"Drink, Chinese, curry, pictures, theatre?" I said. "If we want to go to the theatre I'll have to get the tickets." We were standing alongside her car as she held the driver's door open, and a light drizzle had started to fall.
"Not the cinema or the theatre," she replied. "Let's go where we can talk."
"Chinese and a drink?"
"Lovely, and perhaps then I'll learn a little bit more about the enigmatic Charlie Priest."
"I'm afraid there's no more to tell. I'm a very shallow person."
"That I don't believe. I'm still worried about that ammonite."
"The ammonite?"
"The crinoids. You knew perfectly well what they were, so why did you call them an ammonite? Was it to encourage Miss Eakin, which would be kind of you, or was it because you're a control freak, laughing at everybody from behind your sleeve?"
"Damn, you've rumbled me. It was because I was trying to win the heart of Miss Eakin. Either one. "[he pair of them would have been beyond my wildest fantasy."
"I'll believe you. And you can tell me all about the secret art of the graphic designer. It's a mystery to me what they do."
"A graphic designer? Who said I was a graphic designer?"
"You did, the first night. We were admiring the drawing you did of a trilobite and Tom asked you what you did for a living. I thought you said you were a graphic designer."
"Ah! No. I'm sorry. I didn't think you'd heard that. It's just a defence mechanism. If I say what I really do people start asking me all sorts of questions, telling me their problems, laying down the law as they see it. It's a lot easier to tell a fib. I always say I'm a graphic designer and that usually silences them."
"So what do you do?"
"I'm a policeman. A detective. I'm sorry if I misled you, it wasn't intentional. You're getting soaked."
I'm not sure if it was the lie or the fact that I was a cop that dismayed Rosie, but something did. Her eyes narrowed and the smile left them. "Oh," was all she said.
"It's an honourable profession." I'd lined myself up to lean forward and give her a peck on the cheek as we said our good-nights, but I didn't get the chance. Rosie slipped into the driver's seat and I said: "I'll ring you."
"Yes," she replied as she pulled the door shut. I gave her a wave and walked over to where my own car was parked. She was embarrassed about being misled, I decided. When I'd plied her with one of Mr Ho's special banquets and her fingers were wrapped around another gin and tonic she'd want to know all about my best cases, of that I was sure. Women always do.
Chapter Two
"Crime pattern analysis, Charlie," Superintendent Gilbert Wood said. "I need figures, not excuses."
"Remind me," I replied. "I've lost the list."
"Percentage increase or decrease in burglary. Percentage increase or decrease in street crime. Percentage increase or decrease in car crime. By this afternoon. I need them for tomorrow."
"Right. It shall be done. Do you want to show that we are a thin blue line manfully struggling against overwhelming odds, or that we are really on top of the job?"
Gilbert looked exasperated. "The truth would be nice, for once. Do you think we could have an accurate picture of what's happening? The idea is to give the public, the newspapers and politicians some inkling of the way trends are heading. It helps formulate government policy, believe it or not. And, as a matter of fact, I'd be quite interested myself."
"The truth is the hardest option,"
"I know, but just bloody do it."
"And it will be meaningless. An informed guess by someone with my experience would give a much clearer picture of the situation."
"Oh no it wouldn't. And when you've done that, get your hair cut. You look like an unemployed violinist."
"Do you know how many mobile phones were stolen in 1982, Gilbert? I'll tell you: none. Not a single one. Or how many cars were stolen in Yorkshire in 1950? You could count them on your fingers. That's at least a ten thousand percent increase. If you don't weight the figures to compensate for other factors, like nobody had a mobile phone a few years ago, the numbers are meaningless. And do you know how much a haircut costs these days? I don't have someone to cut mine, in the kitchen with a tea towel round my neck."
"I'll mention your concerns to the Chief Constable. This afternoon, please?"
"Your wish is my command, mein Fulirer. I'm sticking round the office if I can, in case the result comes through."
"It will. They gave it what — four hours? — yesterday. They'll give it another couple this morning to make it look respectable and qualify for lunch, and then they'll announce their verdict. It's cut and dried, Charlie, believe me."
"God, I hope so. The longer it takes the less promising it looks. How's young Freddie?"
"On the mend, thanks. They took his appendix out and he sounded cheerful when his mum rang him."
Gilbert's daughter's son had been stricken with appendicitis while on a school trip. "Where is he?"
"In the General. Apparently they'd just set off when he started complaining of stomach pains. One of the teachers recognised the symptoms, thought it might be appendicitis, and they took him straight to Casualty."
"Lucky for young Freddie. OK, I'll get those figures."
I skipped down the stairs, singing a happy tune — "I don't want to set the world on fi-yah," and burst into the CID office. Big Dave "Sparky" Sparkington was sitting on the corner of a desk with his jacket hooked over his shoulder, like he was ready to be off somewhere, and Pete Goodfellow was tapping away at a keyboard. Everybody else was out making the streets of Heckley safe for children and little old ladies.
"I just want to start… aflame in your heart."
"Blimey, you sound cheerful."
"But I'm always cheerful. Peter, are those figures available?"
"Won't take a second to run them off."
"Good. Deliver them personally to Mr Wood at about ten to five, please. Loosen your tie, roll up your sleeves and splash water on your brow. Make it look as if you've spent all day wrestling with them. You might even crawl in on your hands and knees… No, on second thoughts, forget the crawling."
"Will do."
I turned to Dave. "Where are you going, Sunshine?"
"Sylvan Fields. A burglary last night and it looks as if the phantom knickers thief has struck again."
"Happy going on your own?"
"Yeah, no problem. In spite of its reputation, most of the people who live there are quite decent."
"Blimey, I never thought I'd hear you say that."
"I know. I must be mellowing with age. All the rest are toe-rags, though. Will you ring me if the verdict comes through?"
"You bet."
Off he went and I settled down in my little enclave to attack the pile of paperwork that had accrued. I'd spent an awful lot of the last six weeks in court, at a murder trial, and now the jury was out. Most of the time I'd been hanging around in the corridor, in case I was needed, with a couple of days in the witness box. Timothy Fletcher had murdered seven people, seven that we knew about, but had died whilst resisting arrest. He fell off Scammonden Bridge on to the M62, at rush hour, under a six-teen-wheeler loaded with Yorkie bars, but nobody was mourning him. The trial had been to decide how involved his girlfriend was in the murders. Was she an innocent dupe, as she claimed, or was she a fully paid-up partner? We went into court convinced that she had been instrumental in luring at least three victims into Fletcher's car, but our chief witness was still trau-matised by the attack and we had decided not to expose her to cross-examination. Meanwhile, the prisoner and her legal advisers had had six months to prepare a case and they'd done a good job. Now we weren't so cocky.