Authors: Stuart Pawson
DS Sparkington was doing some follow-up interviews – seeing people who hadn’t been in when we called, or who couldn’t remember where they were at the fateful time. Luke was putting Van Rees’s report on file.
That left me. I went upstairs to see the Super.
‘The bottom line, Gilbert,’ I told him, ‘is that he’s clever, he’s had it planned for a long time, and I’m confident that he’s known to us.’
Gilbert pondered on what I’d said. ‘So couldn’t Forensic come up with anything at all with the note?’ he asked.
I shook my head. ‘Nope, nothing at all.’
‘What about the typed address?’
‘Done on a computer. Laserjet printer, impossible
to trace. They’re not like your old Remingtons, I’m afraid.’
‘In that case, why didn’t he print the whole bloody note on it?’
‘Good point. Maybe he didn’t know that it was untraceable. I wasn’t sure myself until I asked. Sparky thinks the note was designed for theatrical effect.’
‘You mean it’s just someone making mischief?’
‘Mmm.’
‘Jesus Christ! Makes you wonder just who’s out there. Do you need anybody else?’
‘No, not at the moment, thanks.’
I was walking across to the door when Gilbert said: ‘So what’s your next move, Charlie?’
I paused with my hand on the handle. ‘I’m trying a new technique this afternoon,’ I replied.
‘Oh, what’s that?’
‘I’m driving up onto the moors and I’m going to sit on a wall and listen to the wind.’
‘Well, don’t try pissing into it,’ he called after me.
The idea appealed to me. Wildernesses have a way of helping you put things in perspective. The moors I live on the edge of have seen it all, heard it all. I love walking across them, the wind lashing my hair and the shadows of the clouds racing across the hillsides. They speak to me, too, in their way. There are ghosts up there. They tell of hardship and
cruelty; vast wealth for a few, and indescribable poverty and degradation for the rest. They don’t come up with names, unfortunately.
For that I needed evidence. Van Rees’s new fangled DNA tests and Luke’s computer were more likely to produce the goods, than any half-baked voodoo. About four o’clock I swung the Cavalier into the drive of The Firs, Edgely Lane, and switched off the engine.
Dewhurst’s big Nissan Patrol was standing on a paved area alongside his garage. That could mean he was using the Toyota. He’d told me that he saved it for ‘best’, such as when he was likely to be entertaining clients, or needed to cover large distances as swiftly as possible. The Nissan was his workhorse, handy for carrying samples or delivering rush orders. I did a rough calculation of their value. It came to about twice my annual salary.
The house looked quiet. It’s hard to put a finger on the reason, but you can usually tell when a house is empty. I gave the doorbell a perfunctory stab with a finger and turned to survey the garden. It was about a hundred yards long, but only as wide as the house. A paved area, with rusting barbecue, gave way to lawns which stretched down to an orchard.
For late June the weather was bloody awful. Black clouds were piling up and the tops of the big fir trees gave a sudden shudder as the beginnings of
a cold front caught them. The leylandii reminded me of a Van Gogh painting, done when the black dog of depression was at its most rabid. I shivered and turned up my jacket collar.
His grass was short and neat. There were even parallel lines up and down the lawn, left by the mower. The ground was soft, so I walked
flat-footed
, trying not to leave too many prints behind. Dewhurst didn’t spend enough time at home to do it himself, so he must have a gardener. I couldn’t see any point in having it all dug up. Not yet.
At the front it was rose beds and an ornamental pool, with concrete cherub. Presumably, in more happy times, it peed into the pond. Then there was the Nissan. Dewhurst had used it on the Friday before Georgina disappeared, on the Sunday when they took Mrs Eaglin home, and also on the Monday morning.
I wandered round it, looking in through the windows. It didn’t look anything special. There was a road atlas on the front seat and a pair of Ray-Bans above the dashboard. Otherwise it was neat and tidy. It was neat and tidy underneath, too. In fact, the whole thing was gleaming like a politician’s smile. I ran my hand inside the wheel arches, like a mother-in-law feeling the tops of the doors, and inspected my fingers. Spotless. I’d put some plastic bags in my boot, in case I collected a few specimens, but it looked as if I wouldn’t need them.
The spare wheel on a Nissan Patrol is carried underneath, at the back, exposed to all the spray from the road. This one was wrapped in black plastic to keep it clean. It was a sensible precaution. I knelt down and reached through to feel the top of the wheel. My hand came back grimy. The front of the spare was probably caked in mud. I needed a sample of that mud, just for the records.
But first I needed the help of a mechanic. A single nut held the wheel in position, but I had nothing that would undo it. I went over to my car and telephoned the station garage. Nobody was available. It was late and they’d all gone home. I rang Jimmy Hoyle.
Jimmy owns a little garage in Heckley. He services cars for a few regular customers and is an expert with a spray gun. My father left me an old Jaguar when he died and Jimmy helped me restore it. We’ve been pals since we played in the same football team. I’d just joined the force and I helped him steer his way out of some trouble. I took a risk, but he’s never forgotten it.
‘Sheepshagger! What do you want?’ he greeted me.
‘Hiya, baboon features. How did you know I wanted something?’
‘You always want something. I haven’t seen you since you hit the big time bustin’ that drugs gang.’
‘Ah, the ABC gang, Mr Cakebread and his pals.
Those were the days. You know where I live, Jimmy; you’re welcome to call in with a bottle any time. Bring a tin of salmon and I’ll make you a sandwich.’
‘I’ll pass, if you don’t mind, Charlie. I don’t want to be around when someone puts a bomb under your car.’
‘When I woke up this morning there was a horse’s head in my bed.’
‘I’m not surprised.’
‘It was a right bugger trying to get the milk float back down the stairs. Listen, I didn’t have to come to you. I’ve got other friends I haven’t used yet.’ I told him what the problem was and he was with me in fifteen minutes. After casting an expert eye under the Nissan he declared: ‘It needs what we technicians call a twenty mil. socket. Won’t be a mo.’
I collected a few plastic bags out of my boot and gave them to him. ‘Put as much of the mud as you can in these, please. I’ll stand at the gate and watch for the owner corning back.’
Jimmy looked at me in alarm. ‘You mean he doesn’t know you’re doing this?’
‘No.’
‘Chuffin’ ’eck. ’Ave you got a warrant?’
‘No. Get on with it.’
‘Chuffin’ ’eck. Does this make me an accessory after the fact?’
‘No, just an accessory’
‘What’s the difference?’
‘It’s more serious.’
‘Chuffin’ ’eck.’
Jimmy sprawled on the ground at the back of the vehicle and I stood at the gate looking down towards the Penistone Road. A few big blobs of rain made dark spots on the pavement. Right on cue, the white shark-nose of the Toyota came into view, paused in the middle of the road for a moment while the traffic cleared, then swung into the lane.
‘Jimmy! He’s here,’ I called. ‘Pack up quick! Pretend you’ve been messing with my car.’
I walked into the road to stall Dewhurst. Fortunately Jimmy’s van was blocking the entrance to the drive, so he’d have to wait until it was moved before he could go in.
The Supra came to a silent halt and the nearside window slid down. I squatted on my heels so that my face was level with it and Dewhurst leant across.
‘What’s happened? Has something happened?’ he asked. He sounded agitated.
‘No, Mr Dewhurst, nothing’s happened. I’m sorry to startle you like this. I just called in to see you, but when I tried to start the car again it wouldn’t work. I sent for a mechanic and he’s just fixing it. He won’t be long. Have you heard anything?’
He hadn’t. I asked him if Maggie had spoken to
him today. I knew that she rang him early every morning and tried to see him in the evening. He was full of praise for her, and said he was grateful for the support she was giving Mrs Eaglin. After a few minutes Jimmy joined us. He did well.
‘It’s fixed, Mr Priest. Will there be anything else?’
‘Not for now, Jimmy. Thanks a lot. Will you send me a bill, please?’
‘It’ll be in the post tomorrow. Will you, er, be needing a VAT receipt or will it be, er, cash?’
Cheeky sod. He moved his van and the Supra turned silently into the drive, as if driven by electricity. The garage door swung up and Dewhurst drove straight in. When he joined me again he was carrying a fat briefcase. After a few flashes and beeps the garage door closed itself and we went into the house.
Dewhurst hung his jacket on a hanger, filled the kettle and flopped into an easy chair, gesturing towards another for me.
I sat down and said: ‘I thought I’d come to tell you that Barclay’s bank are holding the money for us. As soon as you hear anything else we can have it over here.’
‘The full half-million?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Genuine money?’
‘The real stuff. It’s being secretly marked, but otherwise it’s kosher.’
‘Heavens. So if this money is handed over, who pays?’
‘We do. The state.’
‘But you’d expect to be able to follow it? You’d want to make the handover yourselves?’
I shook my head. ‘Not because of the money. We’d want to handle it because we’d stand a better chance of getting Georgina back.’ I stopped myself from saying ‘alive’.
He was quiet for a while, then he said: ‘I have to tell you, Inspector, that I’m making efforts myself to raise the money.’
I said: ‘That’s not necessary,’ but he wasn’t listening.
He went on: ‘Six months ago I received an offer for Eagle. I turned it down, but I’ve just asked them if they’re still interested. I’m trying to sell the house, too.’
‘We already have the money, Mr Dewhurst. It’s imperative that as soon as you hear anything you let us know. We can handle it best. You’ll be involved every inch of the way. Understand?’
He nodded. Beyond him, through the window, I could see the Nissan, its shape distorted by the rain running down the glass. I wondered if Jimmy had managed to obtain a sample for me. I was painfully aware that I was floundering with this one. All we had to go on was the fact that we had nothing to go on.
‘There is one other thing,’ I said. He looked at me. ‘The ransom note. The forensic people have found a spot of saliva or sweat on it. They can tell a person’s blood group from something like that. Trouble is, it could be yours or mine. I’ve already given a sample. I wonder if you could make an appointment with Dr Evans – he’s near Heckley nick – in the next couple of days. Just for elimination purposes. I’ll give you his number.’
In the kitchen the kettle clicked off as it came to the boil. I didn’t stay for a cuppa with him. I might be a bastard, but I’ve got my limits. I climbed straight into the car and drove home. If I hadn’t been in so much of a hurry I’d have heard the wind, soughing in the treetops.
It was the earliest I’d been home for months. First thing I did was ring Jimmy Hoyle. The rain was bouncing knee high off the garden, so I hadn’t bothered to have a look in the boot to see if he’d collected anything for me.
‘Hi, Catfish. Thanks for coming out. Did you manage to get me a sample.’
‘A sample? I nearly donated one myself when you shouted,’ he said. ‘I scraped some mud into the bag you gave me, but when he came I just stuffed the whole lot in and put it in your boot. He’ll notice that his spare wheel isn’t wrapped up any more.’
I could tell from his voice that his adrenalin was still high. He’d enjoyed the whole thing.
‘Never mind. He’ll just assume the cover blew off when he was doing a ton on the motorway. I’ll send it to the lab tomorrow. Well done. You’ll have to let me know what I owe you.’
‘It’s OK. Buy me a pint sometime.’
I’d known he’d say that. I’d drop him a bottle of whisky when I got the chance.
I was sick of takeaways, so I cooked for a change. I had turkey, with stuffing, chipolata, sprouts, potatoes, carrots and gravy. It only took six minutes in the microwave.
For pudding I rang Annabelle.
‘Hello, Charles,’ she said warmly, ‘this is a pleasant surprise.’
‘I just thought I’d better ring now and again, before you forgot my name,’ I told her.
‘I don’t think there is any chance of that,’ she replied, ‘but it is still nice to talk to you. I know how busy you must be. Are you any nearer the end of it?’
‘No, we’re batting in the dark, swiping at shadows. Our luck will change, though, hopefully.’
‘I saw the appeal on television. It was
heart-rending
listening to that poor man, her father. How can he ever recover from something like this?’
‘He can’t.’ As soon as the conversation was back on a less traumatic level I said: ‘I’m not eating too well, and I’ve been hungering for a nice, man-sized T-bone. Would you care to join me over the weekend? You could have a juicy tenderloin, grilled to your own taste and served on a bed of lettuce with half a tomato, two onion rings and seventeen sharply pointed chips.’
‘Mmmmmm,’ she replied, ‘sounds deeelicious.
You really know the way to a girl’s heart.’
‘Is that an affirmative?’ I chuckled.
‘I’m sorry, Charles. Now it is my turn to back out. I’ve arranged to go to Northampton over the weekend. It’s a long-standing arrangement and I don’t really want to cancel it. You won’t be too disappointed if I decline, will you?’
‘Yes. Terribly. If we ever do meet again we’ll have to compare diaries, but I wouldn’t dream of expecting you to cancel. Never mind; the main thing is that you still remember me.’
‘Of course I still remember you, dumbo. You are the short, bald one with the walking stick, aren’t you? Aren’t you?’
‘That’s me.’
‘Listen, Charles, talking about food, I’m worried about how well you are eating. You will make yourself ill if you don’t look after yourself. What have you had tonight?’
‘I’ve done well tonight. I had turkey and vegetables and all the trimmings. Christmas dinner.’
‘Frozen. That’s awful! It’s not good for you. What do you have for lunches?’
‘Bacon sandwich in the canteen. Very streaky bacon. Followed by a cream bun and a quart of strong tea. Frugal but nourishing.’
‘Just as I thought. Oh, Charles, what are we going to do with you? I’m busy the next couple of days, but I will be at home on Friday. Will you be
able to make it here for lunch then?’
Try to stop me. It was nice being bossed about by a beautiful woman, although I knew I’d never understand them. I had a can of Newcastle Brown, showered and went to bed early. In the shower I did my Leonard Cohen sings Placido Domingo act. In bed I didn’t dream about a little girl; not for a long while.
‘I like the tie, boss,’ Nigel told me as we congregated in my little office.
‘Thank you. It is rather nice, isn’t it?’
‘Jumble sale?’ suggested Sparky.
‘Actually, it’s a Hockney. Bought it at his exhibition in Saltaire. We’ll hang on a bit because I’ve asked Mr Wood to join us. No point in repeating everything.’
‘Did you go to college with him?’ asked Maggie.
‘Mr Wood? No, he was educated by the Jesuits. Or was it the Inuits?’
‘I think Maggie meant David Hockney,’ explained Nigel.
‘Heck, no. He’s six or seven years older than me. And our art schools were about two hundred miles apart. And severial light years.’
Severial was a local pronunciation, for Nigel’s benefit.
‘What sort of painting did you specialise in?’ he enquired.
‘Nudes,’ Sparky chipped in. ‘That was the only way he could get women to take their clothes off for him. Am I right?’
‘As always, Dave,’ I replied.
He warmed to his theme: ‘He was a pubist. You might not know it, but Charlie founded a school called pubism. Spent his formative years painting hairy mots.’
Dave had rekindled some fond memories for me. I smiled and replied: ‘Actually, in those days they were always shaven.’
The Super walked in and saved the conversation from further degeneration. ‘What were always shaven? Good grief, where did you find that tie, Charlie?’ he demanded as he sat down.
‘It’s a long story, boss. OK, Maggie, take it from the top.’
She coughed and flicked open her notebook. ‘Right,’ she began. ‘I’ve spent much of the week talking to Mrs Eaglin and Mr Dewhurst. He’s been busier than ever. I’ve spoken with him on the telephone twice a day, but only managed to catch him face to face once.’
‘What’s his excuse?’ asked Gilbert.
‘Just busy, sir; trying to catch up, throwing himself into his work, that sort of thing.’
‘Mmm. And his attitude? To you, I mean?’
‘Tolerant, but strained. When I meet him his face falls for a moment, then he smiles. He says he
appreciates our concern, but it doesn’t show. Except about his mother-in-law. He seems genuinely grateful for the time we’re spending with her.’
‘I see. Go on.’
‘Well, the gist is, so far he hasn’t heard anything more from the kidnappers. That’s up to eight o’clock this morning.’ Maggie paused for a drink of coffee. She turned the page and went on: ‘Charlie, er, Mr Priest, asked me to do some probing with Mrs Eaglin. It wasn’t very pleasant. She’s opened her heart to me over the last few weeks, regarded me as a friend, so it seemed dishonest to put the policewoman’s hat back on, without telling her.’
‘Yes, I can imagine,’ said Gilbert. ‘But it’s kinder than inviting her to the station to answer a few questions. At least I hope it is.’
‘Probably. Well, here’s what I’ve found, for what it’s worth. Eagle Electrical was founded by George Eaglin, Georgina’s grandad. Miles Dewhurst was the chief sales engineer. After a whirlwind courtship he married Janet, their daughter. Mr and Mrs Eaglin weren’t very pleased about it at the time, but when Janet gave birth to a daughter six months later they decided it had probably been for the best. And Dewhurst did well for the company. Built it up to what it is today – Mrs Eaglin gave him full credit for that. Old George Eaglin died of a brain tumour just after Georgina was born. In his
will he left Eagle Electrical to Janet, his daughter, with a few provisions for Mrs Eaglin. That’s about it.’ She closed her book and had another drink of coffee.
Gilbert didn’t have any questions, so I thanked Maggie and invited Nigel to speak.
‘I’ve had a long conversation with Mr Wylie,’ he told us. ‘He’s a partner at Dean and Mason, solicitors for the Eaglins and also the Dewhursts. I told him that it was off the record, but we believed that Dewhurst was trying to raise the ransom money himself. I told them what we were doing and that we were worried that he might try to act unilaterally.’
Gilbert winced. ‘On his own?’
‘Yes, sir. They were sympathetic. Apparently Dewhurst has asked them to arrange the sale of his house and the company. They’re trying to resurrect the offer that was made a while back. Meanwhile they have heard, unofficially, that he’s borrowed heavily against the properties from his business contacts.’
‘How do you hear something like that unofficially?’ asked Gilbert.
I shook my head.
‘Talk at the golf club,’ suggested Sparky. ‘Or at the lodge. They all urinate in the same receptacle.’
‘Oh, no,’ groaned Gilbert. ‘Not the Freemasons. Don’t start Charlie off about them again.’
‘That wasn’t me. It was Wassock Willis,’ I protested. Willis was one of my sergeants, now moved on.
Sparky leant back in his chair, his face bearing a satisfied grin. He’d succeeded in goading Gilbert and myself into bickering. I kicked his shin under the table.
‘Nigel.’ I turned to him, scratching my ear with my pencil, to create a diversion. ‘We need to find out what was in Janet Dewhurst’s will; who she left the company to. Do you think your Mr Wylie will tell you?’
‘Don’t see why not. Shall I ring him?’
‘Or would you rather see him in person?’
‘No, I’ll ring him. I’ll use my own phone if you don’t mind, the number’s in my desk.’
When he’d gone I said: ‘Nigel has a flair for dealing with people like solicitors. He gets more cooperation from them than I ever can.’
‘It’s called being polite,’ said Gilbert. ‘You let it be known that you don’t like them because they’re better off than you, so you get their backs up.’
‘Thank you for putting me straight,’ I replied.
‘Any time. What’s the shirt and tie for?’
‘Er, I have a luncheon appointment.’
‘Anywhere special?’
I was saved by a knock at the door and Geoff Caton poked his head in. ‘’Scuse me, Mr Wood. It’s
Van Rees on the phone, boss. Shall I say you’ll ring him back?’
‘No, transfer him in here please.’
After a few seconds the phone rang. ‘Hello, Professor, it’s Charlie Priest here. Have you anything for me?’
‘I’m not sure, Inspector. First of all, I’ve just received these dirt samples from you. We’re having a quick look at them and cataloguing them for further reference. Is that all you wanted?’
‘For the time being, Professor. It’s just material that we might want to do a comparison with, one day. It’s a long shot.’
‘I see. Now, this blood sample. It’s from a Miles Dewhurst.’
‘Yes.’
‘Presumably he’s something to do with the little girl who vanished.’
‘Yes, he’s her father.’
‘The SOCO brought us samples of hair from her hairbrush when she first went missing.’
‘I know.’
‘Was she adopted?’
‘I don’t think so. No, she wasn’t. Definitely not.’
‘Well, Inspector, statistically there’s a chance that you are her biological father. There’s even an extremely remote chance that I am her biological father, although I have to confess to having no recollection of the encounter. But this sample proves
that Miles Dewhurst is no blood relation to her whatsoever.’
‘Well, well,’ pondered Gilbert when I relayed the message to the others. ‘Mr Dewhurst becomes interestinger and interestinger.’
‘If he’s in the frame I’ve something to add,’ stated Sparky. ‘Go on.’
‘He has a girlfriend.’
‘A girlfriend? How do you know?’ I queried.
‘I’ve been keeping an eye on him. According to her car registration she’s called Sarah Louise Parkinson. She’s a dark, intense piece. Fashionable dresser. Glamorous, if you like that sort of thing. Her address is Oldfield, but they share a love nest in Todmorden. She’s chief buyer at Clay’s Manchester branch.’
‘Thanks for keeping me informed, Dave,’ I told him somewhat abruptly, throwing my pencil on the table.
‘Sorry, boss. I was about to tell you.’
The door swung open and Nigel bounded in, like a puppy that’s just learnt to retrieve a stick.
‘Guess what?’ he challenged us.
‘What?’ I demanded, deflating him with a word.
‘Er, Janet Dewhurst’s will. She left most of it in trust for Georgina. Miles Dewhurst might call himself managing director, but he’s still just a glorified employee.’
Maggie, Sparky, Gilbert and myself sat and
stared at him, our jaws drooping at various degrees, like sea lions waiting for the keeper to toss a fish to us. Slowly Nigel’s face sank, as if his master had taken the stick from him and used it to beat him.
‘What did I say?’ he wondered aloud.
Raymond Chedgrave could see Miss Jonas’s cottage from where he stood. He wondered for a moment if the rumours about her and Father Harcourt were true, then turned back to his barley. He cast his expert eye over the expanse of it and smiled with satisfaction. This was the most widely grown crop in Britain. Some went for feed and some was destined for the brewing industry, but the best – the fattest, purest grain – was held back to use as seed for next year’s crop. It fetched the highest price, and Raymond Chedgrave had over a thousand acres of it.
Before being accepted as seed it would be rigorously tested to verify that it was uncontaminated with wild oats or any other weed. Generations of what was regarded as good husbandry had banished the poppy and corn cockle from these fields, but the wild oat was a common intruder, brought in by impure seed. It was easy to detect, standing a foot taller than the barley, but the sterile brome was much more difficult to tackle. That was what Chedgrave was looking for this morning.
He’d started walking the fields as soon as the rising sun had burnt off the dew, up and down the
waving waist-high rows. The corn was as clean as a weasel’s molars. He’d knock off now, he decided, and go back to Home Farm for a bite to eat. Maybe he’d have another couple of hours tomorrow; the weather looked like holding. He made a mental note of where he’d reached, then started working his way back to the Land Rover.
A covey of red-legged partridge suddenly whirred and clattered into the air from almost under his feet. Farmer Chedgrave was startled for a second, but he recovered immediately and raised his arms as if holding an imaginary gun and followed the path of the fleeing birds.
‘P-chowl
’ he cried, and the pretend shotgun kicked upwards with the recoil. He didn’t do much shooting, but the season had started and a brace of partridge would make a pleasant change of menu. He’d bring a proper gun tomorrow.