"Then dial him on the party-line number and keep listening."
I did as I was told, and was rewarded by the trill of Nigel's phone.
"Heckley Police, DC Newley speaking, can I help you?"
The next voice was that of a downtrodden female. "I'd like to speak to a policeman," it whined.
"Detective Constable Newley here, ma'am, how can I help you?"
"It's about my us band He's been done for stealing an occasional table and I want to know if he'll go to jail."
"Your husband, ma'am? Well, to start with, do you know if he's been charged with stealing anything else?"
"Yes, he 'as."
"Can you tell me what?"
"E stole an occasional car… and an occasional video… and an occasional Nigel slammed the phone down. "Piss off!" I heard through the glass.
I replaced my receiver silently and buried my head in some paperwork.
Maggie could be a heartless bitch when she wanted.
I left early, for once, and told Nigel not to hang about. I hadn't made a great contribution to the cause of law and order today, but I had other things on my mind. Five years of broken fingernails, caused by endless rubbing down and polishing, had finally come to an end. All the difficulties of finding obscure spare parts had been overcome and now the whole thing was assembled and sitting in the garage waiting for me. Patience isn't one of my foremost virtues, but I'd made great efforts not to spoil the restoration of the Jaguar by rushing it. Going slowly also helped to spread out the expenditure.
Jimmy had popped the keys through my letter box, as arranged. I just went into the house, picked up the keys, and went straight back out to open the garage door. It slid upwards like the shutter of a missile silo, to reveal its awesome contents. The evening sunlight slid slowly up the endless bonnet of the E-type and flicked over the windscreen. I took a few paces backwards and just stood there, staring at it. I've never been what might be called a car person they're normally strictly workhorses to me but I'd always regarded the E-type Jaguar as a work of art. The reverence I experienced as I gazed upon it was similar to that I had felt when I stood before Michelangelo's Pietd, or watched the sun set, one winter's afternoon, from the summit of Blencathra.
Jimmy was right, except that I would have liked to have put the whole caboodle over the mantelpiece.
The phone was ringing in the house. I dashed in and grabbed it.
"Hello," I said. It was as good an opening as any, and didn't give a lead to crank callers.
"Is that Mr. Priest, please?"
It was a female voice. I thought I recognised it, but I wasn't sure.
"No, it's Charlie. Who's that, please?"
"Hello, boss, it's Kim, Kim Limbert…"
"Hi, Kim," I replied with enthusiasm, 'sorry I missed your bun fight, did it go off all right?"
"Yes. Never mind that. Charlie, are you in trouble?"
"No. I don't think so. Why?"
"I overheard a conversation today, well, more of a row than a conversation. It seemed to be about you."
I was intrigued. "Where was this?" I asked.
"Down at city HQ," Kim replied. "I don't start till Monday, but I thought I'd call in today to say hello. I was waiting to see my new boss when I was invited up to see the Assistant Chief Constable, Mr.
Partridge."
I hadn't been invited to see the ACC when I made sergeant. "Go on," I told her.
"Well, when I got there I was informed that he'd just been summoned to the Big Chiefs office. Hilditch's, that is. Would I forgive him, and he'd have a word with me some other time."
"Mmm, sounds like I've a rival there. What happened next?"
"Next I got lost. I had a quick word with a girl I know in the outer office, then I must have turned the wrong way when I came out. I knew I'd made a mistake when the carpet came over my ankles. I found myself outside Hilditch's office. There was an unholy row going on inside, and your name was being mentioned. Well, shouted, actually."
"Maybe they were making the short list for the next super's job," I suggested.
"No way, Charlie. Hilditch was telling him that he wants you off the Force. Pronto and sine die. Mr. Partridge tried to reason with him, but he wouldn't listen. He ordered him to have you suspended, as from tomorrow, or else. What have you been up to, Charlie?"
I thought about it for a few moments before I answered. Two possible courses of action occurred to me. The first one was very tempting, almost irresistible: invite Kim for a trip to a moorland pub in my new sports car to discuss the predicament.
"Kim, it's best if you don't know what it's about just yet. What you don't know can't make a pig's ear, or something. You just show 'em you're the best sergeant they've got, and forget what you heard. And I promise I'll tell you all about it as soon as I can. Okay?"
"I suppose so, you're the boss."
"And I'm grateful. Any time you want a transfer to CID, just let me know."
"We've had this conversation before, Charlie. I'd be no good: my profile's too high. Good detectives are grey and anonymous, they merge with the woodwork."
"Ah, but we have all the fun. Good luck with the job, Kim, and thanks."
I was smiling as I put the phone down, but I had a feeling that I ought not to be. I gave myself a mental ticking off for having misplaced priorities, and trudged upstairs to pack a suitcase. Kim's call had helped me make a decision. I had a lot to do, and not much time to do it in.
Jimmy Hoyle told me, when I rang him, that the car was hunky-dory. He'd done a hundred and thirty, he claimed, on the M62 and she was as steady as a three-legged card table. But keep an eye on the oil level. I was about to ring Tony Willis, but I changed my mind and wrote him a note.
Notes can't ask questions back. There were a few other things for him to attend to, but the main priority was the safety of Makinson and Rose. I instructed him to debrief them and act on whatever information they had gathered. I'd drop it through his letter box in the morning, on my way to Spain.
A good night's sleep seemed more important than an early start, so I rose at my normal time. It was a brilliant sunny morning, as if to give me a foretaste of what to expect. I put the Jag out on the road and left the other car standing in its normal place, up against the garage door. I prat ted about for longer than I ought, checking this and that and wondering what I'd forgotten. I couldn't find any sunglasses, although I did have some, once, but I did find a baseball cap with NYPD on the front. Sparky's kids had brought it back from the States for me a few years ago. I pulled it on to my head and looked in the mirror. Not bad.
"Okay, Frank," I said to myself out of the corner of my mouth, 'let's go!"
The big engine rumbled into life immediately. I sat there for a few moments, feeling the car rocking gently beneath me, like the panting of a big cat pant hera onca readying itself for the chase. It was inevitable that I thought of Dad, and wondered how much of his shadow I was still living under. I selected first gear and eased out the clutch. Going towards the high street an extremely glossy black Rover passed in the opposite direction. The two occupants were uniformed, and the one in the passenger seat had silver braid on the peak of his cap. I pulled the NYPD down over my eyes and shot past them.
After stuffing the note through the Willis letter box I filled up the fourteen-gallon tank. That should take me to the outskirts of Dover.
There's a pay-phone at the garage, so I used it to ring the station. I told the desk sergeant that I wasn't very well and was having a day or two off sick, and to let Mr. Wood know. He was very sympathetic because it was unheard-of for me to be off, and asked me what the problem was.
"Haemorrhoids," I told him. Make it something unglamorous and they're bound to believe you.