I watched a wildlife programme and listened to some more music until bedtime, helped along with a can or two. Sunday I cleaned my boots and used the washing machine. Non-colour-fast cotton, my favourite cycle.
I took the car to the garage for a shampoo and set and filled it with petrol. Inside I could smell Elspeth's perfume. I hadn't noticed it yesterday. Lunch was courtesy of Mr. Birdseye and in the afternoon I vacuumed everywhere downstairs. I wasn't expecting upstairs visitors.
In the evening I took Jacquie to a pub out in the country. We sipped our halves of lager 'neath fake beams and admired the horse brasses that were probably made in Taiwan. I told her a bit about my day at Bolton Abbey, just the geography and weather, and she described the tribulations of being in business. Apparently the popular colours this winter are going to be emerald green and russet. Outside her house, before she could invite me in for coffee, I said that I wasn't going to see her again.
She took it badly. I told her that I was wasting her time and that it would be better for both of us. I didn't love her, didn't think I ever would. She cried a little and her shoulders trembled. I put my arm around them as she dried her eyes.
"Is it because I wouldn't go to bed with you?" she asked when she felt better.
"No," I answered truthfully. "Of course not."
"I would have done, you know. When I was sure."
"In that case, you were right not to."
"Would it have made a difference?"
I shook my head. "No. It would just have delayed things, that's all.
This way we can still be friends."
Trouble is, I haven't had much practice at this sort of thing. Mostly, we drift apart. Mutual consent or something. A few women had dumped me, some badly, but this was worse. All we want from life is to be happy. All we do is make each other unhappy. Tomorrow it would be back to chasing villains. You know where you stand with them.
Chapter 7
"Have you heard about the wooden tops Jeff Caton asked as he joined us in my office on Monday morning.
"What have they done now?" Nigel enquired.
"Used up this month's overtime to nab a busker and an old lady collecting for the Sally Army. Apparently they had a crackdown on the unlicensed vendors in the town centre, but unfortunately they appear to have had wind of it. They were all elsewhere and Adey's furious."
Dave said: "Charlie buys all his clothes off them, don't you, boss?"
"Not all," I replied. "I get some in the market."
"What, fakes?" Nigel asked.
"They're not fakes," I told him. "They just have different labels.
They're made on the same machines from the same materials to the same patterns as the designer ones that you fashion victims are daft enough to buy."
"The quality isn't as good," Jeff declared.
"Of course it is."
"I don't believe it."
"Neither do I," Nigel added.
"Listen," I began. "How much would you pay for a pair of Levi 501s?"
"About forty quid," Jeff said and Nigel nodded.
"Well, I bought a pair in the market last week for fifteen pounds."
"Genuine 501s?"
"The real thing. They'd just made a slight mistake with the labels and rejected the whole batch."
"So what did the label say?"
"Elvis 150s."
"Elvis 150sV they scoffed in unison. You try to help them, to pass on the benefits of your accrued wisdom, but they just won't listen.
"Any chance of talking about work?" Dave wondered.
"Right!" I said, clapping my hands together. "Enough of the tomfoolery. It's time to get our act together. Jeff?"
"Yes, boss."
"You may have become aware that Dave and I have been preoccupied with something."
"I'd noticed you're never here when I want you."
"Sorry about that. Nigel will fill you in with the details but you'll probably see even less of us for a while. I want you to take over the robbery job, with Maggie. Don't be afraid to give the others plenty to do and let them get on with it. Nigel will oversee the day-to-day stuff but keep up to date with this other job and liaise between us all. You can stay now, if you want, otherwise we'll have a meeting on Friday afternoon to swap notes. OK?"
Jeff nodded. "Fair enough. I'll float off, if you don't mind. I've plenty to do."
"Right."
"I'll see you later," Nigel called after him as he closed the door.
I opened a window to let some fresh air in and gathered the papers on my desk into a tidy pile. "We'll have a quick recap, for your benefit, Nigel," I began. "Interrupt if you require more detail. If we consider the fire, and forget all the conjecture about Fox and Crosby, we believe that, a) a girl with purple hair possibly marked the house that burnt down, b) Duncan Roberts knew a girl with purple hair, c) Duncan recently confessed to starting the fire, d) a girl with purple hair was on a psychology course at Leeds Uni at the right time. She was called Melissa Youngman."
Nigel said: "So it looks as if she put him up to it?"
"Mmm," I agreed. Turning to Dave I asked: "Are you on Melissa's trail?"
"You bet," he replied. "Had no luck over the weekend, everywhere was shut, but I've sent my feelers out. Should have something later this morning."
"Great. Let me know as soon as anything comes through. Once we discover who she is we should be up and running."
I was downstairs, talking to the beat boys, when the desk sergeant waved to me, his hand over the telephone. "Somebody in a call box Charlie," he said. "Asking for you. Won't give his name."
I took the phone from him and made a writing gesture. He pushed a pad under my hand and pressed a pencil between my fingers. "This is DI Priest," I said. "How can I help you?"
"It's me, Mr. Priest. O'Keefe," came a gruff voice.
"Hello, O'Keefe," I said. "What do you want?"
"I might 'ave sum mat for you."
"Information?" I asked, just to confirm that he wasn't talking about a pair of thirty-six-inch inside-leg Wranglers.
"Yeah."
"Right. Fire away."
"Not on the phone, and my money's run out. I'm set up in Halifax."
"Near the Piece Hall?"
"That's right."
"OK. I'll be with you in half an hour." I put the phone down and shoved the pad back across the counter.
"O'Keefe?" the desk sergeant asked. "You mean old Walleye who sells jeans an' things?"
"His name is Wally," I told him.
"Yeah, but everybody pronounces it Wall-eye."
"I don't," I replied, turning to leave.
He said: "Wait a minute! If he's working for you… I don't suppose it was you who… no, you wouldn't… would you…?"
But I was halfway up the stairs, going for my jacket, before he synchronised his thoughts and his power of speech, so I never discovered what I might or might not have done.
On the drive to Halifax I listened to Radio Four and caught a sketch about Groucho Marx trying to buy a wooden Indian. I nearly drove off the road. Halifax is a handsome town with an ugly past. They had the guillotine here long before France adopted it, and at one time the death penalty was administered for stealing a shilling's worth of wool.
Not for nothing did vagrants pray: "From Hell, Hull and Halifax may the good Lord deliver us." The town is built of stone, out of wool. The fine buildings and institutions hide the fact that it was also built on slavery. Not the African sort, who were transported thousands of miles and sold like cattle. These slaves still retained a fundamental freedom: they could work or starve, the choice was theirs. The mill owner had no investment in them, and no responsibility for their welfare. When they didn't work, through age or injury, sickness or circumstance, they didn't get paid. There are no stone monuments to the thousands who died of the diseases of squalor, or who tangled with the newfangled machinery. They grew crooked-boned and bronchitic from sixteen hours a day in the mill, and if they survived all that a new horror awaited them. They developed cancer of the mouth, from 'kissing the shuttle'.