give
a Cambridge number, and then the phone went dead. I assumed Rosemary had been
expecting someone else to pick up the phone, and hung up when she heard a
strange voice.’
“What was the
number?” Donald asked.
^”64o7-something-7.”
“What do you
mean, “something-7”?” barked Donald as he scribbled the numbers down.
“I didn’t have
anything to write with, chief, so I had to rely on my memory.” I was glad
Williams couldn’t see the expression on the Don’s face.
“Then what
happened?” he demanded.
“I found a pen
in a drawer and wrote what I could remember of the number on my hand. I picked
up the phone again a few moments later, and heard a different woman on the
line, saying, “The Director’s not in at the moment, but I’m expecting him back
within the hour.” Then I had to hang up quickly, because I could hear someone
coming along the corridor. It was Charlotte, Rosemary’s maid. She wanted to
know why I’d been sacked. I couldn’t think of a convincing reply, until she
accused me of having made a pass at the mistress. I let her think that was it,
and ended up getting a slapped face for my trouble.” I burst out laughing, but
the Don and Jenny showed no reaction. Then Williams asked, “So, what do I do
now, chief ? Come back to England?”
“No,’ said
Donald. “Stay put for the moment. Book yourself into the Majestic and watch her
round the clock. Let me know if she does anything out of character. Meanwhile,
we’re going to Cambridge. As soon as we’ve booked ourselves into a hotel there
I’ll call you.’
“Understood,
sir,” said Williams, and rang off.
“When do we go?”
I asked Donald once he had replaced the receiver.
“Tonight,” he
replied. “But not before I’ve made a few telephone calls.” The Don dialled ten
Cambridge numbers, using the digits Williams had been able to jot down, and inserting the numbers from nought to nine in the
missing slot.
0223 640707
turned out to be a school. “Sorry, wrong number,’
TX ,ELVE RED HERRINGS said Donald. 77 was a chemist’s shop; 727
was a garage; 7.37 was answered by an elderly male voice – “Sorry, wrong
number,’
Donald repeated;
747 a newsagent; 757 a local policeman’s wife (I tried not to laugh, but Donald
only grunted); 767 a woman’s voice – “Sorry, wrong number,” yet again; 777 was
St Catharine’s College; 787 a woman’s voice on an answering machine; 797 a
hairdresser – “Did you want a perm, or just a trim?” Donald checked his list.
“It has to be either 737 , 767 or 787.
The time has
come for me to pull a few strings.” He dialled a Bradford number, and was told
that the new Deputy Chief Constable of Cambridgeshire had been transferred from
the West Yorkshire Constabulary the previous year.
“Leeke. Allan Leeke,”
said Donald, without needing to be prompted. He turned to me. “He was a sergeant
when I was first made up to inspector.” He thanked his Bradford contact, then rang directory enquiries to find out the number of the
Cambridge Police headquarters.
He dialled
another 0223 number.
“Cambridge
Police. How can I help you?” asked a female voice.
“Can you put me
through to the Deputy Chief Constable, please?’
Donald asked.
“Who shall I say
is calling?”
“Donald
Hackett.” The next voice that came on the line said, “Don, this is a pleasant
surprise. Or at least I hope it’s a pleasant surprise, because knowing you, it
won’t be a social call. Are you looking for a job, by any chance? I heard you’d
left the force.”
“Yes, it’s true.
I’ve resigned, but I’m not looking for a job, Allan. I don’t think the
Cambridge Constabulary could quite match my present salary.”
“So, what can I
do for you, Don?’
“I need a trace
done on three numbers in the Cambridge area.’
“Authorised?”
asked the Deputy Chief Constable.
“No, but it
might well lead to an arrest on your patch,” said Donald.
“That, and the
fact that it’s you
a Cambridge number, and then the phone went dead. I assumed Rosemary had been
expecting someone else to pick up the phone, and hung up when she heard a
strange voice.’
“What was the
number?” Donald asked.
^”64o7-something-7.”
“What do you
mean, “something-7”?” barked Donald as he scribbled the numbers down.
“I didn’t have
anything to write with, chief, so I had to rely on my memory.” I was glad
Williams couldn’t see the expression on the Don’s face.
“Then what
happened?” he demanded.
“I found a pen
in a drawer and wrote what I could remember of the number on my hand. I picked
up the phone again a few moments later, and heard a different woman on the
line, saying, “The Director’s not in at the moment, but I’m expecting him back
within the hour.” Then I had to hang up quickly, because I could hear someone
coming along the corridor. It was Charlotte, Rosemary’s maid. She wanted to
know why I’d been sacked. I couldn’t think of a convincing reply, until she
accused me of having made a pass at the mistress. I let her think that was it,
and ended up getting a slapped face for my trouble.” I burst out laughing, but
the Don and Jenny showed no reaction. Then Williams asked, “So, what do I do
now, chief ? Come back to England?”
“No,’ said
Donald. “Stay put for the moment. Book yourself into the Majestic and watch her
round the clock. Let me know if she does anything out of character. Meanwhile,
we’re going to Cambridge. As soon as we’ve booked ourselves into a hotel there
I’ll call you.’
“Understood,
sir,” said Williams, and rang off.
“When do we go?”
I asked Donald once he had replaced the receiver.
“Tonight,” he
replied. “But not before I’ve made a few telephone calls.” The Don dialled ten
Cambridge numbers, using the digits Williams had been able to jot down, and inserting the numbers from nought to nine in the
missing slot.
0223 640707
turned out to be a school. “Sorry, wrong number,’
TX ,ELVE RED HERRINGS said Donald. 77 was a chemist’s shop; 727
was a garage; 7.37 was answered by an elderly male voice – “Sorry, wrong
number,’
Donald repeated;
747 a newsagent; 757 a local policeman’s wife (I tried not to laugh, but Donald
only grunted); 767 a woman’s voice – “Sorry, wrong number,” yet again; 777 was
St Catharine’s College; 787 a woman’s voice on an answering machine; 797 a
hairdresser – “Did you want a perm, or just a trim?” Donald checked his list.
“It has to be either 737 , 767 or 787.
The time has
come for me to pull a few strings.” He dialled a Bradford number, and was told
that the new Deputy Chief Constable of Cambridgeshire had been transferred from
the West Yorkshire Constabulary the previous year.
“Leeke. Allan Leeke,”
said Donald, without needing to be prompted. He turned to me. “He was a sergeant
when I was first made up to inspector.” He thanked his Bradford contact, then rang directory enquiries to find out the number of the
Cambridge Police headquarters.
He dialled
another 0223 number.
“Cambridge
Police. How can I help you?” asked a female voice.
“Can you put me
through to the Deputy Chief Constable, please?’
Donald asked.
“Who shall I say
is calling?”
“Donald
Hackett.” The next voice that came on the line said, “Don, this is a pleasant
surprise. Or at least I hope it’s a pleasant surprise, because knowing you, it
won’t be a social call. Are you looking for a job, by any chance? I heard you’d
left the force.”
“Yes, it’s true.
I’ve resigned, but I’m not looking for a job, Allan. I don’t think the
Cambridge Constabulary could quite match my present salary.”
“So, what can I
do for you, Don?’
“I need a trace
done on three numbers in the Cambridge area.’
“Authorised?”
asked the Deputy Chief Constable.
“No, but it
might well lead to an arrest on your patch,” said Donald.
“That, and the
fact that it’s you
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