The place was rented as being furnished, and there was nearly everything you needed to get by. In summer it was let to holidaymakers, but the owners were wanting a more permanent arrangement. I had a good look round, making a note of things I might need.
The bed had a mattress on it, still with a plastic bag covering it. That made me feel more comfortable. I had a look in the other, smaller bedroom, and found a single bed in there. Good, I thought. No water came out of the taps when I tried them, which is a sensible precaution in winter. The stop tap was under the sink. I turned it on, then turned it off again, as hard as I could.
This time I knocked, but he still answered it as if he’d been waiting, hand poised on the doorknob. ‘Sorry to trouble you again,’ I told him, ‘but I can’t get the water on. I’ve found the tap but it’s too stiff for me to move. You haven’t a pair of pliers or a wrench I could borrow for a moment, have you?’
‘Wait a minute,’ he replied, and disappeared back inside. A few seconds later he handed me a pair of pliers with red plastic handles.
‘My name’s Charlie, by the way,’ I said, taking them. ‘Looks as if we’ll be neighbours for a while.’
‘Kevin,’ he mumbled.
I held out my hand and he offered his. It was like shaking hands with a corpse. Nigel was right – there was something herpetological about him. Maybe it was the scales.
‘I’ll be straight back,’ I told him. I dashed in, turned the water on by hand and immediately returned with the pliers.
‘Cheers. There’s nothing like having the right tool for the job.’ As he turned to leave me I said: ‘You’re not a vegetarian, are you?’
‘A vegetarian? No, why?’
‘Do you like lamb?’
He looked puzzled. ‘Lamb? It’s all right. Why?’
I winked at him. ‘I have a supplier. I’ll bring you some. Thanks for the loan of the pliers.’ It was my turn to leave him standing there.
I finished my list, checking the heating and the meter readings, and went home to Heckley. It had been a good day, except that I realised I could have managed with just half a sheep. I called in at the supermarket and bought lots of vegetables and jars of sauces. At the checkout I impulse bought a cookery magazine that was running a feature on ten delicious things to do with lamb.
In the evening I opened the bag with the white Sellotape still round it and played at being Sweeney Todd. When I’d finished, the kitchen looked like a charnel house. I threw the biggest pile of bloody fragments in the dustbin and cooked the rest. I made lamb casseroles, lamb hotpot, lamb stew, lamb rissoles, lamb curry, lamb pudding, lamb trifle, lamb jam. I stuffed the lot in the freezer, using every container and dish I possessed, and fell into bed after midnight. I couldn’t sleep, so I tried counting sheep, but they kept chasing me.
I was up early but instead of going to church I visited the local DIY store and bought four miles of heavy duty draught-sealing strip and attacked the van doors with it. Just in case it didn’t work, I wore an old tracksuit top with a hood. After I’d loaded surprisingly few belongings into the van, plus the bag containing the left half of an assemble-it-yourself sheep, I drove to the cottage again. I was going to grow very familiar with the M62 and the road through Hull in the next few weeks. I wore the hood over my ears for the first few miles, but once the interior of the van warmed through it wasn’t too bad.
Kevin Jessie’s Opel was still outside his house. I grabbed the bag of meat and knocked at his door.
‘Stick that in your freezer,’ I told him when he came, thrusting the bag forward.
‘What is it?’ he asked, taking it.
‘Lamb. I asked you if you liked it.’
‘Oh, ta. Smashing. How much?’
I shrugged my shoulders. ‘Eight quid, if it’s any good to you. Pay for my petrol.’
‘Right.’
He gave me the exact money and went back inside to check if he’d been ripped off, while I unloaded my van. Most of the stuff I’d bought was bedding. The invention of the duvet was the answer – well, part of the answer – to a bachelor’s prayer. Cornflakes were a big help, too. I plugged in the little black and white telly, that I’d probably never watch, and my rasta-blaster, which I’d listen to non-stop. I stuffed an old Jimi Hendrix tape into it and wound the volume up loud. Might as well test the acoustics of the dividing wall.
It was half an hour later that I caught his knock at the door, between the wailing chords of All Along the Watchtower, but he hadn’t come to complain about the noise. He held his hand towards me, and laid across his palm were two pieces of wood. The longer piece had a steel point at one end, and the other had narrow feathers. He’d found my pretend crossbow bolt.
‘Ah!’ I said, looking, well, sheepish. I took the bits from him. ‘You, er, weren’t supposed to see that.’ He was grinning as if he had a toothless ferret up his trouser leg. I went on: ‘I thought it had gone straight through. The butcher must have found it. He joints them for me. Half for him, half for me. Forget you saw it, eh, Kevin?’
‘Never saw a thing, Charlie,’ he replied.
‘Great.’ I opened the door wide. ‘Kettle’s just boiled. Fancy a brew?’
‘Some other time, if you don’t mind.’
‘OK.’
Shit, I thought, as I flopped on to the little settee, this is hard work. He was biting, but not hard enough. Maybe I’d have to buy that Rottweiler after all, to get through to him. Hendrix was hurting my ears, so I swapped him for Joan Baez. My musical development ceased with the demise of split-knee flares.
I stayed at the cottage overnight. Further exploration revealed one of those poles that allows you to play tennis with yourself, and a couple of board games – Monopoly and Scrabble. The double bed was extremely comfortable. Eating my breakfast of toast and marmalade in front of the gasfire, I caught the final summary of the news on Radio Four. The group calling itself TSC was claiming another victory. They’d admitted planting a firebomb in a restaurant in Liverpool. It had been quite a blaze, and the manager and his wife, who were Irish, were missing. Remains of two bodies were being examined. I shook my head at the futility of it and hoped they’d stay away from Heckley. Drugs pushers I could handle, terrorists were something else.
There was only one item of mail lying on the doormat, but it was what I’d been waiting for. I felt like a change, so I had roast chicken for tea. Lamb is very nice, but you can have too much of it – I was beginning to speak with a New Zealand accent. Afterwards, when it had been digested, I jogged to the letterbox about three-quarters of a mile away and posted my expenses to Commander Fearnside. I was worried about my fitness, and also about the money I was spending on my journeys to Wickholme, so I’d decided to submit expenses forms weekly, and jog to the postbox with them.
With perfect timing, the phone rang as soon as I started to shampoo my hair, under the shower. I dashed down the stairs and grabbed it – it might have been a long-distance call, you never know.
‘Charlie Priest,’ I said.
It was the E-type man, wondering if I’d come to a decision. I wiped the foam from my eyes with the corner of my wrist and asked him to ring back in ten minutes.
I was sitting there, all neat and shiny in clean clothes when he did. The postcard from Annabelle was in my hand. She’d arrived safely, had met up with her colleagues, but was missing me. That was nice of her. She thanked me for my birthday card and promised to write a long letter when she had the chance. I’d made the birthday card myself and smuggled it into her hand-luggage. It was a long water-colour sketch of all the animals of Africa wishing her a happy birthday, with a little policeman at the end adding his own greeting. As a PS she asked: Did you buy the car?
Secretly, I think she was quite keen. I had to admit that she looked gorgeous sitting in it. It was a lot of money, though, and a car like that was wasted on me. I picked up the phone, prepared to disappoint someone.
‘Hello, Mr Priest. Sorry to keep bothering you,’ he said.
‘It’s no bother,’ I assured him.
‘Fact is, Mr Priest, I have an appointment with the bank manager tomorrow afternoon. After that, it’s down the tube for me. I can afford to let you have the Jag back for five thousand less than I gave you for it. That’s as low as I can go.’
We fenced around for a while, me making sympathetic noises, him saying that I was his last realistic hope of selling it in time, and apologising for making it sound like blackmail. He was a good bloke, banging his head on the wall of the recession. I couldn’t believe it when I heard this voice telling him to bring it round in the morning – I’d make a decision then. I replaced the handset and bashed my own head against the kitchen wall.
It was a beautiful spring morning when he pulled into my street – even nature was conspiring against me. He’d obviously given it a good waxing, and it shone like a supermarket tomato as it sat there on the drive. Just before he switched off he gave the obligatory blip on the accelerator. It sounded like a lion giving a warning growl: come any closer at your peril, was the message. I went out and walked round it, absorbing the smells of polish and hot oil, listening to the clicks and hisses of contracting metal.
He’d driven up from Nottingham, so I invited him in for a coffee. ‘I’ve brought all the documents,’ he told me, ‘and the receipts for the work I’ve had done on it.’
I gave them a perfunctory once-over. He’d certainly spared no expense, and it was as near to new as a car made in 1962 could possibly be. Take me for a drive,’ I said.
The intention had been to turn right at the main road and head up on to the moors, but I’d made my decision before we reached the junction. I told him to turn left, into Heckley. We parked in a pay-and-display and I led him into my bank.
It was the biggest single cheque I’d ever drawn, but it still left five grand, plus interest, in the high rate account I’d opened specially for his cheque, a year ago. And now I had the car back, so I don’t suppose it was a bad morning’s work, although my shaking knees weren’t convinced.
Back at my house we drew up a contract, signed the documents, and I telephoned the insurance broker and had the E-type put on my policy.
When I handed him the cheque he said: ‘I loved that car, Mr Priest, but this will save … this will save …’ He couldn’t say the words, and lowered his head, embarrassed, so I never found out what it would save.
I carried our cups into the kitchen and took my time washing them. When I went back I said: ‘Look, I’ll probably keep the Jag a couple of years, then sell it. If you get turned around, want it back before then, you can have it at the same price. How does that sound?’
‘It sounds very fair, Mr Priest.’
‘Right. So how about ringing your wife to tell her you found a sucker to take it off your hands, then I’ll drive you home in it.’
I rearranged the stuff in the garage – lawnmower, broken lawnmower, half-empty tins of magnolia emulsion – so that the ketchup torpedo would fit in, and relegated the Cavalier to the drive. Friday morning I swapped them around again and drove the E-type into town. I called in at the travel agents and the bank, then drove to the cottage. The travel agent had managed to squeeze me in on the evening ferry to Rotterdam, and we boarded at five-thirty.
I skidded into the drive of the cottage with a flurry of revs and scrunching gravel. This was my no-time-to-waste entrance. I slammed the Jag door moderately hard and dashed inside. Readers’ Digest had tracked me down, otherwise nothing had changed. I ran up the stairs, making as much noise as I could, then flopped on the bed, listening, for several minutes. Nothing.
I flushed the toilet, put a toothbrush in my shirt pocket, and went outside. Kevin was squatting on his heels alongside the Jaguar, one extended arm resting on a wheel arch.
‘Want to buy it?’ I asked.
His eyes were as big and round as those on the little furry animals you always see on the front of nature magazines, calculated to twang the heartstrings. ‘Is this yours?’ he enquired, in the tone of voice the Pope reserves for Easter Sunday.
‘Yeah. D’you like it?’
‘It’s fabulous. Brilliant. Best-looking car ever made.’ He stretched upright.
I said: ‘Yeah, well, this and maybe the Corvette Stingray.’ I had an old Classic Car magazine somewhere that I stole from my barber’s shop, with an article comparing the E-type and the Stingray.
Kevin shook his head. ‘Nah, no contest,’ he assured me.
‘I have to go,’ I told him, threading myself back into the driving seat. ‘I’m booked on the ferry in half an hour. I’ll take you for a ride when I get back Sunday morning.’
‘The ferry?’ He sounded interested.
I wound the window down so I could talk to him. ‘That’s right. Something cropped up – sudden, like.’
‘What, to do with your courier job?’ He’d seen the Merlin Couriers sign on the side of the Transit van.
I dithered visibly before answering. ‘Mmm … you could say that,’ I told him. My arm was dangling outside. ‘Work,’ I said, patting the door. That’s the trouble with having expensive tastes.’ I reversed into the road and drove away, giving him the briefest of waves.
The name came to me just after I’d joined the trickle of vehicles turning into the King George dock. Those furry creatures are called bush babies.
There was plenty of parking space and the car park looked relatively safe. I managed to find a bay at the end of a row, leaving a big gap between the Jag and its neighbour. I showed my ticket inside the terminal and was given a boarding pass, as with aeroplanes. It’s a procedure that baffles me, but no doubt someone has put a lot of thought into it. Upstairs, past the Passengers Only signs, was a lounge with refreshments on sale. I found a seat and observed my fellow travellers.
It was amazing how many people wanted to visit Holland during that weekend in March. I played at ‘Spot the Drug Smugglers’, and decided that ninety per cent of them looked likely candidates. My police training told me that the other ten per cent were probably the real smugglers. The Customs Officers might have their successes, but they were only sniffing the gleanings.
An announcement in four languages invited us aboard, and I joined the shuffling queue. Most people were loaded down with hand-luggage and children. We went through a passport check and crossed a gantry on to the ship. There was a strong smell of fresh paint. A ship’s police officer, doubling up on his duties, looked at my ticket and directed me to the appropriate desk. The hum of the engines could be felt through your feet. I put my tickets and passport safely in my pocket and went exploring.
The ferry was a bit like I imagine a cruise liner to be, but with a slightly less select clientèle. There were duty-free shops, a big dining room, casino, cinema, the works. Maybe I’d bring Annabelle if I ever did another trip, if it would be safe. I’d made myself a promise that I would try to involve her in my job as much as possible. Maybe that way I could avoid neglecting either her or it.
It had been a doddle so far. Show ticket and passport, obtain boarding pass. Show boarding pass and have tear-off strip taken. Customs Officer standing by, like a small boy with a fishing net, wondering which goldfish to catch. Presumably the vehicles coming on board were also under scrutiny, each driver praying: ‘Please don’t let it be my car they decide to strip down to its basic components and leave for me to put back together.’
I imagined myself in the Customs Officers’ shoes and wondered what category of vehicle I would choose to pull from the line and humiliate. Easy. Anything with bullbars and stupid numberplates. I might not find any drugs, but I’d have fun.
The fare included what was described as an airline-type seat, in which one was expected to sleep. I found the lounge where they were. The seat was bigger than I had thought it would be, not too bad at all. I had considered an upgrade to a cabin, but objected to the usual rip-off that we singletons always encounter when travelling alone. The meal in the restaurant was OK, with plenty to choose from, but the bars were crowded. A
couple of hours in the cinema appealed to me, but the films were aimed at the children on board, so I gave it a miss. This was one area where I’d been disappointed to learn that Annabelle’s tastes were different from mine. She enjoys films by Ingmar Bergman, and most of Bertolucci’s output; my favourites are Westerns and thrillers.
The big seat wasn’t as comfortable as it looked, but I managed to get some sleep. A grey dawn found me peering through a window as a green and white navigation light slid by; we were entering Europoort, Rotterdam.
Guy Dooley reached out and cancelled the alarm clock ten seconds before it chirruped into life. He swung his legs out of bed, yawned and rubbed his eyes, and shuffled towards the bathroom in the dark. He could hear his mother’s half-snores coming from the other bedroom. He chuckled and closed the bathroom door as silently as he could, trying not to disturb her.
Ten minutes later he was striding down the lane, stuffing a jam sandwich into his mouth with one hand and carrying all his birdwatching paraphernalia with the other. Away to his right the sky was just beginning to lighten.
The chough, Pyrrhocorax pyrrhocorax, resembles a rook, but has startling red legs and beak. Its normal habitats are coastal cliffs and mountainous heathlands, but changes in agricultural methods have driven it to the edge of extinction in most of its traditional haunts. Guy had seen one last year, and was hoping that it might return to breed. Now was the time for nest-building.
Wooden steps led down the cliff to the beach. At the bottom he glanced to his left, to where he’d helped Charlie bury the porpoise, then turned right. In a quarter of a mile he scrambled up the sloping cliff to a natural shelf, pulling himself along with handfuls of grass and the dead stalks of sea thrift. When he reached a level place he erected the little canvas hide he’d brought with him and settled down on his folding stool, binoculars at the ready.
He was well-hidden, surrounded by gorse bushes that were already in full leaf. From this spot he’d seen basking sharks cruising along, and porpoises leaping for the sheer joy of it. On a couple of occasions he might even have seen a whale. His mother would smile tolerantly when he arrived home starving hungry, to tell her of his latest sighting; and she’d privately wonder if her son was inventing a world to compensate for the loss of his father.
The Judas Sheep Page 14