She didn't say anything.
"Is it hurting?" I asked. She nodded. "Do you want me to ask the nurse to give you something?"
She shook her head. "No thank you," said a little voice.
"Do any of your school chums come to see you?" Another headshake. I wasn't wording these questions very well.
"They don't!" I exclaimed. "Why do you think that is?"
She shrugged her shoulders. "I don't know," she whispered. "I think they don't know what to say to me."
"Well, you've got a point. I'm not sure what to say to you myself.
Mind you, I've no kids of my own. The only time I speak to teenagers is to say "Don't do that" or "Put that back" or "Bugger off or I'll nick you"."
She gave a hint of a smile. I delved my hand into my jacket pocket and pulled out the little teddy bear. "Oh," I said, "I nearly forgot. He said he was missing you, so I brought him along."
She reached out and took him from me. This time the smile reached a little further. He was the scruffiest of all her teddies, so I guessed she'd had him the longest, loved him the most.
"I wondered about bringing you some chocolates," I told her, 'but they didn't have any for under fifty pence, so I decided you were probably on a diet and wouldn't have appreciated them anyway; so I didn't buy you any." I took a deep breath. "That's my excuse."
She looked downcast. "There's no point, is there?" she mumbled.
"No point in what?" I asked.
"Being on a diet."
"No, not for someone as skinny as you, but I thought you girls were always on diets."
Her eyes flickered towards the cage over her legs. "Nobody will want me now," she said, her eyes filling with tears.
"Of course they will. There's someone waiting for all of us, somewhere. It's taking me a long time to find mine, but that's another story."
"Not when you've only one leg."
"Rubbish," I told her. "Did you ever hear of Douglas Bader?"
She sniffed and shook her head.
"Well, when I was a kid Douglas Bader was a big hero. He lost both his legs in a plane crash. Below the knee, like you. Both of them. He learned to fly again and shot down umpteen German aeroplanes in the Second World War. He played golf, learned to ballroom dance and married Muriel Pavlow. I was upset about that — I was in love with her myself. And he refused to walk with a stick. If he could do it, anyone can."
She didn't look very impressed.
"Mind you," I added, 'nobody liked him he was a complete arse hole of a bloke."
She tried to laugh between the sobs. I think I cheered her up. I asked her if I could call again, and she said I could. Better still, I offered to send along some of the handsome young bobbies I worked with.
She blushed at that prospect.
I should have eaten, but I had no appetite. I rang Gilbert to give him moral support. A chief superintendent from Huddersfield was investigating the death of the youngster on the bike. There was plenty of evidence that our car was well back, not involved in a Hollywood-style chase, and the chopper hac videoed the whole incident, but no doubt we would be criticised from the usual quarters. I felt I needed a drink, so I poured myself a generous Glenfiddich. I don't like whisky, so it couldn't really be called succumbing to temptation.
Then I fell asleep in front of the television. TV does that to me I don't even have to switch it on.
Next morning my mouth felt like the inside of a dead marsupial's pouch.
I ate my favourite breakfast of double cornflakes, with six sugars and the top off the milk, with tinned grapefruit for pudding, and drove to the news agent for a couple of the Sunday heavies. Two hours later, as I was trying to decide which set of patio furniture to send for, Mike Freer rang.
"Hi, Sheepdip. Didn't think you'd be up yet," he said.
"Then why did you ring?" I replied.
"Too much bed is bad for you. Did you know that Fangio said he was scared to go to bed, because most people died there?"
"He must have had a big bed. Did you ring for a reason, or are you just determined to keep me from pruning my herbaceous shrubs?"
"No, or to put it another way, yes. Talking about herbaceous shrubs, has it been a good year for your Gloxinias?"
"I don't know. You'd better ask our Gloxinia."
"Ah, yes; wonderful girl. I tried to ring you yesterday, but you were up to the goo lies in it, from what I gathered. What happened?"
It sounded as if we were talking business now, so I related the story of the chase and its consequences to him. When I'd finished he said:
"It sounds as if Crabb has been growing desperate over the last few days. I'm not surprised. We got the analysis of that wrap you brought in, and it's not a pretty picture. That's what I rang to tell you about." i, i "Go on."
"Well, for a start, it was about ten percent heroin."
"That doesn't sound much."
"It's not. Thirty or forty percent is the norm. Which means that your average everyday addict has to inject three times as much for a decent high."
"Which is bad news for them."
"It is. For a start, if they ever buy some of the good stuff they could accidentally overdose. Meanwhile, they're pumping vast doses of the contaminants into their bloodstream, which is even more worrying."
"I see. Tell me what was in it."
"Well, the main constituent is milk powder. Not too dangerous in itself. Dilute milk won't carry a lot of oxygen around your body, but it won't poison you. Then there was flour the stuff you make bread with; and, lastly, plaster of Paris."
"Plaster of Paris!" I exclaimed.
"Yep, or something similar, such as Polyfilla."
"But that could harden, couldn't it?"
"It tends to settle out. Actually the flour is just as bad. They both cause blockages."
"Jesus. What's happening? Are the pushers growing too greedy?" I asked.
"Not sure. Maybe not. It could be that demand is so high that a few occasional users have decided it's a good way to make a quick buck, by cutting their own supplies with any white powder they can find under the kitchen sink and selling it on. Kids flogging it in the playground to finance their own habit, that sort of thing. It's called enterprise."
"Market forces."
"Exactly."
I thought about what he'd told me and remembered the conversation I'd had with Billy Morrison of the Fraud Squad. I asked: "Mike, what's the chances of hitting Cakebread with the Drug Trafficking Act?"
"You mean the Drug Trafficking Offences Act, 1987?"
"That one."
"Slim. There've been one or two prosecutions, but the drug end of it was well proven. You'd have to do that first, before you could strip his assets. When Cakebread was turned over he was clean, wasn't he?"
"Like Mother Teresa. What happened to the parcel that was planted in my car?"
"Your half-kilogram of Bogota's best; it's been incinerated, along with a load of other stuff. Listen, Charlie; I hope you're not thinking what I think you're thinking. If you are, forget it. Hear me?"
"It was just an idea."
"Well don't have any more like it. They're not worth it, Charlie. Keep repeating "Pension, retirement, pension, retirement". Okay?"
"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, victim ising 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 gate man 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.
Ill
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 Mono. 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 drawer 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 lea
st 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 stagioniV "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."
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