I was close-shaved and clean-shirted when I took the morning meeting.
The petty criminals of Heckley hadn't taken a day off while I went to the seaside, so there was plenty to talk about. After that the first team met in my office for an update on the doc's murder. I let Nigel tell Sparky and Maggie all about the Siege of Scarborough.
"And the psychiatrist is calling in the local nick this morning to make a statement," he finished with. Sparky put a number three in the appropriate box on his chart and looked glum.
Nigel had a report to write and the computer to update. Sparky and Maggie were investigating ways of breaking the confidentiality rules around the abortions at the clinic. Barraclough was the obvious approach, or perhaps their counsellor might be helpful. He'd told us that all the potential mothers were given counselling. We didn't want copies of all the records a nudge towards someone they'd had concerns about would do nicely.
I rang Les Isles with the bad news and spent the rest of the morning on paperwork. Les said not to worry, it had been worth a try, which was seven orders of support away from what he'd claimed yesterday. In the afternoon I went to the regional inspectors' meeting. We're supposed to talk about trends, developments and tactics. As usual we discussed pay, tenure of office and the precarious nature of the chief inspector rank. I didn't hear a word of it. My mind was elsewhere. Before I left Annabelle's, earlier that morning, I'd written her a letter and left it propped against the electric kettle. Now she knew exactly how I felt, and what my plans were.
I called in the office on my way home, in case there was anything brewing that I needed to know about. It could all wait. I had the place to myself, so I rang the force medical officer. He's an old pal of mine. We wished each other a happy New Year and had a long chat. He complained that he and his wife hadn't seen me for a long time and, pleasantries over, confirmed what he'd told me a few years earlier about the state of my health. I promised to go for Sunday lunch in the near future and dialled my next number.
Our divisional chief inspector (personnel) was still at Ms desk. "No," he said, as soon as he recognised my voice.
"You don't know the question," I argued.
"The answer's still no."
"So, if my question was… oh… "Are there any disadvantages if I retire at the weekend?" the answer is still no?"
"Bugger!" he exclaimed. "It's no wonder you've got to where you are.
Happy New Year, Charlie. What can I do for you?"
"Happy New Year, Bob. I've just rung Doc Evans and he's confirmed that I can still go on ill health, if I so desire. I've had a word with pay section and they're calculating my terms. All I want now is the go-ahead from you."
"You're wanting out?"
"I think so."
"I don't blame you, Charlie. I've had enough, myself. It's a different game from when we joined. You haven't been sick, have you?"
"No, it's the old war wound. There's still a couple of shotgun pellets floating around inside me that could cause trouble anytime. The doc tried to persuade me to go when it happened, but I didn't want to leave, then. Now I want to sort out my private life, so it might be better to jump, before I'm kicked out."
"Are you still with the tall lady? Annabelle, was it?"
"Yeah. Maybe if I put as much effort into this relationship as I've put into the job we might make something of it."
"There's a lot of sense in that. You've over twenty-six and a half in, haven't you?"
"By a couple of years," I replied.
"OK, so you'll go on the full two-thirds, and your pension will start right away. How much leave have you left?"
"All of it."
"And your white card?"
That's our record of days owed for unpaid overtime and holidays worked, except that inspectors do not recognise overtime. "I've stopped filling it in," I replied.
"OK. So just send me your minute sheet, saying: "I hereby inform you that I wish to retire on such a date…" Give us a month, as required. Meanwhile, try to negotiate yourself some of the leave that's owed you. With two weeks leave you could be gone in a fortnight."
"As simple as that?"
"As simple as that."
"It's a bit frightening, all of a sudden."
"I know, but it'll overtake you, one day soon, if you don't take the plunge, Charlie."
"I'll think about it. Thanks, Bob. Keep your eye on the post."
"Invite me to the bash. See you."
A fortnight! I could be gone in a fortnight! On full terms! I had to tell someone. I rang Annabelle, but there was no answer. I stood up, walked round the office, sat down again. Gilbert wasn't in, either. I thought about treating myself to a meal at the Bamboo Curtain, but I wasn't hungry. I strolled round the main office, reading the papers on the desks, the notices on the walls. Jeff Caton's sweater was still over his chair back. One of the others had a framed picture of his motorbike on his desk. Two cartoons torn from newspapers, brown with age, were pinned on the board, both featuring someone called Charlie.
What was it Herbert Mathews said? "Once you leave, you're history."
It'd be a wrench, but I could do it.
It was drizzling outside, but it felt right. I unlocked the car and started the engine. Ideally, I'd have liked to have walked home, feeling the rain on my face. I'd have plenty of time for walking, unless I took the offer of a partnership from Eric Dobson. There were decisions to be made, discussions to be held, and fast. Two more weeks! I put the car in gear and eased out of the station yard. There was a strange feeling in my stomach, churning at my innards. I think it was fear.
I called in M and S for a few ready meals and some fruit. There'd be more time for shopping. The girl at the till gave me an extra special smile, as if she shared my secret. I called in the travel agent's again for some more brochures to go with the ones I still hadn't shown Annabelle. California, this time, and the Seychelles.
The ansa phone was beeping. I put the stuff in the freezer, hung up my jacket and changed my shoes. Annabelle didn't answer when I pressed her button, so I listened to the tape. It was her, message timed at 10.12 a.m.
"Oh, er, hello, Charles," she said, rather hesitantly. "It's Annabelle. I, er, I found your note, after you left. I don't know what to say. I'm driving down to the West Midlands Airport this afternoon. There's a meeting with the architect tomorrow, at the Post Chase. I'll be staying there overnight and will probably come home after the meeting. I'll talk to you then. "Bye."
So now she knew. We'd been cruising along quite nicely for all this time, in an eternal courtship. It's usually regarded as the happiest time of your life it was mine so why spoil it? But the human condition is not to be content with what we have. We need to consolidate, to constantly renew, to mark our territory, build a nest. Maybe Xav had done me a favour, galvanised me out of my state of happy lethargy.
Perhaps that's what Annabelle had in mind all along? I smiled at her unexpected guile. "I bet he's a four-foot Saddam Hussein with bad breath," I said to my reflection in the bathroom mirror.
I could make the West Midlands Airport in an hour and a half. That would make it about eight o'clock. I asked directory enquiries for the number of the Post Chase and dialled it.
"I believe you have a Mrs. Wilberforce staying with you," I said. "She checked in sometime today."
"Mrs. Wilberforce? Yes, that's right."
I asked to be put through to her room, but she didn't answer the phone.
Probably using the pool, I thought, wishing I were already there, with her.
"Would you like me to page her, sir?" the desk clerk asked.
"No, but I'd be grateful if you could take a message for her, leave it under her door, or whatever. Could you tell her that Mr. Priest is coming down, and will be there about eight o'clock?"