‘I hear you. Thanks for ringing.’
It was definitely too cold to prune the shrubs, so I put a CD on the player and stretched out on the sofa to listen to it and relax. In deference to the sabbath I’d selected my Thomas Tallis. I played it loud, to impress God and the neighbours. I like the English composers, even if some of them have names that wouldn’t make the Jockey Club members’ enclosure. It’s good music to think to; sort out your mind and make decisions. Inspirational, even.
Too many people were being hurt. We were catching the little fish, victimising the victims, while the hammerhead swam free. I lay staring at the ceiling as the choir’s final, triumphant chord faded into the ether; then I slipped into my trainers and leather jacket and went out to the car. I’d decided to go shark fishing.
Sunday afternoon is probably as quiet as it ever gets down at the station. Most of the squad cars were in the yard, one bearing a dented wing, evidence of a memorable Saturday night for someone. The front door of the building was locked; I spoke into the microphone to gain admittance.
Sergeant Jenks was in the charge room, with a PC and a miserable wretch who was being fed into one end of the sausage machine that would cough him out into the magistrates’ court on Monday morning. Jenks looked up when I poked my head round the door.
‘Hello, Mr Priest,’ he said. ‘We weren’t expecting you. Anything special?’
‘No, Sergeant. I’ve just called to collect something from my office.’ I nodded towards the frightened little man. ‘What’s he in for?’
Jenks shook his head and tut-tutted. ‘Trumping in church, sir,’ he said.
I glared at him, long and mean. ‘Hang the bastard,’ I pronounced.
Upstairs, I pulled open my bottom drawer. The brown envelope addressed to our late Chief Constable was still there. I reread the note it contained. The mysteries of PH and PM were solved; now was the time to exorcise the rest of it. I wrote the number for the alarm, 4297, on the back of my hand with a ball-pen, and pocketed the three keys.
Ten minutes later Heckley was falling behind and below, as I gunned the car up the moorland road that led into Lancashire. The radio tuned itself in to the local station and I sang along with the music, slapping time on the wheel with my fingers. All the songs were new to me, but you feel you’d heard them in the cradle after the first two lines. I felt good; activity is the best antidote for depression.
Even on a bad day the moors look all right. Today was still and clear, for a change, and they were at their benign best. It was only temporary, though: moody malevolence was never more than a breeze away. A million years of rain and wind has smoothed off every sharp edge, every jutting crag or soaring pinnacle. The hills roll and curve sensuously, with the valleys cutting deep cleavages between them, The shapes they make are animal, rather than geological.
Man’s tentative grip is seen only in the valleys. Bold mills stand foursquare to the elements, their chimneys long grown cold. Rows of solid workers’ terraces are now the homes of painters and the makers of thick wooden jigsaws and other primitive toys; guaranteed to make your children believe that Santa Claus hates them. Cotton and worsted that once clothed and carpeted the world have been replaced by politically correct dolls and pottery that grinds the enamel off your teeth. I love it all.
Going down the other side the patchwork of the Lancashire plain was visible almost to the coast. Soon I was driving through the middle of Oldfield, rattling across the market square with its ancient cross, and heading out towards Welton and ABC House.
I drove past the gatehouse at the front entrance. Apart from the rows of mute lorries and security vans, the only vehicles parked there were a small motorbike belonging to the gateman and Breadcake’s Rolls Royce. Dammit, I hadn’t expected him to be in today. I settled down to watch, from as far away as possible. After an hour I rang his home, The Ponderosa, on the mobile phone.
‘Hello,’ said a female voice.
‘Hello, is Mr Cakebread there?’ I asked.
‘No.’ She didn’t give much away.
‘Oh. It’s Mr Curtis here, of Curtis’s. I’d like a quick word with him, soon as poss. Are you expecting him?’ Curtis’s were the local Rolls Royce dealers.
‘Yes, he shouldn’t be long.’
‘Good, I’ll try a little later. If I miss him could you ask him to give me a bell sometime tomorrow?’
‘Yes.’
‘Thank you. ‘Bye.’ Click.
At least it sounded as if he was due to go home soon. He did, just before the end of the Radio 4 play.
The cobbled lane that runs down the side of ABC House was deserted, apart from a couple of vehicles parked outside the factory next door. I left my car behind them and walked back to the side entrance of the building. I knew that two of my keys fitted the small door that was inset into the big sliding one. Without looking round I unlocked the deadlock, then the Yale, and stepped inside. A small red light was blinking on the burglar alarm unit on the wall at the side of the door. I typed in the number and the light turned to a steady green one. He hadn’t changed the code, I was in. I closed the door, leaving the latch off.
It had possibly been a weaving shed, or something similar, in days gone by. Now it was just a big empty space, devoid of any machinery. Across the other side were a couple of disabled lorries, cabs tipped forward and entrails laid neatly on the concrete floor, waiting for their mechanics to resume work on Monday morning. A security van stood on blocks, minus its wheels. It was gloomy without the lights on, the only illumination coming from a row of windows up near the roof. Away to the right was the main entrance – a big concertina door that led out into the yard – and the office block where I had met the desirable Gloria. The offices were a two-storey affair, easily accommodated within the height of the main building. A flight of metal stairs led up to the next floor. I wondered if the door at the top of them gave access to Breadcake’s private suite, with its deep carpets and wonderful matching colour scheme. There was a good way to find out.
I padded across to the stairs and climbed them two at a time, hauling on the handrail and extracting the third key from my pocket as I moved. I paused at the door and looked around. The place was as silent as a turkey farm on Boxing Day. I tried the key. It turned. I let the door swing open and surveyed the room. It was windowless and dark. I didn’t want to put the lights on, so I left the door wide open. It still took a few moments for my eyes to accustom themselves to the gloom. It was a big room, with an odd assortment of furniture. There were two or three easy chairs and a huge table that might have come from a drawing office or a school laboratory. But what really caught my attention was the familiar face, staring unwaveringly at me through the gloaming.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
I gazed back at it with a deal more fascination than when I’d seen the original in the Louvre, many years ago. It was the Mona Lisa, but the picture wasn’t hanging on the wall: it was on an easel, as if waiting for the artist to add the finishing touches.
I turned it a few degrees, so that it received more of the light from the door. It was good. Oil paints are slow to dry; the different colours drying at different speeds. The earth colours, as used in this painting, might take a couple of days, whereas a red might need a week or more to be touch-dry. Total dryness can take up to a year. I tested the surface with my fingers, to feel what it could tell me. Not much. He could, of course, have been working on it for months, developing minute areas with infinite patience.
That hint of a smile on her face doesn’t fool me. I reckon someone in the room has just broken wind, and, being a lady, she’s desperately trying to pretend she didn’t hear them. I think she’d look better with a big, lecherous grin. If the paint wasn’t completely dry I should be able to do it with my fingertips. I tried to draw the corners of the mouth upwards, pressing hard on the surface. It was too late. She looked a little more as if she was about to lose control, but not as manic as I’d hoped for. I glanced around for materials, then pulled open the dra
wer in the table.
All his paints were neatly laid out, as per the rainbow. I went straight to the short end of the spectrum and selected a colour. Cadmium scarlet, perfect. Squeezing the paint directly from the tube on to the canvas, I gave her a luscious, Monroesque pout – although it did look as if she’d applied her lipstick while riding a horse.
I placed the squashed tube back in the drawer without putting the top back on and moved up the frequency range. Something had to be done about those eyebrows and the receding hairline. Chrome yellow; a bit cool, but it’d do. I gave her two arching brows, then, working outwards from the parting, masses of looping, blonde curls. Bet she’d always wanted to be a blonde. Half a tube of lamp black provided eyelashes that looked like lawn rakes. I closed the drawer and examined my handiwork. Well, at least it was original.
At that point I should have left. I’d penetrated their empire and guaranteed them a bad case of dysentery when they found out. I should have organised twenty-four-hour surveillance. Over the years, there’ve been a lot of things I should have done, but didn’t. Besides, I’ve always had an interest in interior decoration. I just had to have a look at Mr Cakebread’s private suite. I presumed that was where the door at the far end of the room led.
The handle turned silently and the door swung inwards when gently pushed. It was almost pitch black inside, except for a flickering blue glow reflecting off the shiny surfaces. As the door swung wider I saw the source of it. High in a corner was a small black-and-white closed-circuit TV monitor, showing the big door at the side, where I had entered the building.
‘Come in, Charlie,’ said a familiar voice, and the lights flashed on.
Rudi Truscott was standing at the far side of the room. He had a smug expression on his face and a Smith and Wesson in his hand. It was a Lady Smith, one of a neat little series of weapons designed for American women to carry in their purses. It was a thirty-eight, though, and would fell a moose at this range.
‘Pizza Express,’ I said. ‘Did anybody here order a quattro stagioni?’
‘Sit down,’ he commanded, gesturing towards an armchair, ‘and keep your tiresome humour to yourself.’
Ouch! That hurt. He placed himself on an upright chair at the other side of the room. I glanced round at the furnishings. There was a lot of lilac. The style was Puffs Boudoir, with heavy Cocktail Bar influences.
‘Nice room,’ I said. ‘Did you choose the colours?’ No answer, just a contemptuous stare.
‘I, er, I saw your painting.’ I gestured towards the outer room. ‘It’s good, one of your best. But surely you’re not going to try to heist the Mona Lisa, are you?’
He sniggered. ‘No. While I am confident I can reproduce Leonardo’s masterpiece, he unfortunately used inferior materials. I am unable to do justice to the surface cracks that it is covered with. The picture is just a little present for the wife of a friend. She says it’s her favourite painting.’
‘Good,’ I replied, nodding my approval. ‘Good. I’m sure she’ll appreciate it. Tell me, what’s her second favourite: the white horses galloping through the waves, or the Burmese lady with the green face?’
‘You’re a sarcastic bastard,’ he hissed. ‘You always were. But we won’t have to put up with you for much longer.’
‘Why? What are you going to do?’ I asked. It seemed a reasonable question. I was genuinely interested.
‘You’ll find out.’
‘I’d never have thought of you as a killer, Rudi,’ I told him. ‘I’m not.’
‘Aren’t you? What about old Jamie?’
‘Who’s old Jamie?’
‘You remember. The tramp whose body we found in your cottage. We’ve been looking for you for his murder.’
Fear flickered across his face for a moment. The gun wavered alarmingly. ‘I didn’t kill him,’ he hissed. ‘He … died.’
‘Did he? And what did you do to help the process? Give him a litre of Bell’s and tell him to get it down? It amounts to the same thing in my book.’
His eyes flashed up towards the TV monitor and he smiled. ‘Fortunately, Priest, your book is not the one we’re working from.’
I followed his gaze. The big door was open and the Rolls was coming through. As it slid shut again Truscott said: ‘Get up, it’s time to go.’ He pointed towards the exit. ‘Walk slowly, and don’t try anything.’
I walked slowly. Very slowly. I was hoping he’d come up close behind me, but he was wary. ‘Faster!’ he snapped.
We were approaching the painting, which was angled away from us, towards the outer door. I glanced back at him and said: ‘Yes, it’s a really nice picture.’ We’d reached it now. I went on: ‘It needed a few small alterations, though, so I made them for you. I hope you don’t mind.’
I grabbed the top of the easel and turned it so he could appreciate my handiwork. With the lights on it wasn’t La Gioconda any more; it was Barbara Cartland, after being ravished by the Chipping Sodbury chapter of Hell’s Angels.
His face contorted in horror: ‘You bastard!’ he screamed.
One second later the picture, with easel still attached, hit him in the mouth and I was out through the door.
Cakebread was opening the boot of the Rolls. He looked up when he heard the commotion and his natural look of self-satisfaction turned to panic when he saw me. I was down the stairs in three leaps and already running when my feet hit the ground. Truscott fired. The bullet ricocheted off the concrete in front of me, nearly hitting Cakebread.
‘Three seconds, dear God,’ I prayed. ‘Three seconds, that’s all I ask, with my hands round his throat.’
I nearly made it. With five yards to go Cakebread delved into the boot and spun in my direction. I found myself charging towards the pitiless black orifices of a sawn-off shotgun.
Plan B. It wasn’t much, but it was all I had. I executed a body-swerve and change of direction that would have graced any football field in the world, and headed for the door. But you can’t outrun a twelve-bore.
The noise, the pain and the impact all hit me at once. The blast caught me in the right side, spinning me round. My legs tangled and I went down. The only thought in my head was ‘keep moving’. I rolled over and over. Then I was scrabbling forward on my hands and knees and finally on my feet again. I thumbed the door catch with my free hand – the one that wasn’t holding my guts in – yanked it open and spilt out on to the welcoming pavement.
* * *
Penny Throstle owns a craft shop in the new riverside development at Oldfield. She sells rugs and blankets that she weaves herself on a Victorian floor loom, purchased when the company that had hitherto owned it fell victim to advancing technology and cheap imports. She was given the option to buy the three similar ones in the mill at the same knockdown price, so she took those, too. The intention was to use them for spares, or restore them for sale to another small operator. Fortunately she did neither, and all four are now in use.
The rugs are usually hung on walls as decoration, being far too expensive to walk on or throw over the bed. Her designs come from all around the world, as well as the original ones she develops herself. Ms Throstle was doing quite nicely, thank you, until she made a rug for Mr Rahkshan. Now she is doing very well indeed.
Mr Rahkshan is a silversmith, and owns the shop next door. He is a Muslim. One day, in a period when Ms Throstle was beguiled by the geometric patterns of Islamic art and producing beautiful works under its heady influence, she made Mr Rahkshan a prayer mat. Her motives were not purely spiritual – she fancied him madly. The design was based on five lines, radiating from a point halfway along one side. Mr Rahkshan was captivated when she explained how it worked. You simply placed the mat on the floor, with the appropriate line pointing in the direction of the sun; then, as you knelt on the mat, you were automatically facing towards Mecca.
It was only accurate, of course, when within a few hundred miles of Oldfield. The design would have to be modified for use in other parts of the world. Mr Rahkshan proudly s
howed the mat to his friends. As well as having direction-finding capabilities it was also a thing of beauty, for Ms Throstle had invested her best efforts, plus a few prayers of her own, in it. One week later he gave her a firm order for twenty similar mats, at an extremely agreeable price, with promises of more to follow.
A month later they became partners – alas, only for business purposes – went mail-order and put the other looms into use. They were inundated.
‘The secret of a good reputation,’ Mr Rahkshan would say, ‘is to produce a good-quality article and deliver it on time. Then you can charge what you want,’ and he would give his tinkling laugh that entranced Ms Throstle. The trouble was, they had received so many orders they might have difficulty in achieving the second premise. Simply packing all the rugs for posting was a gargantuan undertaking. Fortunately a little factory that made cardboard cartons came to the rescue. They were in Welton, joined on to the back of ABC House, domicile of Aubrey Cakebread.
Business for them was desperate; they were rapidly coming unstuck at the flaps. When Mr Rahkshan asked them to make boxes for the mats, they gladly offered to pack, address and post them, at a small extra cost. It was a satisfactory arrangement all round. The grateful staff worked all weekend to process the latest order. They finished it late Sunday afternoon, and had just left the factory and were walking down the cobbled lane alongside ABC House, on their way home, when I burst into their midst.
There were about six of them. They were gathered around me, trying to comprehend my gibberings, when Cakebread appeared at the side door. He was brandishing the shotgun, no doubt with two fresh charges up the spouts, and looked intent on murder. The alley should have been deserted at that time of day. When Cakebread saw the crowd he panicked and fled back inside. I don’t know if Penny Throstle’s mats ever do any good for the people who pray on them, but there is no doubt that they saved my life.
Cakebread had killed Truscott with the second barrel. He jumped into the Rolls and fled through the front entrance. The poor gateman was dozing in his hut when the car smashed through the barrier. He hadn’t even known that his boss was in the place. It was a long time, though, before I learnt all this.
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