"The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea.
The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, And hopes it's not… brown bread again for tea." "Isn't love wonderful?" Sparky sighed, looking at Nigel. "Yes," replied Nigel, 'but that will cost you a pound."
We made it through the day, although Good didn't score any victories in the war against Evil. Several other members of the public were not impressed with their encounters with poetic policemen, but we raised a couple of hundred pounds for the appeal. I hit the ten-pound limit well before lunch, but kept on with the vile verse just for the hell of it. It was fun. About four o'clock the phone was ringing yet again.
"If you're having any trouble,
We'll be with you at the double," I said into it.
It was the Control Room.
"Then grab your pencil and your book,
And you might just catch a crook," growled the Sergeant.
Our busiest time is late afternoon, early evening. Kids come home from school, grown-ups from work, and find that their home has been turned over during their absence. This one fitted the pattern.
"I'm all ears, Arthur. Give us the details."
"It's The Firs, Edgely Lane, off Penistone Road. A couple of Jehovah's Witnesses rang in. They went up the drive to sell their tracts, or whatever and the door was smashed in. They ran to the next house and phoned us because they felt someone might still be inside. We've a car there, but the birds have flown. Place has been well and truly ransacked. Problem is, the owner's not home yet."
"They did it!" I declared. "Chuck 'em in a cell and we'll talk to them in the morning."
"Can I leave it with you?"
"Oh, OK then, Arthur. We'll look into it."
"It's the very last house. Will you arrange Scenes of Crime, Charlie?"
"Will do. Thanks."
I glanced round the office at the gallant body of men I call The Troops. One or two had drifted away, but Dave Sparkington, Nigel and a couple of others were still here. I waved the sheet of paper at Sparky and he came over.
"If that's what I think,
I've just gone for a drink," he said.
I'd worked with Sparky for years. As far as I was concerned he was the best DC in the force. "It's a burglary," I told him. "Do you want me to send someone else?"
"No, it's only saddle of lamb in red currant sauce for tea; nothing special. Besides, I thrive on work. Let's have a look." He grabbed the paper and I told him the little I knew.
Nigel had wandered across and was listening. "I'll go, if you want.
I've nothing on tonight," he volunteered.
"In that case, both of you go," I suggested. "It's a posh address and you might recover some of the credibility we've squandered through the day. And take a SOCO with you, they don't know about it, yet."
Sparky tilted his head on one side for a few moments, then said:
"Away with the SOCO and my trusty Sarge, We'll catch the burglars but he'll get the credit 'cos he's in charge."
"It doesn't scan," said Nigel, testily.
"Well that's what we're collecting for, isn't it?" responded Sparky.
"What?"
"A scanner."
I couldn't help wondering how well they would work together.
Sparky was a local lad, and always claimed he'd worn clogs as a kid, but nobody believed that. After twenty-odd years in the force, he'd developed a carefully refined brusqueness with strangers that he loved to display when least expected. Nigel was university-educated and from deepest Berkshire. After three years he outranked Sparky. Another three and he could outrank me. He'd never hold the title of the longest-serving inspector the force had ever had, though. That was mine, and mine alone.
On the way home I bought a modest bunch of flowers and an extravagant bottle of claret. I had a short nap, interspersed with pleasant daydreams, while the water heated, and then showered. I whistled a few tunes and rubbed great dollops of some smelly blue jelly over myself.
Life was good. God was in his heaven. All it had taken was a phone call.
I was ready to leave, resplendent in decent suit and gaudy tie, when the phone rang again. It was Dave Sparkington. "Sorry about this, Charlie, he said, 'but I think we need you."
"Why, what's happened?"
"We're still at The Firs. The householder he's a Mr. Dewhurst arrived home about thirty minutes ago. Apparently his daughter is missing.
We've made the obvious enquiries, but we've drawn a blank. It's looking bad."
If Dave said it was looking bad, then it was. "How old is she?" I asked.
"Eight."
"Oh dear. OK," I told him, "I'm on my way. Tell me again what the road's called."
It could be a false alarm. If we found her in the next hour I could still make it to Annabelle's. On my way out to the car I took off the tie and stuffed it into my pocket.
Edgely Lane is about two hundred yards long. The houses, all rather magnificent and extremely detached, are down one side only. The other side is open country, the view broken by a row of huge beech trees. The lane ends at a farm track, which leads out into the Penistone Road further along. I parked so that I was blocking off the track.
Sparky's, the SOCO's and the squad car were all in the road. A four-wheel-drive Nissan Patrol stood on the drive to The Firs. The house probably derived its name from the fifty-foot-tall leylandii that flanked the grounds on three sides. I'm a founder member of the Society for the Abolishment of Leylandii in Suburban Gardens.
I had a quick look round the exterior, then went in. It was easy to see how entry had been gained: the door at the side had been jemmied.
Someone had made quite a mess or it. Mr. Dewhurst was sitting in the kitchen talking to Sparky, an untouched mug of tea in front of him. The kitchen was large and well equipped, but untidy and not very clean. A bit like mine. Sparky introduced me. Dewhurst surprised me by offering a limp handshake. He was about six feet tall, with short-cropped dark hair and designer stubble. My immediate impression was that he couldn't decide which era he belonged in.
"Where's DS Newley?" I asked Sparky.
"Talking to the neighbours, sir."
"Good. Where are we so far?"
"According to a little girl a few doors away who goes to the same school, she didn't attend today."
I turned to address Mr. Dewhurst. "And should she have done?" I asked.
He nodded a yes. This was bad news.
"I see you've already provided DC Sparkington with a photograph." It was lying on the table between them. "Do you mind if we borrow it for a short while, sir?"
He shook his head. "No, of course not," he mumbled.
It was a school photograph, enlarged and in a decent frame. It showed a dark-haired little girl, wearing spectacles. "Thanks. Dave, send whoever we've got to City HQ with it to have it copied. We need to get moving before the light goes. And rustle up some extra help."
Sparky went out with the picture and I sat down opposite Mr. Dewhurst.
"First of all, sir, what is your daughter called?"
"Georgina."
"Nice name. And she is eight years old?"
"Yes."
"I know you've been through it all with my sergeant, but I'd like you to tell me everything that's happened today. First of all, when did you last see Georgina?"
"This morning."
"Go on," I invited.
He looked at the tea, realised it was cold and pushed it away. I didn't suggest making another pot I wanted to move fast. "Do you think you'll find her?" he asked. "There's so many madmen about. The papers are full of…"
"It's a bit early to be thinking like that, Mr. Dewhurst. At the moment we're hoping that there's a simple explanation. She's probably at a friend's house, drinking cocoa and watching TV. If you'll just answer a few questions we might know where to look. Tell me about this morning."
He stared down at the table as he spoke: "I took her to the bus station in Heckley, like I do every morning. She catches the school bus there."