She looked at me and said: ‘He’s an electrician. Just got ‘is first job on ‘is own. Probably be working late tonight.’
‘On his own,’ I said. ‘That’s a big step. Should be plenty of work for a decent electrician, though. What’s he called?’
‘Leon.’
‘Where did you meet him?’
‘A club in Bradford. He ‘as relatives down ‘ere.’
‘So he took you away from the bright lights of Heckley?’
She nodded.
‘And from George Leach?’
She threw me a scared glance and the knuckles whitened again.
‘Pauline, did Nicky ever write and tell you that Leach was abusing her?’
She relaxed a little, now that the cards were on the table. ‘No,’ she replied.
‘So do you think he was?’
She nodded and blew her nose.
‘What did Nicky say?’
‘Just … just ‘ow rotten he was. He used to beat her, an’ was always drunk. ‘Ow she ‘ated him, and wished he was dead.’
‘But she never wrote that he was abusing her, sexually?’
Pauline raised her head and looked me in the eye for the first time, ‘You don’t write to your big sister and say that your stepdad is doing it to you summat rotten, do you?’
I shrank into the chair and felt a spasm in the muscles of my lower jaw, ‘No,’ was all I could say.
The DC came to the rescue. ‘And was he?’ she asked.
Pauline nodded.
Very quietly, the DC asked: ‘Did George Leach ever abuse you, Pauline?’
She started to cry. When she had regained some composure I said: ‘Pauline, this is obviously very upsetting for you. We don’t want to force you into anything against your wishes, but poor Nicky didn’t have much of a life. George Leach didn’t murder her, but he hurt her enough. Maybe we can get something back for her, give her some justice. I’m going now, but you know where you can get in touch with Jean if you need to. Just remember this, though. It’s your life; don’t let us push you into anything you are not happy with. Think of yourself, and what’s good for you. Nothing else matters.’
I rose to my feet, but she reached out and grabbed my sleeve. ‘Don’t go,’ she said. ‘I want to tell you.’
The pattern had been set the night before George Leach married her mother. When the bride-to-be was unconscious in bed he went next door and raped her twelve-year-old daughter. For the next five years he plied the mother with alcohol, or waited until she was having one of her many spells in hospital, and satisfied his cravings for young flesh on Pauline. He was almost pleased when a young black stud ran away with her, because she had a ten-year-old sister …
We sat in stunned silence for a couple of minutes. It was what we’d expected, but hearing it told, first-hand, turned the blood to ditchwater.
‘How much of this does Leon know?’ I asked.
‘Everything. He got me away from it. He … he’s so patient and understanding. I don’t know where I’d be without him.’
In Nicola’s place, I thought. ‘If you testified against Leach,’ I told her, ‘the papers wouldn’t be allowed to print your name, but they’d make it pretty obvious that you were Nicky’s sister. And some twisted barrister for the defence could give you a hard time – say you were promiscuous, led him on, that sort of thing. It could be rough for you.’
She looked up at me like a mouse studying a cat, wondering which way to jump. I wandered over to the photo of the kids and examined it for a moment. They illuminated the room like a ray of sunshine. Maybe the cycle of abuse had been broken. That was the good part of the day.
I said: ‘Think about what we’ve said, Pauline; discuss it with Leon. Don’t do it to please me, or even for Nicky. Do what’s best for you.’
She said she’d think about it, and Jean took me back to Temple Meads railway station. I’d never make a salesman. He’d have closed on her, to use the jargon. ‘What time would you like to come to the station to make a statement?’ he’d have asked, making the bigger decision for her. That’s not my style, but I usually have my way.
I arrived home earlier than expected. It had been one of the warmest April days of the century and was developing into a pleasant evening. I rang Nigel about my trip and he told me that Fearnside had been chasing me. I thought about ringing him, but called Annabelle instead.
‘I thought you were in Bristol,’ she said.
‘Been, bought the sherry, come back,’ I replied. ‘Do you fancy going out for a bite?’
‘I could cook.’
She always says that. ‘No,’ I insisted. ‘I was thinking of driving over to the cottage to pick up my things. I’m afraid my sojourn there has come to an end, but we could have a pub meal on the way.’ Even as I spoke a development occurred to me. ‘If you’re not doing anything first thing in the morning, we could stay overnight …’
Annabelle was afraid of headlines in the tabloids – The Cop And The Bishop’s Wife – if I slept at her place. Being dropped off at the door at seven-thirty in the morning, if she had stayed with me, or furtively letting me out of her house, were not for her. It wasn’t priggishness. She did it to protect her late husband’s reputation and his family’s feelings, and that was all right by me.
‘Mmm,’ she replied. ‘Yes, that would be nice.’ It looked as if I’d have to buy a little place at the seaside.
I had a lightning shower and swapped the cars around. As a special treat, we’d go in the E-type. I was giving the results of my labours a final check in the mirror when the phone rang. I assumed it was Annabelle with some last-minute arrangement. ‘Yes, darling,’ I cooed into it.
‘Er, is that you, Charlie?’ asked a rather puzzled Commander Fearnside.
‘Ooops! Sorry, boss, I was expecting someone else.’
‘I’m relieved to hear it. Thought I’d better give you an update on the drugs thing.’
‘Right, fire away.’ I slid my sleeve back to see the time, and hoped he wouldn’t be long.
They blew it. The idiots blew it. The tracking devices were working beautifully, and an unmarked car had picked them up. Somewhere over in Greater Manchester it all went pear-shaped. The tailing car decided to overtake and wait for them again at the next junction. Just at that moment some hawk-eyed bloody motorcycle patrol who knows more about cars than I know about my cock happens along and notices that the numberplate on the Sierra doesn’t tally with the design of the taillights, or something equally obscure. So he gives chase.’
‘Shit,’ I said.
‘You haven’t heard the half of it. Laddo drives off, but stops on a bridge, somewhere called … is it Irlan?’
‘I know it.’
‘Right. He throws two holdalls off the bridge, then runs over the motorcycle patrol and makes his getaway. West Lanes are dragging the canal, but haven’t found the bags yet.’
‘What about the pursuit car?’
‘Bah! They were listening for a signal. Apparently they can’t listen and watch at the same time.’
‘Mmm. Like you said, they blew it. The tracking devices – do you think the car driver realised they were there? It could be important for my future health.’
‘Can’t be sure, but I doubt it. I’m paying them a visit tomorrow, to kick a few arses. I’ll let you have a copy of my report. You did your bit, Charlie, and I’m grateful for your contribution.’
‘You’re welcome.’ Cushiest job I’d ever had, and the most rewarding. ‘How’s the motorcyclist?’ I shouted into the phone, but he’d gone.
When Annabelle saw the Jag she forgave me for being late. I told her about my trip to Bristol and dropped a few titbits about the Nicola enquiry. This was my new policy, and I knew she wouldn’t gossip. I didn’t say anything about the bungled drugs bust.
We took the motorway system to the south of the river, which led us over the Humber Bridge. Annabelle had never crossed it, and looked pleased. I liked to inject a little geographical interest or loc
al history into an evening out with a girl. The sky wasn’t yet dark, but all the lights were on, and it was like driving through a magic spider’s web.
There was nothing magical about the pub meal we had, but we still lingered over it, and the landlady’s cherry pie compensated for the tough steaks. The moon hadn’t risen, so it was as dark as the inside of Dave Sparkington’s wallet when we left the street-lights behind and picked up the Withernsea Road towards the cottage.
‘Will all your stuff fit in here?’ Annabelle asked, turning in her seat to survey the luggage-carrying capacity of the Jaguar.
‘I think so,’ I replied. There’s my radio and portable TV, plus a few kitchen items. The only bulky stuff is the bedding. Oh, I mustn’t forget the electric blanket off the spare bed.’ I glanced across at her and she smiled at me.
‘That was a waste of electricity,’ I teased.
‘What was?’
‘Warming the spare bed for six hours, and then you didn’t use it.’
She reached across and took my hand. ‘No, it wasn’t,’ she said, giving it a squeeze.
‘Wasn’t what?’
‘Wasn’t a waste of electricity.’
‘How do you make that out?’
‘Oh, nevermind.’
I pulled my hand free to drop the Jag into third for a tight bend – the land might be as flat as a motorway hedgehog, but the roads zig and zag like Alpine passes. ‘Why wasn’t it a waste of electricity?’ I repeated.
Annabelle twisted in the seat and leant against her door, facing me. ‘Because,’ she said.
‘Because what?’ I insisted.
She gave a long exasperated sigh. ‘Because … because it showed you weren’t taking me for granted.’
‘Oh.’ I wouldn’t have dared to take her for granted. It looked as if Lucky Charlie had done the right thing for the wrong reasons once more, but I’d settle for that. I reached across and took her hand again.
Twenty-eight years in the Force and I still wonder what I’ve done wrong when a blue light comes up behind me. I saw it when he was way back, flashing on the telegraph wires like distant lightning. He caught me quickly, and I pulled over to let him through.
‘He’s probably been for the fish and chips,’ I explained as he raced away from us.
Before he’d vanished, another blue light was visible in my mirrors. The road was narrow, so I pulled into a gateway and waited for him. This one was an ambulance.
‘Traffic accident,’ I surmised.
We could see the glow from the lights when we were about a mile from the cottage, flickering on the night sky like a television screen on the curtains of a darkened room.
‘It looks as if something has happened quite close to the cottage,’ Annabelle said, but I was a long way in front of her.
Three fire engines were drawn up outside, with a police car behind and the ambulance trying to turn round in the narrow lane. A uniformed Constable stopped me while the ambulance completed the manoeuvre and sped off, siren strangely silent, back towards Hull.
The pulsating lights illuminated the front of the building as if it were a stage-set for some modern opera. Black smoke-stains streaked upwards from all the windows, including mine, and the chorus of firemen in oilskins and yellow helmets could be seen inside. No soprano appeared, belting out one of the tear-jerkers from Madame Butterfly.
I opened my mouth to say: ‘Wait here,’ but changed it to ‘C’mon,’ as I stepped from the car. We edged our way to the front of the house, skirting behind the appliances and assorted vehicles. First in the queue was a Rover with a blue light on top and a fireman with fancy epaulettes clipped to his sweater standing alongside, talking to a policeman. I let go of Annabelle’s hand and asked her to wait while I had a word with them.
The fireman was the Assistant Divisional Officer. When I asked if I could have a few seconds of his time the Constable excused himself and left us. When he’d gone I showed my ID and introduced myself. ‘I don’t want to become bogged down with the local Force,’ I explained, ‘but I was keeping an eye on the occupant of Number one. He’s known as Kevin Jessie, and is a suspected drug runner. I’d rented next door and was hoping he’d lead us to the bigger fish. Was that him in the ambulance?’
‘No, Inspector. We’ve sent the ambulance back empty and your colleague has informed the local CID that you have a murder on your hands.’
‘So poor Kevin’s dead?’
‘No doubt about it, if it’s him.’
‘Does that mean you think the fire was deliberate?’
‘Off the record, you understand? Almost certainly. An accelerant has been used in several places, probably petrol.’
‘Where was Jessie’s body found?’
‘Upstairs, on the bed.’
‘So the smoke got him?’ That was a relief – I had a soft spot for Kevin. Anyone who appreciates the E-type like he did can’t be completely beyond hope.
‘Do you think his gang were on to you, Inspector?’
I’d been wondering the same thing. ‘It’s a possibility,’ I replied. ‘What makes you ask?’
‘Because he didn’t die peacefully of carbon-monoxide poisoning. You see, Inspector, his hands and feet are tied to the bedposts.’
I wended my way back to Annabelle, stepping over hoses and squeezing between appliances whose engines were running to generate power, their radiators blasting hot air into the night. She looked smaller, vulnerable, amongst all that activity. Her face was pale, the African tan washed away by the lights, and there was something else there. She looked scared.
‘Let’s go home,’ I said, running my fingers into her hair and pulling her towards me. Several cars were slinking by, under the control of the PC. When the lane was clear he stood in the middle while I did a seven-point turn, and flagged me away as if I were a Saudi royal. I gave him a wave and a wink.
‘Kevin is dead,’ I told her, bluntly. ‘They found him laid on his bed.’
After a few moments she said: ‘Poor Kevin, he didn’t sound to be beyond redemption. So he wouldn’t have known much about it?’
I shook my head. ‘No, he wouldn’t.’
The car behind had badly adjusted headlights. The offside was OK, but the other one shone straight ahead, dazzling me through my mirrors. I tilted my head to one side to avoid the glare, and we drove into Hull in silence.
‘I’ll have to put in an insurance claim,’ I said. ‘That should cause some confusion in the system.’ It was only for conversation; I had other things on my mind.
At seventy miles per hour the E-type is running like a sewing machine at a lazy three thousand revs. I slotted into the middle lane of the motorway and settled down for a leisurely cruise home. I suggested that she looked for some music, but Annabelle said she didn’t mind the silence. When I glanced in the mirror I noticed that the car with the odd headlights was coming this way, too. He was about four hundred yards behind, but not gaining.
Heavy lorries, carrying imports that we could make just as well ourselves, thundered by on their way from the docks to the motorway network. Sporty saloons rocketed past with complete disregard for the speed limit. Oddlights maintained his station, neither gaining nor falling back. I drifted into the slow lane and dropped speed slightly. So did he.
He was still behind me half an hour later as we approached the junction with the A1 There is a large service centre there. ‘Let’s check the price of the petrol,’ I said, swinging into the slip road without signalling.
The exit I needed was at four on the clockface, over threequarters of the way round the roundabout. I crept across the forecourt, past the pumps, eyes fixed on my mirrors. A black saloon followed me in and paused in the entrance. The harsh lights of the station reflected off the chrome strip surrounding the familiar shape of a BMW radiator.
‘Too expensive,’ I decided, out loud, and steered towards the exit. So did the BMW, and as his headlights swung my way the nearside one dazzled me. There was no doubt about it: we were being followed.
CHAPTER TWELVE
I hit the motorway at about eighty and pulled straight across into the fast lane. This time he kept closer. I deliberately hadn’t brought the mobile phone, and cursed my stupidity. Traffic wasn’t heavy, but there was plenty about. Two miles from Junction 281 saw a lorry well ahead signalling that he was pulling across into the middle lane, and a VW Polo in that lane started to move over in front of me.
I blazed my full beams at him, intimidating him out of the manoeuvre. His brake-lights came on and I streaked by him. In my mirror I saw the Polo pull across behind me, blocking the fast lane until after he’d overtaken the lorry. I drifted back into the middle lane and when the lorry was between me and my pursuers I put my right foot down to the floor, with the accelerator pedal firmly beneath it.
The Jag set off like the second stage of a Saturn V booster kicking in, the boom of the exhaust filling the cab. Annabelle glanced across at me.
‘Just giving the old girl a quick burst,’ I told her as I flicked the headlights off. I didn’t have an excuse for doing it in the dark – maybe I’m shy.
We flew past the Junction half-mile board at about a hundred and thirty, with me deciding that this was plenty fast enough. There was no traffic in the slow lane, so I slotted across into it. We dropped into the slip road at over the ton, a prayer on my lips and a foot hard on the brakes. Two cars were waiting, side by side, for the roundabout to clear. A lorry glided across in front of them and their brake-lights went out as they prepared to move off. I shot through on the left, on the hard shoulder, and had vanished round the island before they could say ‘UFO!’
The road led into Leeds, but it looked as if the BMW had overshot the turn-off. Just to make sure I took a few lefts, tyres squealing, into an estate of terraced houses and parked outside a kebab takeaway that was serving the last customer of the night.
‘Made it,’ I said, pulling the handbrake on. ‘I was afraid they’d be closed.’
Reports, reports, reports; that’s what it’s all about. I’ve instilled it into the men to write everything down – not just the facts that seem relevant at the time, but every other detail they can think of. If a pigeon bombs the witness while you are talking to him, put it in the report. Somewhere along the line someone might notice a man with pigeonshit on his shoulder. And it’s a strange phenomenon, but courts tend to believe anything that is read out, but are doubtful if it comes from the witness’s memory. Writing reports takes up an awful lot of time, unfortunately.
The Judas Sheep Page 22