I’ve been on all sorts of courses while doing the job, and I have a certain amount of responsibility. My staff work long hours and are often exposed to danger. I ask them to do things, get into situations, which are above and beyond what an employer can normally expect of his workers. Until now I’d completely forgotten the Krabbe incident, but suddenly I couldn’t help thinking that his generous gesture had taught me more about man
management than all the training sessions and away days that I’d ever attended.
There was a message on the ansaphone when I arrived home. It was Rosie, thanking me for the drink, but the unspoken message was to thank me for not putting any pressure on her. I went to bed feeling reasonably happy. Totally confused, but reasonably happy.
There’s a tourist attraction on the southern edge of the city of Leeds called Thwaite Mills. It stands on an island in the River Aire as part of the city’s industrial heritage, preserved for posterity as a reminder of the days when work meant bending one’s back, producing something. The river turns a pair of water wheels, the water wheels rotate a series of shafts, and an ingenious arrangement of pulleys and belts transfer the power to various applications. Grinding, mixing and grading. In the nineteenth century barges would bring stone, corn, oilseed and logwood to the mill, and sail away laden with flour, china clay, chalk, dyestuff, putty and fuel oil. Nowadays the wheels only turn as a curiosity, when there is an audience, to demonstrate the inventiveness of our forbears.
The schoolchildren showed more interest in the mill than the teacher had expected. It was Friday afternoon and the weekend beckoned, but they listened politely to the guide, made notes and ticked
boxes on the multi-choice questionnaire they’d been provided with. The place reeks of age, and it’s easy to imagine the bustle and hubbub when it was working at full speed: the pulleys spinning; the transmission belts flapping and beams of sunlight slanting through the airborne dust. Sacks would be filled, hoisted on to strong but aching shoulders and carried to the waiting boats in an endless procession.
The kids gathered round as the guide told them how the big, eighteen foot wheels were controlled, then peered over the handrail as he started to open the sluice and the black water churned as if by some unseen monster of the deep.
As the wheel creaked and groaned and the first paddle rose out of the water they thought it was a joke, played on them by the staff in a feeble attempt to keep them interested. It happened all the time. Or perhaps it was somebody’s left-over Guy Fawkes, tossed into the river rather than into the flames. When the streaming body lifted clear one or two girls giggled nervously, unsure of their first conclusions. When the head lolled over and they saw the bloated face and empty eye-sockets, there could be no doubt what it was, and the screaming started.
I heard it on the local news as I drove home from the office, Saturday lunchtime: ‘The body of a man found in the River Aire at Thwaite Mills is believed to be that of a local businessman who hasn’t been
seen for over two weeks.’ I used to work in Leeds and knew the location well. If he’d been in the river a fortnight he probably fell in somewhere near the city centre. Leeds Bridge was a good place for it. In my day it was all run-down warehouses near there, but now it has been redeveloped and turned into a yuppie colony. It’s easy to fall into the river when you’ve done a few lines of coke on top of all that nouveaux Beaujolais. I thought no more of it, defrosted a chicken rogan josh for lunch and spent the afternoon doing damage limitation in the garden. I cleared the borders of dead stuff, mowed the grass – I never refer to it as lawn – and raked up the first flush of dead leaves. I was complimenting myself on being ahead of the game when it occurred that they were probably left over from last year.
Dave came to pick me up to go to the Tony Krabbe lecture, and Jeff Caton was already with him. Dave was wearing his Gore-Tex anorak.
‘Thought I’d look the part,’ he explained. ‘Professional, like.’
‘Wally, you mean,’ Jeff said.
‘Take no notice,’ I said. ‘You look just fine, and if it snows in the town hall you’ll be prepared for it.’
‘Did you hear about Joe Crozier?’ Dave asked asked.
‘No. Who’s he?’
‘One of the names that cropped up when we were
talking about Peter Wallenberg, yesterday. Don’t you listen?’
‘Not always. Sometimes, when Jeff and John are speaking I have a tendency to drift off. Give me it again, please.’
Jeff took over. ‘Peter Wallenberg inherited his fortune from his father, Frank, who was a crook. His partner was Joe Crozier and between them they had Leeds and most of the old West Riding just about sewn up. Prostitution, protection – you name it, they controlled it. Well, yesterday, they fished Joe’s body out of the river. A bunch of schoolkids were being shown around this old museum when up came a floater.’
‘How do you know all this?’
‘Connections. Old friend Nigel is investigating detective. I rang him to see if he fancied a drink, later.’
‘As you do.’
‘Yes. As you do.’
‘Young Mr Newley?’ I grinned at the thought of it. Nigel was one of my protégés and destined for high things, if he could shake off the cosy dust of Heckley and a few of the bad habits I’d passed on to him, and make his own mark in the force.
‘I heard about the body,’ I said. ‘At a guess it went in somewhere near the city centre. So what’s it to do with us?’
‘Nothing,’ Jeff said. ‘It’s just one of those strange
occurrences. You go all your life without hearing a name and suddenly you hear it twice in two days. It happens all the time.’
‘Well,’ I pointed out, ‘when a person dies in strange circumstances they do tend to get their name in the papers. I bet you hear it a few times more in the next few days.’
‘Ah, but the first time was unrelated to his death.’
‘That’s true. We must have put the mockers on him. Is foul play suspected?’
‘No, I don’t think so. According to Nigel they’re looking into it because of Crozier’s background. He lived near the river…enjoyed a drink or eight…Splash.’
‘Nige will sort it. Have we time for a snifter before this lecture starts?’
The talk was brilliant. Or the pictures were. For nearly an hour he showed us breathtaking shots, gathered over his early years, of some of the most beautiful places on Earth. You could imagine a climber being content to sit down on some of the peaks and freeze to death rather than turn away from the view and drop back down into humdrum normality. We saw vast snowfields, hanging by a breath on the mountain sides; jagged arêtes leading to unnamed peaks; ranges that stretched away forever into China and Tibet; tiny coloured specks of humanity dwarfed into insignificance on immense rock faces.
And then the mood changed. We were on Everest, it was late in the day and the weather was turning. He was climbing with his best friend, called Jeremy Quigley, but Jeremy was having trouble and dropped back at the Hillary Step, a
40-foot
rock wall within spitting distance of the
summit. Krabbe summited, took the pictures, then got down as fast as he could to camp IV, expecting Jeremy to be already there.
But he wasn’t, and Krabbe never saw him again.
He made it sound like some sort of an epiphany. He brooded on the death of his friend for weeks, mooching around Kathmandu, witnessing the trend towards teams of well-heeled armchair adventurers and their guides heading towards the mountain, recognising the way things were changing. He costed the flash gear they brought for the Sherpas to carry for them and contrasted it with the dire poverty of the local people. At base camp he surveyed the mess: the discarded food packets; oxygen bottles; climbing gear and gas cylinders. Human faeces were everywhere, waiting for the brief summer to reduce them to something less offensive.
He was disgusted, and ashamed of the part he’d played in the desecration of the area. He loved the mountains, but didn’t want to climb anymore. He decided to do what he could to help the people who lived there; to help clean up the mess that richer people had imposed on them; to raise money to improve the health and education of the children. That’s why he was there, that night, talking to us.
Dave bought the book. It cost
£
28 and weighed about the same.
‘Are you going to introduce yourself?’ he asked as we hovered on the edge of the small crowd waiting for a signature. Krabbe hadn’t changed much in the intervening 30-odd years. We grow older, but the essence of a person always remains. Or perhaps the brain of the viewer makes compensations, subconsciously adjusting to allow for greying and receding hair, wrinkles and the effects of gravity.
‘Hmm, no, I don’t think so,’ I replied.
But Dave had other ideas. Krabbe scrawled his name across the title page of
Kingdoms of the Gods
, underlined it with a flourish and pushed the tome back across the table, saying: ‘Thanks. I hope you enjoy it.’
Dave said: ‘I’m sure I will. Do you remember this fellow?’
Krabbe looked up, puzzled. He was as handsome as ever, I noted, still with rakishly long hair. Our eyes met, blue to blue: his the colour of glacial pools; mine, I’m told, more of a cornflower hue; then his craggy, tanned face split into a grin and he said: ‘Well I’ll be damned, Charlie Priest.’
His handshake nearly maimed me. His fingers were thick with scar tissue and calluses, and as powerful as hydraulic grabs. They had to be. His life had depended on their strength throughout his career. ‘Hello, Tony. How’re you keeping?’ I gasped, flinching.
‘Fine, Charlie. Fine. This is a surprise. Are you still playing footy?’
‘Um, no. I gave that up long ago.’
‘That’s a shame. I thought you had what it takes. I always envied you, playing in goal. You’re a cop, aren’t you. It’s coming back to me. I read about you in the papers – you caught that bastard who murdered the girls. God, that must have given you some satisfaction.’
I said: ‘Well, we can’t all climb Mount Everest. Some of us have more modest ambitions.’ The woman behind us coughed impatiently and we stepped aside so she could have her book signed. I told Krabbe that the talk was brilliant and
thought-provoking
and wished him well with his campaign.
‘Listen, Charlie,’ he said. ‘We ought to have a chat sometime.’ He patted his pockets, saying he didn’t have a card on him. ‘I’ll be around for the next few weeks. Why don’t you pop into the shop? You should catch me there, most mornings.’
‘The shop?’ I queried.
‘Art of Asia, in Heckley Mall. We import ethnic artefacts. It’s all part of the mission, trying to earn foreign currency for them at a fair rate.’
‘I know it, but I didn’t realise it was yours. Yes, I’ll call in.’
We exchanged handshakes again and Dave thanked him for the talk and the book. Ten minutes later, when we were seated in a quiet corner of the
Spinners Arms, fondling our drinks, Dave said: ‘He’s a nice bloke, don’t you think?’
‘Hmm,’ I agreed. ‘Very nice.’
Jeff said: ‘It must be a fantastic feeling, standing on top of Everest, the highest point on Earth. The views across into Tibet were incredible. I know he disapproves of these expeditions where you pay, but I’d go on one if I could afford it. What’s
£
30,000 for something you’d remember for the rest of your life?’
‘Especially if the rest of your life was about two hours,’ I commented.
‘How much did he say they charged for a permit?
£
15,000 was it?’
‘That’s right, or was it dollars? The Nepalese regard the mountain as a natural resource, and exploit it to the full. Some countries got the oil, they got a mountain. God help ’em, they didn’t get much else. Let’s have a look at the book, please, Dave.’
He passed it to me, two-handed, and my arms sank under its weight. I sat with it on my knees, not wanting to put it on the table with its beer-rings, and opened it near the middle.
A photography geek at the lecture had asked what sort of camera he’d used, but didn’t get the answer he wanted. Krabbe said that conditions were either so bad you couldn’t take photos or so good, up there above the clouds, that you could take decent pictures with a pinhole camera. The
only thing you had to do was have the camera acclimatised, so it would keep working at those temperatures and altitudes. The geek went home disgruntled, deprived of a long dissertation on
f-stops
and focal lengths. The rest of the audience sighed in relief.
Whatever he’d used, the photos took your breath away. I like the outdoors, enjoy being in high places, and thumbed through Krabbe’s book with undisguised envy. It’s all about dedication, I told myself. Krabbe had wanted these things, had made sacrifices to attain them. He’d probably turned his back on a career, perhaps ruined his home life, because he wanted to climb more than anything else he knew about. I’d drifted into being a cop, but I enjoyed it, most of the time, and it paid the rent.
Dave and Jeff were wittering on about the dangers of avalanches on the Khumbu glacier and the merits of prusiks and Jumars. Krabbe had won at least two converts. I was looking at the brown faces of two children in woolly hats, grinning at the white man’s camera like a pair of idiots, although the hunger never left their bellies. I turned to the book’s jacket to read what it said about the man himself. It was modest enough, mentioning his OBE and the fact he’d climbed Everest. I looked at the list of reviews and saw that all the broadsheets had lavished praise on it. I half expected to see one from the Dalai Lama – ‘If you have two loaves, sell one and put it towards
a copy of this book’ – but was disappointed.
The very last page had a list of companies and individuals who had sponsored Krabbe throughout his career. All the big names that you see on anoraks and boots and skis were there, plus a list of local businessmen who had presumably chipped in for the next expedition, when asked, providing a
much-needed
box of Kendal mint cake or simply a new set of tyres for his car. It was Krabbe’s way of saying thank you to them.