It was about six p.m. when he arrived home. This was about his normal time, but much later than he'd planned on this day of days. His wife gave him his meal and he told her about his triumph with the feed contract. She remarked that he looked strained, but Reg explained that he'd had to do some hard negotiating: it hadn't been as straightforward as he'd expected. Later, he went into the garage and changed the headlight. The refuse collection men were due next morning, so he dropped all the broken glass into the dustbin. Come nine a.m. it would be lost for ever, mixed with the jetsam of a thousand other homes. Then he'd be in the clear.
The bin men came dead on time, as reliable as a quartz watch the one owned by the manager of the company that had subcontracted their services from the local council. Reg gave them a cheery "Good morning' as the week's avocado skins, yoghurt pots and murder evidence was tipped into the back of their lorry. Then he climbed into his car to drive to the office, thirty miles away.
First of all he had to give the feed contract to old man Wimbles. Then they had a busy day ahead. All the cash flows, projections, stock control, orders everything needed completely re jigging They were big league now, and the credit was all his all Reg Davison's. And there was the little matter of his new car, he'd bring that up, too.
The traffic of the suburbs thinned out, but Reg kept his speed down.
Normally, when sober, he drove with the skilled efficiency of the professional driver, but he'd decided that a low profile might be a good idea for a few weeks. The bicycle would be found in late August when the barley was harvested. Presumably they'd find the body soon afterwards. It would be as obvious as a giraffe in a dance band that murder, or at least manslaughter, had been committed, but by whom? The police were good, but not that good. He tuned in to Radio Fenland to see if the vicar had been missed yet.
There was a lorry in front. Normally he would have zoomed past it, but it was doing over fifty, so he kept his position. A few spots of rain fell on the windscreen. Passing through one of the many small villages on his route he noticed that the road was wet, with big puddles along the edges. They'd had a downpour in the last few minutes.
That should help the barley along, he thought, with a satisfied smirk.
The lorry's near side rear wheel bounced along the gutter, sending a shower of muddy spray over Reg's car. He extended the fingers of his right hand to switch on the windscreen wipers. The glass in front of him cleared, as the wiper swished back and forth, like waves on the beach, ebbing and flowing. He turned left here. The lorry was going straight on, thank goodness. He glanced across as he swung the car round the tight bend. It was difficult to see out of the passenger's side of the screen. Something wasn't right. He straightened up and looked across to see what the problem was.
He only had one windscreen wiper. Oh Christ! Oh, Jesusfuckingchrist!
The entire left-hand windscreen wiper arm was missing.
Chapter 2
My phone was ringing. Two pairs of beady eyes fixed on me, anticipating the boss making a fool of himself. It was the moment of truth that could be delayed no longer. After a couple more rings I grabbed the handset, clamped it to the side of my head and spoke:
"Awake! For morning in the bowl of night Has turn ti-turn ti-turn the stars to flight."
"That's no good!" protested Detective Constable David Sparkington, owner of the beadier pair of eyes.
"No, it's not. It has to be original," concurred Detective Sergeant Nigel Newley, possessor of the other pair.
The female voice on the line lacked their assurance: "Urn, could I please speak to Inspector Priest?" she asked.
I was reasonably certain it was Maggie Madison, the office practical joker. I said:
"Charlie Priest is my name,
Feeling collars is my game."
"That's more like it," confirmed the beady-eyed ones.
"Is that you, Charles?" asked the voice, hesitantly. Oh God! It wasn't Mad Maggie, it was Annabelle, Annabelle Wilberforce. Now it was my turn to go to pieces.
"Oh, er, hello. Is that you, Annabelle?" I stuttered.
Across the office the pair of them did an impression of the Wise Monkeys, without the silent one, after a successful raid on a banana plantation.
"Are you all right, Charles? What's happening?" she asked.
I dredged up what was left of my composure. "Yes, thanks. How are you?" It wasn't the best opening gambit I'd ever made.
Annabelle laughed: "It sounds like a madhouse in there. What are you all doing?"
I gave them two fingers and swivelled my chair so that my back was towards them. "Oh, it's just a silly game we're playing."
"A game? I thought you were busy fighting crime."
"We are. It's for charity the Baby James Appeal at the General Hospital. Every time you start a conversation you have to speak in verse. If you don't it costs you a pound."
"Goodness, that could be expensive. How much has it cost you so far?"
"Nothing yet. There's a maximum of ten pounds, so I suppose we'll all end up paying a tenner. Hearing from you is a pleasant surprise. I'm sorry about the concert last month; did you enjoy it?"
"It was wonderful you missed a lovely evening. It's a shame you had to work, but I know how busy you are. I was wondering if you are free tonight. I'm afraid it's rather short notice."
Free? Well, there was the washing-up; cook a meal; wash the car; do some weeding; mow the grass; clean the windows; iron a shirt. It would be a sacrifice, but I suppose they could all wait. "That's OK.
Providing nobody robs the Nat West I should be available," I told her.
"Only the Nat West?" she asked.
"Only that one, I bank there," I answered.
She didn't laugh. That's the trouble with women who have a sense of humour they're hard to please. "Fine. In that case you are invited to supper. A couple of friends I knew in Kenya have dropped in unexpectedly for a day or two, so I thought I'd practise my culinary skills do something special. Will that be all right?"
"It sounds super. I'm already doing my impression of Spot."
"Spot?"
"Pavlov's dog." Still not funny — I was trying too hard.
"I see. Good. Seven thirty for eight, shall we say? Oh, by the way, they are both "Church", but you'd never know it."
"No problem, I'm looking forward to meeting them." And to the meal.
And you. Most of all, you.
We said our farewells and I replaced the phone. I sat gazing at it for a few moments. It was a simple collection of electrical components and plastic, but it could change a person's world in a few seconds. For some it brought tragedy, for others, more rarely, happiness. I'd met Annabelle over a year ago, but my pursuit of her would have disgraced a Galapagos Island tortoise. I made Chi-Chi the giant panda look like Young Lochinvar. The fact that her late husband had been a bishop didn't help. Sometimes I wished that she wasn't so attractive. She frightened me. I was scared that, by chasing her, I'd lose her. In twelve months I'd taken her out four times: one meal, two concerts and one visit to the theatre. On three other occasions I'd had to cancel at the last minute because of the job. My wife, Vanessa, left me, she said, because of the loneliness. I don't think I could take that again.
I spun my chair round to face the others, and with an expansive gesture towards the window, said: