‘My client told Mr Makinson that he believes he lost it somewhere in Heckley town centre,’ Mingeles informed me.
‘I’d like to hear it from him.’
Mingeles nodded. ‘That’s right,’ Watts confirmed. ‘I lost it somewhere in town centre.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
There was a long silence, until Mingeles said, ‘Fortunately, Mr Priest, what you believe is not important. Unless you have evidence to the contrary, my client’s word will be accepted by any court in the land. Now, if there are no further questions, I suggest we terminate this interview.’
‘Where did you lose the phone?’ I asked again.
‘My client has already answered that satisfactorily.’
‘I want to hear it from him.’
‘I fuckin’ tol’ you. In town centre.’
‘How well did you know Lisa Davis?’
He’d rehearsed that one. ‘Never heard of her,’ he replied.
‘So why was her number in your Filofax?’
Mingeles said, ‘Ms Davis’s agency is in the Yellow Pages. My client extracted the number for future use, in the event of his father needing any clerical assistance.’
‘And, of course,’ I declared, ‘she just happens to employ several very attractive young ladies. Some might say gullible young ladies, don’t you think?’
‘We wouldn’t know about that,’ Mingeles informed the tape.
I leant on the little table that separated us. ‘Listen, Michael,’ I said, ‘you’re going down for dealing. That’s as sure as Haile Selassie was an ugly runt. Makinson wants to pin a murder rap on you. Believe it or believe it not, I happen to think that you didn’t cut Lisa Davis’s throat. But you have a good idea who did. Right at this moment I am the only friend you have that you haven’t paid for. I’ll ask again: where did you lose the phone?’
Watts didn’t understand the Selassie jibe. He only joined the Rastas for the haircut. It’s a bit like joining the Young Conservatives for the table tennis. ‘You a fuckin’ joke, man,’ he told me for the second time. ‘You know fuck all.’ Mingeles silenced him by grasping his arm.
I leant forward, closer to him. ‘I’ll tell you what I do know,’ I said. ‘I could get you off a murder rap. But why should I? Tell me where you left the phone, and get yourself off.’
Mingeles looked puzzled, sat back and listened.
‘Where were you,’ I asked, ‘when you made those last calls on your dad’s phone and got three wrong numbers? You thought it was your own phone at first, didn’t you? You gave it a shake, then realised it was your father’s. What did you do? Pick up the wrong one as you left home?’
He glowered at me, leaving the question unanswered.
I went on. ‘So, you visited someone and left the phone on their hall table or the mantelpiece or wherever one puts a mobile phone. You had a discussion, maybe a little argument, and left in a hurry, forgetting to pick up the phone. That’s what happened, isn’t it, Michael?’
Sweat was dribbling from under his dreadlocks and his nostrils were flared, like he was halfway down the hundred metres track, or coming out for the third round.
Mingeles shuffled in his seat. ‘You appear to know a lot about my client,’ he stated. ‘Sadly, for you, it is entirely supposition.’ He lifted his briefcase and clicked the locks.
I turned to him. ‘Listen Mingeles,’ I said, ‘this is all good stuff. I know how many times your client shakes his prick after a piss and which finger he picks his nose with.’ I hooked a middle finger towards him and he shrank away. ‘He is protecting someone because that person is the key to continued wealth for him. If you want to be of real service to your client, I suggest you advise him that the gravy train is off the rails.’ I looked at my watch. ‘Interview terminated at…three fifty-four.’ I pressed the button and ejected the tapes.
Mugging is a high risk business. High risk for the offender as well as the victim. It’s an entry level offence, the first step on a pathway that usually leads to further, more violent, crimes. The mugger needs no tools, no training and no conscience. A fast pair of legs and an urgent desire for a few quid and you’re in business. Old ladies out shopping are the first targets, for our young thief has never heard of osteoporosis. But they don’t have much money, unless you catch them straight out of the Post Office on giro day. Male targets are often more prosperous, but might fight back, so he starts to carry a knife.
If he’s carrying a blade, he might as well use it to threaten the victim. And so it goes on. Rapists, especially the ones who attack their victims out of doors, usually started their careers as muggers.
We were having a plague of them, with two on Thursday morning. Thursday was pension day — laddo was on the learning curve. Maybe we could find a place for him on a residential course. The Davis enquiry was going nowhere, and I wanted this latest pimple in the figures squeezing out before it became a rash, so I put everyone I could spare out on the streets, including myself. For once the two victims gave good descriptions which, surprisingly, tallied. Wearing a Forfar Athletic Football Club jersey anywhere outside Forfar could be considered eccentric. In Yorkshire it was downright weird. We scoured the town and a patrol car spotted him coming out of a betting shop after the last race at Hamilton.
‘You’ve got to admit,’ Sparky said later through a mouthful of biscuit, ‘it makes the job worthwhile when you target a criminal like that and catch him so quickly.’
I took a well-earned sip of coffee and put my feet up on the desk. ‘He’s hardly John Dillinger,’ I remarked.
‘It’s one less scrote on the streets. That’s what counts.’
‘I’ll drink to that. Hopefully, when Mr Wood comes back we’ll be able to spend a bit more time on the Goodrich affair. Anybody know where Nigel is? I suppose we ought to call him off.’
‘He had a theory about someone up the Manchester Road.’
We were chattering away, pleased with ourselves, when my phone rang. It always does.
I swung my legs off the desk but Sparky beat me to it.
‘Who?’ he asked. His face screwed up in puzzlement and he said, ‘Dances with Wolves? No, there’s no one here called Dances with Wolves. Pardon… It’s a bad line, could you speak up, please. Dances with Anybody? Oh, you must mean Mr Priest. I’ll put him on.’ He reached out with the phone, saying, ‘It’s for you.’
Before I put my ear to it I could hear Nigel protesting. ‘I never said a thing! He’s making it up, boss.’
‘So that’s what you call me, behind my back, is it?’ I growled.
‘No, boss. Honest! I never said a word. He’s winding us up.’
‘So what do you call Dave?’
‘I don’t call him anything! What’s going on?’
‘Botulism Feet? Aw, Nigel, that’s not nice. That’s personal.’
‘I never said a word! You’re as bad as he is! Put him back on!’
‘And what else, did you say?’
‘Nothing!’
‘The what?’
‘NOTHING!’ he shrieked.
‘The Line Dance Kid? Sorry, Nigel. I don’t know what you mean.’
I glanced at Sparky who glowered back at me, slowly turning colour. ‘Bastard!’ he hissed.
‘Put him back on!’ Nigel insisted. He sounded hurt and confused, like a dog in a cactus garden.
‘He doesn’t want to talk to you. What did you ring for?’
‘Oh, flipping heck. Put him on, please.’
‘Sorry, Nigel. He’s shaking his head. We got someone for the muggings, so you can come back, now.’
‘So I heard. Is he annoyed?’
‘Well, he’s not pleased, stuck in a cell like that.’
‘I meant Dave.’
‘Oh, he’ll get over it. Thanks for those notes on ethics that you left me, Nigel. They look useful.’
‘That’s why I rang. I wasn’t sure if you’d found them. Good luck with the talk, if I don’t see you. Listen, boss. You are having me on, aren’t
you?’
‘Having you on, Nigel? Moi?’
‘Ha! You nearly had me going, there. Good one. Any instructions for tomorrow?’
‘No, I don’t think so. I’ll leave the shop in your capable hands. You could always… Oh, never mind.’
‘What?’
‘I was going to say that it might not be a bad idea to put a little pressure on K. Tom Davis. Maybe go see him, ask a few innocuous questions; perhaps even suggest that Michael Angelo Watts might be released, for insufficient evidence; something like that.’
‘Great. I’ll try to do it myself.’
‘OK, but take someone with you. Give me a ring tomorrow night.’
The first-class rail warrant didn’t materialise, so I drove down to the staff college at Bramshill. The session on ethics was the last one on Friday, presumably put there to reinforce, or perhaps negate, everything they’d heard on the previous days. I rose with the sun and made it in time for lunch. It was the best meal I’d had since Annabelle went away, although the company was stuffy. They like to do things with decorum at the staff college.
The Assistant Chief Constable had supplied me with his paper on the subject, but I decided to personalise it, using a few ideas of my own and the notes Nigel had given me. There were about thirty-five people present when I rose to my feet, after being effusively introduced by someone I’d only met three minutes earlier. Some of the delegates were no doubt from overseas, but there was a fair smattering of what I took to be our top brass. Let’s see if I could make them squirm…
‘There was this high-ranking police officer…’ I began. ‘In fact, he was a chief constable. Being a chief constable he owned a very nice car — an extremely desirable vintage Rolls-Royce. There was nothing he liked more than swanning around in his Rolls, driving through town on a sunny Saturday afternoon, showing it off. One day, out of the blue, a young lady who lived a few doors away asked him if he would be kind enough to take her to the church for her wedding, the following weekend. She would, of course, be willing to pay him the going rate for his services. Sadly, while everybody was in the church, a lorry reversed into the Rolls-Royce and drove away, leaving over five thousand pounds worth of damage behind… Fortunately, the Chief Constable was insured…’
When I finished the story one or two of them were shuffling around uncomfortably. I like to think they were wrestling with their consciences, but it may have been boredom. I talked about how the miners’ strike had overturned our guidelines, and about more recent problems with animal-rights activists and road protesters. How do we balance the rights of protesters with the rights of those who earn a living exporting veal calves and horses? It must have all been highly bemusing to anyone from Nigeria or Saudi Arabia. With five minutes to go I asked for questions and sat down. Timed to perfection.
It was the accents, not the questions, that caused me problems. I muddled through, and the chairman helped out a couple of times with responses that caused me to wonder which of us had misheard. At fifteen seconds to four a swarthy character with a complexion like the dark side of the moon rose to his feet. General Noriega’s ugly brother. His voice was eerily light, as I imagine a torturer’s to be, and I craned forward, hand cupped over an ear, to catch his words. He seemed to be asking why we didn’t just shoot protesters, and cure the problem once and for all?
‘That’s an interesting point of view,’ I declared. ‘But unfortunately we haven’t enough time to explore it fully. Perhaps it will make a good topic for you to discuss over a drink in the bar, this evening. Thank you for listening, gentlemen — and ladies — and I hope you enjoy the rest of the course.’
They applauded, but nobody stood on a chair and waved. Several of them did ask for copies of the paper, which didn’t exist, so I promised to send it. The course director invited me to stay for dinner, but I declined and left as quickly as politeness allowed. I ate at the motorway services. It would have been cheaper at the Savoy, but I was on HQ’s expenses.
There were no messages on the answerphone when I arrived home, just after ten, and no mail waiting on the doormat. I made a pot of tea and sank into my favourite chair, exhausted. It had been a long, stressful day, and I felt in need of something to unwind me. Nigel’s phone call came as a relief.
‘Hi, boss. How did it go?’ he asked.
‘Oh, so-so,’ I told him. ‘Nobody threw money at me, but they applauded at the end. That’s all you can ask for.’
‘I bet it was the highlight of their week,’ he replied.
‘Well, naturally. I was top of the bill, after all. What about you? Anything interesting happen today?’
‘There’s a couple of things you ought to know about. I went to see Davis, but he wasn’t in. Apparently a pal had collected him and they’d gone for a game of golf. I had a fairly long talk with his wife and told her that Michael Angelo Watts might be freed soon, so no doubt he’ll get the message. Apparently they didn’t see much of Lisa, because Justin and K. Tom didn’t see eye to eye, which we already knew.’
‘Did she expand on the reason?’
‘I encouraged her to. She said it was just the normal stepfather thing. General resentment. She expressed her grief over Lisa but it was hard to tell how sincere she was. She certainly wasn’t overwrought about her.’
‘I’ll bet. So she didn’t say anything about her husband and Lisa having an affair?’
‘No. I asked how close they were and she said they had a business arrangement, that’s all.’
‘Mmm. Maybe we ought to be less circumspect with Mrs Davis senior, the next time. Did you have a chance to ask about her alibi?’
‘Didn’t have to ask. She said she went to bed with a migraine. K. Tom stayed in, watching TV. Lisa rang him twice; she said she heard him on the phone.’
‘Fair enough. What about the rest of it? Is everybody behaving?’
‘No problems. As I left K. Tom’s I wondered about leaving one of your bullbars stickers behind his wipers, but I decided it was inappropriate. There’s one other thing. I thought that K. Tom might try to skip the country, so I put out an APW on him. Is that OK?’
‘Yes. Good idea, except they don’t work, since we all became Europeans. Did you do it through the FIU?’
‘No. As you say, they’re not very efficient, these days. Jeff and I spent an hour ringing all the ferry companies’ security departments. They all promised to feed his details into their computerised booking systems. With luck, if he books a ticket they’ll let us know.’
‘Smashing. Anything else?’
‘No, that’s it. What are you doing tomorrow?’
Good question. Annabelle was due home, but I wasn’t sure if I was still an item in her life.
‘Oh, I’ll call in to the office for a couple of hours,’ I told him. ‘Make sure everything is nice and tidy for Mr Wood, on Monday.’
‘I can manage, if you fancy the weekend off,’ Nigel volunteered.
‘I had most of last weekend off,’ I reminded him.
‘Well, have another.’
It was tempting. ‘You sure you don’t mind?’ I asked.
‘Of course not.’
‘Right. Thanks. I’ll have a day out walking.’ They’d be calling me one of the ESSO boys, soon: Every Saturday and Sunday Off. Before I went to bed I recovered my hiking gear from the spare bedroom and studied the Ordnance Survey map for the north-west lakes.
Hard physical exercise, fresh air and a change of scenery are a good cure for most kinds of blues. And I needed some time to think. I was up with the sun again, but there were still plenty of cars on the verge at Seathwaite when I arrived. There’s always room for another, providing you don’t mind parking halfway up a drystone wall.
Great Gable is a proper mountain. There’s no need for ropes or anything at this time of year, but towards the top you can touch the rocks in front of your face and pretend you are on K2. First there’s the long drag up to Styhead Tarn to put behind you, with a fearful drop into a raging beck just a twist of the ankle
to your right. Then the ground levels out and it’s decision time: Scafell or the Gables? I turned right, up Aaron Slack towards Windy Gap, which separates Green Gable from her big sister.
The rain spoilt it. I donned my waterproofs and from then on it was just a challenge to get to the summit. I ate my soggy banana sandwiches talking to a couple from Bolton, huddled behind the pile of stones, and accepted a square of mint cake from them. It rained all the way back to the car. I trudged on, carefully watching my footfalls, anorak hood knotted tightly under my nose. I was warm and cosy in there, and the going was all downhill. It was quality thinking time, but I didn’t answer any questions. Something Nigel had said was troubling me.
The Chinese restaurant in Skipton did a decent won ton soup, followed by duck in plum sauce. I arrived home about nine. I was outside, unlocking the door, when I heard the answerphone making its beeping noises. Annabelle, I thought. I made a cup of tea and collected the mail. My AA subscription was due, the dentist wanted to see me and someone was offering to make me rich if I made them rich first. Why doesn’t anybody send letters any more? I stuffed a custard cream sideways into my mouth, soggyfied it with a swig of tea and pressed the play button.
The electronic lady told me I had one message. There was a long pause, longer than usual, before a man’s voice said, ‘We got your car, Priest. Next we’ll get your woman. Then we’ll get you.’
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.
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