Quarter-inch by quarter-inch I worked it towards me until I was able to grip it and lift it out.
When I'd removed four I decided the gap was big enough. One by one I passed the loose blocks through the opening to the inside, then crawled through after them. Working by touch, I rebuilt the wall, slowly blocking off the pale patch of sky until the darkness was total. Then I switched on the torch.
It was a disappointment. The tunnel stretched away for about fifty yards, terminating in a fall of rubble that reached the roof. The first few yards were muddy, then it was firmer underfoot. The torchlight glinted on something in the mud, at the foot of the wall. It was a discarded condom, trodden into the ground after its brief moment of ecstacy. I couldn't imagine anybody going through what I had gone through to come in here for sex.
"Inconceivable," I said to myself.
The dim light cast shadows at the far end. I walked towards them to investigate. A number of pallets were laid side by side, as if to form a dry base to stand something on. Alongside, roughly folded, was a large sheet of polythene, possibly used to protect the same something from drips from the roof. Whatever it had been, it wasn't here now. I closely examined everything, but failed to find anything incriminating.
I felt certain that this was where they brought the stuff, but defence barristers usually had difficulty in accepting my word. I stood looking at the roof-fall for a minute or two, then turned and walked slowly towards the entrance.
As the torchlight swung up and down, the shiny white end of the condom winked at me. There was a machine in the pub near my house that sold flavoured ones. The banana had caught my imagination, and I'd wondered if the reason was because I liked bananas, or something more Freudian.
When I reached the wall I bent down and examined the contraceptive with vicarious curiosity. I'd only ever seen the standard pink ones before.
It was a different shape at the end, too… It wasn't a condom; it was a glove. The thin, rubber type that surgeons wear. We keep a stock of similar ones, for if we have to handle certain items of evidence or search unsavoury prisoners, and the scene-of-crime officers carry them around with them. They're widely available, sold in DIY stores for yuppie decorators who don't want to get eau de nil on their cuffs. I took out my knife and carefully scraped the mud away. I pulled a plastic bag inside-out over my hand and gently picked the glove up, unfolding the bag around it. Maybe my journey had not been totally in vain, after all.
I dismantled the wall, crawled through and rebuilt it behind me. My boots had been slob bing about on my feet for a while, sucked down by the glutinous mud. What I didn't realise was that the weight of mud dragging on my bootlaces had pulled one of them undone. I dropped lightly off the ledge outside the tunnel, taking a quick step forward to regain my balance. Except that my foot didn't move because I was standing on the lace. I fell heavily, flat on my face, did a forward roll that would have earned a string of sixes for artistic interpretation, and slid fifteen feet on my back to the foot of the scree. A dog started barking.
Chapter Fifteen
I lay still for a few seconds, gathering my wits and my breath, then rolled sideways into the dense shadow of some bushes. The door of one of the sheds opened and a torch beam cleaved the darkness. The dog, a terrier, stood yapping at the night. I think it was as scared as I was. The beam scanned the cliffs, then went out. Thank God I'd rebuilt the wall. A voice said something to the dog and they both went back inside, closing the door behind them. I sat on the scree, my arms round my knees, staring at the shed for ten or fifteen minutes. When they'd had time to settle I silently made my way back to the cliff path.
Following the path upwards was easier, but by the time I reached the top I was wheezing like a leaky accordion. I had an old tracksuit in the car to change into, but I didn't bother. I carefully arranged it over the driving seat, to keep some of the mud off, and started for home. I was halfway across the North York Moors before my heart stopped trying to batter its way out of my rib cage.
The fingerprint people at city HQ work round the clock, so I went straight there. The sky was beginning to lighten as I pulled into the car park. I was dry by now, but caked in mud from head to foot, and had to show my ID to get past the front desk. The constable in Fingerprints viewed me and my evidence with scepticism.
"It's a bit of a mess," he told me, unnecessarily, 'but we might find something. When you pull these gloves off they turn inside out, so the inside is now outside, and caked in mud. That's no good. If this was the first glove he pulled off, there'll be nothing on it. If, however, he pulled it off with his bare hand, we might be lucky."
"You mean those prints would have been on the outside, which is now inside?"
"That's it."
"So there's only a fifty-fifty chance of finding anything?"
He looked at the glove with disdain. "Less than that, I'm afraid, Inspector. How urgent is it?"
"It's not desperately urgent, but it is important. I want your best efforts, we're talking about murder."
He made notes on a pro-forma pad, recording the time, my name, et cetera. "Right, sir." He poked at the glove with the blunt end of his pencil and dislodged same of the mud. "I think what we'll do is let it dry out, then give it the super glue treatment. That works best on rubber. Then we'll have a look at it under the ultraviolet. I'll have to wait until the fume cabinet's available, though. As you know, we're run off our feet will Tuesday, possibly Wednesday, be okay?"
"Fine. I've some other work here too. Could that be ready at the same time please?"
He found the reference and made a note. "Right, boss, will do. You look as if you've been run down by an avalanche, do you want a coffee?"
I smiled for what seemed the first time in ages, and said: "It was only a small avalanche. No thanks, I'm going home."
I showered and went to bed. I fell asleep in minutes. An hour and a half later the doorbell rang. I staggered across to the window and peeked out. Down below, the morning sun was reflecting off the shining pate of Dr. Evans. I let him in.
When he saw the dressing gown he said: "Sorry, Charlie, have I got you out of bed?"
"No," I lied. "I was just about to have a shower. Want a cup of tea?"
"No thanks. I was nearby, so I thought I'd call to see how you were."
"Fine, Sam, I'm fine. Wasn't sleeping too well at first, but I dropped off okay er last night."
"Good, good. How have you been spending your time?"
"Oh, this and that. I've done some painting, dug the garden. Yesterday I went to the coast, took your advice."
The doctor stared at me, his eyelids blinking at regular, two-second intervals. After ten blinks he said, incredulously: "You took my advice? You actually took my advice? You had a day at the coast?"
I gave him a grin. "You were right, Sam," I declared, 'there is life outside the police force." I went back to bed with a smile on my face, but sleep had fled for the day.
I declared myself fit and well and resumed work Monday morning. The latest reports were placed in the file and I found Nigel's efforts in there. He'd discovered a comprehensive list of associated companies, and several names with records. He'd then looked up all the companies involved with these names. It was quite a tangled web. Fires and burglaries, usually just after a major delivery, were hazards that seemed to strike their warehouses with uncommon regularity. They had an awful lot of bad luck. Nigel had left a note saying he was off having a word with the insurance companies. Well done.