All the way through the proceedings, Nuala kept up a constant running commentary, telling me what do and where, commenting on my performance, cheering and shouting at the exciting bits. It was sort of like John Motson commentating on an England v Germany game. At any moment I expected her to criticise my ball control or my poor finishing. But somehow we always seemed to go into extra time and end up with a nail-biting penalty shoot-out.
When it was over, there were a few seconds of silence. I started to doze a bit, turning my face up to the sun and listening to the sounds of the birds complaining and the mums and dads screaming and shouting at their kids as they enjoyed a family afternoon out.
Then Nuala started to talk again. She was recalling a particularly successful sale she’d negotiated recently — a holiday for a retired couple in the Canadian Rockies. Apparently, the trees pictured on the brochure had looked not unlike those around us now in Clumber Park, in that they had leaves and things. The old couple had flown to Toronto from Heathrow and then caught an internal flight to Ottawa before getting on a train to some place in the foothills of the Rockies, and then they hired a car to drive a few hundred miles... Then I fell asleep. I used to think that nodding off after sex was something to do with your body’s metabolism slowing down after the release of energy. Not always, though. Sometimes it’s just sheer boredom.
I came round again a few minutes later, blearily thinking that Nuala’s drone had became particularly monotonous, as if she was repeating the same phrase over and over again in a sort of peevish, high-pitched tone. This was perfectly likely, so it was a bit longer before I realised that the noise I was listening to was, in fact, my phone ringing.
I sat up, trying to look as if I’d just been thinking, and saw Nuala was talking to two ducks that had wandered over from the lake on the off-chance we might have some food about us. She looked as though she was getting more response from the ducks than she had from me. They were particularly riveted by a detailed inventory of facilities at the log cabin in the Rockies. A sauna and a jacuzzi? Flap of wings, gaping of beaks. The old couple had been delighted, had they? Flap, flap. gape. But the manager hadn’t even bothered to say ‘well done, Nuala’? That was enough to drive you quackers.
“Hello?” I said.
“Stones, it’s Teri.”
“Now then. How are you?”
“Okay, cut the crap. I had some sort of message. What is it you want?”
I’d almost forgotten she was one of my calls. I ought to be ashamed of myself. My contacts in the constabulary are down to one, and DC Teri Brooker is it.
“Aren’t you going to ask me how I am, for old time’s sake?”
“No. As far as I’m concerned, you’re bad news, Stones. I’m only ringing so I can get you off my back. I don’t want you pestering me at work.”
“Now, I wouldn’t do that. I don’t want to prejudice your career, love. I know you’re after a corner of the office to call your own and all that.”
“Yes, and I’m not going to bollocks it all up by being caught talking to the likes of you. You’re Reggie Kray and the Yorkshire Ripper rolled into one for some folk round here, you know. I wouldn’t give much for your future if they ever got the chance to invite you in for a visit on a long-term basis.”
“I’ll bear it in mind. But I need to meet you, Teri.”
“No.”
“Somewhere discreet. No problem.”
“It’s too risky.”
“You know I’d run any risk for your sake, Teri.”
“I didn’t mean—.” She sighed. “Is it important?”
“Of course it is. I wouldn’t ask otherwise. I can feel the shit rising round me, and if I don’t do something about it, your mates might just get that chance you were talking about.”
“Where were you thinking of?”
“The Dukeries Garden Centre. You know the one, at Welbeck?”
“You’re kidding.”
“It’s safe as houses. It’s out of your patch, for a start.”
It also wasn’t Rufford, where my face might be starting to look a bit too familiar. But I didn’t mention that to Teri.
“None of your lot are going to be sniffing about among all those respectable citizens,” I said. “Not unless they’re looking for stolen gladioli. We can park over by the far end of the walled garden and nobody will get close. We can visit the art gallery as well, if you’re feeling intellectual.”
The phone went quiet for a minute, as if she’d covered it with her hand.
“It’ll have to be right now,” she said. “It’s the only chance I’ve got. Take it or leave it.”
“I’ll be there in half an hour, love.”
Well, of course, Clumber Park is right next door to Welbeck. But somehow I had to dispose of Nuala before I met Teri.
She’d abandoned the ducks and was hovering nearby, listening to the last part of the phone call. I could see her brain connecting that ‘love’ with the scent in my car. She opened her mouth to make five, but I got in first.
“Do you fancy doing some shopping, Nuala?”
“Eh? Yeah.”
“Come on then. If you’ve finished with the birds, that is.”
She was in the car in a flash, and just as quickly she was rattling on about clothes and what she was thinking of buying. She seemed to imagine there’d be department stores and boutiques, River Island and Next. I hadn’t the heart to break it to her that I was dropping her in Worksop, which is more Oxfam and Help the Aged.
Even Nuala cottoned on quick when we pulled into the car park at the Priory Centre. When she got out of the car, there was only a canal and the back of Kwik Save, where she’d expected to see the atriums and fancy brickwork of a shopping mecca like Meadowhall or Crystal Peaks.
“Is this it? Have they got a C&A? Or only a Marks and Sparks?”
“Neither. But there’s a good choice of charity shops. Save the Children have got a sale on.”
She peered down at me through the driver’s window. She’d left some of the buttons of her blouse open after I’d adjusted it for her in Clumber. It was a spectacular view from I was sitting. What a pity.
“So what exactly were you thinking of buying me?” she said.
I slid a note out of the roll in my back pocket and stuffed it carefully into her cleavage. It was a fifty, so you can’t say I’m not generous.
“There’s a place where you can buy almost the entire shop with that,” I said. “It’s called ‘Owt for Next to Nowt’ or something like that. They’ve got a lovely range of plastic kitchenware.”
While she was fishing out the note to throw in my face, I eased the handbrake off and reversed towards the car park exit. When I did my three-point turn I could see her in my mirror, mouth still flapping. I was getting good at lip reading. But they certainly didn’t sell that in Worksop.
On the way to Welbeck, I couldn’t help casting a professional eye at a truck parked by the A60 near the Worksop bypass. It was another with French plates on, and I’ve learned enough of the lingo to translate the Frog croakings on the side to mean it belonged to an international haulage company based near Caen that specialises in electrical gear. I thumbed a number on the phone and mentioned the location of it to one of the lads, just in case. Business has to go on.
Did you know that over three thousand trucks are stolen in this country every year? Add an incredible twenty-five thousand trailers, with goods inside them worth about the same as the national debt. This is straight up, too. I read about it in Trucking International. We’re not talking peanuts here.