‘Found who?’
‘The girl with purple hair, of course. She’s called Melissa. Melissa Youngman.’
I loosened my tie and unfastened the top button of my shirt. Tonight I’d gone out smart. ‘You found her?’ I repeated.
‘Just after lunch. It was looking hopeless, so I said to myself: “What course was a weirdo most likely to be on? Let’s try psychology.” I rang one of the postgraduates who still lives in Leeds and she remembered her, told us that she was called Melissa Youngman and had been the first punk at the university. Brilliant, aren’t I?’
I told her she was. I wanted to take her in my arms and hug her, squeeze her to pieces, ask her to marry me, but she was only eighteen and there were three miles of telephone cable between us. And I’d have caught hell from her dad.
The weather was breaking. The Saturday-morning forecast said widespread thunder, followed by a cooler spell. I breakfasted early and gathered my walking gear together. I’d have a couple of hours in the office then hotfoot it up into the Dales for the afternoon. I was taking my boots out to the car when I saw him. The spider, that is. It was a dewy morning and he was suspended in space, halfway between the wing mirror and the outside light, welding a cross-member into position. I pretended not to notice him as I sidled down the side of the house, then I struck.’ Yaaah!’ I yelled and severed his web with a well-aimed karate chop. He fell to the ground, rolled expertly back on to his feet with a bewildered look on his face and fled for safety – under the front tyre. He was definitely having a bad hair day. I flexed my fingers but no damage was done. Weight for weight, spider web is six times stronger than high-tensile steel.
Dave came in and told me all about it over bacon sandwiches in the canteen. They’d been getting nowhere fast until Sophie had her brainwave. Jeremy in the students’ office had taken her to the pub for lunch, much to Dad’s disgruntlement, and she’d come back with the idea about looking for courses that might attract someone with purple hair. Psychology had been the first guess. Dave suspected it was really Jeremy who’d thought of it, but who cares? It had saved us ploughing through several thousand records.
‘I’d better buy her a present,’ I said. ‘She’s saved the tax payers a few quid.’
‘Er, not another Alice Cooper CD, if you don’t mind,’ Dave requested.
‘Why? What’s wrong with Alice Cooper?’
‘She’s a bit noisy, for a start!’
‘She! He’s a he!’
‘A he? Well why do they call him Alice?’
‘Er, well, er, because Alice is an ancient abbreviation of, er, Alexander. Who, as you know, was a Greek. The name was popular among Greek immigrants to the States at the turn of the century and handed down through the male line.’
‘Really?’
‘Well, either that or he’s living in Wonderland.’
I suggested Dave collect his boots and maybe the kids and come walking with me, but his mother-in-law’s windows needed a final coat of Dulux gloss and Daniel had gone off with his pals. I didn’t suggest Sophie tag along and neither did he. I bought a sandwich at the cafe across from the nick and drove to Bolton Abbey, about an hour away.
The Valley of Desolation is aptly named in winter, but in good weather it’s a pussycat. I watched a succession of people crossing the Wharfe on the stepping stones, waiting for someone to come to grief on the low one in the middle. There’s always one, halfway across, that’s wobbly or slippery; it’s a law of stepping stones. They weren’t going anywhere, just crossing for the hell of it, determined to get the most from their day out. I decided not to risk it and used the bridge ten yards downstream. A rumble of thunder rolled down the valley, followed by a second of silence as every face turned towards the sky and noticed the black clouds above the trees.
In twenty minutes I’d left the tourists behind and was scrambling up the path that headed out on to the fells and towards Simon’s Seat, a magnificent fifteen hundred feet above sea level. No chance of altitude sickness today. As I emerged above the tree line I saw a figure ahead of me, laden down with equipment, and shook my head in amazement at the amount of stuff some people take with them. They believe all they read about the dangers of walking on the moors.
It was a young woman. She stopped, looked around her, and decided this was the place. As I approached I saw that she’d been carrying painting equipment and I made a silent apology to her. She was struggling to set up an easel while holding her artist’s pad under her arm, trying not to put it on the ground. ‘Can I give you some help with your easel?’ I asked with uncharacteristic boldness.
‘Easel!’ she gasped, red-faced. ‘Easel! The man said it was a deckchair.’
I laughed and took the pad from under her arm. She was quite small, with fair hair pulled back into a short ponytail, and a mischievous smile. ‘Lift that bit upright,’ I said, pointing, ‘and tighten that wing nut.’ She did as she was told and turned the nut the right way first time, which was a surprise.
‘Well done,’ I said. ‘Now pull the middle leg back and tighten that one.’
‘Ah!’ she exclaimed. ‘Now I see how it’s done. You’re a genius.’ She extended the legs and locked them in position.
‘I’ve done it before,’ I told her. ‘Maybe you’re not mechanically minded.’
She tested the easel for rigidity and said: ‘A body will remain at rest or in motion until it is acted upon by a force. Isaac Newton said that and I agree with him. You can’t be more mechanically minded than that. Do you paint?’
‘A body will remain at rest until the alarm clock goes off. I said that. I went to art school, many years ago.’
‘In that case,’ she told me, looking up into my face and smiling, ‘I’m not starting until you are a mere speck disappearing over that hill.’
‘I’m going, I’m going.’ I hitched my bag on to my shoulder and said: ‘You’ve picked a nice spot.’
‘It’s lovely, isn’t it? Enjoy your walk and thanks for your help.’
‘Thank you.’
She’d given me a new zest for life. I walked too fast, buoyed by her cheerfulness, and was soon puffing. Grouse flew up around me, clucking and whirring like clockwork toys before they dived back into the heather further away, and another roll of thunder sounded ominously near.
Big blobs of rain were staining the path by the time I reached the Rocking Stone, pockmarking the dust with moon craters. I made it to the top and sheltered in a shooting hut while I donned my cagoul. Then the rain came in earnest, dark and powerful, Mother Nature showing us that the brief respite we’d had was at her whim. The path outside the hut became a stream and visibility dropped to about fifty yards, grey veils sweeping over the moor, one after another. I leant in the doorway, dry and warm, and marvelled at it.
Five minutes later the storm had moved along, leaving a rainbow and a steady shower in its wake. I had intended to do a circular route, but I wasn’t sure of the way and now the paths were sloppy with mud. I pushed my arms through the straps of my rucksack and went back the way I’d come.
It had been quite a downpour. The lazy river had become a torrent and the stepping stones were submerged. The bridge hadn’t been swept away, thank goodness, but all the tourists had vanished. I soon found them. They were in the cafe, drying off. I unhooked my bag and edged between the stools and pushchairs, looking for an empty place at a clean table.
I walked straight past and wouldn’t have recognised her if she hadn’t pulled my sleeve. Her T-shirt was now covered by a blouse in an ethnic design from one of the more mountainous areas of the world, Peru or Nepal, at a guess, and her ponytail had come undone so her hair framed her face. It suited her that way. She was tucking into a giant sausage roll and a mug of tea.
‘Hello,’ I said, unashamedly delighted to see her again. ‘Did you get wet?’
‘Managed to dodge most of it. And you?’
‘The same.’ I pushed my bag under a spare chair and nodded at her plate. ‘That looks good. Can I get you ano
ther?’
‘No, one’s enough, thanks.’
‘Tea?’
She shook her head.
One might have been enough for her but I ordered two, with a big dollop of brown sauce. I bought a large tea, without, and two iced buns with cherries on top. ‘I’ve bought you a present,’ I said as I sat down beside her.
‘Oh, thank you,’ she replied, slightly surprised, and took it from the plate I offered.
‘How many paintings did you do?’
‘About a half, that’s all. What about you? Did you have a good walk?’
‘Brilliant. Not very far, but the rain added a different dimension. I don’t mind it.’
‘It doesn’t help when you’re trying to paint in watercolours,’ she told me.
She was a schoolteacher, which I found hard to believe. She looked about Sophie’s age and was called Elspeth. Her number one subjects were physics and biology but she was hoping to move into the private, that is, public, sector of education and another talent on her CV would be useful, hence the painting. She’d taught for three years at a big comprehensive in Leeds without a problem, but was beginning to think her luck might run out. I confessed to being a policeman and she wanted to know if I’d ever caught a murderer. It’s easier to say no.
We were in mid-chat about the Big Bang theory when she looked at her watch and said she’d better go. She had a bus to catch.
‘A bus?’ I repeated. ‘You came on the bus?’ I said it as if she’d announced that she’d arrived by sedan chair.
‘’Fraid so. We humble teachers have difficulties with mortgages; there’s nothing left for luxuries like iced buns and motorcars.’
‘My heart bleeds,’ I said. ‘Where do you live? I’ll give you a lift.’
She said no, like any properly brought-up girl would, so I showed her my ID and a CID visiting card. ‘Ring Directory Enquiries,’ I told her, shoving my mobile across to her, ‘and ask for Heckley police station. Check the number with that.’
‘OK, I believe you. Thanks. I’d be very grateful for a lift.’
‘Uh-uh,’ I said, shaking my head. ‘Ring 192 and ask.’
She did as she was told and checked the number against my card. ‘It’s the same,’ she agreed.
‘Right, now dial it.’
She dialled, and when someone answered I took the phone from her. ‘Hi, Arthur,’ I said, holding the phone so she could hear I was engaged in a conversation. ‘It’s Charlie. I’m expecting a call, has anyone been after me?’ Nobody had. I told him where I was and about the weather and rang off. I hadn’t meant to frighten her, but there’s no harm in it. Psychopaths and fraudsters go to great lengths to appear legitimate. A few forged cards and a false ID would mean nothing to them. I could easily have watched her get on the bus, followed her and set the whole thing up. There are some wicked people out there.
We put her stuff in the boot and drove up the hill and through the ancient archway, heater at maximum to dry our feet. When we’d exhausted the Big Bang we talked about DNA testing. She explained the difference between meiosis and mitosis to me and I told her about the retrospective cases we’d solved. I probably said a good deal more than I ought, but she was interested and I enjoyed showing off.
On the outskirts of Leeds I said: ‘Usually, after a walk, I indulge in a Chinese. Would you let me treat you?’
‘Ah,’ she replied.
‘Ah?’ I echoed.
‘I was just thinking that going home and starting to cook was a bit of a drag. Trouble is, I had a Chinese last night. How about a pizza or something, but it’s my treat. We’re not completely impoverished.’
‘Um, I’m not a great pizza fan. Do you like spicy food?’
‘Yes. Love it.’
‘Right, then stand by for something different.’
I headed towards the city centre then picked up the Chapeltown signs. ‘I spent some time here,’ I told her. ‘Got to know every eating house in the district.’
We went to the Magyar Club. It started life as a big house, probably for a merchant or a surgeon. It’s escaped the division into bedsits that has befallen all its neighbours and now the descendants of the local Hungarian population meet here to keep their traditions alive. The place was empty, but later would resound to balalaika music, the stomping of boots and the clashing of vodka-filled glasses.
‘Do you still do the best goulash in town?’ I asked the steward when he came to see who was ringing the bell.
‘We certainly do, sir,’ he replied, only his broad face and fair hair indicating his ancestry. ‘Come in.’
It hadn’t changed at all. We had the speciality goulash and a small glass of red wine each. Elspeth didn’t know whether to believe me when I told her it was Bull’s Blood.
‘Phew! That was good,’ she proclaimed, wiping her chin with the linen napkin and settling back in her chair. ‘How did you find out about this place?’
‘I was the local bobby for a while. You get to know people in the community.’
‘And can anybody come in?’
‘I suppose so, but we probably wouldn’t fit if it was busy. You’ d give yourself away when it was your turn to do the Cossack dancing with a vodka bottle balanced on your nose.’
‘Ah-ah! Are you pulling my leg?’
I shook my head. ‘No.’
I broke a few seconds’ silence by saying: ‘You haven’t mentioned your boyfriend once since I met you. Where have you left him?’
The smile slipped from her face for the briefest interval. She sighed, and told me: ‘Oh, I don’t have one. I seem to pick all the wrong ones. What about you? You haven’t mentioned your wife at all.’
She didn’t mince her words. ‘Similar,’ I replied. ‘She left me so long ago that I think of myself as a life-long bachelor. I’d have thought that in a big school there would be some handsome geography master wanting to whisk you away from it all.’
She gave a private chuckle and said: ‘There is one. He took me for a drink last week. He’s thirty years old and teaches maths. I wasn’t too disappointed when he arrived wearing a football jersey. It was blue and green stripes and looked quite nice.’
‘Sounds like Stanley Accrington,’ I interrupted.
‘Stanley Accrington! Trouble was, it said something like… I don’t know… Syd’s Exhausts across the front, which completely ruined it. And if that wasn’t enough, when he went to the bar I saw it had a player’s name across the back. Thirty years old and he was pretending to be someone else! Can you believe it?’
‘He was trying to impress you,’ I told her. ‘That was his mating plumage.’
‘Well, he can go mate with a goalpost, that’s what I say. Do you know how much those jerseys cost? It’s a real racket.’
‘Mmm,’ I replied. ‘Forty-two quid. I bought one yesterday. A red one, with number seven, Georgie Best, across the back and Phyllosan across the front.’
‘Oh no!’ she cried, pulling her hair. ‘Now you are having me on! Tell me you’re having me on!’
‘Actually…’ I leant across the table conspiratorially, ‘…you can buy them at less than half price from the street traders. Except that today, in Heckley, we had a clampdown on them. Arrested them all and confiscated their stock. Or we would have done if somebody who shall be nameless hadn’t tipped them off.’
‘Who’d do that?’
‘Don’t look at me!’ I protested.
‘You didn’t!’
I winked at her. ‘In CID we adopt a you-scratch-my-back-and-I’ll-scratch-yours policy.’
‘Charlie, that’s awful!’
We paid the derisory bill and I took her home. She lived in a nice semi in Headingley where trees grew in the street and gardens had lawns and flower borders. I parked outside and opened the boot.
‘This is where the salary goes,’ she told me.
‘You could always take in a student,’ I suggested.
‘No way. This is my little castle. I come home at night and lock the door with all the
world and its troubles on the other side.’
‘I know what you mean.’ I lifted the easel out and she took it under her arm. The artist’s pad went under the other and I hooked her bag over her head. ‘Can you manage?’ I asked as I loaded her to the gunwales.
‘I think so.’ She looked up into my face and said: ‘You made it a lovely day, Charlie. Thanks for everything.’
‘I’ve enjoyed meeting you, Elspeth,’ I replied. ‘Thank you for your company. I believe it’s called serendipity.’
‘Yes, it is. Well, thanks again.’ She hitched the easel further under her arm, tightened her grip on the other stuff, and walked across the pavement towards her gate. She opened it, then turned and said: ‘You could come in for a coffee.’
I shook my head. ‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘Right. Goodbye then, Charlie.’
‘Bye, love.’
I watched her go in, struggling with her cargo, and she gave me a wave from the front window. I pushed a cassette home and drove off. It was Gavin Bryars, not quite what I needed. I ejected it and fumbled for another, something jauntier. This time it was Dylan’s Before the Flood. Just right. He was launching into ‘Like a Rolling Stone’ as I approached Hyde Park Corner. A gang of youths ambled across in front of me, even though the lights were green. I wound my window down and turned the volume to maximum. How does it FEEL! Dylan howled into the evening gloom.
I watched a wildlife programme and listened to some more music until bedtime, helped along with a can or two. Sunday I cleaned my boots and used the washing machine. Non-colour-fast cotton, my favourite cycle. I took the car to the garage for a shampoo and set and filled it with petrol. Inside I could smell Elspeth’s perfume. I hadn’t noticed it yesterday. Lunch was courtesy of Mr Birdseye and in the afternoon I vacuumed everywhere downstairs. I wasn’t expecting upstairs visitors.
In the evening I took Jacquie to a pub out in the country. We sipped our halves of lager ‘neath fake beams and admired the horse brasses that were probably made in Taiwan. I told her a bit about my day at Bolton Abbey, just the geography and weather, and she described the tribulations of being in business. Apparently the popular colours this winter are going to be emerald green and russet. Outside her house, before she could invite me in for coffee, I said that I wasn’t going to see her again.
Some by Fire Page 13
