Laughing Boy (33 page)

“As if it were just train numbers.”

“That’s right. Like train numbers.”

“Which of you followed Colinette Jones?”

Neither of them was the answer. I kept at him for
another
hour until my bladder could take no more. We had a
coffee
break and then I let Sparky loose on him for another hour. All they did was follow people, for fun. He was
twenty-eight
years old, had never had a proper girlfriend, didn’t think he was gay and followed people for fun.

Strange thing was, I knew what he meant. We follow
people
, and sometimes the buzz is electric, like standing under the power lines on a foggy morning. Maybe one day it would be a national sport, if it wasn’t already.

Mr Wood granted us an extension and we sent him back to his cell. Up in the boss’s office we all gathered round his conference table and compared notes. Dr Foulkes started it off, saying that the interview technique we had adopted had worked well and although it had little forensic value he was confident he could tell when William was lying and when he wasn’t.

“So when is he telling the truth?” Maggie asked.

The doctor hedged. “Um, well, I’d prefer to formalise my observations before being specific.”

“I’ll tell you when he’s lying,” Pete Goodfellow declared. “He’s lying when he says they do it for fun. Fun my
backside
. He’s feeding the information to his pals who do all the protesting. Swampy and co. That’s why he’s following all these people. One of the names we found is for a farmer up near Stonedale who breeds beagles for laboratories. Last year all the dogs were released and his barns were torched, on the very night he and his family were at the village pantomime. I bet I know who supplied the information.”

“That’s a distasteful business,” Gilbert said. “Breeding
dogs for experiments. Can’t say I have much sympathy there.”

“We’ve taken our eye off the ball,” I told them. “OK, so we can do him for stalking, which he claims he does for fun.”

“Rapists do it for fun,” Maggie interrupted.

I held up a hand to silence her. “I know, I know, but he hasn’t raped anybody. Apart from the stalking there’s a good chance that he’s into something more sinister: supplying intelligence to direct action groups, as Pete suggested.”

“I’ve wondered how these groups are so well-informed,” Dave said. “They’re always one step ahead of the
authorities
.”

“Can I finish a sentence!” I protested.

“Sorry Chas.”

“As I was saying: we can do him for stalking.” I turned to the super: “I suggest we charge him under the Prevention of Harassment Act, then we can keep hold of him.”

Gilbert nodded his approval.

“Also,” I continued, “we need to investigate the theory that he’s supplying information to other parties, in some sort of conspiracy. I’d like to hand that side of the case over to Jeff Caton.” Again Gilbert nodded. “Which leads us to the reason we are all here. This is a murder enquiry and William Thornton is our twenty-four carat gold plated
suspect
. How does he measure up to that job description, Adrian?”

The doctor was sitting back from the table, one hand extended to rest on it. I could see his cufflinks reflected in the polished wood. He pursed his lips, gazing at his hand and turning it to inspect his fingernails, then raised his eyes and focused on me. He coughed and shuddered, as if
shaking
himself out of some reverie.

“Um, like I said, Charlie, I’d like to study the data more thoroughly before I commit my findings to paper. He’s a mass of contradictions, young Mr Thornton. An interesting case study. He’ll probably be the subject of text books, one day.”

“What’s your gut feeling?”

“About the murders?”

“About the murders.”

He held my gaze for several seconds, then slowly shook his head. “Sorry, Charlie,” he said, “but I think you’ve got the wrong man.”

I had beans on Ryvita for supper because the bread had green spots on it, followed by a chunky KitKat that I’d put in my pocket during one of the coffee breaks. Long time ago I heard this nature programme on radio about a beetle – a giant water bug – that eats frogs. It sneaks up on the frog and injects it with a poison and a dose of digestive juices. The frog dies as its innards are turned into some nutritious brew and when they are nice and runny the beetle draws them up, as if drinking some obnoxious milk-shake. To the observer, the frog sits there with its head out of the water, watching the world go by. I think its eyes glaze over, but I may have invented that bit. Then, quite unexpectedly, it sags and wrinkles like a deflating balloon as its insides are sucked from it.

That’s the best way I can describe how I felt: as if my insides had been sucked out. It was raining and I wasn’t in the mood for a walk or jog. The house was a tip so I
decided
to do something about it. Two days’ washing-up would be a big help. Washing-up can be quite therapeutic, I’m told, and I was ready for some therapeuting. The Fairy Liquid was empty, but by squeezing the container under the hot tap I made a decent lather with the dregs.

One of the mugs I washed had poppies on it. A girlfriend bought it for me for the office, but it was real china, much too good for there.
Papaver somniferum
, it said. One day, when I retire, I’ll learn the names of all the flowers. I’ll point out bedstraw and bugloss with the same authority that the average person has for daisy and dandelion. And the birds, too. Not obsessively, not enough to tell a willow warbler
from a chiffchaff, but when I was out walking and I saw a
silhouette
against the clouds I wouldn’t be calling the humble buzzard a golden eagle.

When I retire I’ll read all those books I’ve heard clever people discussing. The ones they thrust at us in school when all we wanted was
Biggles
and
Roy of the Rovers
. I’ll read poetry, learn whole chunks of it. Not Omar Khayyam or Roger McGough, but proper poetry. I’ll quote from Yeats and Keats whenever the opportunity arises, and I’ll
remember
which was which. I’ll mark the constellations as they cartwheel overhead, and have time to watch the spider weave its web. When I retire I’ll paint my masterpiece.

And will I look back on the one big case where I failed? Yeah, almost certainly. It would dominate my thoughts until the end of my days.

I didn’t have a clean shirt for my meeting with the
assistant
chief constable. All the decent ones were in the linen basket and I was down to the Ben Shermans with the floppy collars. I’d look like George Harrison in his heyday. Not the impression I wanted to create.

I found the least-creased blue one in the linen basket and sniffed it. It was OK. I hung it on a hanger and wondered if the creases would fall out overnight. No chance, it’d have to be ironed. I looked at the clock but it was too late to take it to the neighbour who does these things for me. I put the other dirty ones in the washing machine, on the delicates cycle, and looked for the ironing board.

Perhaps if I just did the collar and the front it would pass muster. He wouldn’t invite me to take my jacket off. I was spitting on the iron, wondering if it was hot enough, when the doorbell rang. I carefully stood the iron on end and went to answer.

She was wearing jeans and a jacket over a striped rugby
jersey
, and in the gleam of the outside light her hair glowed like a maple tree in autumn.

“Hello Charlie.”

“Annette. I…wasn’t expecting you.”

“I was passing. Thought I’d call.”

“Good. Good. I’m glad you did. Come in.” I stood aside and let her pass me. “I’ll put the kettle on. You’ll stay for a coffee?”

“Yes please.”

“Come through into the kitchen.”

I dried two mugs and spooned Nescafé into them. “Well, this
is
a surprise.”

“I was in town. I’ve been to see the flat.”

“I thought it was sold. The notice vanished.”

“We took it down. It hadn’t sold and I heard about a relief teacher who was looking for somewhere for three months – covering for maternity leave – so I leased it to them.”

“I wish I’d known. I thought you’d severed all your
connections
with Heckley. It made me sad.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Nothing for you to be sorry about. Just me being silly. I have a look whenever I pass that way, that’s all. I could have kept an eye on it for you if I’d known it wasn’t sold.” I was chattering, lost for words and finding all the wrong ones. “Have they left it OK?”

“Not really. ‘Professional couple’, they said. I specified non-smokers and they didn’t mention the two toddlers and the dog. Nothing that you’d call damage, but more wear and tear than I’d make in a lifetime.”

“It’s a dodgy business, letting property.”

“So I’ve found out.”

“Will you put it back on the market?”

She heaved a sigh and shook her head. “I don’t know.”

“So how’s the grand affair going? Are you a married woman now?”

Another shake of the head. “No.”

That was the lead question. “How are the children?” I asked, trying to look concerned, or disinterested, anything but what I was really feeling. What was it Maggie said? That she wouldn’t want to take on another woman’s children.

“They’re fine. The kids are fine.”

I fixed the coffees, hers with milk, mine black, and we sat at the table. “I haven’t any biscuits,” I said.

“Coffee’s fine.”

“And how are you enjoying teaching?”

“That’s good, too. I’m enjoying it. I miss some things, the joshing, but it’s OK.”

“I’m glad. I thought you wouldn’t like it.”

“No, it’s fine. Better than I expected. What about you?”

But it wasn’t fine. There was a sadness about her, a lack of spirit, that I’d never seen in her before. I gazed at her, studying her mouth and eyes. She caught me looking at her and held my gaze for a long moment, her cheeks pink. I’d forgotten how easily she blushed, and how my insides lurched whenever I saw it.

“They made me acting chief inspector,” I told her,
breaking
the silence.

“I know, I saw you on television. You didn’t look well. That’s why I came.”

“I’m OK.”

“No you’re not. You’re probably living on takeaways and working too hard.” She jumped to her feet. “And what’s this? Doing your own ironing? The great Inspector Priest actually ironing a shirt. I thought a neighbour did them for you.”

“She does but I forgot to take…forgot to collect them. I’m seeing the assistant chief constable in the morning. It’s a review meeting. I think he’ll take the case off me.”

“Let’s have a look.” She spread the shirt on the board, buttons down, and picked up the iron. Thirty seconds later
she was holding up a perfectly pressed shirt for my
inspection
.

“That’s smashing. Thanks.”

“Any more?”

“No.”

“Where are they all?”

“In the washing machine.” I pointed and we both looked at the porthole, filled with suds.

“This has a mark on it,” she declared, pointing to the front of the shirt.

“Where?” I stood up to join her.

“There.”

“I can’t see it.”

Annette picked up a J-cloth and carefully rubbed the front of the shirt. “It’s come off,” she said. “Looked like ketchup. This wasn’t a clean shirt, was it?”

“I’d only worn it for a couple of hours.”

“Oh, Charlie.”

I gave her my hangdog, sorry-I-ate-your-slippers look and she gave me her best school ma’am one.

“Come here,” I said, holding my arms out, and she walked into them.

I squeezed her until she couldn’t breathe and buried my face in her hair. She smelt of Camay, and something else. A perfume that was strange to me. I’d once asked her what it was but she wouldn’t say. Just laughed. They say it’s a sad woman who has to buy her own perfume. I’d never given her any but I doubted if she’d ever bought her own. It was her secret, her precious memory, and she didn’t want anybody else encroaching on it. I felt her relax and took it as a signal that my time was up.

“That’s what I’m missing,” I said, dropping my hands to her waist. “A hug. It works wonders.”

She nodded and turned away, reaching for her coffee.

I said: “Let’s go in the other room, where it’s more
comfortable
.”

The two girls had been brought up on the fairy stories, knew all about wicked stepmothers. They were all right,
little
angels, Annette told me, when Harvey was there, but when she had them to herself they made it quite clear that she wasn’t their mum, could never be their mum.

Harvey, I thought, suppressing a smile. I’d never heard his name before. Wonder if he had big ears?

I turned the fire on, made some more coffee, told her all about the case. Everything, even about the first three killings, and the interview we’d just given the strange Mr William Thornton. It was an excuse, as if I needed one, to go over it all again. Maybe I’d become a bore on the subject. One day, perhaps, when I went to the pub, the locals would shrink away from me lest I corner them and insist on
relating
my last big case: the one that got away.

About ten past eleven, just as I was considering the
sexual
politics of the situation, Annette jumped to her feet and announced that it was work in the morning, she’d better be off. I helped her on with her jacket and walked out into the garden with her. In the shadow of the house I caught hold of her hand and pulled her closer. “Thanks for calling, Annette,” I said. “You’ve been a tonic.”

We kissed each other, quite gently, on the lips.

“Look after yourself, Charlie,” she said.

We walked down the short drive, out into the street where her car was parked. “You’ve still got the yellow flyer,” I remarked, running a finger over the wheel arch of her Fiat.

“Yep. Can’t afford another on teacher’s pay.”

The indicators flashed as she unlocked the doors and I pulled the driver’s open. “So what will you do with the flat?”