Last Reminder dcp-4 Page 15

  She’d decided to visit her sister, Rachel, for a few days, then was moving on to Winchester, where Peter’s mother now lived. I wasn’t flattered. Annabelle and Rachel go together like marshmallow and mustard, and it looked as if I’d always be standing in Peter’s shadow. She’d left on the spur of the moment, she said, and would be very grateful if I could have a look at the house, if it was convenient, to make sure it was all right. She’d be home a week on Saturday, at the latest. Love, Annabelle.

  The only ray of sunshine was the picture on the other side of the card. It showed traffic on the Guildford by-pass, taken about forty years earlier. I could imagine her rejecting the views of the South Downs and the floral clock and choosing that one especially for me. I pinned it to the fridge door with Sophie’s magnet, but I didn’t feel any happier.

  Life goes on, I thought, searching in my wallet for the scrap of paper with a telephone number on it. I dialled the number, and a few moments later C. Priest Taxi Services had confirmed its first booking for a wedding.

  I wasn’t too sure about my next call. After picking up the receiver I hesitated until the warbling noises came. I flicked the cradle again and dialled Kim Limbert’s home number.

  ‘It’s Charlie Priest,’ I said.

  ‘Hello, Charlie. This is a pleasant surprise. What can I do for you?’

  ‘I was just wondering if you’d reconsidered your decision. You were rather hasty, you know.’

  She laughed. ‘Aw, Charlie, that was five years ago. You’re not still carrying a torch for me, are you?’

  ‘I said I’d give you some more time to think about it.’

  ‘Five years!’

  ‘And six days. I’m a patient man.’

  ‘Ah ah! Shall I tell you something, Charlie. Once or twice, when I’ve been really low. Really low. I’ve wished you’d meant it.’

  I said, ‘Gosh, I never realised you got that low. Didn’t you consider suicide?’

  ‘Oh, yes. This was long after I’d rejected suicide. So how are you?’

  ‘I’m having a little local difficulty, Kim. I’d like you to make a written statement, saying that I once proposed marriage to you.’

  ‘It doesn’t count if you were drunk at the time. What have you done now?’

  ‘Sometimes it’s the real you that comes out when you’re drunk. I’m on a fizzer. Mr Partridge wants me standing before his desk tomorrow morning. I think it’s to ask me about my racist attitude, and about harassment of one of our citizens called Michael Angelo Watts.’

  ‘Oh, Charlie! I am sorry. Watts, did you say?’

  ‘You know him?’

  ‘Heard of him, and of his father, Dominic. Is it big trouble for you?’

  ‘Listen, Kim, if you can’t help, it’s OK, I’ll understand. This morning we called at Michael’s house, on the edge of the Sylvan Fields. A little boy answered the door, wearing a T-shirt with “Make my day, kill a pig” written on the front.’

  ‘With a picture of a pig wearing a policeman’s helmet. I’ve seen them.’

  ‘That’s right. Well, apparently, father Dominic owns several sweatshops and outlets selling all this funky gear, and I was wondering if one of your many nephews might be able to obtain one for me, to be used in evidence at my hearing. What do you think?’

  ‘Is it Dominic who’s making the complaint?’

  ‘I’m assuming so.’

  ‘Is it official, or “Leave it with me”?’

  ‘I don’t know, yet.’

  ‘Mmm. For the record, I have two nephews.’

  ‘Noted. Look, if you’d rather not involve them, it’s OK. I’m not relying on this for my defence.’

  ‘They won’t mind. I’ll leave it at the desk.’

  ‘Great. And good luck with your panel. We’ll be rooting for you.’ Kim was up for Inspector, and I expected her to go further.

  ‘Thanks. Let me know what happens. And if you need me, shout.’

  I replaced the phone and sat there for a few minutes, biting my knuckles. It had been a long time ago, and I was drunk. But I’d meant it. Every word of it.

  I was drinking my last cuppa of the evening, Radio Four’s Book at Bedtime droning in the background, when I noticed the still-folded copy of the Gazette. I opened it at the middle pages, where all the photos from the parade were, and saw Sophie and Daniel smiling at me, leaning on the Jag like a couple from Bugsy Malone. The registration number was plainly visible, and the caption

  said it was the proud possession of Detective Inspector Charles Priest, head of the Heckley CID.

  Seven thirty next morning saw me ringing Van Rees from the office. He promised to have a written report ready by lunchtime. ‘There is something in solution over and above what one would expect,’ was as positive as he would be. Cautious buggers, these scientists.

  As the second-hand on the wall-clock slipped silently over the minute hand at eight o’clock I lifted the phone again and thumped in the City HQ code.

  ‘Assistant Chief Constable Partridge, please,’ I told the telephonist.

  ‘Mr Partridge’s office,’ came the reply.

  ‘DI Priest, from Heckley. Could I speak to him please?’

  After a short silence he was barking in my ear. ‘That you, Priest?’ he demanded. Usually it’s Charlie.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘What the bloody hell have you been playing at?

  I want you in my office at ten sharp. Didn’t you get my order?’

  ‘Yes, sir. But I was hoping that we could delay things until some results come in from Wetherton. Then I’ll be able to answer all charges and prove that my actions were justified.’ I sounded as convincing as a government minister in the Iraqi supergun enquiry.

  ‘This had better be good, Priest. You know how delicate we have to be with these things. Bloody Sylvan Fields is a tinderbox — actions like yours could ignite the place. How long do you need?’

  Emotional bullshit. Sylvan Fields was ninety per cent white, and the only revolutions the white residents understood were made by car engines. ‘Could we make it two o’clock, please?’ I suggested.

  ‘Two o’clock I’m seeing the complainant. Supposed to be placating him. I’ve already persuaded him to keep it unofficial, leave it with me.’

  ‘I’ve no objection to you seeing us together, sir. Kill two birds with one stone.’

  ‘Two it is, then. I’ll tell him, so he can please himself whether he comes then or later. But I’m warning you, Priest, this had better be good.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. It will be.’

  Traffic were next on my list. ‘DI Priest here. Could you please send your fastest car over to the Wetherton lab and pick up a report for me at lunchtime today. It’s very important. It should be ready about noon and I need it here at, er, thirteen hundred hours, prompt.’ They use the big clock in Traffic.

  ‘Right, sir. We’ll do that for you.’

  ‘Thank you. As I said, it’s very important, so tell the driver that if he crashes, on no account must he burst into flames.’

  I was politely but firmly informed that all Traffic drivers were highly trained and did not crash. Finding a sense of humour in Traffic is as likely as discovering life on Mars, but I like to launch a probe in their direction, now and again.

  All that was left was the waiting. I turned my pad over to a clean page and tried working out my pension, but I couldn’t concentrate. It was quieter in Gilbert’s office, so I trudged up the stairs and sat in his chair with my feet on the desk, pretending to be Mr Partridge. ‘Well done, Priest,’ I said to myself, gruffly. ‘Damn good show. Why don’t you start taking a bit more time off? Relax a little?’

  There was some mail in the tray: Gilbert was invited to attend a bash at the Town Hall, dress formal; our year-after-next’s provisional budget forecasts were overdue; and we hadn’t replied to a survey on the effects of closed circuit TV on rowdyism in the town centre. A nice letter from the Police Authority congratulated us for having the joint best clear-up rate in t
he region. Perhaps that’s because we don’t spend all our time going to piss-ups and answering bloody useless questionnaires, I thought. My last Fin 23 form was still there, unsigned, which explained why I hadn’t received any expenses for six weeks, so I did a passable copy of Gilbert’s scrawl and slid it into the out-tray.

  The Traffic car was thirty-five minutes late. I was pacing up and down the foyer like a pregnant tiger when the driver strode in carrying a manila envelope.

  ‘Is that for DI Priest?’ I asked, reaching for it.

  ‘Er, yes, sir.’

  ‘That’s me. Now could you get me to the City HQ before two, please.’

  These Traffic boys can drive, I’ll say that for them. He sliced a good ten minutes off my best our-nick-to-their-nick time and deposited me near the entrance with ninety seconds to spare.

  ‘Don’t wait, I may be some time,’ I told the driver as I slammed the door, before he could protest that he had no intention of waiting. It occurred to me that I might not have the clout to hitch rides in police cars when I came out.

  The desk was unmanned, as is usual. I leant on the bell push.

  ‘DI Priest,’ I told the irate-looking WPC who came to see what the fuss was about. ‘Is there a package for me?’

  ‘A package? What sort of package?’

  ‘Any sort would do. What sorts do you have?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I’ve just come on.’

  ‘Could you look? Please? It is rather urgent.’

  She rummaged under the counter and straightened up holding a plastic carrier with something about reggae written on the side.

  ‘That’ll do,’ I said, snatching it from her. ‘If anybody wants me I’ll be in Mr Partridge’s office.’ I sprinted up three floors and only slowed down when the thickness of the carpet told me I was there.

  ‘Come in!’ someone growled when I knocked. The clock above his desk told me I was exactly on time, to the second. I wondered about using Jean Brodie’s line, ‘I was so afraid I might be late, or early,’ but I settled for, ‘Good afternoon, gentlemen.’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Dominic Watts was seated at this side of the ACC’s desk, the placatory cup of coffee perched on his knee, as if he was afraid to sully the polished magnificence of the desk. He was a small man, neatly dressed in a shiny suit. Shiny all over, not just at the backside and elbows, like mine. His briefcase was on the floor beside him, with a leather trilby hat balanced on it. His expression indicated that it was unlikely we’d end up swapping funny stories and fishing in our wallets for family snapshots.

  ‘Sit down, Priest,’ the ACC said. I pulled the chair back from the desk to make room for my legs and sat down, placing the envelope and the carefully folded carrier bag on the desk.

  ‘I don’t believe you two have met,’ he went on. ‘DI Priest, this is Mr Watts. Mr Watts, this is DI Priest.’

  Watts barely nodded at me. I said, ‘Hello.’

  ‘Mr Priest,’ Partridge continued, ‘Mr Watts approached me yesterday, as I am standing in for the chief constable, with some serious allegations about a…’

  ‘They are not allegations,’ Watts interrupted. ‘They are definite charges, with many witnesses who will confirm…’ He had a clipped, precise way of speaking, every word carefully enunciated, the result of having a better primary education than you get here.

  Partridge held up a hand. ‘Mr Watts, please. At this moment in time I am just trying to establish the ground rules. I’ll give you every opportunity to air your grievances in a while, if you’ll bear with me.’

  So, we were having ground rules, were we? I’d tell him a few rules of my own, if he’d bear with me, at this or any other moment in time.

  ‘As I was saying. Serious allegations about a raid Heckley CID made on the home of Mr Watts’s son, Michael Angelo, who happens to live next door to Mr Watts.’

  In a house with bars on the doors and six inches of reinforced concrete over the manhole covers, I thought.

  Partridge went on. ‘Now, Mr Watts has kindly agreed that this meeting, and any subsequent action, will be off the record. I assume you have no objection to that, eh, Priest?’

  Subsequent action meant disciplinary action. I did object, actually, but it was a finer point of the rules of the game, and above all I wanted to get on with it. ‘No, sir,’ I said.

  ‘Right. Good. So what I propose is that you, Priest, explain what you were playing at yesterday morning, and then Mr Watts will have an opportunity to state his case. That way, hopefully, we’ll be able to iron out this problem to everyone’s satisfaction. Is that understood?’

  Fat chance, I thought, as I nodded.

  ‘Yes, Assistant Chief Constable,’ Watts replied. ‘It is perfectly understood.’ His precise constructions reminded me of Enoch Powell, and I almost smiled.

  ‘Very well.’ Partridge turned to me. ‘So what was the purpose of this raid, Priest?’

  ‘Thank you. First of all, sir, can I say that we were not playing. We were acting on information that Michael Angelo Watts’ home is used as a safe house for the distribution of class A and class B narcotics. In other words, he is a…’

  ‘What is your evidence for this?’ Watts demanded, rising from his chair. ‘These are scurrilous allegations, completely without foundation. I demand to know where…?’ A fleck of saliva landed on the polished mahogany and the leather hat rolled off the briefcase.

  ‘Please! Please!’ The ACC jumped to his feet. ‘Mr Watts, you will be given every opportunity to respond, in due course. If you will only let Mr Priest finish.’

  ‘I demand to know what evidence he acted upon!’ Watts insisted.

  ‘Right. Right. Mr Priest, could you answer that specific point before you continue?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘Evidence about the movements of drugs is obtained at great danger to the officers and others concerned, and I cannot risk lives or prejudice enquiries by giving that information.’

  ‘Just as I thought!’ Watts insisted. ‘There is no information. This attack on my son and his young family, which took place early in the morning when they were all in bed, was nothing more than blatant racial harassment by a police force where racism is…’

  ‘Mr Watts!’ Partridge shouted, shutting him up. ‘These outbursts will get us nowhere. Let Mr Priest continue.’

  ‘Ask him if he had a warrant,’ Watts demanded.

  ‘Well, Priest?’

  ‘We didn’t need a warrant. We knew we couldn’t obtain access to the house until it would have been too late, so we didn’t try.’

  Partridge shook his head. ‘If you didn’t have a warrant, why did you go there?’ he asked.

  Watts jumped in first. ‘To inflict more suffering on my son and to terrorise his family — that is why they went, so early in the morning,’ he claimed.

  I said, ‘We regret that any children were involved, but the total responsibility for any stress imposed on them must lie with Michael Angelo Watts and his lifestyle.’

  ‘What do you mean, his lifestyle?’ Watts demanded.

  ‘The lifestyle of a drugs dealer,’ I replied.

  ‘Where is your evidence?’ he shrieked, saliva spotting the desk like the first flurry of a snowstorm. I eased away from him.

  ‘Yes, Priest,’ Partridge said. ‘These are very serious allegations you’re making. I hope you’ve some evidence to back them up.’

  I pulled the envelope from under the carrier. ‘It’s all here, sir. If I may…?’

  Watts wiped his mouth and retrieved his hat. The ACC lounged back in his big chair, rotating a silver propelling pencil in his fingers. It looked as if the stage was all mine.

  I said, ‘It is well established that pushers and dealers flush drugs down the toilet when they think they are in danger of being discovered. So we lift the cover of the manhole outside and try to catch whatever comes through the drains. The next step in the game is that they cover the manhole with concrete and reinforce the fall-pipe so we can’t break into it. Our progress i
s further impeded by iron grilles over the windows and steel barred gates outside the doors. The house at Sylvan Fields belonging to Michael Angelo Watts has all these modifications.’

  ‘Because of the crime rate in the area!’ Watts told us. ‘Why do you not address that problem, instead of harassing honest citizens? Tell me that.’

  I ignored him. ‘I decided to make a mock raid on the house, acting on information that heroin from the Continent was being distributed from there.’ Watts waved his arms, but stayed silent. ‘We posted a team from the Wetherton laboratory at the next drain down the circuit, with other people at all the stench pipes coming from the block of houses where the Wattses live, and the next block of houses down the line. When we knocked on his door there was a flurry of action inside, accompanied by much flushing of the toilets both there and next door, where you live, Mr Watts.’

  ‘This is ridiculous,’ he said. ‘Fanciful nonsense. It is obvious to me, Mr Partridge, that by listening to this you are as prejudiced as he is. This is a waste of my time.’ He jammed the hat firmly on his head and rose to his feet.

  ‘Sit down, Mr Watts!’ Partridge insisted. ‘This meeting was called at your request. Please have the courtesy to hear us out.’ He inclined his head towards me, the signal to continue.

  I pulled the report from the envelope, and studied it for a few seconds. ‘In a nutshell,’ I told them, ‘somewhere between one hundred and one hundred and fifty litres of water came from the two houses. None came from the other four drains that fed into that manhole. Samples were taken and checked for specific gravity, and then the water was boiled off and the residue analysed. The laboratory have given us low and high estimates which indicate that between six and twenty kilograms of substance were in solution in the water that came from the Wattses’ households. That substance, gentlemen, was fifty per cent pure heroin. Working on the lowest figures, it would have a street value of approximately a quarter of a million pounds,’