Halfords. I tried to remember if I’d seen any in the garage, and felt that I had.