Mike Freer rang. Parker was now in the pen, but he wasn't writing home. They'd picked him up on the M62, the Porsche loaded to the gunwales with boxes of wraps, each one containing a twenty-five-pound fix. Estimated street value, about fifteen thousand pounds; his profit, three and a half grand. Not bad for an evening's work. His house and several others had been raided, too. Findings included a crack factory and the first ice seen on the patch.
"We've done our bit," said Mike. "Now you boys can stand by for the backlash."
Drug prices are controlled strictly by supply and demand. Ready availability creates a big market. A major supplier was now out of circulation, so the prices would soar. A user who paid for it by thieving, desperate for a fix, would have to step up his work-rate.
That was the backlash.
Wednesday morning Fingerprints rang. "It's Sergeant Miller, Fingerprints. Your photos are ready. Do you want us to post them to you?"
"Great, thanks. No, I'll collect them. Did you get anything at all from the glove.".
"Nothing spectacular, but better than it could have been. Several fragments, mainly from the thumb. All the fingers had turned inside out when the glove was removed, but the tip of the thumb hadn't. It'd got a bit smudged, though. It matches the other one, but it wouldn't stand up in court."
"Eh? Which other one?"
"This other stuff you wanted. These contact prints. Says here they're off a paperknife. Weren't you expecting them to be the same?" A sensation was welling up in my loins similar to the time I accidentally wandered into the wrong dressing room at grammar school, after being clean bowled first ball, and realised that nobody had noticed me. The sixth-form net ball team were just changing for a match. It was the most wonderful hundred and twenty seconds of my entire twelve years. I stared at the phone. Had I misheard him?
"Sergeant Miller," I said. "Spell it out slowly. Are you saying that the prints in the glove match the ones on the knife?"
"Yes sir. As far as we can tell they're from the same person."
"You mean… you're convinced, but a jury wouldn't be?"
"That's it. There are several small, smudged impressions on the glove, which match with the ones on the knife, but nothing big enough to give us sixteen points of similarity in one dab."
"Which the law requires."
"To make it conclusive, yes."
"How many points have we?"
"Three, maybe four, plus a couple elsewhere."
"Mmm. You reckon it's him, though?"
"No doubt about it."
"Great, I'm grateful for what you've told me. Any chance of a report for me by five o'clock, the full works?"
"No problem, Mr. Priest. In fact, for you, four o'clock."
I put the phone down, punched the air with my fists and gave a rebel yell. Nigel popped his head round the door, a big smile illuminating his tanned face.
"Won the pools, boss?"
I thumped the palm of my hand. "We've got the bastard, Nigel, we've got the bastard."
"Who, Cakebread?"
I calmed down, stared at him and shook my head. "Sorry, Nigel, I can't tell you; not just yet. But I will do, soon. Do you know if Mr.
Wood's in?"
Gilbert was in an SDO's meeting at city HQ. I asked the secretary to get a message to him to ring me, pronto. He came out of the meeting straight away.
"I can't tell you anything on the phone," I said, 'but there's been a development. I need to see you, soon as poss. What time will your meeting finish?"
"Are you talking about your friend in Lancashire?"
"Yes."
"We try to finish about three thirty. Do you want me to come back to the office? I usually sneak off home."
"No. Do you mind coming to my house? I'll get off a bit early."
"Okay, Charlie, I'll be there four thirtyish "Thanks, boss."
I made a pot of tea and struck out the biscuits. "I'll be looking like tea and biscuits soon," grumbled Gilbert, going straight for the chocolate. "What's it all about?"
I told him about my trip to Port Mulgrave, and what I'd found in the tunnel. He listened with pained resignation. When I'd finished I slid the Fingerprints report over to him. After he'd had a chance to study it I told him: "I know it's not conclusive a good defence lawyer would tear it to shreds; but statistically, that glove was worn either by Chief Constable Hilditch or a Mongolian witch doctor in the tenth century. A court would give him the benefit of the doubt, but I know who my money's on." I could feel my voice and my temper rising as I said the words.
We sat in silence for a while, then Gilbert said: "So what are you going to do?"
"I don't know; it's out of my league. I suppose I should go to either the Home Secretary or HMI. I'd hoped you might have some ideas."
"That prat in the striped shirt would sell the story to the tabloids."
"Probably," I sighed. "So it's the inspectorate?"
"What if he just clammed up and denied everything?" asked Gilbert.
Suddenly I didn't feel so confident. "He'd be retired on ill health, and I'd work out my time helping school-kids across the street," I answered.
"Correct. They'd say you were tired and emotional. What about seeing him?"
"It'd crossed my mind. He's not likely to break down and confess, though, is he? Or are you talking about a deal?" ' Possibly. How would you feel if he saved his own skin by gras sing on the others?"
"Unhappy."
"So would I; we could end up as incriminated as him."
It was the first time Gilbert had used the plural; I'd been thinking I was in this on my own. I went into the kitchen to replenish the teapot.
After a few moments Gilbert shouted after me: "How well do you know him?"
"Hilditch? Hardly at all," I yelled back.
I poured us both another cup.
"I know him a bit better than that," he said. After a while he went on: "What if I went to see him?"
I felt relieved. Gilbert's responses so far were a disappointment to me. "I'd feel better, but what's changed?"
"Nothing, but he knows you're conducting a vendetta against Cakebread.
He'd be on the defensive. I'll just wave the file under his nose and say we've found his dabs in a cave used by drug smugglers. See what his reaction is."
"It's a tunnel; they're not the Pirates of Penzance. Sounds good to me, though. What if he suggests a deal?"
"It's your case, Charlie. Who are you really after?"
"I don't know, but if he wants to talk turkey, the price is a shedful.
I'll leave it to you."
Gilbert finished his tea. "I'll take this," he said, holding up the file. "I'll ring him from home, then let you know what's happening."
"Cheers."
I don't normally pass on the dirty work, but I was grateful to let this one go. It wasn't as cut and dried as I'd first thought. Gilbert rang me at seven.
"I'm just setting off. I'm seeing him at eight. He's moved to bloody Harrogate."
"I've been thinking, Gilbert," I said. "Do you think you ought to have a driver with you?"
"No, you know the score. Wait up for me, I'll call in on my way back."
An hour there, an hour back, an hour talking. That came to ten o'clock. Say eleven. I cooked a meal fit for a condemned man and hardly touched it. It passed the first hour, though. The next four weren't filled so easily. I tried luxuriating in the bath, with a couple of cans of beer, but the beer warmed almost as quickly as the water cooled. It had seemed a good idea. I watched some bad TV, then went into the garage to talk to the E-type. The dust sheets slid to the floor like a neglige off a beautiful woman. I ran my fingers along the curves, then unlocked the door and slid in. I sat there for a long time, thinking about people I'd known, messes I'd made. I wondered how much it would sell for.