The Judas Sheep

by Stuart Pawson

  ‘Anybody local here, Jeff?’ I asked.

  He pointed a Sergeant out to me. I went over and introduced myself and told him who Annabelle was. I made it sound as if she could have identified Noon, if they’d found him. Taking one’s girlfriend to the scene of a crime is not generally regarded as good police procedure.

  The diver came to the surface, in the deep pool on the low side of the Strid, and was helped out. He had a long conversation with his colleagues, pointing into the stream and describing the shapes of the rocks with his hands. The next diver listened intently, before wading into the icy water.

  A Constable came over and asked if we’d like mugs of tea. Jeff accepted the offer, but I told him that Annabelle and I were going shortly. The Sergeant and the Diving Supervisor joined us, and the Constable brought Jeff his tea. As he handed it over the diver’s attendant called to us: ‘He says he’s found something!’

  He drew in the line, walking downstream, planting each foot carefully on the slimy rocks. We followed him part of the way, and caught sight of the diver’s red suit beneath the broken surface of the water. He swam slowly into the shallows and stood up, holding something, towing it to the side. His diving colleague waded in to help him.

  They lifted the body of a small dog, skinny as a whippet, on to firm ground, a lead trailing down from its neck. We resisted the temptation to crowd around, standing back until the Diving Supervisor and the local Sergeant had received the corpse. Fumbling fingers undid the dog’s collar. The Sergeant peered at the engraved disc that hung on it, wiping it dry and holding it towards the light that slanted through the branches. When he’d read it he stepped from boulder to boulder, back up to the rest of us, and handed the collar and lead to me.

  The weak sun caught the meniscus of tears under Annabelle’s eyes, making them appear larger than they were. I passed the collar to Jeff and put my arm around her shoulders. ‘It says Bobby Noon,’ I told her, ‘with a Heckley phone number.’

  We had a cup of tea each and I managed a toasted teacake in a cafe in the village and drove home. I stayed at Annabelle’s through the afternoon and read her reports on Africa. I was stunned into silence, even though I’d expected them to be good. One report examined a number of projects that the various charities had sponsored, evaluating their effectiveness and suggesting improvements. She understood all the angles, and wasn’t afraid to comment on economics or practical aspects. She knew all about crop rotation, medicine, and the merits of plastic, concrete and iron pipes. They’d sent the right person.

  The other report was about the impact of tobacco on the economy and health of the region. It was a complicated story, told better by the pictures she’d taken. My pupil had done me proud, but it nearly broke her heart. One photo was of an old man dying of cancer, the only relief available being from the cigarettes that were killing him. Others showed little kids, urchins, with stalls selling a few packets, and all the time they puffed away at the weed. Annabelle bought what she could from them, to bring back for analysis.

  She was on the best picture, a tiny figure against a huge advertising hoarding. On it, a Michael Jackson lookalike straddled a Harley Davidson. He was half-turning, to light the cigarette of the beautiful girl on the back. ‘Smoke Red Wings and you too can have all this,’ was the message to a population whose per capita income wouldn’t pay for his Ray Bans.

  Annabelle was in the kitchen, emptying cupboards. I wandered in and said: ‘Your reports are superb. Andrew Fallon will be delighted with the tobacco stuff. I’m sorry if I was boorish before you went. Now I see how worthwhile your trip was.’

  She came to sit on a stool next to me. ‘Do you know what my favourite part was?’ she asked.

  I shook my head.

  ‘Your birthday card. It was the best one I’ve ever had.’

  ‘It was very expensive,’ I told her.

  ‘I know. It positively oozed expense.’

  ‘And taste?’

  ‘Taste more than expense.’

  ‘Thank you.’ I decided that the time was right. ‘Annabelle?’

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘You know you were going to come down to Gilbert’s cottage in Cornwall?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, I’ve been thinking. East Yorkshire isn’t exactly Cornwall, but it’s still very nice. And the cottage there is OK, too. It’s not really a cottage, more a little house. But it can be very pleasant, and you’d never know you weren’t in a cottage. So we could, you know …’

  Annabelle tipped her head to one side and tried to look puzzled. ‘Could what?’ she asked.

  ‘We could, well, walk on the beach; spend some time together. And you can skim pebbles on the North Sea just the same as any other sea. So … what do you think?’

  ‘I think you have such a way with words, Charles.’ The smile had defeated the puzzled look, and her cheeks were pink, showing off her dimples.

  I nodded several times, perched on the high stool, sitting on my hands. ‘I know,’ I agreed. ‘We have intensive training, for when we appear in court. So can I take that as affirmative?’

  In the distance I could hear a noise like a budgerigar gargling. We both froze, listening. It was my mobile phone, in my jacket pocket, hanging in the hallway. The world had caught up with us again.

  Halfway through, Annabelle joined me to listen to my end of the conversation. My tone probably gave away the content of the message. I said: ‘Thanks for ringing, Jeff. Will you let me know what the pathologist has to say?’ I folded the phone and clicked the aerial home.

  She was leaning on the door jamb, arms dangling. ‘They’ve found a body,’ I told her. ‘It fits Tom Noon’s description.’

  All the newspapers were filled with eulogies for the dead politician. The local rag said he was one of the greatest Prime Ministers we never had. Their quota of originality is expended on the football scores. Andrew Fallon, PM-in-waiting, was widely photographed and videoed in a distressed state. His other passion, apart from knocking tobacco, is railways. He is a great advocate of expanding the system, and heard of his friend’s death while opening an extension to a private line somewhere near his home town of Dumfries. Pictures of him on the footplate of a steam locomotive, rivulets of tears cutting through the grime on his cheeks, appeared on all the front pages.

  I was more interested in the pathologist’s report. Tom Noon had drowned, but had been unconscious when he entered the water. A wound on the back of his head was consistent with him slipping and banging his head on a rock. People who should have known better nodded wisely: the rocks were slimy with moss … it had happened before … it was a dangerous place to take a dog for a walk on a lead.

  At eleven o’clock at night! Twenty-five miles from home, without telling your wife where you were going! I didn’t believe a word of it. I asked to see the body, and examined the wound on his head. It wasn’t as bad as I’d expected, with little indentation to indicate the shape of whatever had caused it. I revisited the Strid and tried to reconstruct a possible scenario. It could have happened, but I wasn’t convinced. I waited for some organisation, like The Struggle Continues, to claim responsibility, but nobody did.

  The inquest heard evidence of identification and was adjourned. It looked as if an open verdict was on the cards, with a rider about walking the dog near deep water after dark. Mrs Noon was given permission to dispose of her husband’s remains, and I made plans to entertain my favourite person in the whole world at my cottage on the coast, on expenses.

  I couldn’t face the journey in the Transit, and I didn’t want Kevin to know about the Cavalier, so it had to be the E-type Jaguar. Sometimes I feel I’m just a victim of circumstances. I loaded it with everything off the spare bed, down to the electric blanket, and took it all to the cottage on the Thursday afternoon. I made the bed, vacc’d round everywhere, washed the windows and plumped up all the cushions. I stocked the fridge and made sure there was a corkscrew. Annabelle’s photographs had prompted me to develop the film in my camera. Th
e picture I’d taken of her on Ingleborough, with Batty Moss viaduct in the background, was a smasher. I propped it on the mantelpiece above the fireplace, to add a personal touch to the room, and just to be on the safe side I went to see Kevin.

  ‘Hi, Kev,’ I said when he opened his door. ‘I, er, just thought I’d tell you that I’m bringing a visitor over for the weekend. Female, you know. So, er, stay away, eh?’ I gave him a knowing wink.

  ‘OK, no problem. You still all right for the following weekend?’

  ‘Yeah, great. Where are we going?’

  ‘Not sure, yet. How long ’ave you known this bird?’

  I hadn’t expected him to ask that. ‘Since yesterday,’ I improvised.

  ‘Blimey, Charlie, you’re a fast worker.’

  I pointed towards the Jag. ‘Not me, Kevin, the car. See you.’ I drove home, wondering how much of this conversation I ought to relate to Annabelle.

  I told her it more or less verbatim, while we were driving over on Saturday morning, and she feigned indignation. ‘He’ll think I’m a tart,’ she protested.

  ‘Kevin probably thinks all women are tarts,’ I told her. ‘I’ve warned him to stay away, so hopefully he won’t meet you.’

  ‘Thank you very much!’ Annabelle jerked her hand away from mine and turned to study Drax power station as it slipped by on her side of the car. I shrank into my seat and put my foot down – speed is supposed to be an aphrodisiac.

  She liked the cottage. ‘It’s sweet,’ she pronounced, surveying the whitewashed exterior.

  I pulled a face. ‘Sweet? What does sweet mean?’ I asked, lifting her overnight case out of the boot.

  ‘Well, it is ordinary – unprepossessing – on the outside, but with the promise of hidden delights, providing you are willing to modify your expectations.’ She leant over and pecked me on the cheek. ‘Bit like you,’ she added, and skipped out of my reach.

  The April sun was shining straight into the front room, making it warm and homely. Annabelle saw the photograph on the mantelpiece of herself standing in front of the Batty Moss viaduct, and observed: ‘That’s a sturdy piece of Victorian architecture if ever I saw one,’ inviting further comment from me.

  I accepted the offer. ‘Yes, and the bridge looks quite substantial, too,’ I smirked.

  ‘This is the kitchen,’ I said, holding the door open so she could see through into it. ‘I think you’ll find everything you need in there.’ I was rewarded with a scowl.

  ‘Bathroom,’ I said, pointing, when we were upstairs. ‘And this is your bedroom.’ I put her case on the bed. ‘There’s a wardrobe if you want to hang anything up.’ Annabelle nodded her approval and followed me out. ‘And this is the master bedroom. I sleep here.’ The sun was in this room, too, and it looked much more inviting than the small back bedroom. I demonstrated the springiness of the mattress with my fingertips.

  After a cup of tea we drove into Hull and had a fun afternoon, dodging the showers. It’s a fascinating place, the only disappointment being the Land of Green Ginger, which Annabelle discovered was a street of solicitors’ offices. The indoor market was a delight, and we bought a fresh salmon, for tea.

  We had the fish with new potatoes and garden peas, followed by bread-and-butter pudding, all washed down with two bottles of Riesling. I made coffee and we watched some TV, with the fire on at full blast, cosy as two hermit crabs sharing one shell. The television wasn’t very entertaining, so we switched it off and talked. Annabelle told me more about her trip to Africa, I told her about growing up with a policeman for a father.

  About ten o’clock I drained the last of the wine into our glasses and said: ‘How about … a game of Scrabble?’

  Annabelle’s eyes lit up. ‘Scrabble? Do you have a set?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am, we certainly do.’ I rose to fetch it from the cupboard in the kitchen.

  ‘I have to warn you that I was the Mombassa junior champion,’ she called after me.

  ‘In that case,’ I declared rashly, as I returned with the box, ‘you should be able to give me a good game.’

  We arranged the chairs around the little coffee table and spread the pieces out on the board. I was playing upside down, so Annabelle had to keep score. ‘Marquis of Dews-bury rules,’ I suggested. ‘Anything goes?’

  ‘Of course. Two spelling mistakes and you are off the field?’

  ‘Oh, absolutely.’

  I slid seven plastic tiles towards me and turned the first one over just as the phone started ringing in the kitchen.

  ‘Jeez!’ I muttered under my breath, managing to abbreviate the blasphemy as I rose to my feet. It was Heckley nick.

  ‘Sorry to trouble you, Mr Priest, but a lady’s just been after you. I think she expected this to be your home number. Asked if you could ring her, sometime.’

  ‘No problem, Arthur. Presumably she left her name?’

  ‘Mrs Dooley. Do you want the number?’

  ‘I know her. Yes, please.’

  I’m not very good at holding back, waiting for a more opportune time. I rang the number with the Cornwall code that Arthur had relayed to me. She was still there.

  ‘Hello, Diane,’ I said. ‘It’s Charlie Priest. You’ve been after me.’

  ‘Hello, Charlie. Hope I haven’t caused you any embarrassment – I didn’t realise it was your station number.’

  ‘My fault, I must have written the wrong one down.’ I might have added something about being confused in the presence of an attractive woman, but the kitchen door was ajar. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘I’ve just been watching a chat show on local TV, and guess who was on it?’

  ‘Er … no idea.’

  ‘None other than Richard Kidderminster, the man who Guy saved. He’s an MP.’

  ‘Ah, yes. I found out he was an MP,’ I confessed. ‘I didn’t say so because I knew that we’d be sending someone to interview Guy. Didn’t they let you know?’

  ‘No, never mentioned it. They were a pair of real smoothies.’

  ‘We’re all smoothies,’ I told her. ‘What did Kidderminster have to say?’

  ‘Oh, usual stuff. They were talking about Tom Noon falling in the river. That was near you, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, apparently, Tom Noon had a very small majority – second smallest at the last election. Two or three recounts. The smallest majority just happened to be Mr Kidderminster, with a magnificent twenty-three votes. That is his major claim to fame, hence the invitation to be on TV.’

  ‘Sounds like riveting viewing. How are you both keeping?’

  They were well. I promised to ring Guy and prised myself away as politely as possible. Annabelle looked resigned when I returned to the front room.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ I apologised. ‘Lady with some information she thought I might be interested in.’

  ‘And were you?’

  ‘Not really.’ I placed my Scrabble pieces on the little holder. There was only one vowel. ‘She’d just learnt that Tom Noon had the second smallest majority at the last election, pipped for that doubtful honour by Richard Kidderminster with twenty-three votes. He’s MP for somewhere in Dorset.’

  Annabelle was frowning, peering at her letters. ‘Fascinating,’ she mumbled.

  ‘It’s a long story. I’ll tell it to you some rainy Sunday afternoon, when conversation is flagging. This is a terrible hand.’

  Terrible was putting it politely. I’d drawn A – that took care of the vowels – followed by J, V, K, Q, Z and F. ‘You start,’ I generously suggested.

  ‘We’ll draw for it,’ she insisted. ‘Nearest to the beginning goes first.’ She lifted a tile, not allowing me to see the letter. ‘X,’ she sighed, and placed it face-down back with its fellows.

  I chose one, flipping it right over. ‘M. My go.’

  I was in trouble. Intellectually, Annabelle could have me for hors d’oeuvre, I had no illusions about that. I wasn’t thick, but it might take some proving. I studied my row of little plasti
c squares with growing panic.

  ‘This is a dreadful hand,’ I complained again.

  ‘Mine’s rather depressing,’ she told me, preoccupied. There was no sympathy for me there.

  Five minutes later I said: ‘I, er, don’t think I can go.’

  Annabelle smiled. ‘Nonsense, you must be able to.’

  Ah well, I thought, when in difficulties, play it for laughs. It was a philosophy that had done well for me so far.

  I placed a single tile on the star in the middle of the board. ‘A,’ I said.

  ‘A?’

  ‘Yes. Indefinite article.’

  ‘It should have at least two letters.’

  ‘I can’t do a two-letter word.’

  ‘Of course you can.’

  ‘No, I can’t.’

  ‘Then exchange your tiles.’

  ‘C’mon, it’s your turn.’

  Annabelle studied her hand and I studied her. The corners of her mouth kept twitching upwards, as if she were trying to contain a smile, and the pinkness of her cheeks ebbed and flowed, like a glowing coal when you blow on it. I drummed my fingers in feigned impatience.

  Slowly and deliberately she laid her letters next to my A, one after the other, until only a single tile remained in her hand. ‘There,’ she said, triumphantly.

  I read her word, upside down, with undisguised dismay. ‘AXOLOTL?’ I said.

  ‘Yes. It’s a South American lizard.’

  ‘I know.’

  Annabelle totted up the score and wrote it next to the point I’d earned. ‘Fifteen-one to me,’ she declared with a wicked grin.

  ‘My word scored two,’ I complained. ‘One for vertical, one for horizontal.’

  ‘Gosh, yes. I am sorry.’ She made the correction. ‘That makes it only fifteen-two.’ She giggled and fell back into her easy chair.

  I put up a brave fight, but never recovered that early deficit. And I was subjected to some terrible distractions. Nearly two hours later we were filling the top of the board, Classic FM playing softly, earning odd points where we could. I was holding BELL, hoping for an opportunity for a big finish, but it looked unlikely. Earlier, in a burst of inspiration, I’d put THE. Annabelle had promptly made it into ETHER and now, with her last play of the match, converted it to WHETHER.