"Was he 'ummers-like!"
"He was!"
"Everybody knew what he meant!"
"Well he should have said what he meant. We're supposed to be detectives. Next time I'm giving evidence I'll say "You know what I meant," to the defence barrister, see if he agrees with you."
Sparky said: "Talk about a minefield of useless information That must be the most useless ever, if you ask me."
"There's no such thing as useless information," I stated draining my glass and plonking it down to give the words maximum authority.
"Information is knowledge and knowledge catches crooks. What does knowledge do' Nigel?" ' "Catches crooks, Charlie."
"Exactly."
They drank their beer un forgivingly If ever it was my round, it was now. "Anyway," I declared. "Ibbo's a local lad, not some toffee-nosed southerner. Sorry, Nigel," I added. He's from Berkshire, so we have to make allowances.
I fetched the drinks and sat down again. Silence engulfed the table like a cloud of nerve gas. Maggie Madison, one of my DCs, was passing, so I reached out and pulled her towards me.
"Can I come and sit at your table, Maggie?" I asked. "These two aren't talking to me."
"I'm not surprised," she replied. "Everybody knows three universal facts: where they were when Kennedy was killed; who ran the first four-minute mile; and… something else."
"We came second," I protested. "That can't be bad."
Sparky broke his silence. "We were beaten by the cleaning ladies. I ask you, the flippin' cleaning ladies!"
"It could have been worse," Maggie assured us. "You could have been beaten by the wooden tops "Or even traffic," Nigel added.
"Nah!" Sparky said, grinning. "Not traffic. That's being silly."
It looked as if my lapse was forgiven. Not forgotten, though. I knew I'd be reminded of it every day until some greater calamity replaced it in the mythology of the police station.
Maggie said: "Scuse me, I'm wanted," and walked away from us.
I looked across the room and the other two swivelled round in their seats. A female PC was in the doorway and had evidently caught Maggie's attention. They stood there for a while, deep in conversation.
"She's attractive," I said. "Is she new?"
"Been with us about a month," Nigel informed me.
"I thought you'd know. Is she in with a chance?" I asked, looking across at her. She was fair-haired, wearing it piled up so it wouldn't show when she wore her hat. I wondered if I had a thing about women in uniforms.
"No," Nigel replied. "She's too young for me."
I nodded in agreement and pulled my glum face. She must have been nearly ten years younger than Nigel, and he was twice that younger than me. The trouble with growing old is that the people on the outside are more aware of it than you are. I took a long drink of denatured lager, but it didn't help a bit.
"Right," I remarked, brightly, banging my glass down. "So what sort of a Christmas have you both had?"
"Awful," said Sparky. "The kids say thank you for the presents."
"They're welcome. Tell them thanks for mine. My CD collection was short of a Gary Glitter."
"Sophie said he was your era."
"Yeah, first time round." I turned to Nigel. "And what about you, Sunshine?"
"Same. We were working, remember. Some of us didn't have three days off."
"I know. I'm thinking of doing it again next year, too. Murder, wasn't it?"
Nigel nodded. "Christmas seems to be a good time for murders; it brings out the worst in people."
"Don't remind me," I told him. "I had my fill last year."
"I thought that was a suicide."
"The mother was suicide. The baby was murder."
"Of course it was. I'd forgotten the baby."
I'd never forget the baby. That memory would be with me for ever. I said: "And how do you like working for DCI Makinson?" Regional HQ handle all murders, and had appointed one of their own as SIO.
Sparky chipped in with: "Very nice. He's a good bloke, isn't he, Nigel?" I felt a movement under the table as he kicked Nigel.
"Er, yes," Nigel confirmed, wincing with pain. "He's good. Very… er, professional."
"And very thorough," Sparky added. "Yes, very thorough does everything by the book." "That's right, and he doesn't go chasing off in different directions without telling us."
"No, he keeps us fully informed, all the time." "Yes, he's very good like that. And he listens to what we have to say."
"What I really like about him is that "OK! OK!" I interrupted. "I get the message. So has the brilliant Mr. Makinson caught the killer yet?" They shook their heads. "So what's he got you doing?" Sparky looked downcast. "Door to doors," he replied. "And you?"
"Interviewing staff at the White Rose Clinic' "Is that where the late departed doctor did his doctoring?"
"Only one day per week. I'm not complaining I think they choose them for their looks rather than their medical qualifications."
"I'll give Makinson a week," I told them. "Then they'll be asking me to take over and solve it."
Maggie was heading back our way, looking serious. She bent down beside me and spoke softly. "There's a woman at the front desk, Charlie. Says she's been raped. She's being taken to the suite. Shall I ring Mr.
Wood?"
Mr. Wood is our superintendent, and Number 1 Cop at Heckley. In his absence I am most senior, mainly because of length of service.
Officially, I was on leave until tomorrow.
"Is she… you know… all right?" Now I was asking the stupid questions, but she knew what I meant.
"I think so. She found her own way here and isn't hysterical, or anything."
"OK." I looked at my watch. "I want to make a phone call from the office. You've done the training, Maggie, do you think you and the WPC can handle it?"
"No problem."
"Right. Come on, then. I'll hang about in the office in case you want me. If she knows who did it we'll have to get moving." I pushed my nearly-full glass towards Sparky. "See if they'll give you a refund on that, please."
"We'll be here if you want us," he replied.
Going up the stairs Maggie said: "Is it Annabelle you're ringing?"
"Yes."
"Did you both have a good Christmas?"
"Not really," I admitted. "We went to her married sister's, in Guildford. I've left her down there, drove back yesterday. Not my types, I'm afraid." I didn't mention the separate bedrooms.
"They're called the in-laws," Maggie replied, knowingly.
She diverted to the front desk and I continued upwards to the CID office on the first floor. I unlocked the door and turned a few lights on. It hadn't changed much in three days. The balloon, our concession to the festive season, had nearly deflated, but everything else was just the same.
I met Annabelle that day about five years ago when the sun moved backwards in the sky and one of our tennis players hit one back against Boris Becker. She's tall and elegant, and looks just as beautiful when she's meeting ambassadors and statesmen as she does when she's halfway up Goredale Scar and the rain is running down her neck. I'll lean on a rock to gasp for breath, and she'll think it's the exertion and give me an encouraging smile. But her nose wrinkles when she smiles and all that does is make the lead weight sitting on my diaphragm feel heavier and heavier, and I have even more trouble trying to breathe.
Nobody answered at her sister's. She's called Rachel and they have hardly spoken since they were schoolgirls. Their family was well-off until daddy ran away with his secretary and their mother hit the bottle. Annabelle went to work in the Third World, married young, was widowed and fell in with me. Rachel married Harley Street's Osteopath to the Stars and enjoys the fruits of his success. Christmas was some sort of attempt at reconciliation and I think it worked. We had lunch at the golf club fifty quid a head and, while the sisters gossiped, George, Rachel's husband, introduced me to his friends and explained all the fascinating golfing memorabilia that adorned the walls of the clubhouse. I'd have preferred having extensive bridgework without anaesthesia.