The Judas Sheep (2 page)

This will keep the neighbours guessing,’ Annabelle declared, glancing up at their still-closed curtains.

‘You worry too much about your neighbours,’ I said with feeling.

‘I have a confession to make.’

I turned to her. ‘What’s that?’

‘I’ve never been on a coach-trip before,’ she confided.

‘Really?’

‘Really.’

‘Gosh. I never realised how deprived you were. You don’t know what you’ve been missing. Bus-trips are an important part of our heritage. We’ll have community singing on the way back, and a collection for the driver.’

‘Honestly?’

‘Honestly.’

‘Community singing?’

‘Sure. There’s always a sing-song on a bus-trip.’

‘Now you are teasing me.’

‘Teasing you? Moi?’

It was the first outing for the newly re-formed Heckley CID Walking Club. I’d had nothing to do with the organisation because I was off work due to so-called ill-health, and was grateful for the invitation to go along. A big shiver shook my body and I zipped up my jacket. The forecast said bright but cold, and looked like being right for once.

‘I’ve decided to go back to work,’ I said.

She looked at me for several seconds without speaking, then said: ‘I don’t think you should rush things.’

‘I’m starting to feel restless,’ I told her. ‘I’ve decided that retirement might not be the state of bliss that I’d imagined it would be. I need another three years’ service to qualify for full pension; I’ll do that at least.’

‘Oh Charles, start thinking of yourself first, not the job. Don’t go back this time until you’re certain you are ready to. Have another few weeks off.’

‘And what about you?’

‘Me? I’m as fit as a fiddle, now.’

‘So am I. Bet I beat you to the top today.’

‘No, Charles. Skin and bones mend easily, but you had been working a sixteen-hour day for six months, without any breaks. You became emotionally involved with a case. It’s probably bad medical practice to say this, but I think you were close to a breakdown, and you are the type that it hits hardest.’

‘And what type’s that?’

‘The type that thinks it can’t happen to them.’

That made it Gilbert Wood, my Superintendent; Sam Evans, the Police Surgeon; and now Annabelle all thinking that I ought to have six months’ sick leave and then quietly retire. It felt like a conspiracy, so I decided to change the subject.

‘Gilbert has offered me the loan of his cottage in Cornwall. I thought I’d maybe go down there for a week or two. He won’t take payment, so I could do
some decorating or something to earn my keep.’

That sounds like a good idea. Cornwall in winter can be delightful. Gilbert is a good friend, Charles, I’m sure you don’t have to earn your keep. Why not just go there and relax for a while?’

‘Chill out, as we say in Heckley.’

‘Precisely.’

‘Yeah, you’re right. I was thinking – it’s a big cottage, well, big enough. But not too big to lose that cosy feeling. Has all the amenities. If you liked, if you wanted, what I’m trying to say is: if I did go, it’d be nice for you to come down for a few days, too.’

Annabelle opened her eyes wide, in mock horror, but after a few seconds her nose wrinkled like it always does when she smiles. I could hear the noise of the bus’s engine, toiling up the hill. She said: ‘Charles! Are you suggesting an … assignation?’

‘Mmm … yes,’ I told her. ‘Or to put it another way … yes.’

‘Is it a nice cottage?’

‘Very nice.’

One of Carter’s Luxury Coaches came round the corner and headed towards us.

‘Roses round the door? It must have roses round the door.’

‘Floribundas. In floribundance.’

‘Oak beams and an inglenook fireplace?’

‘I’ll fix it.’ I was smiling now; this was sounding promising.

The bus stopped in front of us and the door folded back with a hiss of hydraulics. I picked up my rucksack and boots and stood aside to allow Annabelle on first.

‘I’ll have to consult my social diary,’ she said as she passed in front of me.

‘Ratbag!’ I snarled, and followed her up the two big steps.

The bus was only about half-filled, but it still had a few more calls to make. ‘Morning, all,’ I hollered to the familiar faces.

‘Morning, Charlie,’ they chorused cheerfully.

‘This is Annabelle,’ I told them.

‘Morning, Annabelle,’ they chanted back.

‘Good morning, everyone,’ she responded.

‘Never knew you had a daughter, Charlie,’ someone said.

We put our stuff up on the luggage rack and found a seat about halfway back. The bus did a circuit of Heckley, picking up the remainder of the passengers. Dave Sparkington is one of my Detective Constables, the one I usually work with, and I was looking forward to Annabelle meeting him. We stopped near his house, where he was waiting with two of his children, but he didn’t get on the bus. The kids were wearing bobble hats and anoraks, but Sparky had his raincoat over his shoulders.

His daughter, Sophie, came down the aisle, looking for me. ‘Good morning, Uncle Charlie. Dad says can he have a word with you.’

‘There’s been a murder,’ his son, Daniel, informed me, and was promptly reprimanded by his big sister for listening to other people’s telephone conversations.

I felt Annabelle tense in the seat beside me. Her body language was saying: Oh no, not again. ‘Don’t worry,’ I told her. ‘I’m not working.’

‘Morning, Chas,’ Sparky greeted me when I stepped off the coach. ‘Sorry about this, but something’s cropped up. Do you mind if the kids come with you?’

‘Of course not. Why, what’s happened?’

‘Farmer out shooting rabbits in Heckley Wood a couple of hours ago. Found a body. Patrol boys report that his head was nearly blown off, no gun around, so it looks like we’ve a murder on our hands.’

‘Sugar. Sounds as if it could be a gangland job,’ I said.

Sparky read the disappointment on my face. ‘Aha,’ he laughed. ‘So you have a nice day out with my kids while me and Nigel catch the villains, eh? He sends his apologies. I’ve told the two of them to behave and said you can clip them round the ears if they’re cheeky.’

‘Great, thanks.’

I climbed back aboard and we lurched away as I introduced Sophie and Daniel to Annabelle. Dave is one of the best policemen I know, even if he is as Yorkshire as Harry Ramsden’s and as blunt as a punt. Nigel is just the opposite. DS Nigel Newley was standing in for me and on the accelerated promotion scheme. He hailed from deepest Berkshire and had the manners of a P.G.
Wodehouse flunkey. They were an ill-sorted pair, but after an uneasy start were beginning to work as a team. It was interesting to observe how they influenced each other: Nigel had started wearing crew-neck sweaters and Sparky had bought some aftershave.

Ingleborough Hill used to be 2,376 feet high, but now it measures a mere 723 metres. It sprawls like a sleeping lion, dominating the landscape. It is not the highest hill in Yorkshire, but it is the most majestic. Legend has it that the Brigantes held out against the Romans here. Remains of their dwellings and fortifications are plainly visible on the summit. We like to think that this bit of Yorkshire, like much of Scotland, was never conquered by the Romans, but that’s bunkum. Today the top was lost in the clouds, as it so often is.

The bus parked in the Hill Inn car park, where we donned our gear and stuffed ourselves with sandwiches to lighten the loads in our rucksacks. Sophie’s and Daniel’s would have taxed a paratrooper yomping across Dartmoor, so I made them off-load most of it. We milled around, stamping feet and rubbing hands to keep warm, criticising each other’s clothing. There were several pairs of navy-blue serge trousers on show.

‘They look nice,’ I told one wearer. ‘Do they sell them in camping shops?’

‘I can let you have a couple of pairs. Trouble is, they only walk at one speed,’ he replied.

Nigel had organised the trip, so in his absence we
were leaderless. I waved my arm like John Wayne at the start of a cattle drive. ‘Let’s go!’ I shouted.

Nobody stirred.

‘The pub’s open!’ I tried. Several faces turned towards it.

Slowly, we moved off. At the first stile we were reduced to a long straggling procession, winding sluggishly towards the mountain. Our route took us up the lion’s armpit, where it was steep and rocky, and then over its mane.

Sophie and Daniel had latched on to Jeff Caton, one of my Detective Sergeants. He knew them well enough and was twenty-odd years nearer their age group. I looked back every few minutes to make sure we weren’t leaving anyone behind.

Climbing is a private activity, however many of you are together. You lift your feet forward and suck in air and try to let your mind wander away from the tiredness in your legs. I let my own mind focus hungrily on Dave Sparkington’s news.

They’d be making a fingertip search of the murder scene about now. An incident room would have been set up and the body moved to Heckley General Hospital for a PM. Identifying the victim was a priority. If he carried any ID the enquiry would make an immediate leap forward.

I usually do the murders that come into Heckley nick. Mostly they are domestics, and we have someone in a cell within twenty-four hours. There’s nothing
glamorous about it, just sadness and a sense of gratitude that we were born at the other side of the tracks, or had the wit to drag ourselves across them. But then there are the others … I had an overwhelming sense that this was one of the others, and I wanted to be a part of it.

As we crested the brow on to the summit plateau, the wind hit us like a buzz-saw. I pulled up my hood and helped Annabelle with hers. ‘OK?’ I yelled above the roar.

‘Mmm, super.’

We bent into the gale and headed, hand in hand, towards the stone wall that provides some shelter up there.

It’s not the ideal place for a picnic, so we just snatched a quick sandwich and a cup of soup. By the time everybody arrived we were chilled through, but as we dropped off the summit again the air felt unnaturally calm and it was possible to hold a normal conversation.

‘Phew,’ Annabelle said, pulling her hood back and brushing her fair hair from her eyes. This is better. Is it always like that on the top?’ Her cheeks were pink and her eyes shone like sapphire pools.

‘Always,’ I told her, ‘but the windswept look suits you. How are you feeling?’

‘I feel fantastic, thank you. And you?’

‘OK, thanks. I was puffing a bit at the top, though.’

Our descent was via a slightly different route. As we moved off the hill, the Batty Moss viaduct at
Ribblehead came into view, three miles away. The sun was punching a hole through the mist, illuminating the curving masterpiece of railway architecture.

‘Look,’ I said, pointing and tugging at her sleeve.

‘Oh, what a beautiful view,’ she replied.

‘It’s a watercolourist’s dream,’ I declared. ‘Or maybe a Turner’s.’

‘Is that the line they are always wanting to close?’

‘Yes. The Settle to Carlisle.’

‘Why don’t you paint it, Charles?’

A long time ago I was an art student. I still dabbled, occasionally – mainly posters for police dances. ‘Yep. Could do, one day.’ I remembered that I had my camera in my bag. ‘Hey,’ I said. ‘Let’s capture it for posterity.’

I took two pictures of the viaduct and one of Annabelle. She tipped her head to one side and smiled, and as I framed her in the viewfinder my stomach turned to mercury. I swore that I’d do anything I could, go anywhere I had to, to make her mine. No, that was impossible. Spend the rest of my life with her, share her bad times as well as the good, that’s what I wanted.

‘That was a smasher,’ I enthused as I lowered the camera. She insisted on taking one of me.

Jeff Caton and his charges caught up with us. They were making a race of it. ‘Hi, boss,’ Jeff gasped. ‘When are you coming back?’

‘You don’t need me, from what I’ve heard.’

‘We don’t need bellybuttons, but we’d miss them if they weren’t there.’

Sometimes I wonder if I trained them all wrong. I said: ‘Did you hear any more about that drug addict who injected himself with curry powder?’

‘Yes, he went into a khorma,’ Jeff replied. Sophie and Daniel clasped their hands over their ears and staggered about making rude noises.

When they left us, Annabelle and I trudged across the fell towards the Hill Inn with our arms across each other’s shoulders. Tour staff are obviously terrified of you,’ she said.

‘Does it show?’ I asked.

‘Yes. You must be really cruel to them.’

‘I like to think I run a tight ship.’

She gave me a squeeze. ‘It’s been a lovely day out,’ she told me. ‘It’s good to blow the cobwebs away. We should do this more often.’

‘It’s not over yet. First there’s the pub, then there’s the community singing. They’re the best bits.’

She was quiet for a few moments, then she said: ‘Charles?’

‘Uhuh.’

‘What we were saying, this morning …’

‘Mmm?’

‘Well, now I think I understand why you don’t want to leave.’

‘Thanks. I’m glad you do. But we can only postpone things. One day I’ll have to go.’ I looked across at her and pulled her closer. ‘That’s why I’m trying to develop other interests.’

She dropped her arm so it was around my waist. ‘I see. So I’m just an alternative to night classes or trainspotting.’

‘Some of the happiest days of my life were spent trainspotting,’ I replied, and kissed her, out there on the moor, somewhere between Hardrawkin Pot and Braithwaite Wife Hole.

In the pub we couldn’t find a seat near the log fire so we leant on the end of the bar and I ordered two halves of Old Peculiar.

‘Mmm, that’s good,’ Annabelle confirmed as she took a sip.

‘Not bad,’ I agreed after a longer draught. We stood and smiled at each other, pleased with our morning’s exertions and enjoying the rewards.

‘So,’ I said. ‘What went wrong with the conference?’

Annabelle looked away from me and gave a big sigh. ‘Oh, nothing went wrong. I suppose, in fact, that it was a huge success. We certainly made some good decisions. It’s just that, well, they want someone to go out to Africa to assess the effectiveness of our programmes. They’ve asked me if I’d consider going.’