 
A Little Local Affair

By John Barber

Copyright 2011 John Barber

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author

.

### Part One

### Chapter One – California, USA

Rusty Allen had completed another gruelling tour and it was good to be back in San Jose. His apartment was bigger than one man needed but Rusty Allen was one of those men for whom everything had to be that much bigger.

He woke this morning unusually thirsty. He took the jug of purified water from out of the fridge and drank a full glass. Then he poured another measure of the cool, clear water. He felt better; then without warning the most excruciating cramps began to tighten his stomach walls. Like a tall, forest pine sliced by the axe he first shivered and then crashed to the floor convulsed with pain.

He awoke a full twenty four hours later in a hospital bed. The nursing staff assured him that he would make a full recovery; there had been no permanent damage. But something didn't feel right. He pushed down the sheets. And screamed!

### Chapter Two – Fordhamton, England

Over five thousand miles away in the middle of the English countryside Alan Price was keeping his lunchtime engagement.

The Crazy Horse Hotel in the small village of Greenwich had two bars, a cocktail bar and a dining room all with authentic wooden beams, and a chef who had enjoyed brief fame on Breakfast TV.

Unfortunately it was the only surviving business in Greenwich. During the summer families drove from miles around to enjoy the chef's specials, and on special occasions such as Mothers Day or Easter. In winter it echoed to the voices of a few locals.

The new management couple had hit upon a unique means of maximising income. They offered a special rate 'dirty weekend'. It was so popular even couples that had been happily married for years giggled as they signed the register 'Mr and Mrs John Smith'. An overnight 'Away from it all' break was even more popular although many couples found pressing reasons for having to leave only hours after arriving and had to forgo the full English breakfast that was included in the price.

Ronnie Carroll, one half of the new partnership had an empty pint glass in his hand. "Usual?"

"Thanks." Alan Price watched silently as the bitter flowed into the glass with that satisfying, squelching sound. He had just raised the pint to the level of his lips when his mobile rang. He barked at the phone without reply.

"Mobiles are useless here," remarked Ronnie. "No signal. You remember last year when that mobile phone company wanted to hide an aerial in a lamp post on the Rutherford Road...."

"Course I bloody well remember," interrupted Alan. "I especially remember that bunch of philistines in green wellies who smeared the thing with dog shit. None of them even lived here. And I bet that every one of those tree huggers had a mobile stuffed down their back pocket."

His lunchtime guest sat by the window listening, but making no comment. Alan brought her orange juice to their table and managed a few sips of his pint before the Tabs latest hit piped through his mobile again. He moved up and down the bar, turning anti-clockwise in ever increasing circles. Finally by the table where the cutlery was cocooned in serviettes and cruet sets stood on silent guard, he heard a familiar voice.

"Bloody bad reception," bellowed Alan.

"Can't hear you, Alan. In a tunnel?"

"You're breaking up."

"I'll keep it simple, Alan."

"Just keep it simple then."

"...Important I speak..."

"Speak a bit louder then; you sound as if you've got a mouth full of cotton wool."

"Get back..."

"Where to?"

"Shit really hit fan if you don't........"

"Don't what?"

".....take you to the cleaners......."

"Who will?"

"Just ring me will you."

"No need to be bloody rude." Alan forced the mobile back into his inside jacket pocket. The caller had signed off.

"No bloody signal," raged Alan.

Unlike many local people Ronnie was not overawed by Alan Price. He didn't have to like the man to take his money. On the other hand he was never rude to his face. "You can borrow the land line."

But Alan Price had stormed away and ignored him.

"What was all that about?" asked Alan's female companion.

Alan Price was a stocky, muscular man. He wore gold on his fingers and silk on his skin. He owned Price's Tools, a plastics manufacturing company on the Diesel Park West Industrial Estate. He was a Town Councillor and Life President of Fordhamton Town Football Club. His company's logo was prominently emblazoned on all the teams shirts and training kit. Unfortunately, the financial health of the President ran counter to the club's position at the foot of the KYM Mazelle Windows and Double Glazing, Clyde Valley and District League, Division 2 (East).

"Nothing to worry you," replied Alan. He could see that the other was not convinced. "The country's going to the dogs. No mobile signal here, postmen on strike and interest rates about to rise. Tell me, why would anyone want to live in this country?"

"It's the same wherever you go. Do you travel much Alan?"

"There's too much to keep me busy here."

"You know what they say about Jack and too much work."

Alan Price was about to answer when his phone rang again. He tried unsuccessfully to speak to the caller and returned to the table. He picked up his pint and took two long mouthfuls.

"I'll ring from the office. Mobile's useless here," he added. "It sounds important. Sorry, I have to go. If you can make that phone call I'd appreciate it."

Alan Price was a headstrong and impatient man. He was unaware of how rude his actions were. His companion's comments as he made for the car park were lost on him, but they were not those of the lady he believed she was.

She started to punch in a number on her mobile for a taxi but Ronnie Carroll offered her the pub's landline.

The caller was Patrick Shelton and whatever was troubling Patrick sounded too urgent on the phone to delay.

His factory was on the other side of town and as he sped towards Fordhamton a satisfied grin never left his face. He made money, he was rich and no one liked him for being wealthy. There were those who thought him a cocky little upstart. He knew who they were, but they never said it to his face. Like the opinionated Mayor, and the shrewish Regan woman.

It is the nature of small English towns and villages that everyone is related to everyone else by family, marriage or business. Alan Price was no different and he knew how to get his own way; it gave him a buzz.

Then a sudden, strange feeling came over him. "Bugger!" was all he could say as he squeezed down on the accelerator just a fraction more.

Alan Price lived life in the fast lane but most other residents in the town of Fordhamton went about their normal business at a more leisurely pace. For one shopkeeper however, declining trade and advancing years had finally won.

Bobby Lord picked up the 'Sold' sign attached to a substantial part of Gladys Mills' splintered fascia. He knocked off the surplus wood and climbed back up his ladder that had been resting against the ironmonger's front wall.

Bobby worked as a part-time handyman for Jonathan King's Estate Agency. He was a little, wizened man who wore ragged trousers and just a white singlet in summer and winter. Once again he nailed in the board, tugged on it to ensure that this time it was properly secured, descended the ladder and threw the claw hammer into the back of his rust ravaged pick-up.

Alex Harvey smiled. He stood at his bedroom window opposite and watched the ancient conveyance shudder into life and jerk along the High Street, leaving a trail of white and grey vapour in its wake. "I wonder what bloody fool's bought that place," he thought.

He lived above 'Teargas', a specialist shop selling collectable vinyl, pop memorabilia, guitars and other souvenirs from the golden days of rock.

Cream Radio was playing the fading chorus of the Tabs latest chartbuster, 'Wanna Havva Partee Babee'. Alex had little interest in the latest of a long line of girl groups spawned from reality TV and turned it off.

Through dreamy ears half awake to the dawn he had heard the postman's knock. How did Allan Smethurst get up so early in the morning? Why was he always singing, and why always out of tune? He put the post on the kitchen table. It would wait.

He used to have the papers delivered but delivery boys always left them hanging halfway out of the letterbox on which passing dogs on lengthy leads attached to early morning walkers, felt compelled to relieve themselves. That was one reason Alex collected his papers from Ray Charles' newsagents across the road. Ray's daughter Melanie was the other. Alex realised he was once again staring at her extremely large breasts. He felt himself redden.

Fortunately the large growth of facial hair masked the reddening in Alex's cheeks. He shifted his attention to the front page of the Guardian.

"Who's bought Glad's place then?" asked Melanie. The pink cotton crop top fought to restrain her curves as she reached upwards to refill the top row of the cigarette cabinet. "Be nice to get a new face in town."

"It will be an old one and be gone just as soon as her husband decides he can't afford to carry on supporting what is essentially an expensive hobby."

"You're a cynic, Alex."

Alex didn't answer. Melanie added the paper to Alex's account. He went out of the newsagents and looked upwards. Bobby Lord's efforts at attaching the 'Sold' board next door had turned the ironmongers into 'F ills Hard'.

Alex watched through the bolted front door as Gladys Mills sealed another box of plumbing accessories, and thinking no more of Melanie's optimistic comment left her to continue packing. The future remained a closed book to him; his work, his hobby, his career were all in the past.

And so it might have remained but for the grey suited office clerk who joined him at Gladys Mills' window. The other opened his briefcase and took a lime green sheet of A4 paper with its official looking Council logo in the top corner and fixed it to the window with a roll of sellotape from his coat pocket.

Alex had seen quite a few planning notices and his gaze went straight to the most interesting line of all. 'Oh dear," he said to himself and for the second time that morning a broad smile lit up his face.

The traffic that once clogged Fordhamton's main thoroughfare now flowed smoothly on the bypass. Every now and then a juggernaut edged its way through town having missed the sign that would have steered them away from the narrow High Street. The metal plate had been twisted back to front by a wide load.

In keeping with most other days Alex ambled across the High Street with no expectation of being hit by a passing vehicle. It was a little early for lunch and too late for breakfast. Alex had little respect for the ticking of clocks. His footsteps took him back across the road and into The Horse With No Name, situated next door to Teargas.

On the walls and from the ceiling were hung coaching horns, brass pans and kettles, prints of scenes from the Pickwick Papers, faded menus and wooden farming implements. They were a constant reminder of happier days. Occasional drinkers would admire the shining brasses and polished wood for a few moments then leave to continue their journey.

Alex acknowledged the two hairdressers sitting on the bench by the bay window, where the foliage from a cluster of potted plants tumbled untidily over the sill and onto the leather clad seat.

Why were all the hairdressers in Fordhamton closed on Mondays? He once joked about opening another salon in town called 'Never on a Monday'; people thought he was serious and he never mentioned the subject again.

Bill Withers was tall, broad and drank his own beer. Alex never drank in pubs where the landlord never drank his own beer. Alex rarely moved outside of town.

"A few months ago this place was packed lunchtimes. Almost all the trade was reps 'passing through'. I was out there shouting at some stupid bastard to stop parking on the grass."

Alex wondered if the existence of a red faced publican with ginger moustache was mentioned at annual sales conferences, or downloaded from travelling salesmen's blogs, along with the best hotels and unmapped short cuts that were not updated on to the obligatory satellite navigation system.

Alex stuck his nose in his pint. He had heard it all before, like a favourite record that had been badly scratched. He offered to buy them both another pint. The offer was gratefully accepted. He looked at the grandfather clock, squeezed between the gents and the dartboard. It was three minutes past one. "Make it three," said Alex.

The froth had just settled when Dave Edmunds walked in. March was young and pleasantly mild but beads of sweat cascaded from Dave's temples and forehead. His face glistened.

Dave eased his enormous frame on to a stool. Fat stubby fingers concealed the beer glass. "Need this," he groaned. "Four staff short. I hate Mondays."

Dave was Assistant Manager at the Fordhamton branch of the Hues Corporation. They were now the only Banking group to have a presence in town. All the other financial institutions had pulled out of this and most other countryside branches and offered thousands of staff a career change opportunity. The premises had been sold on to chains of coffee bars, or hairdressers or bored housewives needing space in which to sell their discounted job lots of designer dresses.

"When I joined the Bank it was considered a job for life. No way, José. They call it economies of scale but I know what it means. Staff cuts. Some bugger in the Community Service Sector actually used the word 'downsizing' to me. I thought he was talking about my weight."

Dave took large gulps of his beer in between phrases. "I didn't join this Bank to end up cashiering on a Monday morning."

The ornamental waterfall on Dave's forehead had dried up, but as he slid out of his jacket he exposed the ominous damp patches forming under his armpits.

"Monday mornings are just the same as all the others," intoned the gloomy landlord as he waved goodbye to the two hairdressers. "Take Glad Mills. Who's going to take that shop on? If I wanted a couple of six inch nails in a hurry, or a hose clip, or just to borrow a plunger to unblock the ladies loos then Glad would have it. Didn't have to buy the stuff in multipacks at the cash and carry. And now she's gone."

Alex was about to tell the other two his news but was interrupted.

"Pint when you're ready," prompted Dave, who had been patiently waving his empty glass under the publican's eye.

The others declined. It was still only one fifteen. Bill poured him another pint of Barclays Harvest Bitter just as Roger Miller arrived. "And one for Roger."

Before anyone could exchange a word of greeting Roger took a long draught of his pint, wiped his mouth and planted both hands firmly on the bar with elbows straightened.

"I had Alan Price in earlier," he began, inviting the rest into his private world. "A word in your ear Roger, he says. A bullet in the brain would be more appropriate," continued Roger, taking another long drink.

He was in his late forties and wore handmade suits and plain shirts; his hair was regularly trimmed by his wife Elaine who used to work as a hairdresser in town before Roger opened the T.V. shop, a couple of years before his expansion into computers and software and then mobile phones.

In the brief hiatus whilst the others took a sip of beer, Dave Edmunds let out a heavy sigh. Local politics were as tedious as Head Office Marketing manuals; and he had little respect for Alan Price either. "What's the time?"

Alex looked down at Dave's empty pint. "Twenty to two," he replied, and glanced at the grandfather clock. He was right. Dave drank at three pints to the hour; his lunchtime habits were as precise as the pubs prized timepiece.

"Pint?" asked Dave. They all agreed but Roger offered to pay.

They nodded and each raised a fresh pint of Barclays Harvest Bitter to their lips. Dave was about to say something, but his words were choked by a screech of rubber and the sickening explosion of disintegrating metal.

An articulated lorry covered in the logos and labels of all the beer and spirit brands of the Amsterdam and Mersey Brewery had missed the bypass. It had slowed down to negotiate the narrow High Street but not slow enough for Alan Price, who hit it head on at fifty miles an hour and was killed outright.

"Bloody good riddance," said Roger later.

Patrick Shelton waited in vain for Alan Price to call. It was too late now to do anything about Alan's investments and the businesses and people affected by them. By the time most people had eaten their evening meal, all the world knew of the crisis at Apollo Health Foods. The problems at a company in a southern state of America were to affect residents in Fordhamton who had never even heard of Apollo Health Foods, and would rather forget the day that they did.

### Chapter Three

"So, what we got?" Detective Inspector Steve Harley of the Area Murder Team called over the young sergeant. He was standing at the beginning of Fordhamton High Street; a long stretch of houses set back from the roadside interrupted occasionally by driveways or a B-road that took the local traffic to one of the many villages that dotted the countryside around the ever expanding townscape.

"Local businessman by the name of Price. Came towards the T-junction there at some rate of knots... straight into the side of the lorry. Wallop!! No chance."

"Do you know him?"

"Only by reputation guv. Local councillor, got a business on the Industrial Estate at the other end of this High Street. He puts most of his cash into the local football team. He had a reputation as a bit of a Jack the Lad."

"Likeable bloke?"

"It didn't do to not like him, if you get my drift."

"So what is it? Drink?"

"Liked a drink apparently."

"So desperate for a drink he hurled himself at a lorry loaded full of booze?"

"What's your interest in this guv?"

Harley replied with a wry smile. "No one else available. I'm a spare part these days waiting for a posting back to town."

Steve Harley was a London man. He was at home in the fast paced capital. Ever since his temporary posting to the rural team he had felt like a guest at a midday cocktail party dressed in last nights clothes. His suits were always a little crumpled and shirts rarely pressed, worn straight from the washing machine. He was tall and fitted his clothes but they didn't fit the countryside. He shaved every other day; acceptable in some parts of the force but not in the civilised social circles of Fordhamton and its comfortable hamlets

"Anything else, apart from the fact he's a known face about these parts?"

"Well, there is this sir. Waiting for the experts to turn up but I've seen a few of these sort of things before and it don't quite add up."

Sergeant Jim Sullivan a big man who filled his uniform as if had been made to measure for him escorted Steve Harley back from the crumpled remains of Alan Price's BMW and down the B road from where the car had sped.

"The thing is guv, no rubber from his tyres on the road."

"I heard they found ginger marks."

"Where?" replied a quizzical Sullivan.

"In your pants." Harley laughed. Sullivan assumed that is was some kind of private joke amongst the murder squad. He was right. "You're a bit too young son. Famous killing back in the sixties. Some geezer finally admitted to it but everyone thought the Krays left Tommy known as 'Ginger' Marks holding up the M1 in a concrete overcoat. Turns out he was dumped in the North Sea. Never found him though. "

"As you say guv, before my time. "Sullivan carried on walking. "If you saw a forty foot articulated lorry ahead you'd slam on the anchors wouldn't you. Price did the opposite."

"You think he was a suicide jockey?"

"Why top yourself when you've got a big house and money in the Bank?"

"It's not always what it seems son. Who knows what goes on inside some people's minds? Did the driver have anything else to say?"

"That's funny as well. He was slowing down. Realised he should have been on the by-pass but his satnav was out of date and he missed it; so he was taking it easy through the approach to the town. It used to be the main route north and south. That's why they put the by-pass in. So this driver saw Price coming at him and swears that Price was shouting something at him."

"Anything useful?"

"He thought it looked like 'get out of my bloody way'"

"Then he puts his foot down and drives straight into a forty foot lorry."

"That's about it sir."

"Where had he been? Do you know?"

"Not much around here. Only small villages or what's left of them and a few local pubs."

"Where does this road lead to?"

"Small little village called Greenwich."

"I'll take a drive."

Harley drove down the uneven country lane, with the loose surface occasionally being squirted from under the car's tyres until at the sign that denoted the beginning of Greenwich the ride became smoother, courtesy of the property developer whose desirable apartments and country houses lined the approach to the village. He slowed down at the sign indicating the twenty mile an hour speed limit and noticed the idiosyncratic eighteenth and nineteenth century architecture of the old village in comparison to the standard design of the modern developments that guarded the approach.

He parked outside the Crazy Horse Hotel and stepped into the reception area. A late middle aged man with thick black hair welcomed him.

"What can I get you sir?"

"Nothing for me. Just information." Steve showed the manager his warrant card.

"I suppose you want to know about Alan Price?"

"How did you know that? He's only been dead a few hours."

"It may be quiet round here but news travels fast; especially the interesting sort."

"You knew him?"

"Everyone knew him."

"But not everyone liked him. Did you?"

"I'm the hotel owner and manager, Inspector," said Ronnie Carroll very matter-of-factly. "I like everybody. Until they walk out of the door."

"Did he drink here much?"

"Occasionally. In fact he was here only a few hours ago."

"Had he drunk much?"

"That's the odd thing," said Ronnie Carroll. "You sure you don't want a drink? On the house."

"I'll have a tomato juice with all the trimmings, celery salt if you've got it and I'll pretend it's full of vodka." Harley followed Ronnie Carroll into the smallest bar to the right of the reception desk, the same bar in which a little earlier Alan Price had been drinking with his guest.

Ronnie busied himself mixing Steve's drink whilst the latter glanced around the bar. "Quiet this time of day is it?"

"Quiet most times of day now. No one lives here much, they have to chase work elsewhere and the newcomers well, you don't see much of them until late evening or weekends."

"So you'd remember Alan Price being here. Regular was he?"

"Not what I'd call a regular; neither what you'd call a local either. He liked to drink here. Out of the way you see."

"No I don't see," replied the increasingly irritable Inspector who did not enjoy the slow pace of country life. He was looking forward to a return to an inner city where spades were called spades and not used as agricultural implements.

"He liked to do business here."

Harley understood this to be a local euphemism. "So was he by himself this afternoon?"

"No he wasn't. He met a lady here. Hardly spoke much until he left."

Steve Harley drained his juice. "So she left with him?"

"Look, everyone will tell you Price was an arrogant, rude and self centred man. Successful but never went to any charm school. He got a message on his mobile and left. Sudden like."

"What happened to the woman?"

"She rang for a cab. On the landline. No signal round here. They tried putting an aerial in a lamp column but......"

Harley was not interested in local communication problems. He cut the landlord short. "No way to treat a lady is it?"

"I see it all here. Nothing surprises me. People get on with their own lives and I get on with mine; as long as they spend a bit of time and their money here and don't give me bother why should I bother them?"

"I'm more of a town man myself. Goes on a lot does it, round here? Hanky panky, bit on the side?"

"Unlike in your job Inspector I don't ask questions. That way the customer doesn't feel as if there here being watched. They feel comfortable. After a little while they all talk about themselves; everyone likes to talk about themselves and their problems especially after a few drinks."

"I haven't got the patience for that. I need answers in the here and now. Tell me about these affairs."

"I watch the car park. Sometimes one car will turn up. No one gets out, then a few minutes later another parks and one of them gets in the other car and off they go for an hour or two. Sometimes they come back in here. Sometimes they don't."

"And Alan Price?"

"They arrived together."

"In his car?"

"I couldn't swear to that Inspector. Only that she rang for a taxi when she left."

"But he didn't drink?"

"He put the best part of his pint away. His mobile rang; got a bit angry with whoever it was on the other end but he had certainly been drinking before he got here. I could smell it on his breath. Not that Price ever did anything to disguise the fact."

"Do you know where he could have been?"

"Try Fordhamton. The Horse With No Name."

"What kind of place is that?"

"You'll see. So you think he might have been drunk when he crashed?"

"I thought you didn't ask questions."

"But you're not a customer."

"I'm Old Bill and I don't want rumours spreading around. And if you remember anything else, call me."

"Who shall I ask for?"

"D I 'arley. With an aitch."

The next morning Harley was at the Post Mortem. Doctor John Reberneck had just finished his investigation. He was a middle-aged portly man who drank a little more than his fellow professionals might have thought sensible. He and Steve Harley found they had a lot in common.

"He'd been drinking."

"I know that. He'd a pint in Fordhamton and the best part of another one in Greenwich."

"It was enough to take him over the top. Then there's the other."

"The other?"

"I'm waiting for an expert analysis but there was something else in his blood - a sort of a compound."

"A Mickey Finn?

"This is something a bit more special than your average Mickey Finn. Little blue pills."

"Viagra."

"Similar. But I need a proper breakdown."

"He was last seen with a bird in the local knocking shop. Obviously on a promise."

"Trouble is mixing that sort of thing with alcohol can cause some odd side effects."

"What side effects exactly?"

"Hallucinations, sensations of invincibility, possibly sleepiness – depends really on what you've taken. And your medical history of course. Shouldn't be any problem if it was prescribed by his GP,"

"He was with this woman, then he got a call on the mobile. We tracked the caller down to an old school friend called Patrick Shelton. As far as I can be sure this Shelton guy didn't even know where Price was. When I mentioned the hotel he just laughed. And the few locals I spoke to didn't like the geyser much at all."

"What did this Alan Price do to make himself so popular?"

"Local big shot, there's one in every town. But big as he was he still has to give the old man a bit of a helping hand."

"Could be a business rival?"

"We're not talking big money here, its small town stuff. I reckon he took a dose of the old jollup before meeting his tart and got called away. Accidentally on purpose? I don't know." Harley shrugged his shoulders. "How the hell am I going to find that out? Only thing is John, no sign of any pills in his house, at his office, car or on his person."

"Maybe the woman slipped it in his drink or, someone else did if they had an opportunity."

"Talk about a statement of the bloody obvious. Why would some tart he's only just met slip him a Mickey? From what the hotel manager says, most red blooded men wouldn't have needed much encouragement."

"Perhaps your man did. The thing is Steve, I said you can get them from your GP but many of these kind of sexual aids can be bought over the net by just about anyone. How many emails do you get every day selling Viagra substitutes? And they're not all what they say they are."

"You're right of course, but why did he need to put some lead in his pencil? I could do without a dodgy death right now. I'm going to have another word around the town and retrace his last movements; and see if anyone had a reason to tamper with his chemical balance."

Harley's first call found him in Roger Miller's mobile phone shop.

"An arrogant, power mad and a local councillor to boot," was how Roger Miller described Alan Price to Steve Harley.

"You didn't like him then?"

"No. I didn't."

"But he was in here the morning he died?"

"Only because he wanted something. I built this business up from nothing based on honest workmanship. If it got around that I was open to bribery and corruption it would be the end of me."

"Fair enough," commented Harley as he stood by the door, accepting that at present he would get nothing more from the local trader. "By the way did he have a drink when he was here?"

"He had a take away coffee from the Sad Café with him. But he never touched it. Lid was still on."

"Do you know where he went from here?"

On the basis of Roger Miller's recall Harley walked down to the Bank.

Dave Edmunds at the Hues Corporation did not like Alan Price either. "He came in here, more coffee on the floor than down his mouth and tried to blame us for the postal strike. I told him as politely as I could to take it up with Jackson at the Post Office but he'd already been there. So he stormed off and I saw him go across to the pub."

"The man is a menace," began Bill Withers. "I told him to go and look in the car park. How many cars in there? One. His. It used to be full of cars, all travelling salesman. Passing through and stay for a pie and a pint. What do they do now? Pass right by on the by-pass. And whose great idea was that. Alan Price. I told him, by-passes are only good for one thing, by-passing trade. No one stops here any more. He told me it was all in the cause of progress. Progress my backside."

"Did he have a drink here?"

"Just the one. Then he buggered off."

Dr John Reberneck bought over a couple of pints to the window seat in the pub opposite the Elmore James Hospital. "Go on, you first."

DI Steve Harley took a long sip of his pint. "I've spoken to a few people in Fordhamton. No one liked Alan Price. Given the chance I reckon any one of them would have put a dose of arsenic in his drink given the opportunity."

"But on that morning it was common knowledge where he'd been. He got a coffee from the coffee shop, they put a lid on it and I doubt either of the serving ladies had reason to spike it. Then the computer whizz Roger Miller. Hated Price but he strikes me as an honest sort of bloke that would rather cross the road than have to deal with Price."

"Then the gross Dave Edmunds. Clothes spilling out of his suit and as much sexual drive as my maiden aunt. Cut him out. As for the publican Bill Withers; he'd rather the man drank elsewhere."

"Which leaves us with the woman at the hotel. The owner hadn't seen her before so... Was Alan Price there for a bit of 'hows your father' and got called away before he even had time to reach first base and if so, did he take the stuff himself or did the guest drop it in his drink? And if so, why?"

Reberneck had sat quietly sipping his drink, letting Harley get the story out of his system. "There are a few things that you might like to know."

"First Alan Price was impotent. All the little blue pills in the world were not going to help him. Its in the GP's report but in short too much booze and a dependency on steroids when he was younger eventually did for him in the bedroom stakes."

"So he wasn't there for sex?" asked Harley.

"Don't think so. His partner may not have known that though. I'll leave possible motives to you. Secondly along with the drink, not too much but still over the legal limit we found a chemical compound that is very similar to Viagra or Cialis. I'd look to that company that went bust, Apollo Health Foods."

"American?"

"The thing is Steve is that all these type of drugs have the same kind of side effects, not in everybody but if you get them prescribed then you'd be warned about not driving, blurred vision, sometimes see different colours, nausea, headaches...."

"But if you didn't know about that, then driving would be a dangerous thing to do?"

"I wouldn't recommend it. Do you know who the woman was?"

"No, the photos from the CCTV cameras inside the hotel are either too fuzzy or just got the back of her head; but where do you start? As they say – 'cherchez la femme'. I've got quite a few questions for her when I do find her and I haven't even got a name. One of the lads is tracking down the taxi firm that picked her up from the Crazy Horse Hotel."

The inquest was opened and then adjourned for Harley to continue his investigations.

Alan Price had died under the influence of alcohol and drugs. There had been loud murmurs around the court room when Price's doctor admitted to the coroner that his patient had been impotent for many years, especially in view of Dr Reberneck's testimony that the drug found in Price's body was in many ways similar to that given to men suffering from erection problems.

Many of Alan Price's friends and colleagues were aware that he was falling short in some aspects and just as many were unaware that he had a problem at all as they had seen him on more than one occasion in the company of females who they would not climb over to get to their own wives.

Most of the town of Fordhamton neither knew the former nor were aware of the latter. They had heard the rumours of parties at Price's house and assumed that he was as virile as he had always been when he was a younger man. So it was no surprise either that many believed Alan Price to be a bit of a ladies man; although more of a surprise to find that he was chasing women with no means of reaching a satisfactory and mutual conclusion.

The adjournment was as much an anti-climax as Alan Price's impotence and it left DI Harley with a lot of unanswered questions.

### PART TWO

### Chapter 1 - Friday March 19

On his death Alan Price's business was found to be fatally flawed. It took just a well-timed punch to expose a glass jaw that none had suspected. Work suddenly ceased at Price's Tools. There were no orders to fulfil, nor any in the pipeline. In the shadow of unemployment the men turned up at the factory door and then drifted back to empty homes. Finally all doors were closed.

Rumours filled the void; men used to working rather than spending their days in idleness haunted the town's bars. The majority were convinced that Alan Price had died broke and his company with him. A few still clung to the wreckage, scanning the horizon each day for a whiff of smoke or whirr of an engine that would signal the resumption of work.

But others connected to Alan Price still carried on. Such as Keith Emerson, junior partner at Emerson, Lake and Palmer, Solicitors. He and Patrick Shelton were joint executors of Alan Price's estate. The short walk to his office from the car parking space at the back of Ray Charles newsagents was interrupted by a removal van that lurched up the curb and parked outside F. ills Hard. The driver stopped the engine; his mate jumped down and rang the doorbell to the flat above.

"Be alright here, mate?" he asked. Keith nodded his head. As far as he was concerned strangers took their chances along with residents wherever there were double yellow lines. Keith left the removal men unhitching the tailgate.

Sandy Denny looked up from the keyboard. "I thought you were going to the funeral?"

"I am. Later."

Keith went into his office whilst his secretary poured out coffee. He took the Price legal papers from out of the metal filing cabinet and spread them out in front of him, as he had done every day since Alan died.

He read the notes again and rubbed his short-cropped beard. He groaned as he turned the pages whilst Sandy stood in front of him.

"It's not your fault, you know. You were just his solicitor."

"And executor. And who's going to get the blame? Yours truly."

Keith stared at his secretary's legs. He would have sat all day in his office with the sun shining through the trees outside his office window and watch Sandy walk around his office in those flattering high heels; anything rather than meet Alan Price's family. But duty called.

Keith left in time to meet the funeral party at the crematorium, back past Gladys Mills' old shop, where the removal men were negotiating a large floral settee through the narrow doorway. The older one swore as he scraped his knuckles along the latch. There were no signs of the new resident.

Opposite in The Horse With No Name Alex Harvey sat by himself at the bar. Bill Withers poured him a pint.

"Bloody strange world Alex. They say it's an ill wind and all that, but guess what?"

Alex had no idea. It was a long time since he had heard Bill sound cheerful. Despite being the only people in the bar Bill edged his face a little closer to Alex.

"You know Tony Sheridan; ran the Marie Celeste up at Butterfield?" Alex shook his head. "Must know the barmaid; a few sandwiches short but huge knockers." Alex could not recall such a beauty. "Anyway, it seems Tony's done a bunk with the week's takings and legged it to Torremelinos with the 'Hostess with the Mostest'. Or was it Torquay?" thought Bill aloud. "Doesn't really matter now. The point being that Tony was Chairman of the Licensed Victuallers Association."

Alex sipped at his pint.

"You see," continued Bill, unaware that Alex was tuned to a different station. "I'm the Vice Chairman." The penny finally dropped. "I'll become Chairman. Once it's been confirmed at an extraordinary general meeting next Tuesday; but that's a foregone conclusion."

"And what does that mean exactly?" asked Alex, diffidently.

Bill was about to confess to the attainment of his professional ambition but Dave Edmunds walked in. Dave shifted his large bulk over the barstool. The lowest shirt buttons were losing the battle to keep the material stretched around his stomach, and his tie was undone. He took a long mouthful of his pint before speaking. "Town's quiet."

"Alan Price's funeral," said Alex.

"Oh yes," agreed Dave. "Forgot all about that."

"How could you forget a thing like that? The man banked with you."

"True, Bill. He did. Doesn't mean I have to go to his funeral. Personally I'm pleased to see the back of him. He thought he knew it all. Now look what's happened."

"What?" asked Bill.

Dave realised that he might have said just a little too much. He had spent many hours trying to make sense of the Price's Tools account and Alan Price's personal estate. His Regional Lending Manager was not happy; his own Manager was not happy. Dave Edmunds was not happy.

"It's confidential. You wouldn't like me to discuss your financial affairs in every hostelry from here to Timbuktu, would you?"

"I don't bank with you."

"That's why I drink here. There are some things that have to remain confidential. You'll have to wait and see like the rest of them."

"Rumour has it that he was broke. What with the factory closed. Men laid off. Who's going to run that place now?" Bill was already pouring Dave's second pint, hoping to loosen the Assistant Bank Manager's tongue.

"No one will," said Alex, refusing another drink. "Marion wouldn't want to get involved. She's got her own business. And the boys, well.... Scott's at college and John's moved away."

"Exactly," said Dave finally. "No one really knows what is going to happen. As I said, 'wait and see'."

Then silence fell over Fordhamton High Street.

Alan Price's funeral cortege was headed by little Jimmy Brown, the Fordhamton Town Football Club mascot, shivering in his oversized gold and brown team shirt. Then came the hearse, decked with flowers and a tribute from the Football Club in the shape of a football pitch and a golden football; then two black cars containing the family; and then the Football Club coach festooned in gold and brown streamers and rosettes, and finally the trailing bunch of cars containing friends and family.

"Bloody good send off," grunted Bill.

Dave Edmunds finished his pint and offered to buy another one. The others agreed. It was twenty to two.

Once the guests had departed there were only a few family and friends left at Alan Price's house; his ex-wife Marion who had reverted to her maiden name of Walker, their two sons John and Scott, Patrick and Anne Shelton, and Keith Emerson.

"Excellent malt, Marion," nodded Patrick, who needed no prompting to refill his glass. "I must say, Alan always kept a good bar."

"He kept plenty of bars going. Good and bad." John Walker offered his glass to his mother, who poured another small measure into it. "In fact, most of them would have closed down years ago if my father hadn't spent so much time and money in them."

Scott Walker, three years younger than his brother and inclined to facial acne, settled into an armchair and raised his glass above his head. "And here's to the pub landlord."

"I'll drink to that," added John, and did. He was taller than Scott, as smooth as his brother was scruffy. He wore designer clothes and drank designer beer. He worked in London for a marketing consultancy.

"It would be nice," intervened Anne, "to say something nice about your father."

"I wish I could say something nice about him," admitted Scott. He was in his second year at college, studying philosophy and political science. It allowed him to lapse into long periods of pregnant silence when he preferred not to talk to anyone. This was not one of those philosophical afternoons.

"How difficult is that? First of all I never saw him much anyway because he was always out boozing with the Football Club. Secondly I find out he's not the stud everyone thought he was and then I discover at the inquest that he was taking powdered rhino horn. Why for God's sake? Everyone used to be jealous of me having a rich dad who had apparently screwed every available tart in the county; now they all feel sorry for me because he was a saddo who couldn't get his leg over even with artificial aids."

Marion was first to break the embarrassed silence. "Another drink, Keith?"

The latter had other things on his mind than family squabbles. "No, really," but he was persuaded into another gin. "Actually I think I ought to, well, read the will."

Keith scratched his beard nervously and ran his fingers into his scalp, feeling the thinness of the tight curls where they barely covered the onset of a balding crown. "Patrick and I thought it best to talk to the family first, before advising the other beneficiaries."

"Who might they be?" asked John, very belligerently.

"Well, there are several specific requests that can be dealt with in a straightforward way. The Football Club, for instance."

"I thought they'd get something out of him," snapped Scott, and reached out for the vodka bottle.

Keith shuffled around uneasily. Marion did not feel at ease in her old home. Patrick poured another large measure of Fifteen-year-old Johnnie Taylor into his glass and a smaller one into John's.

Scott made another half-hearted effort to prop himself further up the back of the armchair, without success. Anne sat at the large dining table and twisted a gin around in the glass. Marion sat on the arm of the settee.

As she crossed her slim legs Keith knew that he was a 'leg' man. He'd stare at large breasts thrashing about in loose fitting jumpers, and pert bums in tight jeans were a sensual delight on depressing morning walks to the office. But when it came down to first looks, it was always legs.

Marion Walker's legs were not her best asset, slim and shapely as they were. Better men than he had fallen for her long hair, coloured like the many russet shades of autumn leaves scattered around the trunks of sturdy oak trees. Such as Alan Price. Now her hair was cut shorter to the lines of her face, and pushed slightly away from her high cheekbones.

"As you might be aware," began Keith. "Alan had amassed a considerable fortune. Not so much in cash balances but in his share portfolio. It was his intention that his estate be shared equally between you Marion, and Scott and John. There are other considerable bequests: to the Town Council and the Football Club, and sums to Patrick and Anne and a few other small gifts that need not worry us now."

Mother and sons first thought was one of financial gain. The second was to wonder what the fuss was all about. All three had a good estimate of Alan's true worth.

"However," stumbled Keith, "the fact is, well, to be quite truthful, the shares Alan held at the time of his death are, quite frankly, absolutely worthless."

Scott managed to prise himself vertical. Marion and John demanded explanations; Patrick stood quietly amidst them.

"Let me explain," urged Patrick assuming the lead.

Calm did not fall easily on the family. Marion was the first to resume her position on the edge of the armchair, face still flushed but not as angry as John's.

"A few years ago Alan got into the health and fitness boom. He saw massive potential in expanding health food retailers, gyms and fitness clubs. He slowly transferred all his holdings into this segment of the market."

"Of course, he wasn't alone in this. Other bigger investors were monitoring the same trends. In such a market the inevitable take-overs and mergers began to happen and his holdings became concentrated in one American company, Apollo Health Foods, Inc."

"All of it?" finally asked Marion. "Why send all his capital across to the States? What was wrong with this country?" She turned on Patrick. "Look Patrick, you were his financial advisor, and you Keith. Most probably Apollo was sound enough at the time but we all know what's happened to them. And you two let Alan carry on throwing his fortune away."

"All this is true, Marion. But you know Alan; for some reason or other he insisted that his investments remained untouched. I couldn't shift him, nor could Keith."

Keith shook his head, avoiding Marion's gaze, who was pacing the floor in black sling backs that did wonders for her calf muscles.

"Anyway," continued Patrick. "On the day he died I heard from my contacts in America that something was about to threaten Apollo. Alan's investments, company, borrowings, the whole lot were tied up in that company and he was heading for disaster."

"What do you mean, 'disaster'?" John leaned forward and drained his glass. "Losing my inheritance, that's what I call disaster."

"There's been a lot of media rumour and City gossip, but my man in the States told me that Apollo had a full portfolio of things to heighten sexual pleasure and improve performance. All most probably harmless in their own way and they sold millions of dollars worth, with no complaints. Then of course, there was Rusty Allen."

Keith had stopped looking at the way the light on Marion's tights made different patterns on her knees. John was looking restless, curious to know where it was all leading.

"Rusty Allen was a male model. He posed for magazines; he was part of a popular variety act, prancing about on stage with a leather thong through his groin before tugging it off in front of screaming women on a hen night. But Allen's greatest asset, was his ten inch willy."

"However, after taking one of Apollo's products for a couple of weeks he was taken to hospital after collapsing with excruciating stomach pains. He woke up the next morning to find that his ten inches had shrunk to one."

"Nonsense," said Marion.

"Bollocks," added John.

Patrick ignored the disbelief. "Apollo had managed to keep news of Rusty Allen pretty well to themselves but Allen was less than happy with their offer of financial compensation and went public. Of course, the shit really hit the fan. Allen's sued Apollo for everything they've got, sales plummeted, their shares hit rock bottom and they've been wiped out, all products had to be recalled and they owe millions to the Bank that financed their rapid expansion."

"Complete and utter cock up, if you'll excuse the phrase," said Marion. "But where does that leave us?"

"With nothing," stated Keith very quietly. "Everything was charged to the Bank for Alan's borrowings. With the shares worth nothing the Bank will look towards other security."

"Such as," asked Marion, although she knew full well what that was.

"The house."

"Well, that's something," said John. "For a moment I didn't think we'd be getting a penny." John reached out for the bottle of malt. There was a single shot left. He looked accusingly at Patrick, who forced a smile back at him.

"But first," continued the nervous solicitor. "Your father's will made allowances for some specific bequests that have to be paid before the remainder of the estate can be divided."

"Tell me," demanded John.

"There's twenty five thousand to the Town Council and a hundred thousand to the Football Club."

"Bloody marvellous." John shook his head. Anger had fled before the onslaught of bewilderment. "A bunch of footballers, who can't even get off the bottom of League Division Two, East, get a hundred thousand pounds of my money and me, my brother and my mother get sweet FA. Most probably to build a new luxury stand to be named after the old bugger."

"Ummmm...yes."

"What is left for us?" demanded John.

Marion had slowly regained some composure. "I think what Patrick and Keith are trying to tell us is that there is nothing. What about the company? It's still trading?"

Keith shook his head. "The factory's idle. All of the workers were sent home."

"There must be something to salvage from it."

"That's charged to the Bank as well. And there was a big loan to pay for new machinery."

Scott had been massaged by too many glasses of vodka into a more philosophical state of mind. The financial world swan around incomprehensibly before him; his inheritance was but a moment of passion before being submerged in the omnipresent despair that Eastern religions knew as a way of life. From the deep recesses of the armchair Scott recited his mantra. "Sounds pretty cool to me."

Very slowly Keith told Marion what she had been fearing. "The cash was needed for the only contract that remained which was with Apollo Health Foods, Inc."

"So, in effect, we're buggered. Everything Alan worked for has gone with him. Home, company, money, assets. All vanished. Nothing left. Well, if it is, the Bank owns it."

"I'm sorry," said Patrick. "There's no way the company can continue. The best we can do is to sell the house, wind up the company and see what is left." But no words could lessen Marion's resolve.

"Maybe," said a very determined Marion Walker. "But not if I've got anything to do with it. I was married to him for over fifteen years; I knew all there was to know about him. Just because we divorced doesn't mean we hated each other. We kept in touch; he set me up in my secretarial agency, bought my house, and mortgaged his own to do it. He looked after me and his two children. That's why he worked, to make money. Alan loved money and he intended for me and the boys to inherit his fortune. It's there in black and white in his will, no one can dispute it. Until a week ago Alan was worth up to a million pounds, maybe more. I don't care about the Town Council whatever he had in mind for them; and the Football Club can slide all the way down to the local park league but as for the bulk of his estate he wanted us to have it, and I intend to get it."

"There's no way, Marion," added Patrick. "Alan died virtually broke."

"You may think so, Patrick. But Alan taught me that there was no word such as 'failure'. There is a way and I will find one."

"There's no white knight out there, Marion. Don't have any false illusions about salvaging anything. Face the facts. Alan's money was tied up in an American company that's gone to the wall."

"You may think so, Patrick. But over a million pounds doesn't just vanish. It's out there somewhere."

John and Scott Walker sipped at their drinks and admired their mother's grip of the esoteric workings of Mammon. They weren't so sure what it meant to them directly but they were totally convinced that someone with such a grip on the darker secrets of the Square Mile could turn even Price's Tools to credit, and maybe pay them a small dividend as well.

"If I can't get hold of Alan's money one way, I'll get it another."

"I hope you're not suggesting anything illegal Marion," said Keith very quickly

"Someone out there is responsible for this mess, and I'm going to find out who it was. Then I'll make them pay for it. Legally or otherwise."

There was no doubting Marion Walker's intentions, but no one had the first clue as to how she would proceed. Not even herself. Yet.

### Chapter 2 – Monday March 22

Of one thing Detective Inspector Steve Harley was sure. No one in Fordhamton liked Alan Price. On the other hand no one appeared to dislike him enough to kill him.

Everyone knew that he drank a lot and drove fast. On the surface he was a successful businessman and a womaniser. After the inquest no one believed either to be true.

It was Harley's guess that someone in town disliked Price enough to arrange for him to have some kind of accident whilst under the influence, but maybe not so much of an accident to kill him. The nagging problem was proving if the drug was given at some time during the morning knowing he would be driving, or in concert with the mystery woman at the Crazy Horse Hotel. And if that person wanted Price dead, why? If the woman was working solo, what was she hoping to gain from the situation?

"I'm convinced he didn't take any substance himself. He was permanently impotent. Years of booze and steroids had done for him there."

"Where does the woman fit in?" asked Chief Inspector Carpenter at the other end of the phone line.

"I don't know yet, but if she knew anything at all about him she wouldn't have tried to put some lead in his pencil."

"Was she working alone?"

"That's what I'm trying to discover. But I'm not getting very far in town. And there's no clue as to why they went to the Crazy Horse."

"No clues at all?"

"None yet. That's why I called. This started out as a simple accident. Now it's not so simple. I'm not happy about it but I need some help. Preferably a local man. Someone who knows the town, understands their language; someone to do some digging."

"You know we're short on manpower but I'll see what I can do."

Detective Constable Miles Davis was an obsessively methodical man. Case files were neatly arranged in differing coloured folders and stacked according to progress. His diary showed no evidence of being amended to show cancelled appointments; there were always plenty of pins, staples, pens and rulers placed in handy containers at the edges of his desk.

On his rest days he washed and ironed his shirts which were hung in the wardrobe for each day of his working week, in the same order to the suit with which it would be worn.

His household accounts showed every shoelace and litre of petrol; it was his compulsion for accuracy that led to his divorce. There is only so much criticism a wife can take over her inability to balance the petty cash account.

When a car dealing ring or business fraud became too convoluted for conventional detective work then the Chief Inspector called in Davis. He dismembered every detail and examined every clue until the threads were woven into a perfect case to put before the Crown Prosecution Service.

Had Davis been a drinking man, or a member of the Rugby Club or at least had it whispered that he had a mistress tucked away somewhere then his promotion would have been assured. Davis was considered eccentric and destined to remained a Detective Constable

"Who are you?"

The stranger in the Murder Incident Room stood fast. "Davis. Miles. Constable. Detective," snapped Detective Constable Miles Davis.

"Heard about you. Bit of a loner."

No one had ever put it to Davis quite like that before. He shrugged it off like a dog jumping out of a river. "And you are?"

"Harley. Steve. Inspector. Detective. Team. Murder. Regional."

"Murder?"

"Hold up son. This isn't about a couple of cases of port, clever scam that it was. This may be a bit out of your league."

Harley was Davis's superior but in many ways they were quite similar. Harley enjoyed his job and worked hard but where Davis was morose the other was a cheerful cockney awaiting a promotion back to the city. The other's horizons were cloudy.

Inspector Harley was a victim to middle age; but a few extra pounds, lines on his face and grey hairs invading his temple had not dulled the underlying strengths of a handsome man. Steve told jokes at parties, laughed loudly and had an eye for the attractive female with an empty glass. Davis was happier being retuned to bachelorhood

"When I said I wanted a local man I meant someone who worked here; even better if they lived here. What am I supposed to do with you?"

"Most of the team are on Operation Dawn. I was the only DC free."

"I didn't mean a DC either. I meant a local man, a beat bobby who knows how their minds work round here. I meant... does it matter what I meant. What do you know about this place?"

"Not a lot. If you read the monthly crime reports..."

"I haven't got time for that Davis. I have a suspicious death."

"I haven't had a chance to read your notes either sir. "

"Good. For the time being let me do the talking and you listen. First we'll see what this bloke Emerson's got to say."

Davis said no more as they drove in silence to Fordhamton and parked in the deserted space at the rear of The Horse With No Name.

"Do you think the landlord will mind if we park here?"

"Do you see any other cars in here? No. That's what he told me as well. No harm in keeping the local publican cushtie by filling up his car park. Makes him look busy. And a busy pub is a popular pub."

"Might expect us to buy a drink."

"I sincerely hope so Davis. What's your poison?"

"I don't drink sir."

"How did I know you were going to say that? You're the first non-smoking, non-swearing, teetotal DC I've ever met. I bet your farts don't smell either."

Davis followed Harley into the High Street one pace behind as an oriental wife might, the slights and insults washing over him. Then almost knocked Harley over when the latter stopped to answer his mobile phone.

Davis looked through the window into the empty bar; empty apart from the slouched figure of Alex Harvey.

"That was uniform Davis. They've tracked down the driver of my mystery woman at the Crazy Horse. Seems she asked to be dropped off here."

"The pub?"

"They just said the High Street. There was no other car parked here. Now we know that they arrived together at the Crazy Horse so what does that tell us?"

"She met Price here and had to return."

"Then where to Davis?"

"Might have had business in town."

"So how did she leave?"

"Could have used the bus."

"Bus? Exploded Harley. "Who travels by bus these days?"

"Old people, the unemployed, disabled, lots of people. Quite popular on market days apparently."

"And when is market day?"

"That depends on which town. Buses run according to where the markets are. Might only be one or two a day at most during the week that connects to Fordhamton."

"What do you do on your days off Davis?"

"The usual sir."

"Take it from me son. She did not come by bus; or return to catch a bus. She rang for a cab. It could have dropped her anywhere she wanted to go. No Davis. She lives here. Or works here. What other reason would anyone have to want to come to this Godforsaken place? Makes it a bit of a local affair don't it?"

"I suppose so guv."

"You suppose so. What other reason would she have?"

"We don't know guv. Not until we find her."

For the first time since their meeting Harley hesitated before replying. There was some strange logic in Davis' thinking. In fact he was quite right, but he wasn't going to let Davis know that.

Their walking conversation had brought them to the ground floor offices of Emerson, Lake and Palmer, solicitors. Sandy Denny ushered them in to Keith Emerson's office. Keith did not offer them refreshments on the grounds that it would give them an excuse to outstay their welcome and find more questions to ask. It made no difference, Harley had plenty of questions.

"Were his ex-wife and sons aware of the contents of the will?"

"They most probably had an idea. Price always looked after his family."

"And his ex-wife?"

Keith Emerson was a naturally reserved man and was as ever, very defensive. "I'm not sure where this is leading Inspector. They parted on amicable terms. He mortgaged his own house to set her up in business. They still met within social circles of the town.

"And what does the ex-Mrs Price do with herself these days?"

"She is now known as Miss Marion Walker. She runs an employment agency in town. You most probably passed it on your way here, above the coffee shop."

"Not short of a bob or two?"

"Look Inspector, Miss Walker is a respected business woman. You can't suggest she had some interest in murdering Alan."

"No one said anything about murder."

"But you are from the Murder Team, Says so on your card."

"True. But at the moment I'm investigating the circumstances leading to Alan Price's untimely death which could seem to be suspicious."

"And there are suspicious circumstances?"

"You were at the inquest. Certain substances were found in his body, along with a quantity of alcohol."

"Drink and drugs Mr Emerson. Not something that is considered very socially responsible these days, especially when in charge of a motor vehicle."

Harley ignored Davis' moral interruption. "I'm considering the possibility that someone might have placed them there without his knowledge in order to cause him some personal injury."

"You're talking Alan Price here Inspector. He was not your ordinary town resident and may I add Constable, not one who understood the phrase – socially responsible."

"So I've heard", continued Harley noticing that Davis seemed totally unmoved by the admonition and continued to write feverishly in his notebook. "Just confirm that when he signed his will he could have been considered a wealthy man."

"On paper yes." Keith Emerson remained upright in his chair. He had no need for files, case papers or notes as he had absorbed all there was to know about the late Alan Price and his financial affairs.

"On paper?"

"His assets were not as you might call liquid; they were tied up in shares and property."

"So what was Price worth in an ideal world?"

"About a million. But that's in an ideal world."

"And did Miss Walker know this?"

"Possibly. They both understood Alan Price to have business assets and property and although not short of money in his pocket, he might have needed time to realise those assets."

"Which is how his Bank might phrase his financial situation."

"Quite so Constable."

"And what of the Council and the Football Club?" raced on Harley.

Keith Emerson allowed himself a smile. "Patrick Shelton and myself as joint executors are to meet here this afternoon and formally advise them but I don't think the Council would want a problem of deciding on a monument dedicated to someone few of them actually liked. The football club on the other hand would have no problems spending the money."

"But did they know about it?"

"I think we can safely say they did not. I think on balance Alan Price was worth more to them alive than dead. Money in sport is a short term fix. You always need more of it and whilst he was alive Alan Price supplied it. If he had one passion in life it was football. And money."

"So Davis, do you think the lately bereaved Marion Walker might have topped Alan Price for his fortune?"

"But there wasn't any."

"No, there wasn't. But she wouldn't have known that would she?"

"Did she need the money?"

"Good question Davis."

"So to her next?"

"No, later. Next on my list is the money man. Patrick Shelton."

By arrangement Patrick Shelton was waiting for them in the window seat of the coffee shop. Patrick Shelton would have preferred the wine bar; Miles Davis a toasted tea cake and Harley a pint in The Horse With No Name but their common professional backgrounds determined a neutral venue.

The three of them shared a pot of tea.

"Why did you ring Alan Price?"

"I've already told you that."

"Humour me, for my constable here."

"I acted as Alan's financial advisor. It's a loose term. I advise him, he ignores it; he does what he wants and blames me if he loses money as a result. I told him not to invest in Apollo. Invest by all means but not to put all his eggs in one basket."

"Did he?"

"Of course he did, but the financial world does not turn on the technical knowledge of one manufacturing director. There are other factors; some real, some imagined, some rumour; and some rumours are spread purely to put panic into the markets where the real predators lurk."

"You knew Alan Price for a long time?"

"We were at school together."

"Did you know he was impotent?"

"Yes, I knew."

"And any others?"

"It wasn't common knowledge. It's not something you want spread about is it?"

"And Mrs Price."

"Marion? I suppose so."

"But he had a reputation as a bit of a ladies man?"

"The important thing in that statement is that he did have a reputation. As I said there rumours and perceptions; and there is the truth. The knack is to be able to distinguish one from the other. Alan liked the company of women. Once he couldn't get his end away he was scared of what the town would say. Big shot Alan Price found lacking in the trouser department would give plenty of people good reason to laugh, even if only behind his back. For someone who has shagged all the available women in town it's not good. So he found a way of disguising it. He kept on meeting women and if it seemed things were getting too close he made up a story about a business meeting, or got the manager to ring him; anything to allow him to make his excuses and leave, as the Sunday People reporters used to say."

"How did you find out about this?"

"He made a date with my wife Anne a couple of years ago; we were going through a bit of a funny patch, she fancied Alan and thought it might teach me a lesson to find my wife in bed with his best friend."

"Did it?"

"No, it didn't. He said it was the drink. It must have been early on. He was right of course. It was drink, but not as he thought. Anne told me when we sorted things out a few weeks later and we put two and two together, knowing Alan Price as well as we did."

"Did no one else suspect this?"

"They may have done. But for Alan to leave a meeting or a group suddenly was not unusual. It was what he did. And as many of his potential conquests were wives of respected businessmen they may not have wanted the fact they were playing away to be widely known. But we are men of the world Inspector. Who knows what goes on in the secrecy of the ladies toilets or the monthly tea parties at the Womens Institute."

"So Davis we have ourselves a 'modus operandi' and a suspect. How many of these women knew about Alan Price's little secret?"

"A woman scorned sir."

"A woman scorned who knew his habit of leaving the kitchen when it got a bit hot and knew that with a little help, he might do himself a little mischief. Or a close friend who thought he might get even for trying it on with his wife."

"Or a business rival with a grudge and a willing wife."

"I didn't know that simple exterior of yours could hide such a devious mind. I wonder what Anne Shelton looks like."

"That's easy guv."

"You know her?"

"A local A-list celebrity sir. Her father is an MP and she's always in the county magazine.

"You have some unusual talents Davis. Right, pop over there to the paper shop and grab the local Horse and Hound. We might need to speak to Ronnie Carroll again."

"And what about Marion Walker?"

"She can wait for a while."

Had but DI Steve Harley known it their paths had been crossing most of the morning. Neither he nor Patrick Shelton would have expected it but despite the latter's doom-laden prophecies, Marion Walker's white knight was already at the castle gates.

She answered the phone swathed in a towel, refreshed from a long soak in the bath. James Taylor could hardly speak for excitement. James had been the Production Manager at Price's Tools, but this was just a title of convenience; he was Alan's right hand man.

James didn't want to talk much on the phone and she wondered what he was doing there. James Taylor had been married to his work and found divorce hard to accept.

"Who was that?" asked Scott. His elder brother John had returned to London the previous evening, but Scott had stayed home and missed a week at college as the Easter break was approaching.

"James Taylor. That man lives for work. The company's bust so why does he stay on? I promised to see him this afternoon; it's the least I can do, I suppose. He seems to have got excited about something at the old factory. Keith seems certain that there's nothing to salvage there and I've no reason to disbelieve him. But I've got to see the Bank first."

Whilst Marion Walker kept her White Knight waiting, another woman of determination and ambition was greeting the day. At nine o'clock Grace Slick opened the door of her new shop. She turned over the card that baldly stated 'closed' and revealed the more agreeable 'Joy of Looking, open for business.'

Neither Alex Harvey nor Bill Withers would have thought her part of that department store group once so common in Britain's shopping centres. BHS was a local acronym for Bored Housewife Syndrome, conjured up by several of the longer term traders fed up with watching established outlets having to close and then being taken over by thirty something young married women who envisaged themselves making a fortune out of a part time hobby. None of them lasted more than a year before closing and giving way again to another starry eyed entrepreneur.

Grace was neither bored nor a housewife; she did not fit into the pattern of retail proprietors in the High Street. Grace was not a local woman, either. In such parts of the country where towns such as Fordhamton thrive, this was a great disadvantage. Small towns tend to treat newcomers coolly. None of this was of the slightest concern to Grace Slick. She was not a woman to be easily upset.

There was a tingle of anticipation in her stomach. F. ills Hard was now just a memory, along with the smell of grease and rusty iron.

She looked once more at the window display and was about to go back inside when a gentle roll of thunder passed by.

"Morning," said the stranger. "You bought Glad's place then."

Grace smiled. Her long auburn hair was drawn backwards into a French plait. "Good morning. Grace. Grace Slick."

"Colin. Colin Blunstone. I run the Albatross up the road. There's a bit more life there than at poor old Bill's place."

Colin had short-cropped hair and a heavy stubble which masked a more sensitive man, and it was local knowledge that there was never any trouble in the Albatross. "I don't think you've got anything there to fit a man of my size."

He was carrying a clutch of rolled up posters that he pointed at the lacy bras and panties adorning Grace's window. Negligees, thongs, stockings and underwear of every description in a variety of pastel and bold colours were displayed in the wide frontage of Joy of Looking.

Grace laughed. "What's that you've been waving in my face?"

"This?" beamed Colin. "A bit of a gig at the pub. Look, the Tabs, latest singing sensations. Should be a good night."

"How did you get them to come up here?"

"To this out of the way dump?"

"Is that what they say?"

"You're not from round here."

Grace evaded the question. "So tell me, how do you get a chart topping group to appear at your pub?"

Colin just tapped the side of his nose unwilling to say any more. "I've got work to do putting these up around town," said Colin, dragging himself away.

"See you," said Grace.

"Hope so," replied Colin, and turned into Ray Charles newsagents.

It wasn't too long before the first customer arrived.

"Good morning. Councillor Regan. Call me Joan, please."

Grace held out a hand. "Grace. Grace Slick."

"This wasn't quite what we expected."

"Pardon?"

"This shop. Your application for a license still needs the approval of Council."

"I hope that will go through without a problem," smiled Grace, maintaining a polite tone, but already she had a dislike for the large, patronising senior politician.

"This is a small conservative town. People don't like change." Joan bought her white knickers and bras from Hardin and York's now that Allman Brothers in Rutherford had become a Jefferson Starship theme bar and bistro.

"I don't intend to upset people," said Grace. "I hoped I had left those days behind when I left the City."

"You were in commerce?"

"Chambers Brothers."

"But that's a Merchant Bank."

"That's right. I was in commodities."

"You don't happen to know Patrick Shelton?" enquired Joan, trying to find some common ground. Joan knew everyone in town.

"Patrick. Oh yes. He told me about this place. Do you know him well?"

"A little," admitted Joan truthfully. Patrick Shelton hardly exchanged a word with her. "Well," continued Joan, "I just thought it would be polite to welcome you to the town, but I must warn you that there may be some stiff opposition to your... plans." Joan stumbled to find the right phrase.

The women exchanged a cursory thank you and goodbye.

Grace was a confident businesswoman with a successful career behind her, but she was a still an innocent in the social politics of small towns. Joan Regan on the other hand, moved like a predator in those waters, waiting for the kill. And now she had Grace's scent lodged in her nostrils.

Alex Harvey was as ever, late up this Monday morning. He listened to the radio for a moment or two, vowing never to tune to Cream again as they insisted on playing the Tabs second single release every half hour. It was bound to go platinum, insisted the morning DJ. He turned the radio off.

Allan Smethurst had brought a bundle of bills and junk mail. Alex dropped them all in the kitchen waste bin. He had decided not to open today.

He peered through bleary eyes at the new name on Glad's old shop front: 'Joy of Looking'. Glad replaced by joy. More of the same, he thought.

He wavered for a moment then decided in favour of the morning paper. Melanie Charles rose like a goddess from behind the sweet display, her V-neck sweater opening up a pleasant valley between her rolling breasts.

"Have you seen this," she said to Alex. The notice board usually given over to sales of skateboards, playstation games and MOT failures, had been obliterated by Colin Blunstone's poster.

Alex glanced in the direction of Melanie's outstretched finger. "Not really my scene," he replied. "Anodyne pap."

"But the Tabs," insisted Melanie.

"One hit wonder," continued Alex, realising that their latest and second record had already stormed to number one in the download charts.

"I wonder how Colin persuaded them to come up here. You'll be going though, won't you?" Melanie ignored Alex's offhandedness.

"I suppose so," admitted Alex, knowing that Melanie knew he would go. She worked as a part time barmaid at the Albatross. "How much?"

"Five pounds. Cheap eh?"

"Okay, put me down for a ticket." Alex fished out a bundle of notes from the back pocket of his jeans and handed over a fiver.

She reached down under the counter where the sides of the valley heaved and withdrew silently, and handed Alex a ticket.

"I don't suppose Grace would be your scene, either."

"Who?"

"Grace. Next door. Seen it?" said Melanie enthusiastically.

"Um. Might go and have a look," Alex intended to do that just as soon as he left the shop.

He paused briefly in front of the window full of ladies sexy underwear before entering Joy of Looking. He was met by the subtle scent of roses; shades of soft pinks covered the walls and floors, echoed in the cabinets and lighting, so different from the metal and grease lined walls of Gladys' hardware shop.

"Morning." Alex hoped he sounded friendly. "I run the shop across the road. Promised Glad I'd come over and look you up."

"Hello," said Grace almost defensively. "You're not on the Town Council, are you?"

"Good grief," said Alex, startled that he could have any resemblance to Michael Jackson or Arthur Brown. "Why do you ask?"

"Oh, I'm sorry," apologised Grace, uncrossing her arms and offering her hand in friendship. "It wasn't the kind of opening day I imagined. The first person in here was some large woman with tinted hair. Joan Regan?"

Alex took Grace's soft hand in his and held it a bit longer than he thought appropriate. "What did she want?"

"To put a marker down I think."

Alex laughed. "By the way, the name's Alex. Alex Harvey."

"Grace. Grace Slick. What do you think of the place then?"

"Sensational," admitted Alex. "Old Fred'll be turning in his grave at this."

"Fred?" queried Grace with raised eyebrow.

"Freddie Mills. Glad's husband. Died years ago. He opened this place; you could buy anything here. Baths, plugs, cement, washers, ladders, you name it he'd have it. Nails by the ounce, string by the foot. God knows what he'd have made of metrication. Place'll be missed."

"Does everyone think that way?"

"Some people want things to stay the same forever. No offence Grace, but when you hear people in this town moaning about shops closing, and you will, believe me, you will, then politely remind them that they should have been giving the shops in town their custom instead of driving off to the superstores."

"You're not keen on the place then?"

"Town's all right. It's the people." Alex looked around the shop trying to avoid Grace's eyes. They were dark brown, large, following him everywhere.

Women and especially sex had drifted out of his life. Not that he didn't think about it now and then. When sleep eluded him he found peace in vivid images of a naked Melanie Charles clad only in his old leather jacket, playing the blues on a soulful sax.

He had almost forgotten Ruth Davis. She had lived with him for five years after they opened Teargas. But she'd left him to go back on the road with a 60's revival band. Alex stayed on.

He wondered how he looked to Grace with long brown hair falling over his collar, beard untrimmed for months and breath smelling of last night's stale Barclays Harvest Bitter and the morning's cold coffee.

"Do you make a living?" she asked.

"Me?" asked Alex, startled back to the present. "I survive."

"Gladys told me all about you."

"She did." Alex was becoming apprehensive.

"Nothing to be alarmed about. She said I could trust you. Look, do you fancy a drink? It is almost lunchtime and I could do with a friend in town."

Alex looked at the clock. It was half past eleven. Overslept later than normal. He wouldn't have had the courage to ask her himself and what was wrong with being asked out by a woman, anyway?

"Will the wine bar be alright?" Alex thought the Horse With No Name, Bill Withers and Dave Edmunds an unfortunate introduction to Fordhamton.

"No. No. Anywhere but wine bars. I've spent the best years of my working life in wine bars."

He stood back whilst she turned over the sign that now said 'Closed'.

They agreed on the Albatross. They were an odd couple walking down the High Street. One tall and unkempt, the other shorter, slim, and fitted for better promenades than the pavements of a small English town.

Alex wore jeans, and T-shirts advertising tours and groups that had long passed into legend. His hair was long and his beard needed attention; and there was a strange smell about him that wasn't unpleasant. He had kind eyes and the few people she had met spoke well of him. She had taken chances with lesser men.

Colin Blunstone was delighted to see Grace and stunned to find her in the company of Alex, who paid for the drinks and shuffled his ticket for Friday Second April back into his pocket with the rest of the notes.

"Excellent," grinned Colin, putting a pint of Barclays Harvest Bitter in front of Alex. "I see you've bought one. Seen the posters?"

"Can I miss them?" groaned Alex. "The song wakes me up every morning. How did you get the Tabs to appear up here?"

Colin laughed and tapped his nose, inclining his eyes towards Grace who was clutching a bottle of Tijuana Brass. "I see you've met our Record Man. Lovely chap, if living in the past. Says all modern music is anodyne pap. The kids in town think he's talking about a bunch of old farts that played in a nineteen sixties rock band."

Alex allowed the good-natured banter to slide over his head. He'd heard it all before but Grace was a new audience, rare in Fordhamton.

The publican wiped the bar as Alex took a sip of his pint and propelled Grace to a side table.

"He seems okay," she said. "Yeah. Colin's all right. It's just like any other small town pub. Makes we wonder what you're doing here."

"Me? I got bored with the City. After a while it becomes as routine as driving a bus. Everything's so familiar and trading is not all glamour."

"Not so ladies underwear then?"

"But it's what I'm selling. Glamour, exotica, erotica, dreams, romance."

Alex sunk back into the cushioned supports of the bench. He was prepared to let Grace talk all afternoon as he drank his pint. Suddenly he had visions of what heaven might be like; the company of an attractive woman, a pint in his hand and a free juke box in the background. "How did you get into this then?"

"Because a lot of underwear is sold at boring house parties complete with ice cold Pinot Grigio and cheese puffs. Why should we be so hung up about what we wear? I really do believe that God created the Internet on the eighth day as a gift to the lingerie industry. Do you know where you can find scarlet cami-knickers? Or a bra?"

Alex shook his head slowly, trying to wipe out the visions of Grace in scarlet underwear clean out of his imagination. "Can't say I have," he admitted, swallowing hard on a mouthful of Barclays Harvest Bitter.

Grace laughed affectionately. "No, I don't suppose you would. So I thought right, enough of the City. Time to get out before I'm forced out by a young graduate with a degree in Zoology or Town Planning. Sold my flat, liquidated some savings and here I am."

"Why here?" asked Alex, still wondering. "It's not Bond Street."

"It's a start. And what about you? How did you end up here?"

Alex cocooned himself within the corner of the padded bench. He had been so long in Fordhamton that he had forgotten he had a history as well. He was the Record Man, as much a part of the furniture as the newsagents, the Horse With No Name or the red brick faced offices of the Bank.

Me? I just sort of stayed on. This seemed as good a place as any to set up a record shop. A busy road on the way north. Or south, of course. Plenty of through traffic. The bypass put an end to that. But that's another story.

"I was a bass guitarist in a group with a couple of mates whilst I studied Art at college. We dropped out. Toured Holland, Germany, Scandinavia - getting our act together. We even had a small hit. Do you remember 'Colossus of Rhodes'?"

"No," replied Grace, exhibiting the same lack of knowledge of the pop industry as Alex's grasp of underwear.

"Not many people do," added Alex mournfully. "We actually made it into the bottom half of the top forty with a number I wrote called 'You're a big boy now'."

"Don't remember it," added Grace apologetically.

"Don't suppose you would. Anyway after that one we split up. One went back to college, two of the others took jobs as milkmen or postmen and I started writing hits for other people. I played a bit, sessions, wrote a bit; did a lot of backing material, the odd concert for those who had heard of me and then began to sell bits and pieces I'd picked up along the way; which is how I got into this business. So with the royalties from the Classic Gold radio stations and a little work as a session man, and a little work as a DJ, I sort of survive."

"Great," said Grace very emphatically, slamming her empty bottle down on the table and grasping Alex's wrist with the other. "Look, I've booked the school hall for a fashion night to launch the shop. What I could do with is someone to play some really cool background music."

"You don't waste any time, do you," said Alex, who placed a nervous hand over Grace's.

"Can't afford to when money's at stake. I assume that's okay with you." Alex grinned. "What do you charge?"

Alex shrugged. "Forget it. Free."

"Oh no," insisted Grace. "I'm sure we can come to some arrangement." She didn't move her hand; the contract was sealed.

Roger Whittaker had been employed by the Hues Corporation since he left Grammar School. He had worn dark suits and white shirts with sober ties even after the revolution in the seventies when junior staff appeared for work in pink shirts and pop art ties. He had been a dutiful cashier and learned all the signatures off by heart. He had a year to complete the statutory forty and then he could retire early.

He had always been an exceptional pupil, learning from an early age that mistakes are only made by those who make decisions. Therefore he never said 'yes' to anything without first obtaining a senior's approval. By such means his promotion through the junior ranks and then to lower management was as slow as it was assured. The Bank was comfortable in knowing that their money was always safe in Roger's hands. He never lent to property speculators, the self-employed or anyone under the age of twenty-five. Then came Alan Price.

He disliked the brash Alan Price who was a self made man and had little respect for other people's money. Each quarter he ensured that Price's Tools were charged a fair price for the work that the Bank undertook on their behalf. When Alan Price complained and quoted the significant holdings he kept with the Bank, Roger was just as quick to refund all the charges.

Roger had always gone with the tide; begrudgingly accepting the increased role of computers and senior female clerks who knew more about computers than he could ever attain. The new breed of feminism scared him to death. Especially in the model of the distant and cold Marion Walker.

She sat in front of him in no mood to be pacified or to accept explanations. "How on earth could the Bank let this situation arise? I thought you were there to advise customers, to guide them through the maze of financial services."

"Advise, yes. But not compel. At the time we accepted Mr. Price's shareholding in Apollo Health Foods Incorporated as a first rate investment. However we still insisted on other more conventional forms of security such as a charge over property and assets."

"So what you are saying is that you couldn't care less whether Alan went down the pan or not, the Bank would always get its money. Something that I am told is called a 'belt and braces job'."

"I'm afraid that these days after the collapse of so many businesses we have no choice but to ensure that our exposure to long and short term funding is always adequately covered with a substantial margin for investment fluctuation."

"So in effect," admitted Marion. "Keith Emerson and Patrick Shelton are right. There's absolutely nothing left for anyone."

"That's right." Which is exactly what he had told Detective Inspector Steve Harley earlier that morning.

Hardly had Marion Walker sat down in her old chair at Price's Tools with Roger Whittaker's words still echoing in her ears, than James Taylor was waving a sheaf of paper under her nose.

James was in his late forties. His blond hair was slightly thinning on his crown and fell a bit straggly over his ears and neck. He was inclined to angular body patterns with square wide shoulders and long straight arms. He was very pale and the thick black glasses he wore seemed blacker and thicker against his blond background.

He was a thoughtful man, never rushing to decisions; concise in argument if not always inspired and Alan trusted him. Marion trusted him. The workforce respected him. James Taylor was always there. And so it was a little out of character that he paraded in front of Marion talking so animated that Marion was initially unnerved.

The factory was unusually quiet, the workers had been laid off and the machines were still. James Taylor's voice echoed around the room.

"Do you know what this is?" he urged, but Marion sat still and shook her head.

"This," continued James "is an Irrevocable Letter of Credit for one million pounds."

Marion remained unmoved. "Yes, James. But what is it?"

"This is virtually a guaranteed payment from the Bank for two million, seven hundred and fifty thousand United States Dollars. Or, put another way, give or take a few thousand, one million pounds sterling."

"Are you going to explain this to me, James? You know I don't know what you're talking about anymore. I left this company, how many years ago?"

James took off his glasses, wiped his brow and replaced them with scarecrow fingers that branched to all points of the compass. He sat down on the corner of the desk, causing a folder full of paper to fall to the floor.

"Basically it's a guarantee from the Hues Corporation to pay us almost three million American Dollars against the delivery of tubular drop dispensers. This was issued by Apollo Health Foods Inc."

"They're bust, James. Finished. Kaput. Most probably down one of your tubular drop dispensers."

"They may be, Marion, but the Bank's not. Nor is the First National Agricultural Bank of Georgia, who issued it on behalf of Apollo. You see, Marion," continued James, who tried to speak a little slower, "our Bank pays us, the American Bank pays them, it's all guaranteed."

"But who do they get their money from if Apollo's down the chute?"

"It doesn't matter about that. That's just tough luck on the First National Agricultural Bank of Georgia. They issued it. It's their customer that's broke but they have to honour payment if we claim on it."

Marion silenced James by reading the Letter of Credit very carefully. Most of it was banking jargon but she caught the general drift. "What if the Bank just cancelled it?"

"They can't, don't you see," raced the rejuvenated ex-production manager. "No one can cancel it. It's irrevocable. Even if the Americans tried to cancel it, we don't have to agree."

"So how come this arrived now?"

"The postal strike," began James with all the authority he could muster, "this contract was agreed and signed well before Apollo went broke and has just been sitting around in sorting offices and despatch boxes ever since."

"You know what this means?" James was animated again and started to cover the floor in large arcs around where Marion was sitting. "We can open the factory again. Start producing again. It means that we can offer everyone their jobs back."

"Exactly how much is this worth? About a million? And how much profit is there in it?"

"I don't know yet. Have to allow for production costs, factory costs, labour, materials, interest - you know, all that sort of thing."

Marion gave the papers back to James. "I do know all about that sort of thing. You do know once the house is sold and a few people get paid off Alan died virtually penniless. We owe the Bank hundreds of thousands; if we start the factory up again all we'll be doing is repaying the Bank. They'll be the ones laughing. What will I get out of it? And the boys? Not much, James."

"What about all the staff? They could do with the jobs."

"Then what happens when this contract finishes? Is there any more where this came from? I don't think so. I've got my own life to worry about. I've got my own business, and two boys to worry about."

James' mood went downbeat. He had expected more of Marion. His dreams of work were being dashed. His own future, once so bright this morning, was now looking as dim as that of all the other staff that had been laid off. And he held in his hand the key that might open the door to that golden future.

"You don't have to get involved, Marion. All you have to do is to sign a few papers."

"I've got no more interest in this company. When we divorced Alan and I agreed."

"Maybe," said James, seeing a candle flickering in the gloom. "But your name is still on the Bank Mandate. You're still the only one who can sign by yourself for any amount. Either Alan, the Bank, or both overlooked it."

"Really," nodded Marion who nevertheless filed the information away like all good secretaries. "Whilst I'm here James, I might as well see just what it is I'm about to hand over to the Bank. I might be able to salvage something, despite what they tell me."

James led her into the factory floor. Against the back wall were stacked boxes and boxes of tubular drop dispensers.

"What's that?" asked Marion.

"That's the last order we did for Apollo. Haven't even got round to sending out an invoice yet. Once I heard about Apollo going bust I couldn't see much point in asking them to pay an invoice. Wait for the receiver instead."

"What's it worth?"

"About one hundred thousand pounds."

"Really," said Marion, very slowly. The cardboard mountain was suddenly transformed into a huge pile of banknotes, neatly wrapped and labelled.

"James, I may change my mind but please, not a word to anyone. No one. Can I trust you?"

James Taylor nodded and pushed his glasses firmly back onto the bridge of his nose with a shaking forefinger.

Marion returned to the office and put the Letter of Credit into her bag. As soon as she reached the safety of her own business premises she made a few phone calls: to Keith Emerson, Patrick Shelton and Stephen Stills of Crosby, Stills and Nash, Solicitors. Marion had a plan. Maybe there was a way to reclaim her inheritance. But first she had to make a few discreet enquiries.

Grace had returned to her shop delighted to have made a good friend in Alex. At five-thirty she was ready to close. Or close she might have done but for a final customer.

"Patrick," she said. "How nice."

Patrick's hand was almost as quick to close the door as clasp Grace towards him.

"What do you think?" she asked.

"Smart. Smart," repeated Patrick Shelton. "You're a genius."

"I know," said Grace. "Seen this?" She led him to the rear of the shop where there were two changing rooms.

"You are a genius," repeated Patrick, revealing the mirrored walls.

As her hair and clothes fell about her and her teeth sunk into his shoulder, it was Alex Harvey that she saw mirrored in front of her. As Patrick pulled her close upon him it was Alex she heard groaning and the sheer clean skin of Patrick's cheeks was that of a stranger's.

Patrick Shelton's ardour had been fuelled for the last hour or so by sitting uncomfortably in Keith Emerson's office with the other beneficiaries of Alan Price's will.

He had gone to school with Alan Price and it was only natural that Alan would want him first as financial advisor and then as co-executor. Even the presence of Sandy Denny could not make him feel any better. All Patrick wanted to do was to make love to Grace Slick in her new business premises. He had recommended Gladys Mills' old shop as there was little other interest, and it was so close to his own home.

"This won't take long." Keith looked at each of the two gentlemen sitting in front of him. "You know why you're here so I'll skip the preambles and get on to the specifics."

Mayor Michael Jackson swivelled in his chair and gazed at Sandy Denny's ankles.

Les Crane, secretary of Fordhamton Football Club, sat quite still in his brown tracksuit with 'Price's Tools' emblazoned in gold on his back. He watched Sandy Denny shuffle her bottom. There was many a footballer in the first team squad that would have killed for thighs like that.

Both men sat silently as Keith began to explain the situation. "Apart from a few personal bequests which I can deal with by mail, there are two specific requests in Alan Price's will which involve both of you in your official capacities."

Les sat bolt upright in his chair and appeared respectful. Michael raised his eyes from Sandy Denny's ankle.

"Specifically, Alan says 'There have been two loves in my life: Fordhamton and the Football Club. Knowing that my family will be well provided for I wish to ensure that the aforementioned bodies are likewise rewarded.

"'Therefore I bequeath the sum of twenty five thousand pounds to be held in trust by three senior members of the Town council, determined by continuous length of service in office at the time of my death. This sum is to be awarded to a local artist who most accurately designs a memorial to be erected in the Town that in the opinion of the trustees best reflects the principles by which I have tried to lead my life. 'Harmony, Industry and Co-operation.'"

"Bloody good chap," roared Michael Jackson. "Don't know what the bugger's on about but it does show where his heart is."

Michael was right. He certainly had no idea what Harmony, Industry and Co-operation meant, or how it was to be transmogrified into a suitable memorial, but he knew a good idea for personal advancement when he saw one. And it couldn't have come at a better time.

Local patronage, pictures in the paper with struggling artists, award ceremonies and dedications all swam through Michael's beatified mind, thinking no more of slender ankles that eddied all the way up Sandy Denny's trouser legs.

Everything faded before the plans he was making for his political advancement; Alan Price's death had dealt him a hand in aces. "Bloody good chap," he repeated.

"Yes." It was not an emphatic affirmative from Keith Emerson. "I'll come back to that in a minute Michael, but first, to continue."

Les Crane remained upright and attentive, squeezing his buttocks together in a desperate effort to contain a large build up of vegetable gases. He had not wanted lunch but Mrs. Crane had insisted he have something before going out and he had compromised with beans on toast.

"Equally in my thoughts is Fordhamton Football Club that has given me so much pleasure both as player and official. I therefore bequeath one hundred thousand pounds to furnish a new stand and bar.'"

"Bloody hell," said Les Crane, and farted loudly.

"Well, that's it," said Keith, and looked sympathetically at Patrick.

"Bloody hell," said Michael and Les together.

"Of course," added Patrick, "the estate still has to be wound up, and there are certain charges and costs to be paid first."

"Of course. Of course." Michael Jackson sat with arms outstretched. He was a businessman and knew about these things.

"May take a few weeks. Or months. Once the house has been sold," added Keith.

"House?" asked Michael. "Marion's selling the house? I suppose she would. No need for it now," he debated aloud.

Keith breathed easy again. There were no more questions. "Well, if we've finished. I'll be in touch once I'm able to settle. There was just a final request that involves you, Mr. Crane. Alan expressed a wish that his ashes be scattered over the football pitch. I'll give you the name and address of the Funeral Directors. Or if you pop in tomorrow Miss Denny can let you have all the details then."

Les had barely time to object or concur or even discuss the matter before Patrick had leapt to the door and was ushering everybody out.

"Got to go," he said very hurriedly as Michael Jackson and Les Crane disappeared through the reception area. "Waiting for an important call. You know what it's like." And he was gone.

Keith slumped into his chair.

"You're not going to be able to keep the lid on this for long, you know." Sandy sat on the corner of the desk. Even her body so close did little to lift Keith's enthusiasm.

Sandy got up and poured them both a large scotch.

"I know. But I don't see why I should be the poor guy that's always bringing bad news. Is it my fault that Alan Price is worthless? The company's as good as bust. The Bank will have the receivers in. There'll be another dozen or so unemployed; Marion Walker and the two boys are virtually disinherited, the house will have to be sold just to pay the Bank and the town will not be getting a splendid new memorial to reflect Harmony, Industry and Co-operation. And if the Financial Times is anything to go by there'll be another rise in interest rates which means that I'll have to squeeze another couple of hundred pounds out of the estate to pay my fees."

Sandy poured him another drink.

Councillor Joan Regan was at home in Springfield Cottage with feet splayed out on a tapestry pouffe and a large dry sherry in her hand.

Joan had seen many changes in the town. Yet she wondered, had there been any change at all? Ray Charles was still selling sweets and cigarettes as the shop had always done when owned by the now deceased Bellamy Brothers, the Kaye Sisters dress shop was now Lulu's but still a haberdashery of sorts; the pubs had been there since Queen Victoria's later years and the bakers, butchers and Bank had gone through different owners but she still did business with them; and still had tea in the café, although it was now a coffee shop.

Roger Miller had always sold electrical goods and that oddly dressed but very polite Mr. Harvey, despite his smell and odd taste in music, never went out of his way to attract an unruly element.

The Kay Sisters had sold underwear but not so blatantly as this newcomer. They kept those sorts of things in polished oak drawers and had discreet changing cubicles where delicate items of clothing could be properly fitted. Time was when such things were not discussed, now it was impossible to avoid such things; bras, tampons and even tablets to relieve hard stools were now advertised on television.

Now there was a shop right in the middle of town selling all manner of underwear displayed for anyone to see.

It was perhaps the fact that the shop and its contents was such a physical presence that Joan was so aware of the sexual element. She had never married; sex had been submerged under a lifetime of good deeds. Grace's shop brought a reminder of those wasted years and the pain and embarrassment of ignorance.

She didn't understand sex. Sex was best kept to the bedroom and the privacy of married couples. Sex was hidden under clothing and only discussed with doctors.

She saw the schoolchildren outside laughing, pointing, full of obscene thoughts. She couldn't understand the coarse humour or the dreams of adolescence. She saw only children ogling.

It was a word she repeated to Alice Cooper later that evening on the telephone.

"I realise what you're saying, Joan," said a supportive Alice. "What kind of name is 'Joy of Looking'? It implies all kinds of moral laxity; voyeurism is one word that springs to mind."

Joan was not too sure what voyeurism implied but was certain that it was not something the respectable wife of the local vicar indulged in.

"You can't stop a woman trading just because you don't like the look of her." The Reverend Thomas Cooper sat at the table pouring ketchup over his pork chop. "You haven't even met her."

"Joan has."

"Ah well." Thomas Cooper continued chewing his dinner. Joan and Alice were free to march on any crusade they wished; he did not intrude as long as they stayed firmly outside of religious matters.

"From what you say," he said eventually, "this Grace person comes from a different world. She needs time to learn and understand the way this town works. Give her time. She's most probably no more a threat than I am."

"Whose side are you on?" asked his wife.

"No one's. Just because Joan has taken offence and got a bee in her bonnet about underwear there's no need to victimise the woman. Why don't you go and introduce yourself."

"She doesn't sound the type of person I would meet socially."

Thomas Cooper laughed. "It's about time we had a new face in town."

"Maybe, but there are still certain standards to maintain."

He did not want to hurt his wife's feelings but he considered that a woman schooled in City finance would be more than a match for ladies who rarely strayed outside of the village.

Unaware of Thomas Cooper's private conversations, Alex Harvey sat in the Horse With No Name. He might have found he had more in common with the local vicar than he imagined, but they too moved in completely different circles. His silent reveries were shattered by Bill Withers.

"Have you seen what that bugger Colin Blunstone's been up to? How did he get the Tabs up here? He's got no connections in the entertainment industry."

"Wheels within wheels."

"What?"

"That's what he told me."

"When?"

"This afternoon."

"Wondered where you got to. What made you turn traitor?"

"Not what. Who," corrected Alex.

"Who?"

"Grace. Across the road."

"Travelling in ladies underwear now, are we," limply joked Bill. "What does she see in you?"

"I really don't know," replied Alex honestly, although he knew exactly what he saw in her.

"Nor me," agreed Bill, quickly returning to his own misfortunes. "How can I compete with the Tabs? Are you going?"

"I bought a ticket from Melanie this morning. Coming?"

"Me, I've got a pub to run. Why should I go up there, anyway?"

"Let's face it, everyone else will, so why not take a night off."

They were joined by a sticky Dave Edmunds. "I need a drink. Anyone would think it was my fault."

"What?" asked Bill, pouring out a pint of Barclays Harvest.

"Price's Tools and the flaming Walker family. I've been in with the Manager all afternoon trying to make sense of Alan Price's finances."

"Who is to blame then, if not the Bank," insisted Bill.

"Bloody Alan Price himself." Dave forgot about confidentiality, he needed a drink and to get things off his chest. As the pint slid rapidly down his throat he regained some composure. "And now we're to blame because he's now worth nothing and the family wants his money. Of which of course there isn't any."

"I thought there was something funny going on," said Bill, in the manner of one who is party to all sorts of closet secrets. "I heard a few whispers around the place. The bugger's broke. House, business, everything; all down the chute."

Dave said or did nothing to contradict this statement but drained his pint and slammed it on the bar. Alex picked it up and offered to buy a refill.

They were all unaware that their conversation was being monitored by two strangers who sat in the window seat, almost in silence. DI Harley and DC Davis were very interested in the problems with Alan Price's accounts. It helped to lift the disappointment in Ronnie Carroll still not being able to put a name on the woman who was with Alan Price on the day he died.

"Small town mentality," explained Davis. "Most people know other people."

"So you think I'm looking for an outsider?"

Davis grunted in reply. "That's odd. That's the Mayor just walked in."

Harley had again left their car back in the empty spaces of the pub car park. He fancied a drink. "We'll stay for another orange juice. And another pint for me then."

Davis was right. Michael Jackson and Les Crane, now odd bedfellows as beneficiaries of Alan Price's vanishing fortunes had decided to celebrate with a drink.

"You're open," exclaimed Michael.

"Course I'm bloody open. I'm open all day. Have been for years. It's you that keeps odd hours."

"Two pints of your best then, landlord. Time to rejoice."

"Why would that be, Mister Mayor?" asked Bill.

"Alan Price's will. Twenty-five grand to the Town Council and a whopping hundred grand to the football club. Once all the odds and ends have been tidied up, of course," he added.

"That is a lot of money," said Steve Harley. "Almost worth killing for."

"You don't suspect the Mayor?"

"A lesson in life Davis. Suspect everyone."

Had he heard the policemen's comment Dave would have hid even deeper in his pint.

"When will that be, then?" asked Alex.

"Soon, soon, " laughed the Mayor, sipping his pint with relish. "A perfect end to the day, don't you think?"

Unfortunately for Michael Jackson and Les Crane it was far from the end; it was only just the beginning.

### CHAPTER 3 – Tuesday March 23

Bill Withers was up early. The glasses were washed and stacked on the shelves, he had bottled up; the cleaner had dusted, polished, swept and gone.

The cab arrived at nine fifteen with the Tabs latest hit playing on the radio. The heightened bass line was too close to Bill's ear for comfort. He still could not imagine how Colin Blunstone had managed to entice three sexy chart topping girls away from recording studios and interviews on TV all the way up to Fordhamton to sing in his pub. But that was yesterday. Bill was not going to let anything ruin today.

Ahead of him the ten o'clock meeting of the North Clanton and District Licensed Victuallers Association at the Ancient Mariner in Blackfoot had already started. Bobby Stevens, innkeeper of the aforementioned pub, had already poured a liberal measure of his best brandy into the glasses of the other members

"Hands in the till," said Al, to a nodding of heads. "Not to mention down the knickers of the Hostess with the Mostest. And where does that leave us? Up shit creek without so much as a paddle. And we're still supposed to support his flaming charity."

There was a knock at the door.

At nine fifty nine precisely Bobby let Bill Withers into the pub. The latter saw the smiling faces and the outstretched hands. He had reached first base. Chairmanship of the Licensed Victuallers Association meant respect, chains of office; it made him an equal with the Mayor. He was a man of importance.

In normal circumstances his peers might not have been so keen on selecting a new Chairman on the nod but the others were still wary of the local paper's interest in a father of three who absconded with a one time Page Three model and sometime guest presenter on the Adult Channel.

His assumption of Chairman was, as he had foretold Alex Harvey, a foregone conclusion. But in his haste to accept the nomination he had overlooked an item on the last meeting's agenda. For the time being he enjoyed the warm sunshine of his peers; but there were clouds forming overhead.

Not a sentiment that would have struck Joan Regan. She sat in Alice Cooper's living room in the middle of a semi-circle of female friends facing a pile of square cut ham salad sandwiches. On one side of Joan sat Alice and Rosemary Squires, on the other Kathy Kirby and Ann-Kristin Malvig.

"I just can't understand what has been happening here." Rosemary Squires was the first to give voice to their concerns, marginally beating the others to first base.

The vicarage was an obvious place for the senior ladies to meet. It made them feel as if they still held the moral high ground. They were sure of their convictions but beneath their feet there were rumblings of disquiet that others preferred to call the twenty first century. The new millennium had focused their prayers towards a more secure future full of promise for the faithful, but a stranger in town, a gunslinger in black with no past, was threatening to turn people's heads in another direction.

"Time was," said Kathy Kirby "when everyone knew their place. When children respected their parents, when men would rather work for nothing than sign on the dole. We had to make our own entertainment without the need for video shops, now this ...this place opens. There is no place in Fordhamton for shops like that. One expects that sort of thing in London, in the cities, but not in small communities like ours."

"Who in this town is going to buy the stuff?" enquired Rosemary. "It can only attract the kind of person that walks the streets of Soho, or Kings Cross; and I needn't remind you of what would follow."

"I thought this town could do with the extra trade." Ann-Kristin Malvig broke her silence.

"I appreciate we need more trade, Ann-Kristin, but this is a respectable community. We don't want to end up encouraging all manner of riffraff into our midst." Joan looked at Ann-Kristin as if she were a recalcitrant schoolgirl.

Ann-Kristin smiled politely but she failed to comprehend the thought processes of her new English acquaintances.

She had not been in England long; her husband had been sent to England by a Danish software company. They had settled on a four bedroom house on the Rupert Homes estate and she had been pleased of the offer of friendship from Joan Regan. Very slowly she had grown disenchanted with small town morals and although finding her new acquaintances less than enlightened, indulged Joan and her small circle by nodding and smiling at their petty prejudices.

"I think that you've hit the nail on the head, Joan. The type of shop Miss Slick has opened can only attract the wrong sort of element into Fordhamton. I think we know what she's really up to what with her planning application to be considered." Alice Cooper echoed Joan's moral correctness.

Alice Cooper knew what Grace was up to. "She needs the license application to be approved before she can sell that sort of stuff."

"What sort of stuff?" asked Kathy Kirby.

"Vibrators and dildos," said Ann-Kristin Malvig very matter-of-factly.

"You know about those things?" asked Alice.

"Of course, doesn't everyone? Surely you've all used a vibrator."

The other four ladies, who rarely left Fordhamton, who lent their good names to charities and stood behind pasting tables at church fetes to raise a couple of hundred much needed pounds, who made their humble voices sound like heavenly choirs in sparsely packed churches, who took tea with the Lord Lieutenant of the County, who had born children manfully and cried when they returned them to boarding schools, and whose husbands were company directors and public officials, had never used a vibrator before.

Ann-Kristin was stunned by the silence. "They're quite harmless, you know."

"Maybe," resumed a hastily reddening Joan, "but they are not quite the kind of thing that we want on open sale in this town."

"I just want to know what you've been doing all week going around with that stupid grin all over your face. Especially when you think that no one's looking. I've watched you. It was there this morning when that Regan woman came in. What's going on, Michael?"

Camilla Jackson, wife of the Post Office manager, wife of the Mayor and wife of Michael Jackson, looked at him across the dining room table with her eyebrows raised and demanded an explanation.

"Nothing,"

"Nonsense. I'm married to you. Of course there's not nothing going on. It's all over your face."

Michael shovelled another forkful of Bolognese sauce into his mouth and replaced the fork on his plate after flicking a couple of stray strands of spaghetti off of the tablecloth. "If you must know. Alan Price."

"He's dead. Mind you, now I think about it, that silly look has been on your face almost from the day he died. Why?" Camilla sipped at a lightly chilled Valpolicella. She was more than Michael's equal, and he knew it.

"His dying couldn't have come at a better time."

"That's not a very nice thing to say about the dead. I know you and him didn't hit it off but you never wanted him dead."

"No, I didn't. Thought about it often enough." Michael had. Alan often told him that he was no more than a small-minded shopkeeper, a little Englander to his Napoleon. Although Michael was Mayor, Alan Price was richer, drove a better car, had more friends, more influence. He was his superior in every way. Except Michael was Mayor and he was content in that until the day that Alan Price told him that he preferred it that way because as Mayor he only had a casting vote and whilst he sat on the Council he could turn the vote any way he wanted.

"Still, who would want to get mixed up with that crowd? Football team always went back at his house for late night parties; drugs, drink, sex, anything went. Except for Price himself, of course."

"What do you mean?"

"He was impotent. Everybody knew that."

"I didn't. Well, not until the inquest anyway."

"It was one of the town's worst kept secrets. That's why he had this thing about power. It was a substitute for not being able to get his end away any more. Let's face it; it's why Marion divorced him. So you see, I always managed a little laugh behind his back. Now it's my turn to get even."

"Why don't you just tell me what you've got up your sleeve?"

"Until Alan Price finally did the decent thing we, that is the Conservatives, had a definite majority on the Town Council. Now there's just Joan Regan and Arthur Brown, and on the other side Peter Noone and Val Masters. And between the two is that dimwit West. He calls himself an Independent, they always do, but he's always voted with us because deep down in that thin chest of his he's as much a dyed in the blue Tory as the rest of us. And if he wants to assert his independence to convince the few customers that he's still got that he is not allied to any political party, he abstains and then I have the casting vote.

"Unfortunately with Price gone there's only six councillors and that means that there's going to come a time when we won't be able to muster a quorum or fill the various sub-committees. A vote is called for. In the past the so-called intelligentsia that forms the electorate in this town have voted all manner of fools and cranks on to Council. You can't trust them. It just throws the whole democratic process into chaos. So it's up to me to ensure that we retain the status quo. Two from each side and let Keith West carry on abstaining."

"But what difference will it make to anybody?"

"None at all. Except to me. What is coming up this November? District Elections. Who's retiring? Douglas Quintet. And who will to go to District in his place? Me. And what better way to prove what a political mover and shaker I am to Chairman Pat Torpey and that fat cat husband of hers than to fix the elections in the Conservative's favour and secure the nomination. And tonight that little master plan will be put into action. It's about time that Alan Price did me a favour."

The Council met in the partner's room of West, Bruce, and Laing, Chartered Accountants. The table sat twelve comfortably and seats were placed around the room for any member of the public who wished to attend. None of the six and a half thousand residents eligible to vote ever did.

"Thank God for that," roared Michael Jackson, as Peter Noone entered.

Peter was late owing to a revised run at his printing works Noone Printing, on the Diesel Park West Industrial Estate. His jet-black hair and moustache belied his age. He looked a good ten years younger than thirty-five.

There were assorted grunts and 'good evenings' from around the table. Alice Cooper, vicar's wife and part-time Town Clerk, looked at Peter without comment. She was a slim woman in her late thirties but looked considerably older. Her black hair was cut short and she wore large stud earrings and thin black-rimmed glasses. She was aware how unfavourably she was compared to her contemporary.

"Apologies." Peter acknowledged his fellows and sat next to Valerie Masters (Labour). Val smiled back at him and he shuffled his chair a little more to the right rather than touch her knee, although there was nothing more he'd rather do. Then just as instinctively he edged his chair back to the left to avoid sitting directly opposite Arthur Brown (Conservative).

Arthur struck the last Swan Vestas against the side of the box and waved it lovingly over the Santana Shag, previously rammed down the bowl of his second best pipe, coughing and caressing the smoke head high.

"I would remind Councillors not to smoke." Alice Cooper frowned at the veil of smoke behind which Arthur Brown puffed wildly.

"What's this bloody ashtray doing here then?"

"As you are aware we are allowed to use this office and must respect our host's strict no smoking policy," replied Alice.

Arthur Brown, retired greengrocer, eldest Council member and dedicated pipe smoker, extinguished the fire and rifled the offending object back into the top pocket of his Fordhamton Town Bowling Club blazer. "Crazy world," he muttered. But Alice didn't hear him.

"Something about a quorum?" Keith West (Independent), a tall, spidery man with a reedy voice was keen to get on with the evening's business.

"It's something we'll have to discuss later under 'other business', but for the benefit of Councillor Noone the death of Councillor Price (Conservative) has left us with a problem." Alice looked at Peter, who tried to concentrate but felt the warmth of Val's leg slowly melting into his own.

Alice was about to proceed when the meeting was interrupted by Lee Dorsey, the straw haired, leather jacketed local reporter for the County Gazette (incorporating the Star), Fordhamton and District Edition.

"Evening," said Lee, without looking at anyone. He gathered his notebook and pencils from out of his satchel that was slung over his arm and around his back, and began to scribble as furiously as he rode his bike. "I would have been here earlier but I had to cover the school cleaners Art exhibition at Geno Washington County. Personally I thought it was hung upside down; just pray the editor prints my photographs the right way up."

Lee looked back at seven faces, which were waiting for him to pause for breath. Lee did not take the hint. "Joke," he added. "The editor's decision is final. Wouldn't make much difference to the Philistines who read the paper anyway." The faces of authority remained impassively blank.

"Next," barked the Mayor, struggling to get the meeting back on schedule. "Sub-committees. Planning? Licensing?"

"Cancelled," remarked Peter. "For reasons we all know."

"But there's no reason why these matters cannot be discussed now." Joan Regan was not going to be ignored. "Mr Miller's application to mount a CCTV camera can be deferred to District, I have no real objection to that but... the matter of this license to open a sex shop in town is just about the most important matter to come before this council in years. It is certainly a matter for debate. And, I might add the full weight of the council should be behind our recommendations to the Licensing authority."

"I have tried to explain to you Joan," sighed Alice Cooper who had indeed explained the matter in great detail a few many times to the obdurate lady councillor who could find little or no logic in matters of protocol.

"Joan," sighed Alice again, looking at each and every other councillor in turn having already explained the problems surrounding what they all knew was a tricky and delicate situation. "As a Town Council we are only one part of the licensing review. We can make recommendations but they count for not much more than any other. Secondly as we are now are unable to operate as we cannot manage a quorum we are unable to make any binding decisions so that we are actually unable to advise the District Licensing authority of any views we have."

"Of course," she continued. "This does not prevent you as a representative from canvassing opinion in your ward and submitting your own views and even asking the electorate, if they so desire, to write to the Licensing authority themselves."

"What then," barked Joan "is the point of a council?"

"As we stand Councillor Regan, no point at all," explained Val Masters. "We all have opinions on the need or otherwise of a retail unit selling personal items but if Alan Price had not got himself killed then we might have had a chance of making a point, although it may not be as clear cut as you think."

"Are we to assume from that Councillor Masters, that you are in favour of this application?"

"Frankly I can't see what harm it would do," replied Val honestly but knowing full well that this was guaranteed to upset her opponent.

"Me neither," agreed Peter Noone. "Where else can you get these sort of things?"

"What sort of things?" asked Arthur Brown. "We used to get our weekend requisites from the barber shop."

"Times have moved on, Councillor," replied Val, masking a smile. "There's a whole new world out there."

"It's not all about sex, you know," barked Joan.

"I think you'll find that it is," returned Val.

"This is going nowhere. Councillor Regan, it's been explained to you that we cannot discuss or even vote so I move that we move on," said the Mayor.

"We have now found how difficult it will be to continue to function as a full Council, so that the only matter to be discussed should not be the possibility, but rather the calling of an election." Alice looked at each member individually over the top of her glasses.

Everyone knew it was inevitable. Only Arthur Brown groaned inaudibly. Another election meant a couple of weeks knocking on doors in support of whomever the Party nominated; hours combing the village lanes in the outer reaches of the town boundary for laid back cottages; evenings walking the cold deserted streets of the Rupert Homes Estate; he was getting too old for this. Campaigning by the Council's senior statesman was expected. There was no way out.

Lee Dorsey looked up from his scribbling. "Could you tell me how the Council has managed to carry on for almost two years with only six councillors?"

"Whilst we had six councillors, " explained Alice Cooper, "those present around the table and Councillor Price we could continue as long as all those six turned up, otherwise we could not manage a proper quorum and could not register a decision."

What happened to the other three?" asked Lee. "There were ten. Yes?"

"There was Steve Miller, of course," suggested Peter Noone. "But as soon as he was elected Councillor, West realised that as a Council employee...."

"Road sweeper, Labour man," added Keith West.

"As a Council employee he was barred from taking office. Then we lost Eddie Floyd. He went out East on a holiday and caught malaria."

"Didn't he take any jabs?" asked Lee.

"He was an ex-serviceman, El Alamein, Tobruk, Desert Rat, that sort of thing. He considered himself pretty safe against anything."

"Stubborn," suggested Lee.

"Conservative," corrected Valerie.

Joan Regan stared at Valerie as if she had sworn in church. Valerie bit her lip to force back a smile and felt Peter's foot tapping hers.

Lee Dorsey saw none of this. "And?" he continued.

"Mike Bloomfield," finished Peter. "He got promoted shortly after the election. Got sent to Canada."

"Labour? Conservative? Libdem?" fished Lee.

"Green," answered Val. "Actually he got the most votes. One hundred and thirty three. Most of the public confused him with Mike Bloomfield who was standing for the Labour Party at a by-election in Berry Woods on the same night."

"Did he win?" asked Lee, in danger of being sidetracked.

"No, lost his deposit."

"Wouldn't have made much difference then?"

"Well, it would have done to our candidate."

"What was his name?"

"John Major."

"This is getting us absolutely nowhere," stormed the Mayor, who realised that he should have stopped Lee's investigations at the outset.

"The public has a right to know exactly what is going on here. After all, you are their elected representatives," said Lee, in defence of his profession.

"Maybe," agreed Michael "but all this is in the past. What we have to discuss, is replacing him."

"Foul mouthed barrow boy," grunted Arthur Brown, thinking no one had heard.

Peter was about to comment on the fact that Arthur Brown's father started his business empire by selling greengroceries off a barrow parked in the High Street, in the space between the Bank and the horse trough. The latter was now the centrepiece of an ornamental garden display, tended by the disqualified Steve Miller. He didn't because Michael Jackson pre-empted him.

"He did a lot for this town."

"If you liked football," protested Keith West. Who did not.

Joan Regan spoke over whatever it was the Mayor was about to say. "All the money he got from the Council, that certain people round this table voted through, could have been better spent on the public park, and proper fencing where it borders Baker Street."

Joan looked around the table accusingly. "I must agree with Councillor West. The man was football mad. What's more he encouraged the players into all forms of unruly behaviour. Swearing on the field, fights at the clubhouse, and even during games. Most of the team found their way into the KYM Mazelle Windows and Double Glazing League of Abuse. You see, I do know about these things. Not to mention those noisy after match parties."

Joan's self-satisfaction was all over her face, slightly reddening as she warmed to her task. It was not the flush of embarrassment but the glow of righteousness.

"And he encouraged the same sort of anti-social behaviour in his workers. I've passed them. Sitting outside the factory, beer cans in hand, swearing, being rude to young girls. What kind of responsible businessman condones that sort of attitude at work, what does it say about the type of work he does? Making plastic bottles does not strike me as a valuable contribution to a healthy economy."

Keith West found himself agreeing with Joan, never wondering what cause she had to walk around the Diesel Park West Industrial Estate. And why would one of Price's Tools workforce ever blow a wolf whistle at Joan Regan?

As far as he knew Alan Price's plastic bottles were not biodegradable. And he had no notion of what eventually was contained in them. He was sure though, that any product that was not environmentally friendly itself could not be used to hold a product that he would sell in his health food shop. Keith West was wrong, as he would find out to his cost.

Joan had not finished. "What's more, he drove that car around town too fast. And that's what killed him. I never understood why he was ever a member of the Conservative party. He never made any contribution to preserving a desirable way of life."

Joan subsided. She had made her point.

"Well I think we ought to agree on a date for an election then," urged the Mayor, wondering how the meeting had so easily been sidetracked into a debate on Alan Price's lifestyle.

"Allowing for advising the electorate, possibly next week, and allowing for Easter, the most likely date appears to be Thursday May Sixth." Alice Cooper had done as Michael Jackson had suggested.

"Too bloody long to go on without a Council. Someone is bound to kick up a stink sooner or later." Michael Jackson looked in the direction of Lee Dorsey who was still checking his diary. His plan began to unwind slowly like the coiled spring of a child's toy before the clockwork motion brought forth the jumping jack to surprise and amuse.

"Better bring it forward a bit. How does April twenty-second sound?" They all agreed that this was not too far ahead or too inconveniently close. Only Keith West paused.

"Suppose, Alice, that there are only four, or worse, three nominations. What then?"

"Then, those three are elected unopposed."

"We could get lumbered with all kinds of loonies." Arthur Brown's wait was over. "I remember that Bloomfield chap. Green Party. He actually wanted to ban all cars from the High Street after nine o'clock in the mornings and make it a Pedestrian Friendly Zone."

Michael Jackson suddenly felt giddy. Keith West had stumbled on the key to his survival and now Arthur Brown was about to sabotage it.

"Look Arthur, old boy," said Michael, who often patronised his fellow trader. "The fact remains that an election is inevitable. I don't want an election. No one wants an election. Come election night, as on all other election nights, no one will turn out. They'll be down the Albatross watching Manchester United getting slaughtered by a bunch of Dagos, or Eyeties. So let's just get on with it. Those in favour of April Twenty-second."

All agreed. Michael Jackson smiled. He was right. And everyone knew he was right. No one wanted an election, least of all Arthur Brown.

Michael Jackson certainly didn't want an election. He wanted an election called. All he wanted to do, as Keith West had unwittingly uncovered, was to hold the status quo. His real plan consisted in ensuring that the four seats were filled by four nominees of his choosing. But first he fancied a drink.

Unfortunately few of his fellow councillors did. When the meeting was wound up Arthur Brown announced a pain in his back, Keith West had a prior engagement, Joan Regan wanted to watch TV and Alice Cooper rarely touched alcoholic beverages.

Peter Noone and Valerie Masters found themselves swept along to the Albatross in the company of the Mayor. He slowly made his way to the bar; the first round was always on the Mayor.

He was not a lightweight; he was powerfully built even in these, his later years. He ran the Post Office and basked in the familiarity. He greeted everyone with a warm handshake; he wanted to be liked and would buy that friendship. It was part of the Grand Plan. He took a long time to reach the bar.

Peter found himself alone with Valerie. He had been married a long time but he still remembered what it was like to be an embarrassed adolescent alone at last with the paramour you've been chasing for weeks, maybe months. Then finding at the very last that your tongue can't remember the words you've been rehearsing all those long lonely nights in a single bed.

"Have to make the most of it, just us three," he said finally. They had squeezed as close to the bar as possible.

"Feel free?" repeated Val, who found it difficult to grasp every word owing to the bass line of the Tabs latest hit thumping out of the speakers just above her head.

"Free?" Peter asked.

"To do what?" enquired Val.

"What do you want?" asked the confused Peter Noone.

"What I really want is a holiday."

"A holiday. What a wonderful thought," breathed out Peter, finally able to hear her in the hiatus between record selections.

"Isn't it? A holiday. Away from husband, kids, work, Town Council, Arthur Brown's pipe smoke, loud music, the lot in fact. Do you feel that way as well?"

"What way?" asked Peter, scratching his head, as the music thundered past him again.

"Whitby? I've never been to Whitby. That would be lovely."

"Would you?"

Valerie looked at him in a way that surpassed all words. It made him tremble. He looked over her shoulder, past the brass fastening of her bag, past the creased leather collar of her jacket and the glint of silver suspended from her ear, past the stray black hairs around her neck and the softest trace of perfume.

Michael Jackson was still waving a ten pound note over the bar, but his body was facing a group of middle aged men that Peter recognised as team members from Fordhamton Cricket Club discussing the night's indoor net practice.

"Do you fancy going somewhere quieter?" he whispered, although the words were lost in the heavy beat. They needed no translation, for Valerie was thinking the same.

She put her hand in his and they shuffled through the hordes of young men watching Arsenal playing a team of Cypriot part-timers in the European Champions League last sixteen First Leg. No one gave the two councillors a second look.

They parked at the end of the track that led to Fordhamton Town Football Club. Peter's hand slipped inside her bra and paused as his trousers slipped to the floor. Her hand reached towards him.

When he parked the car that night it was not thoughts of unfaithfulness that haunted him but election fever. Michael Jackson was wrong; there were two people who longed for an election.

An election would mean more time with Val, with no need for excuses to wife Eve. He would come home late and complain about the same anonymous streets on the Rupert Homes estate and, just like Arthur Brown, no one would give it a second thought.

Michael Jackson intended to nip the election in the bud but Peter didn't know that. The same divine intervention that had opened up a path to political advancement was going to prove a capricious asset for the holder of Fordhamton's most prestigious public office.

Whilst most of Fordhamton slept, Bill Withers sat in his living room with a half finished pint of Barclays Harvest Bitter and a couple of ham rolls slowly drying out. June was watching late night snooker. Bill dreamed.

"They won't expect much, will they?"

June yawned and exchanged sides of the armchair. "I wouldn't have thought so. What can anyone do at such short notice?"

As the day had expired so Bill had realised that his appointment as Chairman of the LVA had given him his very own bed of nails. The realisation had dawned on him that the first charity function of the year was on the fifteenth of April and he hadn't the slightest notion of how he was going to approach it. It had been in the previous meeting's minutes but as an ordinary member Bill had not given it a thought. It was the responsibility of the Chairman. He hadn't made plans for that eventuality.

"I reckon all those buggers knew about this and let me carry the can." Bill never realised how close to the truth he was.

"No, I don't think so."

"You don't?" asked Bill, unaware that June was remarking on the position of the blue ball that Ronnie O'Sullivan was attempting to pot into the top pocket.

"No, maybe not," continued Bill. "My appointment was all above board. But I think I could have got a little more support. I mean, what do they expect in three weeks? Just enough time to get tickets printed. And that's if Peter Noone can fit it in. Bloody council meetings take all his time up these days. I bet Eve gets a bit fed up with it."

"Why don't you have a snooker match? Get them to pay for a round with Jimmy White, or someone like that," suggested June, as Ronnie O'Sullivan screwed the blue ball into the cushion and watched it ricochet back into play.

"June, you're a genius," said Bill and drained his pint. "I'll see Mick tomorrow. Anyone who runs a shop called Runaway Sports must have some useful contacts in the sporting world."

### CHAPTER 4 – Wednesday March 24

Les Crane stood by the back doors of the Fordhamton Town Football Club clubhouse, his face screwed up like the delivery note clenched in his right hand. Les was one of those people destined to be lost in a crowd. He was neither heavy nor slight. He had been a good club footballer but never a great one. Now he was the Club's greatest servant, always at hand to do Alan Price's bidding.

The contract driver for the Amsterdam and Mersey Brewery shrugged his shoulders and heaved the sack barrow onto the lorry, then wound down the plastic shutters. He had been on the road since five o'clock, got lost twice and still had another six drops to do before midday.

"Complain to the brewery mate, not me. I just deliver the stuff. How do I get to Rutherford from here?"

Les wasn't listening. He was short of two barrels of bitter, four of lager, two crates of light ale and several cases of sundry mixers and squashes.

He unscrewed the delivery note, folded it in four and slid it into his back pocket. He locked the doors and watched the contract lorry lurch to a halt at the end of the field, indicators flashing right. A few seconds later it turned left and disappeared into the countryside, leaving a cloud of dirt and dust from the dried out and rutted track that weaved through the hedgerow and farmland as a snake heads for the water hole.

Les reached home and rang Glen Campbell, Head of Telesales. "I just don't understand this. We've been dealing with you for years."

"I realise that, Mr. Crane," said the unflappable Telephone Sales Manager. "But the problem is that you've exceeded your credit limit."

"But we need this for Saturday. It's the semi-final of the KYM Windows and Double Glazing Clyde Valley and District League Cup."

"I understand, Mr. Crane. But I can't authorise any more credit."

"We've never given any trouble before. I've always ensured that your invoices are honoured on the right date. We're expecting a big crowd."

"I'm pleased to hear it." Glen Campbell phrased his words carefully so there would be no misunderstanding. "You see, Mr. Crane, in the past we have come to rely on the guarantee of Mr. Price for any defaults or overspending."

Les was silenced.

"And of course in the light of Mr. Price's unfortunate death we have had to review our arrangements. You know how it is, Mr. Crane. Our Bank checks your Bank, and we find that the guarantee that Mr. Price signed is now no longer useful because Mr. Price is no longer with us. We regret that we may now have to accept orders from you on either a cash with order, or C.O.D basis. That's business, I'm afraid."

"But what about my order for Saturday?"

"I'm afraid, Mr. Crane, that we cannot go on subsidising every football club in the country. I'm sure you'll be able to come back with some alternative arrangements that suit us both."

Les put down the phone. He knew only too well that Alan Price, not the Brewery, had been subsidising the Club out of his own pocket for years. The Vice Presidents had been crying poverty for years with their bank balances safe, secure in the knowledge that any shortfall would be found by the late Alan Price.

It was perhaps not the best time to call. Which is exactly what Les said to DI Harley and DC Davis.

"And why is that?" asked Harley, passing up an offer of tea from Mrs Crane.

"You know he died virtually broke."

"It has come to our notice."

"Without his financial support the football club might possibly close."

"I understand it was made a very substantial bequest in Mr Price's will."

"Quite so Inspector. But that is for capital expenditure. To build a stand, which to be honest is not at the top of my priorities at the moment."

"And what is?" asked Harley.

"Getting some beer in for the match on Saturday. There's no more credit from the brewery because they can't rely on Alan to bail us."

"How many times did he do that then? Once, twice a year?" Davis had pen poised above his notebook.

Les smiled a sad smile and scratched his head. "The truth is Inspector, the bills always went to Alan and he paid them."

"So did he get his money back?" asked Davis, still waiting to write something.

"The bar's takings are counted, a float left in the till and the balance paid over to Alan."

"Cash?"

"Of course cash."

"What about kit, laundry bills, cleaning bills, toilet rolls..." Davis list was endless but Harley stopped him in time.

"If I were to call some of my friends in from the Fraud Squad they might find after an eyeball at your accounts that Fordhamton Football Club was run as a hobby of Alan Price and possible a vehicle for tax evasion."

Les looked shocked, his body trembled. "Fraud Squad?" he spluttered.

"Purely academic Mr Crane. Personally I don't care who paid who. In short, without Mr Price the club is kaput?"

"That's about it," agreed Les, slightly relieved.

"And what about you and the late Mr Price? Known him long?"

"We went to school together and played for the club in the same first eleven. Almost won the cup one year, knocked out in the semi-final. But that was the year we won the league. A lot of water under the bridge since then I'm afraid."

Harley and Davis left Les to his musings on how he was going to get enough beer to satisfy the expected crowds on Saturday. The Football Club had been Alan's life. It seemed destined to die with him.

"Well he was a bundle of joy," commented Harley.

Davis made no reply. "Where to now then guv?"

"I think its time we made the acquaintance of the lovely Miss Walker."

It was quite an accurate adjective thought Harley as he and Davis sat in Marion Walker's office above the Sad Café. She was more than lovely, she was quite a stunner, or so he thought. Unfortunately she was not as enamoured of DI Steve Harley despite his cool cockney charm. And even less by the fish cold Davis.

"I am rather tired of saying this," began Marion. "But the long and the short of everything is that my ex husband died broke. Well, not broke as there are some assets left but once we sell what we can and pay who he owed, then there is unlikely to be anything left for me, or my sons."

"I have to ask these things, you understand?" resumed Harley as pleasantly as he could muster. "Were you aware that your ex-husband was worth a small fortune?"

"Of course I was," replied Marion rather angrily but maintaining a sense of outward calm. "Everyone knew he was. He made money. That's what he did in life. What I didn't know until Keith Emerson told me was that it was all tied up in mortgages and a company in America."

"You had no interest in his business dealings?"

"No, but I wish I had. It wouldn't have ended up like this." Marion was not lying but she didn't reveal that her name was still on the Bank account. James Taylor's revelation was best kept secret; easy enough as no one else had ever mentioned it before.

"One last question Miss Walker," smiled Harley. "When did you last see Alan Price?"

"Am I a suspect in this? Why would I want him dead? Do you think I had him drugged up?"

Harley was at once both surprised and excited by Marion's outburst. He found himself liking her more and more; the mix of anger and outrage was a potent sexual trigger for him. He remained as calm and as charming as he could.

"All I'm trying to do is to trace his movements that day. I'm trying to discover how a foreign substance got in his body; and when and where it might have been administered."

"If you must know I did see him on that morning. Very briefly. I had a client here. Alan barged in as he always did, shouted at me about no post being delivered as if it was my fault and then stormed back out again."

"Was that normal?" asked Davis.

"It was for Alan. You may have realised by now that he was, in a word – abrasive."

"Well, said Harley as they sat over a coffee in the Sad Café downstairs. One, how come a woman like that can marry a pig like Price. And two, no one in this town has a good word to say about him."

"On the other hand," replied Davis. "He seemed to be worth more alive than dead."

"So it appears Davis. So why would anyone want to kill him?"

"Do you think someone wanted him dead?"

"Someone went to a lot of trouble to try. All I am left with is this tart at the local knocking shop. Back to square one, old son. Cherchez la femme."

Alex Harvey was deep in slumber when the phone rang. He let it ring. But the caller was insistent and eventually Alex crawled from bed and moaned a mournful greeting down the receiver.

"Alex? Is that you?" Alex grunted again. "Great news, Alex."

"Morning, Victor," Victor Feldman was Alex's agent. "You got me out of bed."

"You should be like me, Alex. Up at the crack of dawn. And today is worth getting out of bed for. I've got some really good news for you." It did not stir any enthusiasm in Alex. "You remember 'You're a big boy now'?"

"Course I do. I've spent the best part of my adult life trying to forget it."

"Don't. Whatever you do, don't forget it. The Tabs want to record it for their next single. You know the Tabs?" asked Victor nervously.

"Do I not know the Tabs? I get woken by them every morning."

"Exactly. They want to record that old hit of yours."

"It flopped."

"Number thirty four."

"Hardly a major hit."

"Doesn't matter. They don't know that. Their manager heard it on one of those golden oldie radio stations and thought it just right."

"He must have been high on illegal substances to think that."

"Alex, Alex," pleaded Victor. "You know what this means. With the Tabs singing it, it'll go gold, platinum, top of the pops stateside. Think of the royalties. Of course it may need a little tinkering about with."

"An edgy hip-hop beat with just a hint of old school."

"Exactly, Alex. You see, I knew you'd be pleased. I'll say yes then."

Before Alex could say no, Victor cut him off.

Alex didn't want his past life resurrected. He wanted to remain the Record Man. He picked up the post and placed it in the bin.

Forced out into a late March morning by unwelcome news, Alex slouched slowly across the road, mouthing curses at the impatient driver of a contract lorry travelling south with a cargo of lager and bottled beers, covered in the distinctive labels and logos of the Amsterdam and Mersey Brewery.

He picked up his Guardian and tried to concentrate on Melanie Charles' face rather than on the green material sweater that looped downwards towards her breasts, uncovering an upturned Y where they parted.

"Grace has asked me to model her clothes."

"That's good," replied Alex, rather dazed.

"Have you heard about her show?"

"Asked me to be a DJ."

"Really. That's cool." Melanie clasped her arms beneath her chest, hugging herself with delight. "Can't wait to wear some of that lacy stuff."

"Oh dear," thought Alex. He had thought of nothing else all week but Grace. Now visions of Melanie in scanty bras and suspender belts came to torment him. He remained in the doorway as Bill Withers passed on the other side of the road on his way to Runaway Sports. He didn't want to talk to Bill, or anyone else. He wanted to be alone with his thoughts. As soon as Bill was lost to sight he made his way to the Sad Café.

The Sad Café had been run by the Beverley sisters for over three years now. They weren't really sisters but Frankie Beverly and Beverley Marshall had been friends for years and both had kids at Geno Washington County.

It wasn't even called the Sad Café, but simply The Coffee Shop. The school kids called it 'sad' because they had no jukebox or games machines and most of the daytime customers were old ladies. The Beverley Sisters didn't mind it being called Sad Café but they stopped short at having the place officially renamed and having to pay for a new sign and logos on all the serviettes and crockery.

There was no getting away from it. Over the airwaves, beamed into a million suburban kitchens and High Street boutiques from the studios of Radio Gaga came the unmistakable melody of the Tabs blockbusting number one.

Alex groaned at Frankie. "Everywhere I go they're playing that tune."

"Not your scene, Alex?" asked Frankie, pouring out a coffee whilst turning round and pushing another four pieces of bread into the toaster.

"Anodyne pap," replied Alex, and didn't catch the smile from Beverley. "Do you know why they're called Tabs?"

"Tina, Angie and Bernice," repeated Beverley and Frankie.

"So why not To Be Announced. Or Bats, even better."

"You can't call an all girl group Bats," said Beverley, punching the skin on a new catering cylinder of instant coffee.

"Why not?" demanded Alex, warming to his task. "I once played on a record by the Stewed Prunes. Didn't do them any harm."

"You're a cynic, Alex," stated Frankie, handing Alex a plate of hot buttered toast.

Alex took the plate and coffee and sat by the window, nodding at Joan Regan and Phyllis Nelson who had just come through the door. "Morning ladies."

Phyllis ordered two teas and toasted teacakes. She was a short, slightly tubby woman in her late forties. She had buck teeth, greying hair brushed forward like an ill fitting hairpiece, and red rimmed glasses that she hung on her chest with a silver chain until needed to read the medical notes that she filed away at Doctors John, Feelgood and Hook's surgery.

Alex stared blankly at the sports pages of the Guardian. He had no interest in sports; the words were just tracks that carried him down into his deepest thoughts.

Joan on the other hand, was ready to wage war. "I'm sure I saw that Ann-Kristin woman go into Joy of Looking." Phyllis was urged to reduce her volume by Joan who pressed a finger to her pouting lips. It was a sign that the army of repression was on the march.

Alex was momentarily returned to the familiar surroundings of the Sad Café. He raised his eyes from the latest cricket debâcle in New Zealand when he thought he heard Grace's name mentioned. Joan and Phyllis were still huddled over elevenses and he realised he must have been mistaken.

He wasn't but neither were DI Harley and DC Davis who had been ignored by the regulars of the Sad Café.

Joan was quite right. Ann-Kristin Malvig was investigating the new shop. It was from the outside, just the kind of shop that she had been looking for.

She had explained to her husband Frederick the outrage felt by the other ladies of the town but he had continued to lick the inside of her ears by way of expressing his complete lack of understanding of the way that the minds of middle aged English women managed to bring their obsession with sex into every topic of conversation.

On entering Joy of Looking she was struck by the widest range of delicately feminine clothing and underwear that she had seen since arriving in England. For Ann-Kristin was delicately feminine herself, an incongruent swan amongst the dowdy feathered ducks with whom she had been swimming in the village pond.

Grace put the phone down. "Sorry about that. Trying to get through to my accountant. All I got was a push button menu followed by anodyne pap."

Ann-Kristin smiled with her wide lips. She didn't quite understand what Grace was saying or who Anodyne Pap was, but she recognised a friendly voice. She pushed the long blond hair away from her cheeks and felt the satin bra that covered the glass bust of a headless model.

"Can I help you?" asked Grace.

Ann-Kristin felt at home in the shop. Grace seemed more like the kind of woman who could make her exile bearable than the ladies that had gathered at the vicarage.

"I can't seem to find any more personal items.

"I'm sorry," replied Grace, catching the inference immediately. "I'm not licensed for that yet. Soon I hope. In the meantime, please look around.

"I haven't been in town long, said Ann-Kristin by way of apology. "I haven't actually been in England that long, either."

Grace took an instant liking to the other woman. "I've only just opened the shop. I've had plenty of window shoppers. Most haven't the nerve to actually ask for what they want."

"I don't know much about that. Some of the ladies in town are a little hung-up about sexual matters."

"Now everything is becoming clearer. You mean Joan Regan. Large woman, blue rinsed hair." As Grace spoke she moved to the door and locked it. "Do you fancy a coffee?"

Ann-Kristin smiled. .

"You know," mused Ann-Kristin, crossing her long legs in Grace's back office, "this is a strange country. All I hear is old people talking about how they fought a war to protect liberty and freedom, yet as soon as I arrive here I find a group of middle-aged women trying to stop you earning a living by trying to close your business down."

"You can say that again," echoed Grace. "How on earth did you manage to get involved with people like that?"

"Well, you know how it is when you're a foreigner in a strange country. Frederick, my husband, is at work and I'm left here and Joan seems to know everybody. And some of the others are just like all the snobs in all the other countries of the world, all thinking they are so cultivated, so chic, so trying to impress people by having a foreigner in their intimate circle of acquaintances. I was, I think, just wallpaper."

"She was the first one through these doors when I opened. Fortunately I'm not her type of person. Tell me, would you mind doing me a favour? If you're up for it."

"Please, call me Annie. And yes, as long as it's a bit of fun."

"I hope it will be fun. I'll ring you later then."

Grace opened the door to let Annie out. Across the road Teargas was dark. He hadn't opened today.

There were other ladies who called but the first male customer arrived in mid-afternoon.

He was a tall, bald businessman in a lightweight suit and silk tie, smelling faintly of expensive male cologne. His hands were white with manicured nails and she had no misgivings about letting him caress the samples of satin panties arrayed along the counter.

"It is so unusual to find such as a shop as yours these days. And in such a small town. Would you have this in a 38 inch hip?"

"This should fit," offered Grace.

"Do you mind if I try them on?" asked the softly spoken traveller.

"They're for you?" asked Grace, a little stunned. She had not expected such a sale.

"You don't mind?"

"No, no." Grace reassured him very quickly that she had no qualms about male customers and ushered him into one of the rear dressing rooms.

On his return she decided to bite the bullet whilst waiting for the credit card transaction to go through.

"You're well into this, are you? Cross-dressing I mean. Is there a big market for it?"

"There certainly is for this kind of quality. Myself, I still find it a little difficult to shop; and then I saw this place open when I passed through on Monday. Fortunately I missed the bypass. I ended up 'just passing through' as it were. I just had to return to see this shop from the inside. Otherwise it would have been back to the catalogues. But that's so impersonal and you can't always try before you buy."

Her years in commodities had taught Grace always to look for the opportunity, always think about how to turn defeat into advantage, to learn from error. Standing before her was a polite, seemingly well educated and well presented man who had given her one more way of widening her sales platform.

"Tell me.......... actually, I don't even know your name."

"George. George Hamilton. I've got a card somewhere."

"Well, George, have you ever thought about modelling?" George looked back at Grace as one professional to another, and inclined his head in a way that indicated profound interest.

"Do I get a discount?" he asked.

By the time George had left, Grace had secured the sale and had added George's name to the list of models at her forthcoming show that already boasted Melanie Charles and Ann-Kristin Malvig.

Across the road Teargas remained dark. Grace had seen no potential customers try the door, apart from Bill Withers, who had shaken the door handle like greeting the man that Camelot sent when you'd won the lottery. But there was no reply; Bill had walked impatiently back to the pub.

Bill wanted someone to hear about his misfortunes. The previous recipient, Mick Abrahams at Runaway Sports where Alex had seen Bill head earlier, did not want to know about other people's misfortune.

"So how's business?" asked Bill, by way of common courtesy.

"Do you know Manchester United already have a new European kit for next season?" Bill only had time to shake his head before Mick continued. He was a short man, who wore a different football kit every day, and talked like an express train ahead of schedule.

"That's on top of the one they started with at the beginning of the season, and Tottenham are going back to wearing Royal Blue, or so the Sun says."

"So trade's good then?"

"You must be joking, Bill," answered the diminutive sports shop owner. "How can I afford to keep that amount of stock? Every size from Ron Yeats to Bryan Douglas. Now that's what you'd call a winger. I went to Scrooge at the Bank and he tells me I'm overstocked. Do I tell him how to run a Bank?"

Bill squeezed his lips together by way of agreement. "What I wanted to know, Mick. How do I get hold of Jimmy White, or someone like him, anyway?"

Bill explained how he hoped to get a star down to support a charity snooker match. But Mick only laughed at him. "You're about two years too late, mate. They're all booked up years in advance. Besides, they only do it for pound notes, and a lot of pound notes as well. Forget it, mate, bloody good idea. You should take a leaf out of your chum Colin's book. A top of the charts girl group, that's what pulls 'em in these days. Skirts."

"I still don't know how he did it. Makes me look a right pillock. The other week it was all going well. Well, there was no bloody disasters, anyway. Tony Sheridan did me a favour and buggered off to Spain and I get to be made Chairman. Then Colin gets this group to appear and those that I once called friends seem to have dumped me in the soft brown stuff by leaving me to carry the can and organise a charity do for Tony Sheridan's nominated charity who have the nerve to call themselves the Spandau Ballet School for Dysfunctional Young Adults. Just a bunch of two left footed delinquents if you want my opinion."

For once Mick found he was unable to get a word in edgeways. His words of advice were still ringing in Bill's ears when he found Alex's shop firmly closed. "Sex sells Bill, ask around."

Which is what Les Crane had been doing all day but those committee members that were at home made their excuses and suggested someone else.

Left to resolve the problem himself, Les visited all the local publicans to beg, borrow or pay later for beer to quench the thirst of the expected semi-final crowd. None of the local publicans could help, having already ordered or having none to spare. His travels brought him to Brian Auger at The Bird of Paradise, once a village pub but now swallowed up on the outskirts of the ever expanding and devouring, Rupert Homes estate.

One committee member he had not been able to raise was Fixture Secretary, Kenny Ball. Now Les knew why. Kenny was perched on a stool, bent over the bar, with a stack of loose change and crumpled notes in front of him, discussing the end of the world with Brian Auger.

Brian was a shortish, stoutish, robust man who was the first publican in the district to stay open all day, every day. His wife was a nurse and his children had grown up and left so that he liked to while away the hours talking to anyone who had an hour to spare and the price of a pint in their pocket.

Kenny Ball had both in abundance.

He gave Les a cursory greeting and lapsed into his private reveries whilst Les complained to Brian of how the world had been treating him. It wasn't until Les had rewound the events of the last few days from his meeting at Emerson, Lake & Palmer that Kenny finally spoke to him.

"And so," had said Les, turning to Kenny, "I thought it might be a good idea to spread his ashes on the pitch before the kick-off on Saturday."

"I think we ought to throw them over the Baker Street rubbish tip. That's what he did to me."

Kenny was fifty-five and had been employed at Price's Tools for the last six years. He had been lucky to find another job at his age after having been made redundant.

"I know how you feel, Kenny, but I have to carry out his last wishes."

Kenny took another sip of his beer, spilling a little down his jacket as he withdrew the glass. "You haven't got a clue how I feel. You've been in work all your life. You're lucky. You're retired. What about me? Where am I going to find another job at my age? And what about the rest of the staff? All on the scrap heap. All of us."

"Something will turn up, Kenny. It always does."

"What do you know about it, Brian? As long as I come in here and spend my last bit of cash on your beer, what do you care? I'll tell you something else, Les Mr. Secretary Crane, Alan Price had better watch out."

Kenny's speech was losing lucidity as his manners and reasoning became more belligerent.

"What do you mean, watch out? The man's dead. It's not his fault he's dead. You've just got to get on with your life."

"What are you talking about? The thing is Les, you've just come in here to scrounge off Brian because Price has left you high and dry with no money to pay for the beer, and he's put me and a few others on the scrap heap. Of course it's his fault. He got himself killed. He's alright. He's dead and out of it. His wife, she'll be alright. His boys, they'll be alright. Plenty of money for them. But who's going to pay my mortgage, my bills, look after my wife and family. Price's tools? That's just about what we are."

Despite the notice in the window, Alex Harvey always locked the door of the shop at five o'clock rather than half past on those days when he was actually open for business. He was surprised to hear someone knocking on the glass panels at twenty-five past. Irritation turned to pleasure when he opened the door to Grace Slick.

"Can I speak to you?" she asked.

Alex ushered her in and locked the door again.

"Sensational," gasped Grace, looking round the shop.

Rows of deep shelving held up the vast collection of old '45's, each one enclosed in original sleeves and protected by polythene wrappers. The L.P.'s filled another wall. Slung from hooks on the beams that held the premises together were guitars and jackets, framed gold and silver discs, posters advertising clubs and bars that had long been dissembled brick by brick and scattered into millions of bedrooms and private rock museums.

At the rear of the shop the jukebox gleamed like a sleeping daemon, the electric blue arches and red-framed speakers were dulled in the silver surround.

"Does it work?" asked Grace.

"Everything works," replied Alex very courteously, who would normally have been offended if asked that question by anyone else. He slid his hand to the rear and the machine jerked to life. Light sparked around the system bringing a multitude of colour upon the faces of Grace and Alex.

"Where did you get it?" Grace ran her fingers along the buttons, as gently as if they were tresses on a baby's hair.

"I tell everyone it came from the 2i's coffee bar in Soho. But it didn't. I got it at an auction years ago and had it restored by a friend. Alex pushed a button, and as the silent running mechanism selected and placed a record down, the voice of Ricky Nelson echoed in the empty store.

"And all this. All genuine." Grace walked slowly around the shop again. Past dimmed and golden saxophones, creased and dulled leather jackets and gloves, prints of groups with features hidden behind an abundance of facial hair, guitars of every style and shape.

"Every piece. I buy and sell. There's no secret. It's just like any other business. I buy at auction or sales, hold on to things for a couple of years whilst the value outstrips inflation or someone recaptures old glories and then sell."

"Who buys it then?"

"Mostly middle-aged men like me; student rebels who are now the estate agents and solicitors of the new millennium."

Grace felt a little saddened for Alex, stuck somewhere in a time loop. Part cynic, part businessman, part lonely rock star. Alex seemed happier in his shop amongst memories than he did when she had walked with him down the High Street.

Her attention had wandered. She held her long hair in one hand and was reading the titles of old '78's; none of the names meant much to her.

"Sorry," said Alex apologetically. "I'm sorry. I'm boring you. It's not often someone comes calling at this hour of the day."

Grace returned her gaze to Alex who despite his height, seemed to have shrunk slightly against the faded whitewashed walls.

"No, you're not." Ricky Nelson said goodbye to Mary Lou and the shop fell silent. "I've never been inside such a shop as this. Actually I called about something completely different. I could do with your advice."

"Would you like a drink? Next door." Grace shook her head. "Tea? I've got some coffee on. Unless you'd like something stronger."

"Coffee would be fine."

Alex led Grace upstairs, past the silenced but still glowing jukebox. It had been a long time since he had taken a woman upstairs.

Grace was pleasantly surprised by Alex's living room. She had imagined a sprawling mess, but it wasn't. The furniture was handmade from the best hard woods; the upholstery was leather and more prints of obscure touring bands hung from the oak beams.

Alex sat opposite her; there was no intimidating body language. "I've had a strange sort of day. Do you know Annie Malvig?" Alex shook his head slowly. "She's Danish. New to the town. I get the impression Joan Regan got to her to see if I'm selling pornography or personal items without a license.

"Joan wouldn't know what to do with a dildo. Probably thinks it's one of Tesco's new exotic fruit range."

Grace smiled. "I had a quick word with the licensing officer and he tells me there's been a few letters of objection from the town. Nothing to stop them approving my application. Yet, anyway."

"I get the feeling that they want to drive me out of town."

"What's happened," explained Alex, "is that you've come up against the Fordhamton Mafia. Little old ladies and men who can't find anything better to do than make other people's life a misery. It happens to every newcomer."

"To you?"

"Oh yes, when I moved here long hair, loud music and rock meant only one thing. Promiscuity. It took a little while to dispel that feeling, but eventually they go away and annoy someone else."

"How long have you been here?"

"Sixteen years. And to some people I'm still a newcomer. Some people are born then live and die here and never see any other part of the country. Let alone the world. You see, there are two types of person in town. There are those who want to keep it exactly as it is. They object to any change, whether good or bad, whoever wants it. Time has to stand still. Then there are those who want to return it to some sort of Golden Age; to recreate Merrie England, with a Lord of the Manor and ruddy cheeked yokels and everyone knowing their place."

"Where do you fit in to all this?"

"Me," laughed Alex. "It's no good farting in the wind, as the poet said."

"What should I do then, just forget about it?"

Alex had struggled these last minutes to put all thoughts of sex out of his mind. He was attracted to Grace but why would she enter into any sort of affair with a man like himself. He didn't exude virility, he had no knowledge of underwear, and sex with any woman now frightened him for fear of hairtrigger ejaculation or worse, erection failure. Best to keep sex out of it.

Had he but known what was in Grace's thoughts as she drank coffee and glimpsed at the modernist art that interrupted the flow of rock musicians along the walls, he might have been even less at ease.

For the first time in years Grace felt comfortable with a new male acquaintance. With Alex, sex was not on the agenda as soon as she met him. He had a boyish charm; conflict seemed to wash over him.

In only a couple of days Grace understood Alex. For too long he had hidden his real self beneath a parody of a sixties rock legend.

"Ignore it," suggested Alex.

"No." Grace was quite defiant. "It's not my style, Alex. I came here to set up a shop to indulge myself in underwear and help others get a new edge on their sexuality. I'm not going to let a bunch of frustrated spinsters get the better of me."

Alex watched the glow of excitement fill Grace's face. She was transformed. Her outward beauty was nothing compared to the passion that now pulsed inside her.

"I'm going to fight them all. There's nothing wrong with sex, we all do it. It just means I have to counter every word in every letter of objection. I've already spoken to my solicitor about it."

" Might still take months."

"I've got the time, Alex. We can't make the sun stand still but we can give him a bloody good run." Alex recognised a quote when he heard one but it wasn't from any track that he knew. He looked at her blankly..

"Andrew Marvell," added Grace. "Restoration poet. A bit before even your time, Alex."

Alex relaxed and smiled.

"And a video. I need a video made of the fashion show. Put it on to a DVD and on-line"

"See Roger Miller. Tell him I sent you. Tell him what you're up to. He's fighting the Mafia as well. There's still a few left who do."

"And what about my music?" It was said so gently, so inviting. Alex couldn't mistake the signals.

"Can we talk about it over dinner? Do you like curries?"

Grace had plans to make. She would rather have stayed but the little girl tugging on her hem would have to wait, at least until Friday.

Alex let her out. He retraced the hairs where she had left her hand on his beard. Treading his way lightly to the monster sleeping in its lair, Alex pressed a button at random.

Through the twin speakers boomed Elton John's 'Benny and the Jets'. Alex leaned to the side and tweaked up the volume. "Give 'em all a bloody good run," he said, and went upstairs.

### CHAPTER 5 – Thursday March 25

Stephen Stills was a slightly overweight man in his late twenties. He wore sensible suits, conservative ties and black socks. He kept his hands manicured and hair was trimmed just long enough to touch the collar of thin striped shirts. He liked to watch rugby with his mates, drinking and eating until the early hours in fashionable restaurants, and never had affairs with anyone in the same profession.

He was not unattractive, nor possessed of stunning looks. Marion Walker liked him for neither; he was a good solicitor.

"So basically," she asked him, "there's nothing at all wrong with this Letter of Credit." Stephen shook his head and drank his coffee. "It's all perfectly legal?"

"That's not quite the right word. But yes, it's a properly opened and confirmed Irrevocable Letter of Credit."

Stephen enjoyed his work. He treated all female clients exactly the same as their male counterparts. Sex and business did not mix.

"So," she continued. "James Taylor is quite right. If I send millions of these.... These tubular drop dispensers to America and submit the invoices to the Bank; they will pay me three million dollars."

"No doubt." Stephen was somehow aware of other matters on Marion's mind. "Does Keith Emerson know about this?"

"I'm seeing him this afternoon. Does he have to know about it?"

Stephen thought this an odd request, but saw no ulterior motive because Marion Walker had always been such an honest client. "As Alan's executor he should do. It is his responsibility to wind up his estate and as such he has to be in possession of all assets."

"Even if he does," said Marion, disguising her excitement, "does it mean that this Letter of Credit has to be used?"

"Not really. If it isn't used then it will just lapse. No one will have to pay. That would make the Banks happy. But on the other hand if you do claim against it then everyone will get paid according to Alan's will."

"And that will also make the Hues Corporation happy." Marion understood the way that the financial system usually looked after itself.

"The way I see things," said Marion, crossing her legs without a second glance from Stephen, "is that everyone is likely to get something out of this apart from me and the boys, which, let's face it, is completely opposite from what Alan intended. If I do nothing then the Banks keep their three million dollars. If I do as James Taylor wants and resurrect the factory, then the creditors get paid off, the workers get paid and there's not much over for me."

"It seems to me that you've come up against a moral dilemma. You have nothing to gain but possess the power to improve the lot of others."

"I care about myself and my family. Why should I care about anyone else?" Stephen declined to answer. "The police called yesterday. They said nothing, tried to be polite but I got a slight suspicion that they thought I might be involved in Alan's death."

"Were you?" teased Stephen.

"Course not. I told them the truth. Alan died broke. Then this turns up. It sort of gives me a motive."

"How?"

"Because with Alan out of the way I can take control of the company and make a few million pounds out of it."

"Look Marion, this Letter of Credit may be dated whilst he was still alive but it wasn't received until he was dead and its long dated. You would have had to have had prior knowledge. I take it you hadn't."

"I only saw James Taylor yesterday. He can confirm that even he was unaware."

"There you go then."

"What do you suggest I do now?"

"I can't answer that for you. I'm only your legal advisor. I can only tell you what you are able to do within the framework of the legal system. I would suggest that you talk it over with Alan's executors and in the meantime say nothing more about this."

Stephen's advice was quite sound. She intended discussing matters with Patrick and Keith, but not at the same time. If Stephen had any inclination of the scheme that was conceived in Price's Tools old factory, his advice to her might have been completely different.

In the meantime, for all the wrong reasons, his advice was sound. Divide and rule. The Bank, co-executors, James Taylor and the workforce and especially the police need only know what she wanted them to know. In the short term it was best that none of them actually met at the same time in the same place.

She drove back from Stephen Stills office to Fordhamton and parked at the rear of the Sad Café; it was only a couple of yards walk to the Bo Jolly Wine Bar where she had arranged to meet Patrick Shelton.

The bar was usually full of the white collar and lower ranks of the professional class that inhabited offices above the High Street shops; or the airless rooms on the Diesel Park West Industrial Estate. This Thursday was no exception.

Patrick waved at her from the recesses of the furthest corner, lit by candles and filtered sunlight. He underlined his greeting by kissing a bottle of Australian Chardonnay against the rim of the ice bucket, condensation crackling the shining surface in exotic patterns and swirls.

He poured out a generous glass of the golden straw-like liquid. "Sorry," he apologised. "I was early. I cancelled an appointment."

"Then perhaps it ought to be me who apologised," replied Marion, sipping at the wine.

"No, nothing important. But your call sounded urgent. Worth dropping lunch for."

Marion smiled politely. Patrick Shelton had always fancied her. She knew it. She knew of his affairs. It didn't excite her. Patrick was too sharp, too charming, too smooth to attract her.

Patrick looked every inch the City financier, even in the gloom of a small town wine bar. He oozed presence. He was tall and well built; he kept in shape by working out several mornings each week in the best City gyms. His face was naturally tanned, his teeth were even and unobtrusive, his hair a fair shade of light brown. Women fell for his looks and charm, and his money.

He had never forced his attentions on Marion. She was always a little distant. He marvelled at the way she kept that distance, never a word of encouragement, never a look of rebuke.

He had the utmost respect for her. He would like to have got to know her better but whenever he seemed to be moving too fast forward then she would push him away with a word or a look. It neither annoyed him nor angered him. She was nevertheless a very attractive woman.

It wasn't just Patrick; Marion treated all men that way.

"Thanks for coming, Patrick. Look, I brought this because you know about these things as well as anyone. Stephen tells me it's perfectly genuine."

Marion handed the Letter of Credit to Patrick, who quickly assessed it whilst pouring the remainder of wine into his glass. Marion's remained almost full.

"I suppose this will solve everyone's problems," he said finally.

"But not mine. Suppose I do nothing about it?"

"Then it will put me in a very awkward situation," stated Patrick. "As Alan's executor I am responsible with Keith for the winding up of all his assets and repaying creditors. Not to mention legatees. This represents an asset, and a very large one. It would be improper not to act on it."

"As I thought, Patrick. James Taylor and Stephen Stills both said the same thing. But do you realise that everybody will get something out of Alan apart from the very people he intended to benefit? If I was an honest woman then I'd re-open the factory, re-employ the staff, ship out millions of tubular drop dispensers, claim the money and repay everybody."

"But?" asked Patrick, who knew Marion well enough to realise that she had a lot more to say. She hadn't insisted on meeting him to tell him this. "Before you continue, another drink?"

Marion shook her head. A few loose auburn strands of hair brushed loosely over her forehead. She wiped them away with her fingers. Patrick wondered what kind of wife she would be; marriage did not seem to suit her now.

Patrick returned with another bottle and an ice bucket refreshed with ice. There were men who danced on tiptoe at bars waving notes and calling barmaids 'luv'. Patrick was not one of them. He stood in crowds at bars and staff rushed to serve him.

He returned a slightly less confident man. "I think we ought to speak just a little less loudly and smile a bit more."

"What on earth for? Everyone knows you and I are just good friends."

"But do the police. When you get a chance, look over to your left. If I'm not mistaken that is the Detective who interviewed me about Alan."

Marion bent down to retrieve an invisible napkin from the floor and looked over to the table by the front door, where two men sat in the deep shadows.

"What are they doing here?"

"Who knows, but best we remain calm as if we are discussing a business interest."

"Which," asserted Marion. "We are."

Patrick refuelled his glass. "You're not here looking for independent financial advice, are you?" he said bluntly.

Marion shook her head again. "It was James Taylor that showed me that Letter of Credit. He expected me to react the same way as you did."

"I intend to carry out what I believe Alan wanted. Not to repay the Bank, not to pay out thousands of pounds to the Council and Football Club. I intend to repay myself."

Patrick did not interrupt Marion. He just took regular gulps of a very good Chardonnay and without comment or gesture allowed her to continue.

"James showed me the storeroom at the factory. Stacked against the wall were boxes upon boxes of these tubular drop dispensers, ready for shipment, but not invoiced. And I thought, there against that wall is one hundred thousand pounds and here is a piece of paper that will pay me one hundred thousand pounds if I send all those boxes on their way."

"Then I thought; who are they going to? A company that's bust. All those tubular drop dispensers that no one wants. Then it dawned on me that all I had to do was to keep on selling those dispensers straight back. After all, what is different from one container load of tubular drop dispensers from another?"

"Except," said Patrick finally, unaware that Marion had paused deliberately long enough for him to prompt her. "Except that you would have to keep on producing the things to fulfil the order."

Marion allowed herself a mouthful of wine. "Not if they're the same ones, going back and forth across the Atlantic. Which is where you come in. I need someone in America to buy them back."

Patrick was stunned. He let his glass slap onto the table.

"This is the plan," continued Marion, who held Patrick like a potter at the wheel. "We ship this order, and claim the invoiced payment from Hues Corporation. Then we go to America and offer the receivers, or whoever, say twenty pence in the pound, to buy them back. Then, once back here we ship the whole lot out again until the three million dollars are used up."

Patrick's calm was disturbed, although outwardly he remained as controlled as ever. "This is fraud, Marion."

"No, I don't think so. This Letter of Credit says three million dollars against millions of tubular drop dispensers. Where's the fraud? No labour costs, no overheads, no factory."

"All right," sighed Patrick, rushing to regain composure. "But it is immoral. And in the eyes of our friends over there most probably decidedly illegal."

"Who gets hurt? The Banks? They guaranteed it. That's business, already written off. Apollo? They don't exist. And the receivers get a little more back than they intended. Employees? Most will get other work, and besides, once the contract's finished they'd be out of a job again."

"Why are you telling me this, Marion?"

"Because I need your help. I need someone over there who knows what they're doing. You know the ropes, Patrick. You've got contacts. How did Alan get into this in the first place, if not through you? I'm willing to make it worth your while; a basis for further discussion."

"Who else knows about this?" Patrick's brain was racing. He was used to making snap decisions. Often his professional life depended on making a choice with little more than gut reaction to steer him. He had made mistakes and lost money but more often than not he had followed his nose and made a substantial profit; a doctrine not found in the best business manuals but carved into the heart of anyone who had traded in International markets.

"Only James Taylor, and Stephen Stills."

"We need James. He knows the Bank, the shipping companies, freight agents, people like that. We can't afford any slip ups."

"Does that mean that you're with me," asked Marion, replacing an empty glass, with the dimly reflected bar slightly distorted by the faint outline of her lipstick.

"It means that I'll give it a lot of consideration," said Patrick. "And what about Keith?"

"I'm seeing him this afternoon. But only to tell him that I'm considering using the factory to produce more tubular drop dispensers to keep this Letter of Credit going. That's all he needs to know, isn't it?"

Patrick nodded. He was hooked. Seduction takes many forms, not all of them sexual. Marion could have made love to him there and then and he would have been just as much putty in her hands. He would say no more to anyone. He knew that in any conspiracy the fewer people who knew, the safer you were. Making love to Grace Slick in places where they might have been discovered was the edge that pumped his blood supply with such energy into all the right places. Marion's proposal gave him the same buzz. He preferred not to think about it as fraud, more an exercise in making money.

"Time to go," he said and leaving a half bottle of Chardonnay behind, left the bar. "Can't stop," said Patrick. "Late for a meeting."

"Me too." Marion smiled at Harley who momentarily thrown off balance by her expression of friendship, allowed them to leave without speaking again.

"You were saying Davis."

"I spoke to Ronnie Carroll again and he said he's only been in business at the Crazy Horse Hotel for about a year but he seems to know a lot about the area. He knows most of the women who I mentioned including Anne Shelton and Marion Walker and it wasn't one of them with Alan Price. He's quite sure she hadn't been there before. I did as you said and took an artist with me and this is as good as we can get."

"Pardon the pun Davis, but this is still very sketchy. Never mind."

"And you guv?"

"I learned in life that there are basically two types of copper. Myself, I like to get my hands dirty, get in there amongst the dregs of our society and make their lives so unpleasant like they've done to others that finally they cough."

"Then there are those who sit and watch and take everything in, like a sponge. I thought I'd give that a try. So that's why we are meeting here for a drink. You should try this Chilean stuff. It's very good. And what do I find? The lovely Marion Walker and the cut glass Patrick Shelton with their heads together. What do you make of that?"

"They could just be discussing Price's affairs. One is the executor and the other a beneficiary."

"You're not wrong Davis but she's been a bit elusive of late for a person who runs an office. The other day that cheerful chappie Crane and the Mayor are drinking like they've won the Lottery. Yesterday we find another Town Councillor in a huddle in the coffee shop. Something's going on Davis. It may be a small little town but there's definitely something going on. Another drink?"

"I'm driving sir."

"So you are. Well get me another one of these. Quite cosy here aint it?"

When Davis returned with another large Chilean Merlot and his customary glass of orange juice, Harley had something else on his mind.

"Whilst you've been living it up at the Crazy Horse Hotel I've been having another word with His Lordship the Mayor. It seems that Alan Price's death has left him with more than one problem."

"First, they have to call an election. Now you'd think that politicians would love an election but not Councillor Jackson. The words 'little shit' were said whenever I mentioned Price's name. Next it seems that Price left the Council money to build a memorial but the trustees are the three oldest councillors who from what I gather from Jackson, didn't care much for Price and don't even like each other."

"No one liked Alan Price." Davis drained his glass.

"No they don't. But on the other hand no one actually wanted him dead. For whatever reasons they all have, Alan Price is better off alive than dead. However Davis, someone did want Price dead or out of the way for a little while. Find the reason and you find your man."

"Or woman," added Davis.

"Cherchez la femme, as I keep on telling you."

In another part of town the senior lady councillor was finding that her own plans were not running as smoothly as she would have hoped. Joan didn't mind being on her own in this matter. She almost expected it. None of the others saw things the way she did. They had husbands, part time and voluntary jobs, homes and grown up children. Their vision was clouded. Only she had the single-mindedness to protect the town from the moral rectitude that would follow Grace Slick's expansion. Like her sainted namesake, she had a vision. The Great Cause had found her.

All her other interests- the Friends of Framptons Camel Farm, the Mamas and Papas Children's Relief Fund, WAR (Women Against Rock) - were all diversions. She had found her path, down which she would tread unafraid, alone if necessary.

John Williams was unimpressed by Joan's new found zeal. The Headmaster of Geno Washington County School did not suffer fools gladly. The responsibility for twelve hundred juvenile souls in various stages of preparation for the purgatory of life, sat heavily on his shoulders.

"I fail to see, Mrs. Regan, what you expect me to do?"

Joan breathed out like a tired dragon. "I expect Headmaster," emphasised Joan, not for the first time, "that you take some form of stand against this shop, and this woman."

"I do not believe that a woman's business affairs are my concern. As long as she obeys all the rules of commerce I can't see what any objection one can have. And as for the school," continued John, hardly pausing for breath, "I have always insisted that as long as the children are in school uniform they are ambassadors for the school and I expect them to behave accordingly. I hope, but cannot insist, that they carry this attitude forward in all other activities in their lives, both in this town and outside it."

Joan did not like the Headmaster. She was the only one on the selection panel that objected to his appointment, but was heavily outnumbered by the other governors.

John Williams symbolised a new, young breed, ambitious for himself as well as the school. He introduced a wider curriculum that involved staff and pupils in examining every aspect of their lives. The path to revolution.

Joan did not understand this movement towards liberalisation. Allowing children to question established values would encourage laxity in their moral and sexual growth. She was keen to argue this case to John Williams.

"I am very concerned Headmaster, that a shop such as Joy of Looking can only lead to the corruption of a young impressionable child. The very name itself is a byword for voyeurism." Joan had looked up the word. Alice Cooper's choice of phrase summed up her thoughts exactly.

"Mrs. Regan," John never called her Councillor. "Personally I find the Hollywood movie machine a corrupting influence, not only on the English language but on Art itself. However, I must respect the interests of others who find entertainment in following the careers of Tom Cruise or J-Lo."

"I did not expect flippancy from you, Headmaster."

"I am not being flippant. We all have our views on what we consider corrupting. I find this more distasteful than any show of underwear on plastic models." He pulled a copy of The Magic Band magazine from his desk. "I confiscated this from a Year Eight boy this morning. This is full of comic strip swearing and sexual innuendo that even the boy found less than subtle."

"You seem to feel that you are better equipped than others to judge what your pupils may watch."

"I am," said John, very convincingly. "I have found in my brief teaching career that boys and girls are more sexually aware than their elders ever give them credit for."

"And that can only lead to corruption."

"If knowledge prevents unwanted pregnancies, abortions, and the million and one hang ups that other generations had on sex then it can only be a good thing."

"I take it then that you will be doing nothing about this shop."

"The woman is selling underwear."

"So she says." Joan looked somewhere over John William's collar and sneered. "But she's applying for a licence to sell more... more personal things. The kind of thing that Alan Price was involved in. I've heard all about his business affairs. The man was a cheap, disgusting pervert."

"I know nothing about Alan Price. Except that he's dead. And as for Miss Slick, I met her a little while ago and she seems to me a very pleasant young businesswoman. In fact she has hired the school hall for a fashion show. I trust that you will not want to come."

Joan certainly did want to come. Already Grace Slick had got the Headmaster in her schemes, no doubt by the offering of unspoken sexual favours.

Joan was not a woman to be so easily put off. The Great Cause was hers and hers alone. She had plans to make.

Up at the Wilburys, a few miles out of town off the unmarked road that led to Cleveland Eaton, the Sheltons were also making plans. Anne and Patrick gasped and grunted as they shovelled large forkfuls of an over zealous chilli into silent mouths.

Even though prevented from normal conversation by the fire smouldering on his tongue, Patrick was unusually quiet. Anne brought another bottle of Californian red from the kitchen to help soothe away the raging inside her.

They had a very modern and open marriage. They discussed most things, apart from Patrick's affairs, of which Anne knew about but allowed because as a couple they were happy. Patrick had affairs because other women found him sexually attractive. Patrick enjoyed sex; but he didn't want commitment.

The sexual passion that consumed new lovers had also devoured Anne and Patrick. They were an ideal couple. She was tall, slim legged, and had shoulder length black hair that curled and twisted and danced around her face. But most of the time it was held in a ponytail or bunched and clasped on top of her head with an ornate pin.

As passion gave way to marriage Anne found that Patrick still clung to his single life. He still wanted nights on the town with the boys, long weekends clubbing and the thrill of casual sex with a teenage girl that he threw away with the empty bottle of champagne.

Still, he always came home and when they had too much of a good wine, or had flirted with friends then sex was good again.

At last Patrick was coaxed into speech as Anne remarked both on the quality of the chilli and his own unusual silence. He took the bottle to the settee and refilled both their glasses.

"To be honest, Anne, I've been put in a very delicate situation." Patrick told her all about Marion's plan. "She's right of course. Played strictly down the line, everyone gets paid. The way Marion sees it, she's already been disinherited and now she's out to claim what is rightfully hers. In the long term no one will get hurt. I seem to feel that there's something immoral about it all but I can't quite say what it is."

"It seems to me that you've already convinced yourself."

"Yes, I have. However I don't like the idea of deceiving Keith. This whole plan will work if he is kept in the dark."

"Why?"

"Because Keith is an honourable man. He wouldn't be party to any underhand deals. He would want to pursue the case to the letter."

"And that hurts?"

"Yes."

"Keith will get his fees. I reckon that is the extent of his involvement. Marion's right. He's far better knowing only what he has to. He's the legal man. As long as the estate is wound up, and the creditors and the beneficiaries get paid then he will have done his duty towards Alan. I doubt if he will be too concerned exactly how that is done. Especially if Marion handles things herself. He trusts her. Never let the right hand let the left hand know what you're doing."

He wasn't prepared though, for Anne's next suggestion.

She had been giving it plenty of thought whilst Patrick had been outlining Marion's scheme.

Anne Shelton was the daughter of Charles Berry M.P., loyal backbencher and staunch supporter of Conservative Central Office policy. She had gone to college to study fashion and fabrics. She restored precious furniture in country homes; employed by nouveau riche families eager to enter polite society by employing the M.P.'s daughter.

Her marriage to Patrick was seen as an astute move; marriage to an up and coming City financier rather than staying within the society of old families that were dying out through bankruptcy and in-breeding.

She was a tireless worker in her father's office when elections came round. She continued her studies in History of Art and Accountancy. Friends who had drifted into marriage and children and the endless nursery 'bring and buys' had unkindly referred to her as a dilettante. In truth, they envied her new life.

Anne wanted something more. She needed a commitment, a role. Alan's death offered the opportunity.

"What I thought, Patrick, is that I could go to America. You could teach me all I need to know."

"There's just one problem," he said. "James Taylor."

"Leave James to me," replied Marion on the other end of the phone line.

There was not the slightest doubt in Patrick's mind that Marion could get James on board. He was important to their success. But this was not how James Taylor saw things. He did not move in the same circles as those who were eager to save him from the threat of the dole queue.

### CHAPTER 6 – Friday March 26

James Taylor felt uncomfortable. He had agreed to meet Marion but her choice of the Bo Jolly Wine bar with its dimly lit interior led him to think that her motives were less than frank.

James Taylor was right.

The noise level was never more than a continuous hum of indistinguishable words and phrases half heard. Marion's voice cut through the slough of babble like a plough.

He rarely drank wine, and hardly ever at lunchtimes. Marion insisted; and as she said, he had no work to return to.

She filled his glass with a chilled Alsace, much too dry for James' palate, but he sipped it and took a few more wedges of prawn sandwiches to help it down.

"I'm going to have to disappoint you, James. There is no way I'm going to re-open the factory. I think you knew that anyway."

James nodded like a dog denied its evening walk.

"However, there is this Letter of Credit. Patrick Shelton knows about it and so does Keith Emerson. It is, as they say, part of Alan's assets. So James, everything is above board. And as you said, all I have to do is ship out millions of these tubular drop dispensers, complete the forms and claim one million dollars from the Bank."

James Taylor continued to chew on a mouthful of prawns. He couldn't understand what Marion was saying. On one hand she was shutting the factory, yet here she was claiming against the Credit. Bemused, he remained silent.

"You're absolutely sure that those boxes still at the factory are properly packaged to Apollo and have not been invoiced?" James nodded. "Good."

"Then what I want you to do is to do what you would normally do in this situation. Get them shipped and get the documentation completed."

"And that's it," answered James sorrowfully.

"That's it. Until they come back. Then I want you to do the same thing all over again until the whole of the three million dollars are in our account."

"But we're not producing any more dispensers." James then realised that he had not properly understood Marion's request. He pushed his long blond fringe back over his head, and let it fall back untidily over his glasses again. "Why will they come back?"

"Because the Americans will send them back. And then we will send them back again. Like passing 'Go' in Monopoly."

"And we'll all go to jail and certainly not collect three millions dollars. This is fraud, Marion. I can't do that."

"It isn't fraud, James. Apollo has asked for millions of tubular drop dispensers, which we are supplying. The Bank will pay us a million pounds if we do just that. The Bank obviously doesn't want millions of these tubular drop dispensers clogging up their vaults so they'll only be too pleased to pay someone to take them off their hands. It seems to me that I'll be doing everybody a favour."

"Put like that, I suppose you're right." James went to add something but took off his glasses instead and made a show of wiping away some stray mayonnaise. Marion took a sip of her wine.

"So in effect all you're going to do is to recycle the same batch without producing any more."

"Exactly. Simplicity itself."

"What about the staff."

"We don't need staff. Or a factory."

"But this could mean jobs for a lot of people."

"But less profit." Marion made a most uncharacteristic gesture and reached out for James' hand. He shook inwardly; he thought she was making a pass; he wouldn't know how to handle a woman like Marion Walker.

"Just for once, James, don't worry about other people. Let them get on with their own lives. Think about yourself for a change. I am. If I reopen the factory we'll fulfil this order and without any more work coming in everyone will be back where they started. I won't be doing anyone any favours. This way I've got no factory costs, no labour costs, no overheads and a very high gross profit margin."

Marion had removed her hand but the warmth remained. James understood the logic and the business sense. But being so methodical in his work also brought restraint.

"How can you be sure that the goods will come back? How are you going to pay for them at the other end?"

Marion knew that James had bitten. "That end of business is being handled by someone else. Not me. No one you need know about yet. Let's say that it's in the best possible hands. All I need you to do is to carry on as you always have."

"But say I get asked by some of the old staff to explain what is happening, like what I'm doing at the factory. You know the way people talk in this town."

"Say nothing. Say you're looking after the factory for the executors, or the Bank. Which let's face it, is very nearly the truth. You're not producing anything; machines aren't working so why should anyone comment. If you need any help with packing or loading, then let me know."

James picked up the last prawn from the plate, unaware that he had eaten the full two rounds by himself. Strangely enough, his glass was also empty. "Just one thing though. What do I get out of all this? I'm just an ex-employee."

Marion smiled. "A large sum of money would make finding another job a little bit easier. You can always look upon it as a redundancy payment, if it makes you feel any better." It didn't.

He had a wife and children, he had a mortgage, he had bills and dreams. He also had a conscience. He thought about the rest of the workforce who were looking for work, and their families. Why should he be the lucky one? He promised Marion he would think about it.

She didn't think he sounded convinced. It was not what she was expecting. As Alan had often said 'Everyone has their price.' Then he would laugh. James obviously lived his life by very different rules. She would leave him alone for a little while and let the offer sink in. There were not that many men who could afford such a golden handshake.

Grace Slick had no doubts. Trade had slowly picked up as the week wore on. There were some lines she would have to restock. She was looking forward to dinner with Alex. Then a shadow passed across the door, entered and dropped the latch.

"Patrick, what are you doing here?"

Patrick Shelton looked totally shocked by this question, which came from Grace's lips like a demand. Quickly regaining his composure he placed an arm around her waist and propelled her to the changing rooms.

But Grace refused to glide along with him. His foot grazed the floor. She tore his hand away as if it were on fire. "What are you doing?"

Patrick breathed in deeply and stretched to his full six foot. "Shall I come in and start all over again?"

"What makes you think that you can just barge in here any time you like anyway?"

"You didn't object on Monday. And besides, I thought that was the idea of having this shop so close."

"You may have done, Patrick. I don't. Not any more anyway."

Patrick leant against the counter. He had honestly thought that Grace wanted him closer; he couldn't understand why she should want to end it all now. It wasn't so much that Grace seemed to be giving him the push, but rather the manner of it. There had been no warning, no smoke on the horizon. And just like the far away line between sea and sky, Grace had cut him off with a swift, slice of her tongue.

Patrick's pride was hurt. He needed to know why. He wanted reasons. He wanted his ego massaged. "Why not?"

Grace was put a little on the defensive. She hadn't expected Patrick to call. She had decided to end it all anyway. It was part of her commitment to another life. And then there was Alex.

"Because," she began. "Because I want a new life. You're married Patrick, and I don't want to be your bit on the side anymore. I've had enough of furtive evenings and the tops of office desks in darkened rooms. I need a relationship that I can be open about. Do you understand?"

"No, I don't. I don't see what's changed. What's so furtive about this place? No one's going to barge in." Patrick threw the door of the changing room open and was surprised to see his angry and embarrassed face reflected in the mirrored walls.

"I've moved on, Patrick. That is what I moved away from. You know what City life is all about. You only have to fart and someone will tell your boss about it next morning."

"Is that what you're running away from? You want a private life." Patrick laughed. He was on familiar ground again. "If you want secrecy then you've come to the wrong place. This is Little England. They go to work, come home, watch television, tend the allotments, have a drink on Fridays and shag the wife every weekend. Life is so boring round here that there's little else to do but pry into other people's lives which are just as dull and uneventful as their own."

"What makes you so different then? Is that how you get your kicks? By bonking every woman in sight to relieve the boredom of living here. I know you too well, Patrick. It's not just your body; it's all those evenings and nights at corner tables and hotel beds. It's all the pleasure without the responsibility."

"Are you expecting me to divorce Anne and marry you?"

"Good grief no. I just want to call it a day. I want my own life back."

Patrick went to leave. It was pointless arguing. Grace was as determined in life as him. He had nothing to gain by arguing, he knew when to admit defeat. There were other Grace's; he had to go and find them. That was what hurt. Starting all over again. He replaced the catch on the door, standing on the inside.

"There's someone else, isn't there?"

Grace hadn't moved from the counter; her hands still rested on the glass topped counter. She reached forward and pushed her hair a bit further back.

"Actually there isn't," she lied. "Well, put it this way. There is someone I like but I'm not so sure that it will come to anything. You and he are different. I'm not passing you over for a toyboy, or a superstud. It's not your sex drive that's in question."

"What is then?"

"You wouldn't understand."

Grace made it clear there was no more to be said. Patrick walked out of her life. She breathed easy again. Patrick represented lust. She could get sex anywhere. What she wanted was someone to want her for herself. It was an old fashioned idea. Fordhamton may have been Patrick Shelton's fantasy of Little England but for herself, it was a place to start again. She wanted no more right now.

Up at Hayward Lodge the Fordhamton and District Conservative Party were having a little soul searching of their own. Pat Torpey was Chair of the local party and she retained with it the status that opened the right sort of doors in the county.

Her husband Rodney, although a member of the local party, preferred the political intrigues and power broking of the Square Mile in London. They complemented each other perfectly, the local autocrat and the City financier.

Pat looked around the conservatory where the local party members sat holding a glass of sweet South African sherry, a Christmas gift to Rodney from an overseas client that was delivered by the case and distributed at Christmas around the estate. Pat always ensured that her glass was full of a good cognac before the party members arrived.

She was a large woman, shaped in the form of a chunk of Toblerone. The finest clothes from the best designers could not hide the lack of a waist nor the immense hips that squeezed into the leather backed chair.

Michael Jackson still wore that smug grin on his face that had been there since he had learned the contents of Alan Price's will. Never mind, thought Pat. It won't last. Everyone knew Price died broke. He was a vulgar entrepreneur and Jackson just clung on to his coat tails.

"And that's your view of things?" asked Pat of the Mayor.

Michael Jackson nodded again and replaced the glass on the coffee table, refusing to drink the slightest drop of Rodney Torpey's foul tasting sherry. "I spoke to James Darren. With the way things stand it's going to be difficult enough to find one candidate from within our ranks, let alone four. The Chairman of the Labour Party sees things the same way."

"The best solution lies in maintaining the status quo. Two candidates each. That will forestall any election and maintain a Conservative majority on the Council."

"Who actually did you have in mind, Michael?"

"Actually, Mrs. Chair," interrupted Joan, who had been doing a bit of canvassing herself, "I thought Phyllis would make an ideal candidate. She's a respected woman in the community, works in the Doctors surgery where she is in contact with people and has always been a tireless worker at elections."

"Excellent," said the Chair. "Are you happy about this, Phyllis?"

Phyllis Nelson replaced her red-rimmed glasses on her chest and beamed at Joan. "Certainly. I feel that I can do so much more for the town than just help out at the surgery."

Michael Jackson glared at Joan. He didn't like being upstaged. Joan had already mentioned Phyllis' name to him but he wanted to nominate her himself. Phyllis was unanimously selected as a candidate.

"And who else?" asked Pat.

"Well, there we have a problem." Michael looked at the other members. Maureen Evans and Brian Johnstone shuffled in their seats and swirled the remaining dregs of sherry around in the glass. Arthur Brown returned from the garden and sucked violently at the stem of his pipe, puffing out the last wisps of Santana Shag. Pat Torpey was one of the many who found his favourite brand of pipe tobacco offensive.

"I have been unable to find anyone, or convince any other Conservative member, willing to stand. Anyone remotely suited falls outside of the criteria. They either live outside the town boundary, or employed by County or have too many other commitments. So, I recommend that we nominate an independent whose political and social leanings make him, or her, more suitable as a candidate."

"I just couldn't tolerate another Keith West. There must be someone out there who's willing to stand. I suppose then," continued Pat Torpey, fixing Michael Jackson with her famous furrowed eyebrows, "that you have someone in mind."

"Actually I do." Michael Jackson had been scheming for days. "Roger Miller."

Before Pat Torpey could speak Michael Jackson launched into the attack. "Roger has always been a good friend of the town. He runs one of the more profitable stores and actually attracts people from around the villages.

"He is a solid businessman and has little time for the kind of expenditure in the town that a Labour run council would encourage. Deep down, if he examined his loyalties, Roger Miller is one of us."

"What you say Mr. Mayor is quite true," admitted Joan. "In fact, Mr. Miller has always been a solid supporter of any charitable cause. But what about his planning application?"

"A small technical detail, Joan. It just reinforces what I have been saying. Roger Miller cares about the town; he wants to reduce the incidence of vandalism. I think that with the right sort of encouragement and a bit of tinkering here and there, I think we might be able to see his planning application through at the next committee stage."

"What you are suggesting Michael, is that we offer Mr. Miller a bribe." Pat Torpey glared at Michael, unwilling to admit her approval of his methods.

"Not exactly bribery, Mrs. Chairman. I like to think of it as 'quid pro quo'. What business people might call 'an understanding'. After all we're all working together towards the same goals."

"And you think you can convince Mr. Miller of this, and he'll be happy to support us in Council."

Arthur Brown looked at Michael Jackson nodding his head and saw the begrudging approval given to him by Pat Torpey.

Political life was not simple anymore. He had worked all his life in retail and had earned his nomination and election the hard way, by vote. Then he had spent every election footslogging the lanes and hamlets around town canvassing votes, driving old ladies to the polling station in his own car. He had earned and deserved his place on the Council. Roger Miller had done nothing, apart from getting his planning application postponed. And he could blame Alan Price for that. In fact, right now he was blaming the deceased Councillor for a lot of things. But most of all for precipitating an election that he didn't want. It was time to go. But he would wait for his moment and go out in a blaze of glory.

In the function room of the Albatross, big enough for a hundred or more wedding guests, the eight members of the Fordhamton and District Labour Party held a meeting of their own that mirrored perfectly the decision making of their political opponents, and would surprise another impartial resident.

Bill Withers opened all day Mondays to Sundays. In the hiatus between lunchtime when the self-employed building fraternity of Fordhamton filled the bar before going home to shave, shower and change and the arrival of the over thirty fives who were still on their way home from the office, Friday evenings in the Horse With No Name were sometimes busy, sometimes quiet. Especially so this particular Friday evening.

Until a stranger entered and turned the pages of the local paper.

The stranger's eye was caught by the editor's note: 'The paper would like to apologise to Martha Reeves for printing her work 'Exercise Bicycles in the Toolshed' upside down in our last issue.'

The stranger turned the paper upside down to better view the precocious talent of the sixty four year old school cleaner at Geno Washington County. It looked no better this week than in its previous misprinted form. He might have smiled had he known of Lee Dorsey's prophetic words to the town council

"Bloody hell Alex, it's you." Bill Withers almost spilled an extra half pint of Barclays Harvest Bitter into Alex's glass as he looked at his next door neighbour.

His hair was pulled tight in a ponytail and his beard had been trimmed. His T-shirt was white with just a small motif above the left pocket. His jacket smelled of fresh leather and there was a tinge of an expensive cologne about his neck.

Bill couldn't see the insides of Alex's stomach churning, or the thoughts of failure circling inside his head. Alex had been dressed like this for the cover of a Jolly Green Giant LP, but Bill wouldn't have known that, nor that Alex was waiting for Grace and feared she wouldn't come.

Alex wiped the traces of Barclays Bitter from his chin and slapped the paper on the bar. "Is it all right," he asked sheepishly.

"It's certainly different. I didn't recognise you. Going somewhere?"

"I hope so. How's you?"

"To be honest, Alex. I'm in deep shit." Bill poured himself a pint and drew Alex into his confidence. "When I was elected Chairman of the LVA I thought it was the best thing that had ever happened to me. Now I find that the first charity do of the season is less than three weeks away and I've got nothing planned and quickly running out of time. If I didn't know the lot of them better I'd have believed that they had stitched me up. And that old sod Colin Blunstone really put the boot in by having the Tabs play up there. How am I supposed to compete against that sort of thing?"

Alex did nothing more than sip at his pint, turning away from Bill every moment or two towards the front door. It stayed shut.

"June had the brilliant idea of having a sponsored snooker match; pay a fiver to play with Jimmy White or Ronnie O'Sullivan. But when I spoke to Mick Abrahams at Runaway Sports he told me that everyone gets booked up years in advance. So I'm still up shit creek so to speak."

Alex looked at the grandfather clock; he was drinking his pint much too quickly. Thoughts of failure sank like grains of sand, filling his feet and legs. He was of course completely unaware of the true reason for Grace's delay. She was showering Patrick Shelton down the plughole.

Alex could not refuse Bill's pleading. "A few years ago I helped an old friend of mine do a promo video. He had a pool table set up and hired models to walk around in bikinis and thongs and such. You could do the same thing. Hire the models of course and charge guests to play. Stag do, is it?"

Bill was momentarily fired up. "No, not really. Ladies are invited. I suppose you could have male models as well," he thought aloud. He would have gone on to elaborate on the guest list and enquire about manner of dress but Alex's empty glass remained in his hand as the bar, washed in late evening sunshine, was totally eclipsed by the arrival of Grace Slick.

She wore a simple black dress, held up with slender straps, through which the shape of her breasts and nipples were starkly outlined; glossy silver stockings caressed her legs and her long auburn hair hung loose.

"Sorry, not too late, am I?"

Alex couched her hand that clasped his sleeve. "No," he said. "Drink?"

"Cold beer, thanks."

Bill reached into the fridge and pulled out a bottle of chilled Tijuana Brass. Grace had drunk half of it straight from the bottle before Bill had time to pull down a glass.

"Needed this," said Grace. "Pig of a day."

Alex introduced her to Bill. "We were just discussing the arrangements for Bill's charity function," said Alex, and outlined his plans, which Bill never heard for his gaze was fixed on Grace.

"When is this?" she asked.

"Fifteenth of April," muttered Bill. "You will be coming I hope."

"If Alex invites me I will."

Bill took this as confirmation. He was as much struck by Grace's beauty as by her fascination for Alex. Now he understood why Alex had been so coy about his friendship with her and the reason for the change in his appearance. There hadn't been such a woman as Grace in town for years. She had style, so why date Alex who spent his time drinking and reminiscing about the great lost years of rock?

He explained as much to June as Alex and Grace left.

"They certainly are an odd couple," said June. "Mind you, I've never seen Alex dressed up like that before. Perhaps there's a side to him we just don't know about."

The Great Buddha was at the far end of the High Street. Mohammed and Abdullah greeted them like old friends and caused a few early diners to turn their heads as Mohammed took Grace's black coat to reveal her white shoulders and smooth, naked back. As she sat down just the merest glimpse of her breasts dipped through the material and teased two husbands into misplacing their forks.

As they drank a glass of the Great Buddha's House red, the taped sitar music was interspersed with snatches of Radio Gaga whilst Abdullah changed the tape. Alex groaned histrionically as the Tabs' hit drifted though the restaurant.

He was forced to explain to Grace the reason for his groaning and the offer of the recording contract.

"You could start your career all over again," countered Grace.

"What career?" repeated Alex, stirring an onion bhaji into the cucumber raita. "I had a very minor hit. I'm a session man. I'm a writer."

"The royalties could be enormous. The Tabs hits have gone gold."

"I don't want to be known as the man who wrote the Tabs next number one.

"There's no reason why anyone would want to know. Is there?" asked Grace, realising that Alex was serious about anonymity.

"The problem is when a new group remixes or reissues an old hit then the press like to look for a story and sooner or later someone will track me down here and want a story about how I came to write it and what I did then, and what I'm doing now."

"You haven't got any skeletons in the cupboard, have you?" Grace looked excited, hoping that there was something sinister in Alex's past.

"No," laughed Alex, none too convincingly. "No more than anyone else who's been in the music business."

"I thought it was all sex and drugs."

Alex laughed and threw back his head. "Most of us were too pissed and having misty eyed experiences in the bogs, spewing the dreadful stuff back up."

He subsided back into his chair as Abdullah arrived with their meal.

They scooped the steaming meat and vegetables onto their plates. "It took years to sort my life out. I've become settled here. I don't really want to be revived as a Wild Man of Rock. I never was. Anyway I'm a collector now."

Grace was going to ask exactly what Alex was in his previous life but the heat of the King Prawns forestalled her. It didn't matter because Alex was eager to tell her, fork underlining his words with a general drift left and right.

"As rock stars we had a minor hit and I realised then I was never going to make it. So I turned to other things. Session work and writing. That's where I made my money. I was never a rock icon; drinking parties with the rich and famous, orgies in country houses, drug busts at club gigs. It was never like that with me. Unfortunately some people in town would like me to have been like that. I've sort of played along with them all these years."

"So you're embarrassed about being found out. You're a bit of an old fraud."

"No, I just let people believe in what they wanted. It made them feel a little bit more important living close to a rock star."

"Who are you feeling sorry for, them or yourself?"

"Me I suppose. This place, Fordhamton, is just a spot on the map. Nothing important. Another town in England. Some people round here like to think it's more than that. Most can't see further than the town boundaries. Haven't a clue what goes on in the outside world. It was meant to be a staging post for me. I intended to move on. But I didn't. I don't have to now. I made my money years ago."

Grace took in a mouthful of wine. The bottle was empty again.

"You're a man of independent means then."

Alex didn't answer her. He gazed back at her, without fear of refusal. "I haven't been out with a woman like you for years."

"There's never been a missus Harvey then?"

"No, when Ruth left I sort of drifted out of circulation. There isn't a mister Slick anywhere is there?"

"No," said Grace emphatically. "I've never met any man who I'd want to spend the rest of my life with. Men I've known in the City want the continuous shuffle and hustle of dealing and making money. Everything else is second to that. I wanted a bit of me back."

Alex was silent. He prodded the meat to test if it was still alive, whilst looking at Grace through upturned eyes. "I must be a great disappointment to you. I'm not a famous rock star, I don't want fame and I don't go out with women."

"What was all that about? Why should it make any difference if you're famous or not? That's not why I like you. It's because you're not famous, or rich or a self-centred brat that I do like you."

"Well, I'm sorry to let you down. I am rich. Quite rich really. And do you know how I did it? I became a capitalist. In the midst of the anarchy of pop and the left wing agitation I became a pillar of respectability."

"I played so many gigs and got to know so many MD's who wanted me for session work and to support fledgling labels that I had little time to spend the money I was earning. So I put all my money into the record labels. And these small companies began to have big hits; and the little labels got swallowed up by the bigger record companies. Then all my investments slowly became concentrated in the major international corporations. Most of my annual income comes from dividends.

"I don't really need to work. The shop is a hobby. I enjoy it. I enjoy playing records for people like Bill Withers. I enjoy doing the odd gig for old friends, where no one knows me and I still visit the auction houses and buy and sell.

"If I'm put in the spotlight then all that goes. Everyone will find out what I'm doing in my personal life and they'll dig up people I haven't seen for years and print stories that are built on tricks of memory. Is it so wrong to want to stay the way you are?"

Grace didn't answer. She was a fighter. She would have taken the world on if they had printed one wrong word. She respected Alex's lifestyle. He was just fighting for his own way of life as much as she would have fought to establish hers.

Mohammed placed the ice creams in front of them and another bottle of house red. And two brandies and a plate of mint chocolate biscuits and a jug of hot coffee.

Grace waited for Mohammed to leave. "If I said let's get laid, would you be offended?"

Alex grinned. "If you said let's get laid I'd have to wait until the library opens tomorrow and read up the Books of Instruction."

"It's been that long."

"Longer." He felt Grace's leg next to his own and saw her breasts moving beneath the thin material of her dress. The old familiar stirrings in his groin heaved against the tight trousers, causing him to clutch at the leather and rearrange his parts.

"Alex, just the man." Peter Noone slapped him on the back.

Alex's passion subsided as he introduced Peter and Valerie Masters to Grace. Grace wanted Peter and Val to join them but the latter insisted on a separate table.

"I'll be quick, Alex, then let you get on with it. We've just had a local party meeting and we feel that you'd be the ideal candidate to stand at the election."

"I'm not a member," insisted Alex, looking to Grace.

"I realise, Alex. But as it stands Michael Jackson's been doing a bit of horse trading as neither ourselves nor the Tories can find four nominees for the election. In fact we're both having trouble finding two. Which is where you come in. We've put Paul Simon's name forward. You know him, he works in Rutherford but he lives here. This means we have to find someone whose values are the same as ours but is willing to stand on an independent ticket."

Alex shook his head but Grace answered for him. "Say yes, Alex. It's a chance to get back at all those boring old farts you've been telling me about."

"You won't even have to fight an election, Alex," urged Peter. "With only four candidates and Michael's made sure of that, you'll be nodded through."

"What we need is someone on the Council to look after the ordinary person. Not really political but has a progressive outlook." Val looked at Grace who gave her approval.

Alex sighed. He didn't want to have to make up his mind now. He wanted to chew it over with Grace but she was forcing him onwards. He was being guided towards a new direction in life. First it was Victor Feldman with his insistence that the Tabs record his song, now Peter Noone wanted to drag him into the spotlight. He couldn't claim other commitments. He had few. And Peter knew where he stood on every town issue that became contentious. He was a closet supporter of the local Labour Party anyway. He acceded gracefully.

"I suppose you want me to sign something."

"No, no, not tonight. Finish your meal. Speak to you in the week."

The two couples parted. "What would you have done if I wasn't here?"

"I suppose that after a day or two I'd have given in to them."

"No you wouldn't have. You would have hid from them. Seize the day, Alex. That's what I believe. Take the opportunities when you see them." Grace drained her coffee, took a last drink of wine, and bit on a mint. She looked over to Peter and Val who sat side by side, partially hidden by a menu. "They seem nice people."

"Married. Not to each other."

"Thought so. You can always tell."

"How?"

"Years of experience. City life is like a village, only closer. You can recognise the signs. Don't worry, I'm not making any judgements."

A few minutes later they were in Alex's living room. Grace then realised what that faint aroma was, that always surrounded Alex. But that flashed out of her mind as she drew in the smoke, complemented by an excellent tequila.

At the Great Buddha Peter Noone and Val Masters were discovering how alike they were. Both had good jobs, loving spouses, devoted children and comfortable homes. But as middle years approached both needed something else. An edge, the excitement and unreliability of youth. Illicit sex was a heady brew.

They sat at a very public table acknowledging everybody; no one would have thought that they were anything else but two local councillors out for a meal after a local meeting of the Labour party. Beneath the civility, dangerous emotions stirred.

"I blame Michael Jackson for this," said Val, stirring the mild chicken korma around in the special vegetable rice. "I thought that the idea of calling an election was to actually hold one. Now it seems the whole point was for Jackson to control the status quo."

Peter admitted to his real emotions. "I really thought that if there was an election we might be able to see a bit more of each other, without having to make excuses. It seemed a heaven sent opportunity."

Val smiled back at him and rubbed her shoe up his calf, hidden by the extraordinary length of tablecloth that draped to the floor.

"What we need," continued Peter, who had stopped eating, "is another candidate."

"Another Keith West? I don't think so. There's one thing Jackson's right about and that is that no one wants an election. No one in the town will actually turn out and vote. It's the lowest polling constituency in the county. The only people who want one, is you and me. It would give Jackson a good kick up the bum if someone else did stand."

"Say we find someone."

Val looked back at Peter, who stirred his meal dismissively and grinned back at her like a schoolboy who's just superglued the teacher's trousers to the chair.

"You've someone in mind?"

Peter looked to the door, encouraging Val to do the same, and waved cheerily at the incoming diners. At the head of a group of garrulous drinkers was Scott Walker. He looked the worse for wear, but managed to steer his friends towards a table set for eight.

"Are you serious?" whispered Val.

"It doesn't matter who it is, as long as they're willing to stand and don't belong to any political party. Take Scott Walker. Rumour has it, there's no money in Alan's will, and there was no love lost between father and sons. Scott will do it just to take the piss."

"You're sure he'll go along with it?"

"Well, not now he wouldn't, but I'll catch him when he's sober. It'll give Mayor Jackson something to think about."

The trap was ready to be sprung but there were other, more immediate thoughts in their minds once they parked on the track that led to the Football Club.

### CHAPTER 7 – Saturday March 27

Les Crane had been parked in the Football Club car park for over an hour, alternatively looking at the empty space before him and the wooden box securely fastened in the seat belt beside him.

He had not volunteered for the task and as he searched around for support he was met by the usual limp excuses and apologies. Keith Emerson had insisted that the responsibility was to be undertaken by the Football Club, and as their Secretary he had reluctantly accepted his duty.

Alan Price's ashes were in the casket. It was his final request to be cremated and the ashes scattered as quickly as possible. Les himself had thought that the day of the semi-final an appropriate time to honour Alan's life but when it came to the actual ceremony those who had been grateful of Alan's support were nowhere to be seen.

Eventually he got out of the car, removed the seat belt that clasped the remains of the club's President and carried the casket gingerly towards the centre circle.

It had been as the weathermen were always saying at the end of the newsbreaks, the mildest March this century. And the driest. The pitch bore evidence to this; the surface was rutted and hollowed after each game with contours baked into the playing area by spring sunshine and playful zephyrs.

Les was careful not to trip or stumble in the stud holes and grooves cut by last minute tackles and goalmouth scrambles. It was almost midday when he found himself alone in the centre circle.

"I'm sorry, old chum, that there's no one else here to see you off. But you know how it is with them. Full of excuses. What we'll do without your support I don't know. But that's not your worry now. You're with a much better Football Club now. Probably the best. If you could see us now you'd be weeping. But there again you most probably can. It's not much of a send off and I'm not much one for words so I'll just blow the final whistle and send you on your way."

Les grasped the silver referees whistle firmly between his teeth and gave three long blasts. He tilted the urn earthwards and let the mortal remains of Alan Price cascade into the centre circle.

There was little wind to carry the airborne ashes. Tiny specks and minute grains formed a low cloud that drifted slowly towards the home end, then dissolved into infinity as it merged with the baked brown soil.

Les watched the last atoms drop and then took a slow, respectful walk back to the clubhouse and opened the bar.

At two o'clock the Brenton Brook team coach turned up. They were riding high in the First Division and everyone had remarked on how lucky Fordhamton had been to have got a home draw in the semi-final.

It had been Fordhamton Town's best ever run in the Cup. It had been a welcome break from the rigours of a league campaign that had seen them drop from the Shotgun Express Premier Division to the KYM Mazelle Windows and Double Glazing Clyde Valley and District League Division Two (East) in successive seasons. They seemed destined to continue their downward slide.

Few of the Club members could account for this historic run; and although each round had only been won by the solitary goal their performance had solidly outstripped anything that they had managed in the League.

"It's the luck of the cup," Les Crane had repeatedly insisted to anyone who would listen. "You only have to win ten games." Those who bothered to check the records would have seen that Fordhamton had not won that many league games over the last five seasons.

As expected Brenton Brook brought a good crowd, a couple of full coaches and a dozen or more cars. As kickoff time approached the numbers were swollen by wives, girlfriends, mums, dads, workmates and anyone else looking for a drink away from the usual Saturday haunts.

Scaffold Marquees provided the beer tents. The main stand was full. The visitors chose the North End and the uncommitted scattered themselves along the touchline.

By three o'clock the limp breeze had strengthened to a stiff wind and when the visitors won the toss they elected to play with the wind behind their backs.

The match like so many semi-finals was a dour affair, played almost entirely in the middle and leaving both goalkeepers untroubled. It was a game for ballplayers, which neither side had in abundance. The anxiety of playing for a place in the final, the increasing strength of the wind and the lack of a player to put his foot on the ball did not add to the spectacle.

The second half was as uninspiring as the first. As the final whistle beckoned and a replay seemed the most likely outcome supporters kept checking their watches against the referee's which as every football fan knows, is usually five minutes adrift of normal time.

Brenton Brook launched a last supreme attack on the home goal. Fortunately a timely lunging tackle from Neil Innes skewered the ball towards the touchline, thirty yards away and to safety.

Viv Stanshall was not one to give free throw-ins away and ran to intercept it. His tired legs just saved the ball from going into touch and propel a long ball towards lone striker Roger Ruskin.

The following wind got hold of it and took it away from the loping and ever hopeful Ruskin; it seemed destined for the grateful arms of the outrushing visitors netminder. Then on the first bounce it struck a dried mound outside the penalty area, spiralled upwards and over the wrong footed goalkeeper, into the path of the surprised Ruskin who powered it into an empty and unguarded net.

Alan Price's ashes, made aerodynamic by the increasing wind, had blown northward and, attaching themselves to the boot of Ruskin, travelled with the ball, into the back of the net.

The referee restarted the game and almost immediately blew his whistle to end it. Les Crane and Kenny Ball hugged each other quite forgetting that at the beginning of the day they had almost been sworn enemies. But football is a funny old game and mends broken barriers. The final now beckoned but Kenny still had other things on his mind.

### CHAPTER 8 – Monday March 29

That which Dave Edmunds feared most came to pass with the morning mail. It was contained in a familiar A4 brown manila envelope with the Hues Corporation logo prominent in the top left hand corner.

It was marked for the attention of Roger Whittaker but in the absence of the Manager who was away on an Insurance, Wills and Trustee Marketing Module training week at Oates Hall, Dave opened it.

Fordhamton Branch was to be downgraded once more. It was to be a dependent sub branch to Denny Lane, and the touring caravan was to go as well.

His career had peaked. He had reached his ceiling. There would be no more promotion in the fast lane; life would be a slow movement through the middle ranks at Regional Offices. Roger Whittaker would take early retirement with a sizeable pension and enough useful years left to get a part time position (hours to suit) with a charity looking for financial expertise. But Dave had nothing to look forward to. He would always be the Chief Assistant to the Assistant Chief.

In the meantime he had an appointment with the Merry Widow, or Marion Walker as he more respectfully knew her. He had no idea what she wanted to speak about. There was nothing for her in the remains of Alan Price's business. But she had insisted on speaking to the Manager and Roger had made the appointment fully in the knowledge that he would be absent. Dave cursed his superior.

His discomfort was complete when Marion arrived. She was every inch the businesswoman in a light grey Prince of Wales check suit and her burnished bronze hair neatly brushed around her cheeks.

Dave's face was already glistening and his trousers felt too tight around his middle. He had worn his most comfortable shirt but even the size eighteen neck was rubbing against his lower chin where the knot of his tie pulled it closer.

He sat back in the managerial chair, saw his belly rise and sat forward again.

"Mr. Edmunds," smiled Marion. "I do believe that I may have found the answer to all our problems."

Dave sat motionless and expressionless. Marion placed the Letter of Credit in front of him and gave him time to examine it.

Dave nodded slowly as he read the instructions. "You'll want to open up the factory again, I suppose?"

"Yes and no. I'll certainly need some premises."

"Can you tell me exactly what you want?"

Marion was only too pleased to explain her needs to Dave. She liked businessmen who came straight to the point. She was unaware that Dave's attitude was a result of ill fitting clothes and Dave would have been alarmed to know that his disenchantment with the world of Banking was opening all doors to Marion's heart.

"James Taylor tells me that I'm still a signatory on the account."

"Are you?" asked Dave with sudden shock. He rifled through the papers on his desk. He had prepared the notes himself and like so many times before had overlooked again the significance of Marion's statement.

"So you are," he said. "Do you know no one's ever spotted that before?" He meant himself, but Marion was impressed with honesty in whatsoever manner it was expressed. "So, what can we do for you?"

"What I really need at this point is time, until I can sort the first consignment out. I don't want anyone, I mean the Bank, trying to wind everything up."

"There's little chance of that. In the short term anyway. However," Dave had been reading and re-reading the Letter of credit, "this Credit seems fine to me but it's been issued by Apollo."

"Who are bust. I know. Does it make any difference?" Marion could not stop a little irritation entering her voice. She was so sure of her plans that a block on them at this stage would cause her to erupt at the first person she saw. Most probably Dave Edmunds.

Dave was ignorant of this. "No, not really," he said, handing it back. "It's all a matter of priority. Preference, levels of responsibility as it were. We pay you; they pay us. They can't get their money back from Apollo. Unless someone in the States makes them a bloody good offer. One of our branches got stuck with a lorry load of kippers a few years back. Very nice for breakfast but after a week or two you get fed up with them."

Dave was unaware that he was rambling. He was delighted to have found out about another part of the Banking system that was spiralling downwards, even if it was three thousand miles away. It was a form of natural justice, compensation for the punishment handed down to him this morning. He was surprised to find Marion staring at him, wondering what connection a lorry load of condemned kippers had with tubular drop dispensers. He was brought back to the present.

"Is this all you've got?"

"I thought that would be enough."

"I mean to restart the business. This is the only security you can offer? The Letter of Credit is fine but the First National Agricultural Bank of Georgia can still refuse payment."

"Refuse." Marion was very quiet. It had been the first time anyone had seen cause to question the practicalities of the deal.

"Oh yes. Don't underestimate the abilities of any Bank to renege on an agreement. I know only too well. Most of the time these things go through without a hitch. But Banks are very good at seizing on the slightest error to refuse to honour their obligations. Especially if they want to get out of paying something they rather wouldn't. Anything really, difference in invoice number, late shipment, weight, description of articles. Beats me how anyone can spend their days trawling through such detail. Still, someone has to do it." Most probably me now, he thought.

Dave would have continued but Marion was shaken and her normal pale complexion ghosted. "This happens often?"

"Not often. But as I said if a Bank wants an excuse they'll search the bowels of Hell for one, and let's face it with Apollo down the pan, the Americans will certainly be looking for the slightest excuse to get out of paying this."

Dave suddenly realised that their roles had been reversed. He was in the driving seat. Marion needed help. She was vulnerable and his earlier feelings of inferiority subsided into a quest for salvation.

Marion slowly regained control of herself. The fear passed. "Everything can be checked though? You can."

"I can," agreed Dave.

Marion knew that she could take no chances. The deal had to be watertight. She had plenty of experience with bankers and knew how little they liked to commit themselves. Dave seemed less like any other Banker she had met. His loyalties seemed elsewhere. What she had to say was best said outside of the Bank walls where confidences were more secret.

"You'll appreciate Mr. Edmunds that a lot is riding on this affair. Can we discuss it elsewhere? I'd feel a bit less intimidated than in this office. Do you fancy a drink?"

Dave always fancied a drink. He would have preferred a pint or two of Barclays Harvest Bitter but was happy to accept Marion's offer of a bottle of Californian Chardonnay at the Bo Jolly Wine Bar. Marion was alarmed to watch him swallow a full measure in one gulp but refilled his glass without comment.

"Never been in here before," said Dave, beginning to feel a bit more comfortable than in the Manager's chair and pouring a third glass of Chardonnay into his glass.

"So you see," said Marion as the formalities dissolved into needs. "I need to make sure that everything is watertight," and proceeded to explain to Dave the whole plan. "What would you charge?"

"The Bank? About one per cent plus charges and so on."

"Jesus. What about you?"

"I don't charge."

"Everyone charges."

"I work for them. I don't charge."

"But say you checked them for me. As a favour. What then?"

Dave took a long breath and another mouthful of Californian sunshine. The climate agreed with him. It was as if someone had waved a magic wand. Or more precisely, Marion Walker. He regretted calling her the Merry Widow. The news this morning was meant for someone else.

"Of course," he said, quite plainly. "If I wasn't working for the Bank then I could check everything myself."

"I think we could come to some mutual arrangement. Dave, isn't it? Another drink?"

"All I really need," added Dave, "is a small lump sum to begin my own private consultancy. There's plenty of scope round here for my kind of expertise."

Marion had found her soul mate. There was no prevarication with Dave. No soul searching like James Taylor, no obstacle building like Patrick Shelton. Dave Edmunds saw the world like herself.

"I'm sure we can come to some arrangement about your fees and I can get you all the contacts you need. But first of all, will you be happy working for me?"

Dave beamed and bought another bottle. He was beginning to appreciate the finer qualities of the Chardonnay grape. "Then you'll have to tell me everything. To act as go-between I need all the information you have."

When Marion had finished filling in the gaps she looked Dave straight in the eyes. No woman had ever given him so much attention. Marion did not see an overweight, untidy and awkward Banker, she saw a straightforward honest man.

"And nothing's illegal?"

"Not illegal. Immoral perhaps, but who cares about morals? They went out of the window years ago. Take the Hues Corporation. They've just taken the decision to sack half the staff in the small town branches and more in Area and Regional Offices. Will they be losing sleep? I should coco. As I said, who gets the bill in the end? The Banks. And let's face it; they're the ones who can afford it."

"When can you start?"

"When do you want me?"

Marion laughed. She hadn't laughed like that for years. She was with someone who wasn't trying to impress her. Someone who was out to get something back, not from her; Dave wanted nothing from her but the chance to prove himself. It was a partnership made in Heaven.

"I'll arrange a meeting with the others as soon as possible."

"Of course," added Dave, warming to his new role in life. "We could open a US Dollar account and have the money paid into that and when the rate's in our favour change it up."

"Tell me, Dave. Say I'd seen that man Whittaker today. What would he have done?"

"Who bloody cares?"

"I like you, Dave."

When he got back to the office Dave wasted no time. He opened a Dollar account and then offered his resignation to Region. They were sad to see him go but happy to accept his decision as final. With holidays and length of service and with the impending downgrading he could leave at the end of the week.

The tills differed by nine pounds ninety pence. Dave wrote it off as ten pence for ten pound and shut the office at four thirty.

"I'm leaving," he told Alex by way of explanation for the round of drinks.

"Seize the day," said Alex.

Marion waited until after the seven o'clock news to ring Patrick. He was not too pleased to hear of another partner to what was in effect a small conspiracy but slowly acceded to Marion's arguments as she explained Dave's role. Patrick was won over.

"He's a simple man, Patrick. He likes a drink. Never seen a man swallow wine like that before – certainly not at Bo Jolly's prices, but he seems to enjoy my company and to enjoy his life. Moreover he also wants revenge. I like him. He's uncomplicated. He's my insurance policy. He's my very own cuddly Bank Manager."

"I think Marion's found herself a boyfriend," said Patrick to Anne later that night. But Marion still hadn't succeeded in getting James Taylor on board.

Peter Noone was meeting with much more success. He struggled through the days, craving for the evenings and a couple of stolen hours in the company of Valerie Masters. Time refused to stand still and the only way he knew to stretch the hours in which to be with her was to promote an election contest with all his might.

Whilst Dave Edmunds was being seduced in the Bo Jolly Wine Bar, Peter was taking an enforced lunch break in the Albatross whilst a client reconsidered the wording of a print run. It seemed that Fate favoured the bold; Scott Walker had taken a stroll down to Colin Blunstone's bar in order to buy his tickets to watch the Tabs perform on a local stage.

Scott was playing the fruit machine with a bottle of Tijuana Brass glued to one hand when Peter walked in. After the exchange of a few necessary pleasantries Peter played his opening card.

"Not following in your father's footsteps then?"

"Am I my father's son?" answered Scott, rather philosophically. "I had absolutely nothing in common with him. And that extends to politics."

"Sorry I asked." Peter remained unperturbed. He had not expected Scott to bite at the first fly flashed across the water.

"No sweat, Peter. Tell you the truth; I just get pissed off hearing about him wherever I go. All they do is ask questions for which I haven't got any answers. Like when is the factory going to open; or what's your mother going to do now; such as what will happen to the Football Club. I just don't give a toss. Didn't care about him, his company or his politics when he was alive; now he's dead its worse."

"Quite understand, Scott. Let's face it, I knew him for years and I never quite got to like him. For a start we sat on the opposite side of the political spectrum. I knew him when your mother was still just his secretary and ordered stationary from me."

"So you've lost out as well from his death?"

"Not as much as some have."

"Well, as I see it, everyone seems to be blaming him for their own misfortune. Even my brother. He's buggered off back to London with a giant sized hump. Why should I care? So the old sod died broke. I for one don't give a stuff. There's no secret about it; I hated his guts when he was alive so why care a toss now. Does that make me a cold hearted bugger like they're saying?"

"Everyone to their own, Scott."

"Exactly. I just want to be left to get on with my own life. I'm not a Price anymore, anyway. I'm a Walker."

"I wish a few more people had that attitude. Personally I'm getting the just as big a hump with a few people in this town. Take this election."

"What's your fascination with that?"

Peter had rehearsed a scornful laugh. It got Scott's attention, who nevertheless continued to pump the machine with silver. "Everyone knows that no one wants to be bothered with an election. Except the Mayor. And I don't think he actually wants one either, but that is just between you and me. It's given him a chance to fix the Council. Ensure the status quo. Did you know that he's arranged it so that there will only be four nominations for the four vacant seats?"

"I thought you lot would have done something about it."

"No one wants to stand, that's the truth of the matter. I had to twist Alex Harvey's arm so hard it hurt; and you know what a laid back sort of bloke he is."

Scott nodded agreement. "The old bastard Jackson's got it sewn up then. I'll say one thing for my old man; he wouldn't have stood for any of this shit. He would have insisted on an election even if it was just for personal reasons. He was one of the few who actually enjoyed going round the pubs and grabbing votes. After all what's the point of a democracy if no one is allowed to vote? Even if it's for a bunch of deadwood."

Peter offered to buy another drink, allowing the conversation to ferment in Scott's brain.

"I'll stand myself," retorted Scott when Peter returned. "That'll give that twat Jackson something to think about. It'll be a bloody good laugh; get a few of my mates from Uni involved. I call it the Have A Bloody Good Party Party. What do you think?" He put his last ten pence piece in the slot, hit the button and five pounds in silver poured like rain into the bowl.

Peter told Valerie all about his conversation. He had opened up a can of worms and one had hooked Scott Walker; but the sliver of light from where the lid had been slightly pried away had let in the brightness from the outside world and woken up other beasts. Strange and fantastical creatures buried deep in the primordial swamp were about to join the dance.

### CHAPTER 9 – Tuesday March 30

"Morning, Roger." Roger Miller looked up from the computer screen as he scrolled through his database. "Remember our little chat last week about the council?"

Roger said nothing. Michael Jackson reached inside his pocket and spread out a form in front of him. "I told you it was all a formality. Pat Torpey thought you an excellent candidate. A credit to the town. We need people like you."

"Let's be honest about this, Michael. You need me more than I need you. I only agreed to stand on the understanding that it will be a formality. I am not going to subject myself to months on end campaigning for votes. Everyone knows what a waste of time it all is."

"Exactly, Roger. Which is why this is such a golden opportunity for you. On the nod, so to speak."

"And who else will be standing?"

"You haven't heard? Good grief Roger, you must have been hiding your head in the sand. There's Phyllis of course. And the Labour mob have put up Paul Simon. And your mate Alex Harvey. Seems a strange sort of bloke to me. Always put him down as a bit of a rebel. What with all that pop music and long hair. But that's New Labour for you, isn't it."

Roger scratched his ear. He couldn't fault Michael's logic. It wasn't as if he would be sitting on the other side of the fence to Alex. They were both independent. It did seem odd though, to hear that Alex had agreed to stand. He wondered what kind of inducement the Labour party had offered him. Although he had been acting somewhat different since he'd taken up with the new woman in Glad's old shop.

"And what about our other little agreement?"

"Well as I said Roger, the only block to that is dead. Once you're on the Council then we have a way of looking after our own. There shouldn't be any trouble with that. Of course there's no way you'll be able to sit on the Planning sub-committee but I'm sure you'll find Resources an equally interesting sort of position. Alan Price did get a little over enthusiastic with the grants to the Football Club, but that's all in the past. We can forget about him now. Fortunately. So Roger, just sign here."

Roger signed the nomination form. It was a small price to pay to get his CCTV up and running and once approval had gone through then he'd be out of Jackson's pocket. Free to say what he thought.

Michael Jackson left Millers Video in an even better frame of mind. It would be hard to forget a favour like that. He made his way to the Sad Café where he had another meeting.

Joan Regan was ahead of him. She had sat at the table nearest the window, facing the length of the High Street from where she had watched the comings and goings with great interest. Her musings were interrupted by the arrival of first Arthur Brown and then Michael Jackson.

The retired greengrocer slammed the bulb of his pipe against the outside wall and then blew and sucked ferociously at the stem to clear the airways. He joined her at the table having placed the pipe in his top pocket. Everywhere he went he was met by 'no smoking' signs that seemed to grow faster than the weeds on his allotment.

Michael Jackson brought three coffees over. "Thanks for coming, both of you. You know why we're here. It's this bequest of Alan's."

"What the hell does Harmony, Industry and Co-operation mean anyway?" asked Arthur, making small, slurping noises as he sipped at the hot coffee.

"I've been giving that some thought, Arthur. Basically I think Alan was trying to encompass the work of the Town Council in the betterment of the health of the community in as few words as he could."

"You're beginning to talk in abstracts. Just bung up a statue. Something everyone can recognise. Take that Henry Moore fellow; what kind of crazy world did he live in when he could carve out holes in lumps of granite and call them women's breasts."

"God forbid, Arthur. That might mean we would have to tolerate a statue of Alan Price himself. I don't think I could bear to look at a statue of that man every time I wanted to walk down my own High Street."

"Quite so, Joan."

"I'd rather not have anything to do with the man at all. His money, his bequest or his memorial. The man was a lout. There's no other word for him."

"The problem is Joan," urged the Mayor, who was well aware of her personal feelings, "is that by the terms of his will, which we are bound to abide by as the most senior councillors, us three are to be trustees of the fund of twenty five thousand pounds and to appoint a local artist to interpret those instructions."

"Look, Michael," said a very irritated Arthur Brown. "I wasn't too keen on the bloke myself. And I don't understand modern sculpture either. I'd rather not have anything to do with it."

"Of course," added the mayor. "When Alan said memorial, he didn't exactly mean a sculpture."

"What else could he have possibly meant?" queried Joan.

"I don't know. A memorial suggests all sorts of things. A park, a garden of remembrance, a plaque, a mural, a bequest to the local symphony orchestra...." His voice trailed off.

"Exactly," roared Arthur. "All namby pamby, arty farty, wishy washy, looney lefty sort of stuff you find in the pages of the Sunday supplements."

In the background the Beverley sisters giggled and turned their backs on the senior council members.

"Quite frankly, Michael, I don't want anything to do with it."

"Nor me," added Joan. "I just don't want to be associated with a man who was a byword for sexual depravity."

"Well, this is getting us nowhere. I had expected a little more enthusiasm from both of you." Michael Jackson returned to the matter in hand. "So much for harmony, industry and co-operation. What do you suggest I do?"

"I suggest that you take that twenty five thousand pounds and give it to the sixth form at Geno Washington County and ask them what they make of it. In fact," said Arthur Brown leaving, "you can do what you like with it. Just ask me to sign anything you like when it's all over."

"Me too," added Joan, rising to leave.

"I see," nodded Michael Jackson to no one at all. He smiled at the Beverley Sisters and ordered another coffee and a slice of homemade lemon cheesecake. It was a modest but very enjoyable celebration.

Something not unnoticed by the two men sitting in the corner not saying a word.

"Have you noticed," began Harley. "That this town is full of huddles. Old men and women, talking amongst themselves in quiet voices. What do you think they're planning?"

"Nothing more than the next garden fete I suppose."

"No I don't think so Davis. They keep those things to church halls. No, it's always the same people. There's something going on."

"You don't suspect any of them of murder do you guv?"

"Are you being serious Davis? None of these could murder a cheese sandwich. But we'll keep watch. Finish that tea cake. We've got things to do."

Davis looked down at the empty plate and followed Harley down to High Street to The Horse With No Name. It was empty.

"A pint of your finest please landlord," said Harley "and an orange juice for my man. Davis, pay the man and give me that sketch."

Miles Davis was not a sociable person. He did not mix well. He avoided the police social clubs, never played sports and found opportunities to miss seasonal functions. He enjoyed his own company so Harley's bonhomie felt uncomfortable but he paid up anyway.

"Bill aint it?" Bill Withers nodded his head. "I think that the woman that Alan Price met on the day of his death may have got a cab here. DC Davis here has got the best artistic talent at the office to draw this. Does she seem familiar?"

Bill put a pint of Barclays Harvest Bitter in front of Harley and adding a slice of orange to the glass placed the juice in front of Davis. Then he picked up the drawing.

"Is she the one that done it then?"

"I think we went to the same grammar school Bill. I don't know what you think she's done; all I want to know is if she seems familiar."

"She could be," mused Bill. "She's not unlike some woman that came in here the other day asking questions."

"Asking questions?" Harley stared at Bill as if expecting the conversation to continue. It stalled. "Bill, I ask the questions round here. What did she want to know? Who was she?"

"I don't know do I?" said Bill Withers. "She said she was a journalist and was doing a piece on the economic fall out generally and in particular how the collapse of a local company affected the community."

"And what did you tell her?" Davis had his trusty notebook in hand.

This was not what Harley wanted to know. "You think this is the same woman? Can you give us a description? Davis, write this down."

"She was about five foot eight or nine. Attractive, brown eyes, hair pulled back, black, shiny. Fine figure you know what I mean? I reckon she must have been in her late twenties. Only strange thing about her was that she didn't seem to come from round here."

"Not a local girl?" asked Davis.

"No, not from round here. Her accent was too good. Almost too good. Almost a perfect English accent. You know the type, struggling to make sure she didn't drop her aitches or use slang."

"I don't have that problem myself Bill. Aitches are meant to be dropped. You've never seen her before?"

"I would have said wouldn't I?"

"Not the local press then?" asked Davis.

"She didn't say what paper she worked for. I got the impression she may have been freelance."

"We can check that. And she wanted to know about Alan Price?"

"She knew he was dead all right. She was more interested in what was happening to the business and the workers."

"Did she give a name?" asked Davis, pen hovering over pad.

"I don't think she did," mused Bill Withers.

"As I said," smiled Harley as they walked back into the sunshine, "Cherchez la femme. Now what does she want? Take that picture around town a bit and then check the local rag. See if anyone knows anything. If she is press which I doubt, someone might have given her a story."

But not Mayor Michael Jackson, left alone with twenty five thousand pounds and no one to tell him how to spend it. He had appointments to make, people to see. All he needed now was a nod from Keith Emerson. But Keith had problems of his own

### CHAPTER 10\- Thursday April 1

Alice Cooper the part time Town Clerk, had hardly placed her coat on the hanger when she was propelled backwards to her desk by the early calling Mayor.

The Town Clerk's office was situated in the left wing of the old almshouses, just along from the Hues Corporation.

"Another beautiful day Alice," boomed the Mayor.

Alice puffed and sat down, placing her handbag under the desk close to her ankles. "Personally I think we could do with a little rain."

"Maybe," thought the Mayor aloud, but gave it no further space. "Tell me Alice. Any news on the election front?"

"I told you yesterday, as I did on Tuesday and Monday. Nothing. There is no one out there even thinking about elections."

"Excellent," grinned Michael. "Who wants to go canvassing anyway?"

Michael Jackson swept back into the pleasant April sunshine. Alice had reminded him that there was still three hours left for someone to put their name forward. But Michael ignored her warnings.

James Taylor returned from the Job Centre in a state of despair. There were few vacancies for Production Managers; his age was against him and what jobs there were offered a salary that was far below what was needed to support the household budget.

Most of his former workmates had found jobs. The shock of sudden unemployment had been absorbed and anger was fading away into new surroundings and a slightly higher wage.

No doubt the rest would also secure some form of employment but for the likes of James, possessed of a role in the company that defied description, finding a similar position was proving difficult.

Marion was right. She wouldn't be doing anyone any favours by keeping the factory going. Sooner or later, they would all have to find alternative work.

As he had done every day he returned to the factory and sat in his old office. It was no more than a couple of partitions built into a three sided pen; but it reminded him of late nights when the men had gone home and the machines were still. It seemed unreal then; now nothing stirred, not even the familiar creaks and grunts of machines settling down to rest and boxes shifting themselves a fraction of an inch in their wrappings.

Where there were once invoices and delivery notes, production schedules and week by week planners he saw only debts and small brown envelopes containing dole cheques. He wanted his job back.

Kenny Ball wanted revenge.

James had walked around the town for an hour or two, considering his next move. His meanderings brought him to the Bird of Paradise, where he met Kenny.

"Jimmy, coming in for a drink?"

James thought Kenny sounded as if he had already drunk enough, and it was still only just midday. He ignored the familiar 'Jimmy' that he hated and returned the offer with politeness. "No thanks Kenny. I'm on the way home."

"Where you been? Job Centre? That's a laugh, Jimmy. Ain't no jobs for the likes of us any more. Come and have a drink. Then we'll go up for the auction."

James pushed his straggly hair away from his eyes. "What auction?"

"They're auctioning all Price's stuff today. You and me Jimmy, we've got to stick together. Show them we're still around."

Kenny tried to drag James into the pub by pulling on his jacket. His grip was none too tight and he pushed open the bar door, letting go of James Taylor's arm. James heard him order a pint and carried on his lonely walk around the Rupert Homes estate.

He considered his options. Stay on the dole or drink himself into oblivion; either way there was little work. Or perhaps there was still time to accept Marion's offer. All his life he had tried to do the decent thing; but alcohol was not the solution. He couldn't stand to see his family suffer, but he wasn't a criminal either.

He had left the factory in order. There was nothing more to do there. The Bank could move in tomorrow and find nothing amiss. James took pride in work; he believed in excellence. But pride did not put bread on the table.

The road forked ahead of him. He looked down the track that Kenny Ball trod and the sun warming the leafy lane along which Marion walked with ease. There really was no decision to make.

The local estate agent Jonathan King was singing to himself. He was always well dressed in hand made suits, his face always clean shaven and hair always trimmed. He was in the yard behind his estate agent's office, placing a pile of catalogues into the boot of his car. He enjoyed auctions; they got him out of the office and into the middle of the public view. He enjoyed playing to the gallery, with a full armoury of gestures and voices.

A few minutes later he was joined by Keith Emerson.

"The lovely Sandy not with you?"

"She'll be up later. You're wasting your time there, you know," added the solicitor. "She's a one man woman ... whoever he is," he added mournfully.

"Live in hope," said the ever cheerful estate agent. "I always thought that you were knocking her off. Just shows how wrong you can be."

"Chance would be a fine thing." Keith imagined just for a moment, Sandy Denny dancing naked on his desk except for a black suspender belt and stockings; then climbed into the passenger seat of Jonathan's car.

Jonathan smiled back at the morose solicitor.

It was a short drive to Alan Price's old house and although Keith was assured by Jonathan that a good sale was to be expected, the former knew that whatever was raised would be just a fraction of that needed to make any dent in Alan's substantial debts.

"Oh shit," spat out Keith who was rarely given to swearing. Jonathan braked sharply and said nothing.

Moldfield House, Alan's home, was situated in an isolated position a couple of miles outside of Fordhamton. It was not visible from the road. The towering hedge masked the entrance to any speeding car and the circular drive was accessed through a row of tall cypress trees.

Moldfield House had been extended to include a snooker hall, a conservatory and double garage. All of which was cleverly designed to merge within the existing style. All in all, it exuded wealth.

As the two businessmen slammed the front doors of Jonathan's Porsche the reason for Keith's spontaneous expletive became crystal clear.

Someone had taken a wide paintbrush, dipped it in a violent shade of green and daubed the word 'WANKER' all over the whitewashed pebbledash frontage. Trickles of the gaudy coloured paint dripped off the edge of each letter, adding an unusual serif to the coarse script.

Keith walked alongside the elongated description and tested for wetness. The paint left no traces on his finger. The remainder of the paint pot appeared to have been thrown over the door and then tipped out onto the front step. Keith stood in the dried solution and said once again, "Shit."

He let himself into the house and breathed out slowly, grateful that all the damage was contained on the outside. Everything was as he had left it the previous evening.

"What's the idea?" asked Jonathan. "The man's dead."

"I just don't know," replied Keith, honestly.

"Drink?"

Jonathan had regained his normal bonhomie. He had found Alan's bar and was examining the half empty bottles, those that couldn't be sold. After rattling the stacked glass he found a freshly touched bottle of malt. Keith refused the invitation. Jonathan helped himself.

Jonathan's staff began to arrive and could be seen pointing and sniggering at the despoiled paintwork. Jonathan made a quick call to Bobby Lord on his mobile and shortly afterwards the adaptable handyman was scrubbing out the offending noun with a fresh coat of brilliant white emulsion. However the unusual bold hue of green still managed to leak through Bobby's handiwork and was clearly discernible to any close inspection.

There was nothing he could do about the front door which was left open and covered with a sheet and an advertisement for Jonathan's agency. "Lose no opportunity," he had told Keith. "There's plenty of evidence left for the local constabulary to examine as soon as the auction is over.

By midday the driveway was filling up with cars, vans and assorted pickups; each with their original corporate logos scrubbed out in favour of anonymous house clearance experts, advertising same day service and best prices paid.

The house and gardens were full of traders in leather and sheepskin coats, mobile phones couched against ears and gold pens making longhand notes in the margins of their catalogues.

The Walker family was conspicuously absent.

Jonathan had opted to use the living room as his auction room. It offered an attractive backdrop to the proceedings, with the lawn and outdoor pool framed by the conservatory. Every chair or piece of furniture that could be sat on was placed in the one room; each with its numbered ticket that could be cross referenced to the catalogue. Even so there was little standing room left when Jonathan banged the little wooden gavel hard on the hollowed out stand to call for attention.

Keith sat to Jonathan's left with face fixed on the catalogue resting on his crossed leg. Beside him Sandy sat in jeans hiding her legs, but this did not dampen Keith's interest and continued to mentally trace the outline of her calves and thighs all the way up to the line where a suspender belt might be secured.

Sandy sat expressionless with her own catalogue neatly drawn into columns, which she had headed, 'price', 'comm' and 'net'.

Jonathan's half brother and partner Brian Poole, sat on his right hand. Brian assured him that the software and phone link was up and running and Jonathan banged his gavel again to silence the waiting crowd.

"Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen. Thank you all for coming this afternoon. I know that quite a few of you have had a long drive. So as you are all aware of my conditions of sale I shall get straight on with it, starting at lot number one. This excellent rosewood writing desk at which I am standing. I shall be grateful if the person buying it could wait until the end of the auction before removing it. All purchases may only be removed with bill of sale and through the front door. Now what am I bid for this superb desk with leather inlay, two drawers and original brass handles? Shall we start at two hundred? One fifty. Who'll give me one hundred?"

"A hundred pence. One bloody pound," offered a voice from the back.

Jonathan smiled and waved the gavel about the audience good-humouredly. "Now let's be serious, ladies and gentlemen. Do I hear fifty? This is not a charity."

"Too bloody right," shouted the same disembodied voice.

"Shut up Kenny," demanded another anonymous voice from the rear of the audience.

"Not a charity? I should say it isn't a sodding charity. But it's all I'm good for now. Out of work. No pension. On the dole. Washed up. Thrown out onto the tip. Charity is just about all I can hope for."

A small black hole formed at the back of the room as those left standing moved sideways, revealing at its core the bedraggled and inebriated figure of Kenny Ball, forefinger pointing at Jonathan King.

Jonathan confronted his accuser. "Ahhhh. Kenny. Now come on, Kenny. You've had your laugh. Let's get on with it, eh?"

"Piss off, Jonathan. It's alright for you up there. Mister ten per cent. And that brother of yours. But what about me? Mister no percent."

The gathering of hardnosed traders turned their gaze inwards upon Kenny, who was not intimidated by so many out of town commercial interests threatening to put him in order.

Kenny was drunk. He didn't care that he was drunk. Or making an exhibition of himself. He wanted to make a statement. But nothing he wanted to say came out of his mouth. He hadn't planned it like this but too many pints and an occasional whisky in the Bird of Paradise had worn away his vocabulary.

By now the occasional car parking attendants and removal men that made up Jonathan's part time army had surrounded Kenny Ball and were propelling him backwards towards the door.

"You can't get rid of me as easy as this," shouted Kenny as his threats faded into the distance and down the crunched up shingle on the drive.

Jonathan displayed no signs of annoyance. "Right, where was I? Oh yes lot number one. Who'll give me two fifty?"

The auction of Alan Price's worldly goods had not passed under DI Harley's radar but he did not think it worthy of his attention. He was more interested in the investigations of DC Miles Davis.

"It appears that a woman, posing as a journalist has been phoning quite a few people."

"Then why had no one mentioned it?"

"No one actually thought it worth mentioning sir." Davis replied in his normal deadpan way, devoid of emotion or understanding.

"I told you, this lot just talk amongst themselves. What has she been asking?"

"Wanted to know what had been happening to the company."

"And who has got these calls?"

"Marion Walker, Dave Edmunds, Keith Emerson, Patrick Shelton so far."

"The Gang of Four eh?"

"And did they say anything?"

"What could they say?"

"Did they get a name?"

"No one asked."

"So no one asked the name of a complete stranger who wants to know about your business? Have you showed them her description?"

"All done by phone guv."

"What does she want Davis? This mystery woman?"

Davis had no reply which was just as well for their conversation in the staff canteen was interrupted by the arrival of the local beat copper, Terry Jacks.

Terry was an old fashioned neighbourhood policeman. He knew everybody, everybody knew him. He knew all the petty criminals and they knew how to avoid him. He was respected and well known, a large ruddy faced man who was good at his job.

"Sorry to disturb you sir. I was about to go and deal with this myself but the Inspector said I should see you first."

"About what TJ?"

"There's been some trouble up at Alan Price's place. You might want to see for yourself."

By four thirty Jonathan King had reached lot number 525, assorted wooden gardening implements. Sandy wrote '£5' '.50' and '£4.50' on the bottom line of the catalogue and proceeded to total the final column, before agreeing the three individual sums with Brian Poole.

Davis parked the car out in the lane and ground down the loose aggregates that covered the drive. He was met by Keith at the front door and they stood aside as a large framed portrait of Stanley Mathews edged past them on two corduroy clad legs.

"This is it, is it?" Harley ran his hand over Bobby Lord's repair work. "I don't think it was a good idea to have covered up the evidence, you know. SOCO would have wanted to take a photograph."

"You can understand our problem Inspector but it could have ruined the sale today, buyers seeing that sort of thing. It could have forced down the price. You can see what was done though."

"Oh yes," agreed Harley moving towards the front door. "And this is the colour. A pretty lurid sort of colour isn't it. What would you call it? Green?"

Keith still surveyed the despoiled door and porch and the dried up pool in which they were standing. "Does it matter?"

"I mean. It's not your average sort of colour. It's not what your ordinary bloke in the street would use to paint his living room. Whoever did this isn't quite what you'd call ordinary. Ordinary people don't go around scribbling 'wanker' over other people's walls."

Keith watched a couple of oriental carpets being thrown into the back of a blacked out BT van.

"I suppose it is only just co-incidence but Kenny Ball was up here early. And I do say only co-incidental. But he was the worse for wear. And he was employed by Alan Price. And he is on the dole and upset about the whole business."

"The thing is Davis. The man's dead. Why do this when he's dead?"

"Cherchez la femme guv?"

"No, searchez Kenny Ball first of all."

Michael Jackson's afternoon tea, a special treat on half day closing, was ruined by a call from Alice Cooper. "Is this some sort of April Fool's joke?" Michael spluttered through a soggy garibaldi.

"It's all perfectly above board. This is his permanent address. "

"Who the hell's put him up to that? It's some sort of student prank."

"His father was a councillor, you know."

"Of course I know. We've just buried the man. You can't tell me Scott Walker is trying to follow in his old man's footsteps. He hated him. Hated everything he stood for. Including politics."

Michael saw weeks of planning gurgling like bathwater down the plughole, with time rapidly running out. The event that he had tried to prevent was about to become a reality. He would have egg all over his face. Pat Torpey would laugh.

But as yet, all he had ever said was that generally speaking, no one he knew in town wanted an election. There was still hope. He had to ensure that Scott never got elected.

"What's he standing as? Independent?"

"Sort of," answered Alice, who had been testing the line for failure by calling his name during Michael's uncharacteristic silence. "Actually he's standing as a candidate for the Common Revolutionary Anarchist Party."

"Crap," said Michael, and put the phone down.

Whilst Michael thought of how to prevent the new local fringe party from taking office Scott was talking to Peter Noone on another phone line. "I think it will be a bloody good laugh."

"I hope so," agreed Peter.

"Do you think I stand any chance of being elected?"

"Football's a funny old game," said Peter.

On Harley's instructions Terry Jacks finally tracked Kenny Ball down at home. He was considerably more worse for wear than Keith Emerson had described, having visited all the pubs in the area to complain of the rough treatment that had been handed down to him by Jonathan King's bunch of itinerant staff.

Terry obtained only a garbled version of Kenny's movements. But he had no suspicions for taking him in for further questioning, there were no traces of the hideous green paint on any of his clothing, which didn't appear to have been changed in days, and there was no evidence of paint in Kenny's house or garden.

Terry left him to sober up. Then wondered if that was the right decision when he heard that the phantom green paint sprayer had struck again.

### CHAPTER 11 – Friday April 2

Keith West knew that something was wrong when Allan Smethurst stopped singing. The owner of Good Earth was quickly out of bed and down to the door when he heard the postman's urgent rapping.

"Have you seen what some bugger's done to your window?"

Keith stood at the corner of the deserted High Street in the slight frosty April morning and placed his hands outstretched against the desecrated window. The postman scratched his head. "Beats me what the kids get out of this."

"It's the same moron that painted Alan Price's old house. That was sprayed with some disgusting colour."

"What colour do you call that then?" asked the postman.

"I don't know." Nothing could soothe the irritation in Keith West's voice. "It's green. Lurid green. Who cares? What does 'up yours' mean anyway?"

Allan left the Health Food shop owner kicking the woodwork below the plate glass window. The remains of another pot of green paint had been thrown over the door and then let run like scorching lava onto the pavement and into the gutter.

By the time Terry Jacks arrived on the scene everyone in town knew about the paint over Keith West's shop and began speculating on who the peace-keeping eco-friendly trader might have upset.

"What do you make of it all?" asked Sergeant Pepper of the local beat bobby, once he had returned to the Blueberry Hill station.

"Well, it's obviously the same person. It's the same paint and it's no colour that any of the local businesses have sold. I doubt if the same two people could come by the same awful shade of green so I reckon we're looking for the same bloke for both jobs."

"I'm with you so far."

"So, there has to be a connection between Alan Price and Keith West. Someone out there has a grudge against both. Now, both were on the Council. Different side of the political divide mind. I reckon Kenny Ball had a motive for doing Price's house; and he was shouting his mouth off earlier at the auction. And at the match last Saturday; and apparently he's been badmouthing Price in every pub for miles around."

"But?"

"But, I can't see what he could have against West."

"Wasn't there something about Price producing manufacturing plastic johnnies for a health food company?"

"Apparently."

"Then there's your motive. The state you tell me Kenny Ball's in, he's hardly been acting rationally. And when a man goes off the rails like that, he's liable to do many things that to the rest of us appear irrational. Pull him in. And get a warrant to search his home. I bet he's got that paint hidden away somewhere. What colour did you say it was?"

"I'm not too sure of that. It could be emerald but you know what these paint companies are like these days, with their fancy names. I got a lot of those sample sheets to check."

"Find the colour and you've got your man. Would you want that colour in your home?"

"I don't think Mrs. Jacks would be too keen on it."

"Exactly, Terry. We're stuck with a lunatic out there with absolutely no colour sense at all. Should be easy once you can put a name to it. And don't forget to mention it to DI Harley. He's interested in anything to do with Alan Price."

Roger Miller was surprised to find Alex had opened so early. He wasn't to know that Alex had been awakened by yet another telephone call from Victor Feldman and had stalled him by announcing that he was actually going to watch the Tabs that night at the Albatross.

The wily music publisher was surprised to learn that such a high profile all-girl group had consented to perform at a very ordinary rural pub. Alex who was still carrying his ticket in his back pocket, wrapped inside a wad of notes had convinced him of the fact. He was looking forward to the evening as Grace was accompanying him.

When Roger walked in Alex was pressing down selection buttons on the jukebox in a random, haphazard fashion, just to hear some old forgotten favourites. It helped him think, but thoughts of electioneering were furthest from his mind.

Keith West's paint splattered window had clouded even Roger's clear view of things.

"Have you seen what some so-and-so's done to Good Earth? Makes you wonder if it's a health hazard being a councillor now. First Alan Price's old home and now West's. It's making me think twice about this election business. Could be me next. Or you."

"How did you get caught up in this?" asked Alex, turning down the volume of Bennie and the Jets..

"I was going to ask you the same thing. You've never struck me as someone who wants to get involved in local politics."

"I was just sort of asked by Peter Noone. I would have turned it down but for Grace."

"I've heard about this new woman in your life, Alex."

Alex didn't want to talk about his new relationship. It had released the worst fears from out of the deepest dungeon inside him.

"So just how did you get involved?" he quizzed Roger.

"Well, you remember my planning application for CCTV? It never got to committee stage because Price was killed. It seems that Jackson's been doing a bit of horse trading and fixed the nominations. He promised me an easy ride in planning, in exchange for support in the Council. But I reckon whoever's got the hump with Price and West has done me a favour because it's now obvious that extra security such as CCTV would have stopped this paint sprayer in his tracks. So I reckon I'm well shot of Jackson now anyway."

"It is all rather convenient, Roger."

"Would be, Alex. But now some stupid idiot's really gone and done the dirty. That pockmarked college boy Scott Walker is actually standing for election. After Jackson specifically assuring me that an election would be out of the question. Where am I going to find the time to go electioneering? I've got a business to run. I haven't got time to wander around the Rupert Homes estate or up and down farmyard tracks in the middle of the night just to find no one's in. And what for? An extra vote? How many bodies actually turned out last time? Well, I don't know. But it wasn't many."

"Everyone knows what it's like round here at election times. No one votes. It's the same reason I agreed. Peter promised me that it was already cut and dried. So who the hell put Scott up to it?"

"No one had to. He most probably doing the whole thing as a student prank. No one will even vote for him. I mean, who's going to turn up and put their name to CRAP?"

"So what do we do, Roger?"

"That's why I called, Alex. You're not interested in anything political. I'm not and I'm sure I don't need any help from Michael Jackson. So what I'm suggesting is that we do absolutely nothing. What do you say?"

Alex said it was a wonderful idea.

That evening the bar of The Horse With No Name was rapidly filling and reminding Bill Withers of happier days before the bypass was constructed. The many chippies, plasterers and plumbers stayed on for a little while longer and were joined by the staff of the Hues Corporation who had come for a drink with Dave Edmunds.

For many it was probably their first and certainly their last drink in the company of Dave Edmunds. Few of them ever bothered to stop any other evening and this one was no different; and once they had wished him well and bought him a pint 'for old times sake' went home leaving Dave alone with Alex, just like most other Fridays.

Dave downed each pint that was ranged along the bar with alarming speed. His jacket was draped over a stool, his tie was loose and his face resembled that of a man who has just surfaced after swimming an energetic length in the local pool.

"I feel like a new man, Alex. It's like being born again; like walking through a door into summer. I don't know what I would have done if Marion Walker hadn't made that appointment. She's been like a fairy godmother to me."

"Last week you were calling her the Merry Widow."

"Never again. I'll never say another bad word against her." Dave reached out for another pint that an ex-colleague had paid for and left on the bar.

The door to the pub opened. Showing obvious signs of frustration and irritation, one of Fordhamton's building fraternity swept to the bar and joined his mates. "It's taken me almost three hours to get here. Have you seen the traffic out there?"

As the front door slowly creaked shut on the badly adjusted automatic door closer, Dave and Alex glanced out into the High Street. A string of cars, exhaust billowing skywards, were stacked up outside Ray Charles newsagents and disappeared into the distance where lights could be seen glimmering from the Albatross. Above the noise of revving engines came the high pitched screaming of car horns. In the distance a police siren wailed.

"Must have been a smash on the bypass," dismissed Alex.

The latecomer turned to Alex with a grateful pint of lager half drunk. "Jams all around, mate. Don't know what's going on but there's no smash. All the traffic seems to be heading this way."

The increase in traffic would have remained a mystery to the drinkers marooned in the bar of The Horse With No Name but for a sudden increase in pedestrian traffic outside and the unmistakable soprano voices of young girls on their way up to the Albatross.

"I thought this might happen." Bill Withers at last found some consolation from being upstaged by Colin Blunstone. "As soon as you advertise something like that, half the county will turn up."

Bill was right but had seriously underestimated the drawing power of the chart topping girl group. The majority of the teenage population of the county and far beyond seemed to be converging on Fordhamton as in a pilgrimage to the statue of a saint that had suddenly come to life and was oozing blood.

Colin Blunstone's main attraction had spread by word of mouth through the usual network of schools, mobiles and Facebook.

Colin was that moment being harangued by the Chief Constable who wanted to know why the police had not been advised of the event supported by a comprehensive Risk Assessment and Event Plan copied to both District and County Councils. Colin's apologies cut no ice with the budget conscious officer who had arranged for all his resources to be redeployed this Friday night to Glencoe town centre where under age drinking had reached record levels.

'It's just a little local affair," replied Colin.

"This is more like Robbie Williams at Knebworth," re-iterated Chief Constable Ifield. "You should have warned the Council; and who's going to pay for my men's overtime?"

For once Colin Blunstone was silenced. He hadn't expected his pub and Fordhamton High Street to be overrun. He mumbled something that sounded encouraging and put the phone down. Chief Constable Frank Ifield continued to talk for a minute or two before realising that no one was listening.

Police patrolled either end of the bypass refusing any further advance unless the driver could prove residency or was the proud possessor of a ticket. This did little to prevent the mobilisation of hot dog vendors, cold drink salesman and sundry mobile fast food outlets through the lanes and tracks that crisscrossed the countryside like a freshly spun spider's web.

Chief Constable Frank Ifield offered up a little prayer of thanksgiving to the late Doctor Beeching who had the foresight to axe the local railway line that used to run parallel to the High Street. In the absence of this access route he was able to instruct his officers to take no notice of the coaches and cars with high profile pictures of their favourite girl group sellotaped to the side windows and force them to continue along the bypass.

By eight o'clock the Albatross was a heaving mass of bodies. The crowd outside had been restricted to a couple of hundred who nevertheless made enough noise to compensate for the missing thousands.

Colin had radioed ahead to ensure that the girls' car was guaranteed a safe passage. Two man mountains preceded them from the limousine, dressed in black suits, black polo necks, dark glasses and black pork pie hats. The minders made brave attempts at forestalling any photographs or autographs being taken or requested.

The girls eased out of the car wearing long white mink coats and long white boots. They could have been identical triplets but for the long blond, red and black hairpieces that flowed over the back of their coats.

They were quickly ushered through the delivery entrance at the back of the pub and news of their arrival was conveyed by the roars and screams outside that raised the temperature in Colin's back room a few more degrees.

Dave Edmunds had seen no reason to buy a ticket but had been talked into coming along by Alex and was squeezed in alongside Bill and Grace, thereby denying a little more drinking room for those slimmer guests that had paid the fare in advance. The large function room of the Albatross had never seen such an occasion. Colin counted the tickets carefully. It would be ironic to lose his license because of overcrowding.

Those with a full belly of beer found the way to the gents barred by a room bursting with drinkers eager for the entertainment to start. A few restless drinkers started a chant of 'why are we waiting'. Colin realised that as much as he wanted to heighten the anticipation, a bar full of inebriated, angry customers might ruin the occasion altogether.

Colin fought his way to the stage and was flanked by Gog and Magog who stood looking menacing at either corner of the small raised platform.

He took the microphone, "Ladies and gentlemen." Grace looked around and realised that there were few ladies about. "Welcome." Loud cheers. "To the Albatross." More loud cheers. "Without further ado. The Tabs. Music maestro."

The opening bars of 'Do You Wannna Havva Partee Babee' blasted though the speakers; then repeated and repeated until the girls themselves bounced on stage from the direction of the ladies with a microphone that defied polite description.

Tina hopped across the stage, free arm circling like a windmill; Angie crouched before the front row and invited the men to stroke her thighs though well out of reach; and Bernice clung to one of her minders as if scaling Everest.

It was quite obvious that none of them could sing a note. The lack of vocal quality was matched by the growing realisation that they bore little physical resemblance to the angels that had been viewed on millions of TV sets tuned to a multitude of satellite music channels broadcasting non-stop music videos.

Cries of 'get orf' and 'piss off' were augmented by other more general obscenities that continued to merge into a wall of abuse.

Bernice released her hold on Mount Everest and stared angrily at the mob. Tina and Angie stopped singing and returned the obscenities in a very unladylike fashion. It was just beginning to turn extremely nasty with one or two men discouraged from storming the stage by Twin Peaks when Bernice screeched into her microphone. "Do you want to have a party?"

The audience was quietened for just a fraction of a second; and whilst they considered the invitation Bernice pulled on the large ring that topped the zip to her dress and revealed underneath the slenderest of bras and the thinnest of knickers. As her dress fell about her, Tina and Angie did the same.

The music changed as the girls massaged their bodies and stuck their bottoms out at the crowd. The two giants began shimmying their enormous bulk.

Colin jumped back up on the stage and grabbed a microphone. "Ladies and gentlemen. TABS. Tits and bums."

For a moment the audience was stunned. Then silence broke into laughter and 'get orf' turned into 'get em off'. Colin jumped up and down in unison with the large, chocolate coloured jelly moulds and with microphone still in hand, roared back at the audience, "April Fool." No one bothered to argue with him that he was a day late.

Grace realised why all the ticket sales appeared to have been made to men. She gave Alex a big kiss. For the first time that evening Dave Edmunds held an empty glass in his large fist for more than the time it took to find a fresh one; and stared back at the three half naked women.

Outside in the deepening night, a diminishing band of fans loyally sang a few tired choruses of 'we want the Tabs.' On the bypass traffic flowed normally. The town was quiet.

The traffic chaos had hampered Terry Jack's efforts at locating Kenny Ball. He finally caught up with him at the City of Jericho over at Hazelwood. By the time they had conducted a thorough search at his home and Kenny had sobered up, the Phantom Green Paint Sprayer had struck again.

### CHAPTER 12 – Saturday April 3

### Part one – Day

It was midday when a sober Kenny Ball was allowed out of the police station.

The financial freedoms that were revolutionising High Street banking had not left Fordhamton untouched. The Hues Corporation never opened on Saturdays, owing to a reduction in staffing levels and the introduction of more cost effective measures such as a second cash point and fully manned offices ten miles away in all directions.

DI Harley and DC Davis were not alone amongst the small crowd of onlookers, swollen by little boys on BMX's and a couple of men in white overalls smoking and drinking from a thermos flask of coffee that was holding down the racing page of the Sun.

The now familiar shade of green paint covered the redbrick frontage of the Hues Corporation. The message was daubed in the same ugly script; 'users'.

He was let inside the Bank by the scene of crime officer Robert Palmer.

"Morning," said Palmer. "You'll be pleased to know that we've finally tracked down the colour for you. It was possible to have it prepared in most DIY shops from the Fifth Dimension range. They stopped offering it on their charts a couple of years ago. Most shops reported a nil take-up."

"I can understand that Robert," agreed Harley. The photographs just don't do it justice. What is it called?"

"Tambourine Green. I'll be on my way then. Oh and another little piece of information. This time the remainder of the pot wasn't thrown over the door. Either he's run out or the bank's frontage is wider than the others."

"Thanks," said Harley. "That doesn't mean he hasn't got more of it stashed away somewhere."

Robert Palmer left them in the banking hall. Their conversation had alerted the manager, who had been passing the time in his office, accessed through the end wall where the counter ended.

Harley and Davis were ushered in to Roger Whittaker's office. The manager was a tall but slight man with black hair flattened over his scalp with brilliantine and a narrow black moustache that was showing more grey hairs than Whittaker would have liked. Davis expected dark suits in bankers but Roger Whittaker was not expecting to have to come to work today and was dressed in fawn slacks and the kind of check jumper that usually graced a golf course.

"This is all I need," began the Banker, unaware that those words were usually the first that angry customers uttered when sitting on the opposite side of the desk.

"I should still be at Oates Hall; that's the Bank's training centre. This would have been the last morning's group sessions before the chance of a round of golf this afternoon; and then the dinner. I just hope I can get back there in time. Only decent thing about the course."

"Banking has changed, and not for the better. When I started my career the local Bank Manager was a respected figure in the community. People looked up to him. Now all the customers do is sit in this office and swear; or blame me for all the social and economic ills of the country. Poverty, bankruptcies, industrial pollution, Third World debt, single mothers, England's test failure. It's all my fault. I've heard all the excuses. Now they're pensioning me off as well. Well good riddance, I say."

"Let's start at this morning. When did you find out about the vandalism?"

"About seven 'o clock Inspector. I was woken up just to be given the news. What could I have done about it there? Besides which I shouldn't have been asked to come in anyway. That should have been Edmunds' job. But he chose a fine time to leave."

Davis raised an eyebrow, pen poised pregnant over the blank page of his notebook as Harley continued with his questions.

"My assistant. Dave Edmunds. Gave his notice in on Monday. Left yesterday. Didn't even have the courtesy to tell me he was thinking about leaving. If he'd still been working it would have been him that would have got the call. But there again, Region let him go."

"Why?"

"Why? Because they're downgrading this branch and offering me early retirement. Edmunds would have got a job at Region but these days if someone wants out they let him go. Years ago they would have begged someone with his experience to stay on. But as I said, Banking has changed."

"Bit of bad news all round then?"

"Then this happens. What possesses anybody to scrawl 'users' all over the building?"

"There's been a lot of it about lately. I don't suppose you would have known, being at Oates Hall all week."

"No I wouldn't have. One of the benefits of Bank courses is that you're cut off from the outside world. Who else was attacked?"

"I'll come back to that. About this employee, Edmunds? Where is he now?"

"Head Office told me he's gone independent."

"Working for himself? Was he happy here? Didn't bear any grudges?"

"As happy as any of us might be in the circumstances. You don't suspect him of this, do you?"

"I've got to suspect everybody at the moment. I've got little else to go on. I mean, here's a man who knows his job is under threat and Head Office says 'thank you very much, on your bike'. That kind of misplaced loyalty tends to make some men turn against employers. If he had a few years in then he might feel the Bank had been using him. Hence the word - users. Where would he be now?"

"If this was a normal working day he'd be across the road in The Horse With No Name. But as it's a Saturday, he could be anywhere."

"Likes a drink, does he?" asked Davis.

"Don't we all sometimes."

"I don't know Mr. Whittaker. I don't drink."

"I do," added Harley. "Let's forget about Edmunds for a moment. Is there any of your customers who might be tempted to express an opinion by painting 'users' all over the outside wall?"

Whittaker let a wry smile lighten his mood. He got up from his desk and walked across to the two filing cabinets. He unlocked one drawer and flicked through the edges of the stacked paper.

"Every one of these folders contains a customer who has threatened at one time or another to do worse things than spray a bit of paint over the wall. They all seem to think this place is run by an old man with a white beard and red suit that hands out cash without requiring it to be repaid. All the 'declines' are in here. And when a company goes down the pan, whose fault is it? The Bank's of course, for not throwing good money after bad. If you want a list of suspects I could give you a thousand or so."

Harley and Davis left no wiser than before. They stood outside the Bank staring back at the small crowd of onlookers.

"This is all arse about face Davis. It had been Whittaker's decision to lend the money to Price and now he was about to be put out to grass, most probably to take the responsibility for a bad lending decision that could cost the Hues Corporation hundreds of thousands of pounds. So why kill the bugger? No doubt Whittaker was blaming his employers for retiring him. Good enough cause for defacing Price's house and his own Office."

"So you think this has got something to do with Price's death?"

"No I don't Davis. It don't smell right. There is something going on and I bet someone in this Godforsaken town knows what it is."

Across the road, where the T-junction took local traffic up to the new bypass, the memory of tambourine green paint was made visible by the gentle bathing of sunlight on the window of Good Earth.

"Why me?" demanded the high pitched Keith West. "I have always been a law abiding citizen. I have never done anything to deliberately annoy anybody. It goes completely against my beliefs."

The three men stared again at the green paint that had seared into the pavement outside.

Harley could not answer Keith West's question. "Have you ever stocked any of this Apollo Company's products?"

"Of course I haven't," shrilled the independent Councillor. "I only sell natural products. Nothing I sell here has been tested on animals. Nothing contains any substance that could possibly be seen to harm the environment."

"That may be so, sir. But as I understand Price's business, the dispensers they produced contained only natural herbal remedies as well."

"Maybe," agreed Keith, raising his voice an extra octave, "but they were designed for other purposes than a healthy body. Apollo's range consisted entirely of products to inflame and increase sexual desire. You won't find anything of that nature in this shop. If it's that sort of thing you're after then try Joy of Looking. She'll sell you anything to heighten your sexual libido."

Davis made a few notes concerning the ladies underwear shop, amended by Keith West who stood at his shoulder.

"At the moment she doesn't seem to fit into my enquiries." Harley watched West watching Davis. "What about these tubes Price produced? Do you have any of those?"

"All my packaging is one hundred percent biodegradable or made from recycled materials. My bags are totally free of forestry products. Look," he laid out a paper bag in front of the detective's eyes. Beneath the 'Good Earth' sign and the planet earth logo the simple message implored users to retain it for further use and 'Save a Tree'.

"As I understand things, Price had an exclusive contract with Apollo, he produced nothing else. Everything he did make went to them."

"So, why should anyone want to write 'Up yours' over your window?"

"How should I know? The same reason you think. They thought health products was a polite name for sex potions. And as I sell them I must have some connection with Price. I don't and I didn't."

"You had no connection with Price at all?"

"Only on the Council. But he was a Conservative. I'm an Independent. The only thing the man cared about was the Football Club. They've got more reason than me to hate the man."

"And why's that?"

"Because it was his money that kept the Club afloat. Everyone knew that. This is a small town, detective.

By the time they got back to Blueberry Hill station it was early evening.

On his blackboard Davis wrote 'Alan Price' and slowly made his way through the pages of copious notes adding sets of initials under the sub heading. Every one was a suspect, from RW the Bank Manager to LC, the stressed out secretary of Fordhamton Town Football Club.

No one had a good word to say about Alan Price. No one appeared to like him and nearly everyone they had spoken to had a good reason for disliking him even more since his death.

With Alan Price alive everybody benefited. On his death the promise of a fortune rapidly evaporated leaving only bitterness. Les Crane saw the Football Club disbanding without Price's wealth and although Keith West could think of no one else but Price to blame for the attack on his shop, that would not have happened if he was alive.

Even the Mayor seemed to blame Alan Price for getting himself killed. And the other member of the Town Council, the tobacco infested Brown, wasn't too keen on the election either.

Davis sat back and gazed at the groups of initials circled and slung together with strokes of light green chalk. The only thing that connected them all was Alan Price. Any one of them had sufficient reason to vent their frustration, anger and irritation on his property and those connected with his downfall.

"So where in this mess do we place our mystery woman?"

"I've no idea sir. Perhaps she'll turn up again."

"Perhaps Davis," agreed Harley but he didn't sound very confident.

His hopes of finding a reason for the sudden outbreak of slander and vandalism were crushed by a criminal act that far surpassed any grievance nursed by the phantom tambourine green paint sprayer.

### SATURDAY APRIL 3

### Part two – Night

They were back in Fordhamton quicker than they expected. It was late evening and the night sky had fallen. By the time they had reached the entrance to the Diesel Park West Industrial Estate there was no need for car lights.

There were five patrol cars, a couple of fire appliances and an ambulance parked in the service road with lights flashing. They parked as close as they could and eased their way through the small crowd that had gathered.

Harley and Davis stood disorientated on the cracked concrete and turned earth that made do as the ground cover on the Diesel Park West Industrial Estate. An airborne spray of water crashed around them; the promise of an early morning frost was lost in the glowing embers and all over the Industrial Estate small feathers of snow began to drift downwards and swim in the ever widening puddles.

It wasn't snowing. Nor was it raining; but warmth was emanating from the dying flames that had burned away the inside of Price's Tools factory. The snow was just flecks of melted plastic raised through the ceiling by fire-fighters jet hoses. There was little left of the windows, their glass cracked and splintered below.

Harley brushed away a few more falling fragments of whitened plastic and stared at the only other civilian who was standing well back from the charred remains of the factory entrance.

James Taylor remained motionless, although his eyes ravaged the site where the stacks of raw plastic sheeting had melted down into an amorphous heap and his office was laid open. The rest of the factory floor was deserted, consumed in the fire. Only the machinery escaped serious damage, doused with water before the heat had shaped metal into a parody of an industrial powerhouse.

But his meeting with James Taylor had to be postponed. "Well, John is he our man?"

A tall but otherwise indiscriminate man in white overalls came out of the smoking building and stopped in front of the detectives. "Might be. Can't say yet. You'll have to check with the Fire Chief."

The Senior Fire Officer was but a step behind Dr John Reberneck. "Trouble is Steve, he was at the opposite end of the factory from the seat of the fire."

"Got some news for me?"

"An old fashioned Molotov Cocktail. Probably thrown in at the back window."

Harley began moving towards the entrance but was prevented by two more people in overalls bringing out a body.

Harley turned again in the direction of James Taylor. "Who's that?" he asked of the Fire Chief.

"James Taylor. The key holder. Used to work here as Production Manager."

James Taylor was still deep in thought. First his job had gone and now the factory. His life could have been that factory; an empty shell. There was little activity in his mind and what was there remained undisturbed by the call from Harley.

"You. Taylor aint it?"

Called by name James looked towards Harley who jerked a thumb to indicate that he had to join them.

Harley drew down the zip on the body bag and let James look at the dead man's face. "Know him?"

"No."

"Didn't work here?"

"No."

"Local?"

"Never seen him before. Never seen a dead body before."

"Almost like looking in a mirror", quipped Harley, well aware that James Taylor couldn't hear him. "Recognise him?" Steve looked across at Davis.

The latter shook his head. "No one I know. Who is he?"

"I thought one of you might know," said Harley. "No ID on the bugger. Not a thing. Not a phone, a driving license or even a letter home. Damn good alibi if you got caught. And another thing, how did he get in here?"

"I don't know", stammered James. "Only Alan and myself had a set of keys."

"Did you?" queried a very uncertain Steve Harley. "We found these on him, and a ten pound note in the top pocket of his coat."

"So how did he get hold of a set of keys? No one's reported them stolen," said a very serious James Taylor.

"These are not just keys my old mate. This is a set of very special keys. This guy's a professional tea leaf."

Harley was met by two blank faces. "This guys a thief; he was after something."

"Such as?" asked Davis.

"You tell me."

"There was nothing to steal," said James.

"He wouldn't have known that though would he?" replied Harley. "Empty factory, no staff, company gone tits up. All sorts of things get left lying around."

"He'd be lucky". It was an unusual sign of levity from James Taylor.

"He wasn't though, was he? He's brown bread. Best thing is we can get a set of prints and an ID."

"Do you think it's another murder?"

"Actually Davis I'm not so sure. Definitely suspicious but not actually murder. Not much more we can do here now. We'll wait for the PM."

Davis decided to ask a few more questions.

"Mr. Taylor?" enquired Davis again.

James acknowledged the detective. "Who could have done this?"

"I was going to ask you exactly the same thing. Was there anyone in the company that bore a deep enough grudge to start this?"

"Everyone was really upset when the place closed down. Most have got another job. But no one was that put out to start a fire. And the dead man is no one I know."

"There's someone out there who has really taken an active dislike to Alan Price and all he owned. You've heard about his home and the Bank?"

"You don't think that the same person is responsible for this?"

Harley was not going to be drawn into answering that question. "What was actually lost tonight?"

"Nothing. There was nothing left. The last contract was finished. I had done as Marion Walker wanted and looked after the place before the Bank put the receivers in. But there was no work. There was no stock, no work in progress. All the arsonist did was to burn out my office, some post and ruin a few bits of machinery and rather a lot of plastic sheeting."

"So Marion Walker was going to shut the place down."

"Eventually."

"What did you and the other workers feel about that?"

"It was her decision. There was no work anyway."

"So I understand. But it's not good these days is it, to find yourself out of work? Especially someone at your age. Do you think you can let me have a list of everyone who worked at this place?"

"In the morning once the fire officer lets me in. If there's anything left."

"Should there be."

"I doubt it."

"Excuse me Mr. Taylor, but for someone who was put on the dole by Price's death you still seem to take an active interest in this place."

"I worked here for a long time. I was sorry to see it go. As I said, I'm looking after things as a favour to Marion."

"So there was no stock, nothing of value; just machines."

"Basically just cardboard and plastic; and a bit of paperwork."

"And that's now all gone? I'd still like a list of employees though. Can you bring something up to Blueberry Hill station, say Monday afternoon?"

The two men parted. James breathed easy again. He had told the detective everything that Marion had asked him to. He had told the truth. But he had a suspicion that the detectives didn't believe him.

James' suspicions were well founded. As they drove back to the station Harley threw questions at Davis, not really expecting an answer. "Why should a man made unemployed be so upset at the destruction of his old company? Most men would say 'good riddance' and add a few logs to the fire. James Taylor was hiding something."

"And why did he hang around the premises like a ghost. Why do a favour for a woman who had no connection with the company, was married to the man who had caused his discomfort and who had definitely stated that there was no chance of the factory re-opening."

Davis's blackboard was overrun with initials and chalk circles. In large capitals he had added JT and connected that particular entry to AP, MW and HC.

"Look at this Davis. If anyone had a motive for hating Alan Price enough to ruin his property and burn his factory, then it was the out of work Taylor. Only he stood to gain nothing from his death. Marion Walker might end up with something, as might her sons. The Bank might get repaid; it seemed even the other beneficiaries might get paid eventually but the loyal James Taylor stood to get absolutely nothing. And what was a dead body doing at the scene of the crime?"

Nothing made sense.

### CHAPTER 13 – Monday April 5

Doctor John Reberneck the exiled American looked up from the screen. Davis recognised him from the previous evening.

Reberneck saved the file and looked Davis in the face. "John Doe was dead before the fire started. No smoke in his lungs. He died of a heart attack. Surprised he lasted so long. He died quite some time before the fire was started. Massive heart attack....."

"Could that have been brought on by......"

"The fire? If there was smoke in his lungs, very possibly. The missile coming through the window, possibly. On the other hand it could have given out just about any time. From the contents of his stomach he was not a healthy specimen. Burgers, chips, coke. Probably not diet coke either."

"So, he breaks in through the front door at the same time as someone else, possibly an accomplice hurls a Molotov Cocktail through a closed window."

"You can read it that way. Seems a very strange behaviour pattern to me."

"You don't think they were connected?

"That's for you to work out."

"Was the fire started to cover up the dead body?"

"In my opinion, if you wanted to burn a body you'd make sure you poured petrol over it first and then set it alight. Not choose a window at the opposite end of the factory."

"So me old cocker, what do you make of that."

Davis did not take too kindly to the use of the vernacular but if a senior officer asked for information he gave it. It made Harley realise why so many officers declined to work with the very individualistic sleuth.

"Two men possibly working separately have their own separate reason to want to break into Price's factory. We have one inside, and one outside. The man inside has a heart attack unaware of someone outside and the man outside unaware that there is someone inside, throws a petrol bomb inside. Two men; one who breaks in for reasons we can only guess and one outside who for equally unknown reasons wants to burn the factory down; both completely unaware of the existence of the other. If they were partners why would one of them try to burn the place down knowing that his accomplice is still inside? Unless they had a serious falling out, I don't think they were aware of each other. Which makes the dead man inside trying to find something out and the unknown man outside bearing a deep drudge and possibly knowing something that the man inside didn't."

Reberneck and Harley watched Davis in silence pleased that dead bodies had the decency not to talk in riddles. The English language, such a beautiful tool in the hands of a genius such as Shakespeare but wielded like a blunt chisel in a clumsy hand by Davis had reduced Reberneck to verbal brevity. "Well, I'll send on my report."

"Have you got a name?" Davis had not finished. In fact he had only just begun. The matrix of probability was being plotted in his notebook.

"Nothing to identify him. Clothes had no labels. He carried no documents. Health wise he was a dead man walking. I'll get you a set of dabs and don't ask about teeth."

"I was going to actually."

"The last time this joker had dental work it was most probably a forced extraction."

"NHS!" It was a slice of black humour from Harley.

"Nothing so pretty as that. One of these." Reberneck made a fist. "And before you ask, not last night. It was a long time ago. He hadn't had any work done since his teens."

Harley had another good look at the corpse before it was sent back to storage. "Look at him. Clean shaven for a start, looks well fed if not healthily, clean fingernails, short hair. A professional man. He had a reason for being here last night. Don't know what but I'll find out. Once I've found the arsonist. As soon as this bloke Alan Price died, strange things have been happening round these parts. It's like bees around the honey pot. It's all connected like...." He was going to say 'like the lines on your blackboard' but he didn't.

Reberneck closed the door on the dead body.

Meanwhile in Fordhamton Marion Walker had arrived at her office and seen the flashing light on the answering machine; every message was from James Taylor. It was basically the same message which he kept repeating, always missing out one important bit of information.

She listened to each message as James' voice became less and less controlled.

"What does he mean 'dead body'? Who's dead?"

Dave Edmunds was not far behind Marion. After all it was the start of a new chapter in his life; some might say a whole new book. From Assistant Manager to Financial Consultant was a giant step for Dave. He had two cups of coffee in plastic containers recently purchased from the Sad Café in his hands. He placed them on the table and sat down.

"Pardon?" was all he could manage.

"I've got messages from James Taylor saying that the factory has been burnt down and there's a dead body in it. What's been going on? Why a Sunday?"

"I've no idea," replied Dave. "Nothing ever happens on Sundays." Then he actually listened to what Marion had said. "What dead body?" he repeated.

Being a single man Dave Edmunds had never liked Sundays. For one, pubs remained closed. For another, nothing ever happened. The Hues Corporation had moved him around the country and he had accepted the principle of mobility without murmur. But Dave Edmunds was nothing if not a sociable character and had made many friends in the Bank. Many of them shared a taste for alcohol; and fortunately for him many of them worked and lived within the region.

Suddenly Sundays had become attractive. At least for middle aged men like Dave Edmunds. Many other responsible, family orientated employees may not have welcomed the changes in English social life over the last ten years or so, but so many factors had combined to bring to one particular Bank employee a reason to be cheerful on an otherwise unremarkable Sunday.

The relaxation of the Licensing Laws now allowed all day drinking which was no bad thing, at least for someone who could smell a decent pint at a hundred paces. When allied to the take over of English football by an Australian media mogul who dominated televised football it was akin to a marriage made in heaven.

Especially this particular Sunday. Tottenham Hotspur were playing Aston Villa away. And it was being televised. Most married men would get the Sunday lunch over with and settle down in the comfortable armchair; single men would meet their mates in the local pub and watch the game on a big screen. Dave Edmunds did neither of these.

His mates picked him up early Sunday morning; they had a full English breakfast at a motorway service station which lined their stomachs for the three hours drinking time which they allowed to be able to reach Villa Park in time for kick off at four o'clock. It was never the same watching football on a big screen; Dave had been a fan of Spurs all his life. Live football was what it was all about. Not only that, even at full time the pubs were still open. Sundays had become one of the best days of the week.

Dave had no knowledge of the devastation happening to one of the Bank's former assets.

Neither had Patrick and Anne Shelton. They had been invited to a dinner party at Charles Berry's London home and stayed overnight. Mobiles had been switched off; and would remain silent throughout the recuperation on Sunday.

A house rule of Marion Walker. Sunday was the one day she kept for herself; the answering machine was off, the mobiles were off and the door remained closed. Sunday was a day to relax, read the Sunday papers and forget about the outside world.

Something that James Taylor could not. He left messages on her phone. He believed he was being watched and never left home. He watched the football in the afternoon and even the weekend's highlights late on BBC2 and still couldn't remember the result when sleep finally overtook him in the small hours of Monday morning.

Dave would have told him that Spurs won 3-1 away from home and extended their unbeaten run to fourteen games but James would not have been interested. The result was broadcast on all the TV news bulletins but a fire on the Diesel Park West Industrial Estate in the small town of Fordhamton never even made the local news.

First thing Monday morning James rang Marion again. She didn't answer. He still did not know which way to turn. By now everyone in town had heard of the fire. No one was in the least bit surprised. Many said that they would have quite happily done it themselves 'but what was the point as there was nothing to burn anyway'.

The other question on most people lips was 'who was the stiff?'

Unlike chalk lines drawn with a steady hand on a fixed blackboard modern communication systems have one significant drawback. The ease with which it is possible to talk to anybody connected to a mobile telephone network means that at any one time someone somewhere is trying to contact someone else.

Which is what happened this sunny spring morning.

At the same time that Marion Walker was trying to contact James Taylor and Patrick Shelton, those self-same gentlemen were also receiving engaged signals on all her lines. Text messages barking out 'phone me' were useless when the caller's number was subsequently engaged.

This stalemate continued until Patrick considered taking an old fashioned step and drove with Anne to Marion's offices.

Marion was devastated. Price's Tools factory had burnt to the ground and with it all her hopes of financial gain. The stock of tubular drop dispensers once the building bricks of a huge monolith had dissolved like an ice-lolly in summer, consumed by licking flames.

The factory was gone. Stocks had gone. There was no money to buy new materials and even some of the machines and certainly some parts might need replacing; even then she would have to employ men to work them. She was straight back where she started

"Does this mean it's all over?" asked Patrick.

"Can you think of anything else?" Marion poured them all another whisky. It was only ten o'clock.

Patrick slumped in a chair

Anne didn't like whisky much, but it helped to numb the pain. She had dreams of America; lifestyles only heard of as small talk at cocktail parties. She seemed destined to fulfil her promise as the almost woman, who almost outshone her father.

Dave Edmunds had only just installed himself in Marion's spacious offices when his new found independence was wrenched away from him. He had humped his new computer up the flight of stairs and could only watch the Big Bang screen saver display his once flaming star, drifting further away into deep space.

Dave, Patrick, Anne and Marion sat in their chairs and looked glumly at the floor, their common and individual plans now floating upwards into infinity like wisps of smoke from the remains of the factory floor.

"There's nothing we can salvage?" asked Anne.

"We need to finance any repairs and that means borrowing. We haven't got any security apart from the Letter of Credit and by the time we did sort something out it would have expired anyway," stated Dave, the newly self-employed financial consultant, facing an almost as swift return to the ranks of the wage slave.

"I thought we had it all worked out. All James needed to do was to have got the lot shipped out. But you know James. Too loyal for his own good. Another week on the dole and he would have come round. I know he would."

"You can't blame James, Marion. I just hope the police catch the little bastard that set fire to the place."

"We will."

Their conversation was interrupted by Detective Constable Davis who had silently climbed the stairs and walked into Marion's office. Marion wondered how much he had heard, but the downbeat talk between friends was too low to decipher, apart from Patrick's last vain hope.

It was Patrick who was the first to react. Years of cool detachment served the conspirators well. He bought precious time by taking an eternity to introduce each one to Davis. The latter obliged him by carefully writing down each name in his notebook. A formality that Harley would have dispensed with but he had reasons to remain at the office and Davis was happier working alone again.

"I was originally investigating the phantom tambourine green paint sprayer as he now appears to have been nicknamed by some wag at the station. And I have to admit it does fit the bill, but events have taken a more sinister turn with the arson attack at Price's Tools."

"Indeed," agreed Marion.

"You know about this?"

"Of course, Constable. Doesn't everyone? News travels fast. Especially the bad sort."

"You're not the first person to have told me that, Miss Walker. At first I thought I was just up against a man with a grudge but this arson attack has put a totally different complexion on things. Have you any idea at all who might want to start a vendetta against your ex-husband?"

"His death managed to upset a lot of people. Even me. But I've had little contact with him of recent years. And absolutely nothing at all to do with the factory. Or the man found dead inside."

"You know about that?" Davis was genuinely surprised.

"Of course we know," said Marion. "Everyone knows. Apart from who he is. Who the bloody hell is he?"

"We are still investigating."

"You mean you don't know?" asked Patrick.

"Not yet. It's early days. I've just come from the post mortem. We have several lines of enquiry to pursue," It was an unusual response from Davis who nevertheless had spoken quite honestly as even he had no idea down which particular line his enquiries would have to go.

The little group remained silent, each one thinking their own thoughts.

"I understand you don't think he's the suspect?" Patrick was the first to break.

"Where did you hear that from?"

"Oh, people talk. Well, is he?"

Davis made another little comment in his notebook to the effect that everyone seemed very well informed. 'Small town' was written and underlined.

"As I said at this stage there are several lines of enquiry. I would not want to commit myself but we can't rule out the possibility that he may be connected."

"To who?" asked Patrick

"Why? Is more to the point," added Marion. "One disgruntled employee I can understand but two? What could they possibly hope to gain?"

"So many questions," replied Davis. "I have no idea. Have you?"

"Why would anyone want to burn the place down?" asked Marion.

"I was going to ask you the same thing."

"It was worthless. It is worthless. There's no work, no stock and quite frankly no money either."

Davis sat on the edge of a table and maintained an even hand in his fast filling notebook. 'Early morning drinking' was one comment and 'ex-assistant Bank Manager Edmunds sweating profusely' was another.

Davis thought he heard a grunt from Dave Edmunds but the ex-Banker was still sitting with his head between his legs and swilling the remains of a very large scotch around in the glass.

"Would you be able to tell me then, what was James Taylor's connection with the business?"

"I asked him to look after the place for the executors. He knew the factory better than anybody. It is still an asset after all." Patrick stared at Davis, implying that the latter had little grasp of the responsibilities of legal representatives.

"I see," replied Davis. "But technically he's out of work."

"Technically, yes," agreed Patrick. "Once the estate is wound up I hope we can pay him a little for his efforts but I believe he's looking for an alternative position. Not easy for a man of his age in these times."

"There seems to be a lot of people looking for alternative positions now that the factory's closed down. You might agree with that Mr. Edmunds. I spoke to your manager Roger Whittaker on Saturday and he tells me that you left on Friday; and you had an appointment with Miss Walker on the previous Monday that didn't take place."

"I cancelled it," interrupted Marion.

"Really," said a disbelieving Davis.

"Actually," began Dave. "It was my fault. I didn't make a note. What with my resignation going in, I completely overlooked it. In truth Marion did turn up on a more personal matter. We decided that it was outside of the normal run of bank business and conducted our meeting elsewhere."

"Could I ask where?"

"No, you couldn't. It was a private meeting. In fact I was absolutely gobsmacked to be offered a job. Which I accepted."

"Nothing at all to do with Price's Tools?"

"You are a very persistent man Constable." Marion stressed the first syllable in such a way that the 'o' could have been misconstrued for another vowel. Davis decided that it was a slip of the tongue and carried on taking notes.

"By the time I met Mr Edmunds I had decided to expand my own operations here. I wanted a go-between for employers in the financial field and the ever-increasing numbers of Bank staff who are facing redundancy. In fact the Hues Corporation are this minute axing thousands more staff. As no doubt Mr. Whittaker might have told you. You have spoken to Mr Whittaker?"

"I did," sighed Davis, who found the whole episode plausible but strangely a little too convenient. For both Dave and Marion. He added this observation to his notes.

"However Mr. Edmunds it would still have been wise to have entered even a brief entry on the customer card to the effect that the meeting was... shall we say... aborted. I work differently from you. I like to keep full notes. Suppose I dropped down dead tomorrow. What could I leave my successor if my notes were incomplete? How many crimes might go undetected? It makes me shiver, Mr. Edmunds. It's a small tip you might pass on to any prospective employee."

"I'll make a note of it," nodded Dave and scribbled 'bloody nosy fart' on the day's diary page.

"What do you expect to do with the factory now, Mr. Shelton?" Davis turned his attention to Patrick, hoping for a less hostile reception.

"I've no idea. Have to see what's left and see what we can salvage."

"Mr. Taylor tells me that there's nothing but a heap of melted plastic, wet cardboard and twisted machinery. Nothing left that you can salvage I suppose."

"I told you Constable," spat Marion getting tired of Davis's enquiries. "There's nothing. My ex-husband died in very suspicious circumstances leaving a small fortune to all manner of people, some of whom I hardly know. Then that fortune, admittedly a very large sum of money if only on paper, suddenly disappeared with his death leaving everyone including me I might add, without a penny. And some without a job."

"Who exactly. You see, what I'm trying to establish is motive. Who else lost out as a result of Mr. Price's fortune being wiped out? Who else would have had good cause to scrawl abusive messages over his and other's property and want to burn down his redundant factory? And who else was interested enough to want to break in a look around for themselves?"

"Everybody lost out. Plenty of people had a bloody good motive, even me. My sons John and Scott, they've lost out. Patrick and Anne had a small bequest. All of them had good reason to feel particularly aggrieved. But the real losers are the ex-employees, the Bank, the Football Club and the Town Council because there would have been just enough money left to pay them."

"I've spoken to them all, Miss Walker. Everyone would agree with you. What about your sons?"

"Scott should be at home and John's back in London."

"The Mayor tells me that Scott is standing as some sort of anarchist at the Council elections."

"Yes. Maybe," agreed an increasingly irritable Marion Walker. "But that doesn't mean he goes around blowing up property. He'll explain it to you himself but anarchy according to Scott is an ideal of individual freedom which will emerge as a co-operative of free individuals to replace the redundant authoritarian state. Nothing at all to do with bombs, black capes and revolutions; or paint."

"More the Green Party, don't you think?" asked Dave, who was unused to anything stronger than best bitter at that time of the morning and was feeling increasingly flippant . "I mean, if the culprit has a real political point to make, surely he would have chosen red? I mean green is the colour of pacifists." This thought silenced the room.

"Political theory is a closed book to me I'm afraid," but Davis still made a longhand reference to Scott Walker's anarchist theories in his flip top notebook. "Nevertheless, he didn't exactly hit it off with his father."

"No one did. And if Scott had been out every night spraying paint I'd be the first to know about it."

"And the other one. John?"

"John is back in London. He's got a good job, plenty of money, girlfriends and a good social life. He and Scott were both a bit upset over losing what they considered a small fortune, but that gives neither of them reason to go round destroying what assets we are left with. It's a case of cutting off your nose to spite your face. If we can't sell the house, or the business, no one gets anything. Including John, Scott and myself not to mention the Football Club and the Town Council. I think you'd better look a bit further afield for someone with a good motive for all this."

"At the moment just about everybody I've met has a good enough motive."

"I just don't like that man," said Marion as soon as Davis had left.

"Me neither," agreed Anne, and poured everyone another measure of whisky.

"I got the distinct feeling that he actually suspects me of something," said Dave.

"Plod suspects everybody. That's the way plod works. Davis said so himself." Patrick sipped at the whisky. "The police are by and large a simple, uncomplicated professional body that works by suspecting everybody and then eliminating suspects one by one. It is a slow, messy procedure unless there's a villain already in the frame in which case they spend their time fitting the evidence to match the criminal. Apart from which what can Davis suspect us of? As far as I know we all told the truth. There's absolutely nothing to link any of us with the paint or the arson attack. Is there?"

"Don't be so stupid, Patrick." Anne looked away from him. "But why was he so interested in James Taylor? I suppose he suspects him as well."

"I must admit," thought Marion. "I always thought his behaviour odd. Every time I spoke to him he was at the factory. And he wasn't too keen on helping us. I wouldn't have approached him but we needed his knowledge."

"He's a bloody fool if he did do it," said Dave, slurping his scotch.

"But it's not his style, Dave," said Marion. "Besides which he was back up at the factory whilst it was burning and one thing James can not be accused of is having a lot of front. What I can't understand is who this other guy is."

"The stiff?" asked Dave."

"Yes. Who was he? Do the Bank send in enquiry agents?"

"Not on Saturday nights they don't. Never heard of the Bank doing anything like that, even in daylight. Not without telling the branch first."

"What do they do about bad debts?" asked Patrick.

"Oh it's all pukka. Make sure you get the paperwork right, go through the courts, no need to go undercover. I've done some of that myself."

"Undercover work," enquired Anne. "No offence but you are a bit... well...."

"Large," finished off Dave. "Comes in useful sometimes. "In the old days before we all went PC I used to go around with one of the senior clerks to chase up the small debts, outstanding payments on car loans, overdrafts, that sort of thing. Just a reminder really. All I had to do was breathe in, stretch to my full height and look sort of menacing."

"Did it work?" Marion was not alone in discovering a piece of Dave's past that had previously been well buried. In fact most of his past had been lost in various local hostelries as his career had moved him around the country.

"No one ever hit me, if that's what you mean. Not saying they paid up but sometimes it helped."

"We could do with a bit of undercover work now. I'd like to know who that dead man was. What was he up to there?"

"Don't look at me," said Patrick. "I'd like to help but I've got no connections in the police. What do you suggest we do now?" he asked.

"I don't know. Let's see what James has to say. He's about the only one who's got the slightest clue about what happened, if his phone calls are anything to go by." Marion took Dave's glass and refilled it.

The ex-Banker smiled. "Didn't sound completely with it earlier but you're right. If anyone knows it will be James."

But if James Taylor had any knowledge of interest to the saddened business group now dispersed from Marion's office he was unaware of it. He had spent a fruitless morning trying to talk to Marion on the phone; her home and office numbers remained busy. As did her mobile. Eventually he set off for Blueberry Hill police station where he was kept waiting for a couple of hours by Detective Inspector Harley whilst Davis made enquiries in Fordhamton. "Divide and rule," was how he explained it to Davis.

"Thank you for waiting." Harley greeted James and ushered him into a vacant interview room. "I've been talking to Marion Walker, amongst others. Is this the list of employees?"

He took the paper and placed it into the dusty pink folder that carried the rest of the case notes. "I'll look through this later. But first, about Price's Tools. What was it worth?"

James scratched the hair around his ears and let it flop back over his black rimmed glasses. "At this moment, nothing."

"What about stock, orders, that sort of thing?"

"There wasn't any. The company owed its existence to Apollo Health Products Incorporated. When that went, we went with it."

"What about the factory itself?"

"The lease was due for renewal next year, the building was identical to everything else on the estate and the machines were specialised. Worth a lot to us, but not much to anyone else."

"So why do you think anyone would want to burn it down?"

James refused to be intimidated by a nagging feeling that he was under suspicion for something. His mind worked slowly, but surely. "You think that this is some sort of insurance scam, don't you?"

Harley shook his head. "I don't think anything. If not insurance, what else? Take all these employees names you've just handed me. How many of them have got jobs?"

"Most I think."

"And you?"

"No. It's not easy."

"I realise that, Mr. Taylor."

So did James. "You think I did it, don't you? Why would I burn the place down?"

"I don't know, Mr. Taylor. Did you?"

"Of course not."

"How do you explain then, the paint spraying episodes? They seem to me to be the actions of an embittered man."

"What have I got against Keith West; or the Bank?"

"As I said, I don't know. It's my job to look for motives for these things. I will be in touch, Mr. Taylor."

James Taylor left the police station a sadder and bitter man. Why should he take the blame for the actions of a lunatic when he had worked all his life as a responsible and caring employee? He had to see Marion; and as he left watched over his shoulder for shadows.

Davis returned to his office and added a new batch of initials to the blackboard.

"What is all this?" Harley found Davis's scribbling frustrating. He belonged to Patrick Shelton's preferred school of police investigation; that of finding a villain that fitted the crime.

"I was at Marion Walkers office and I find her, Patrick Shelton, Price's executor; Dave Edmunds who just happens to have left the Bank when Price's Tools goes bottom up, and Shelton's wife Anne, who didn't say a word the whole time I was there."

"So?

"Why were they all in the same place? They said it was because they needed to discuss the implications of the arson attack on Price's estate but..."

"I've just spoke to James Taylor and he says virtually the same. It could be that it's as they say it is. After all if they have all got an interest in Price's estate then it's only natural they would want to discuss what to do when the whole place burns down."

Harley looked at Davis's diagram that was not dissimilar to the map of the London Underground system always to be found printed in the back of pocket diaries. But the differing coloured routes and interchanges had uncovered the blackmailing dentist, and the famous fake port swindle. He couldn't argue with success.

"You were the one that told me Fordhamton was a quiet town; a bit of joy riding and a few drunks on weekends. Now all of a sudden there's a very suspicious death involving sex aids, vandalism, arson and an unidentified dead body in a derelict building which have been dumped on my desk. They've done a check on his dabs and there's nothing on file. You don't get this in the City, well not all in the same week! Crime usually involves one of three things: power, money and sex. And we've got all three in abundance. What was that shop that man West was on about?"

"A new shop just opened. Used to be Gladys Mills old ironmongers. The new owner calls it Joy of Looking. Turned out she was only selling underwear."

"I think we should go and see this woman; get the sex angle sorted."

### CHAPTER 14 – Tuesday April 6

Grace was startled by the early morning arrival of a tall, thin man with very little charm at all.

"Miss Slick?"

"Yes, can I help you?"

"Detective Constable Miles Davis. This is only a courtesy call but I am investigating the events surrounding the death of Alan Price."

"He's dead."

"You never knew Alan Price then? You've never heard of any of the things that were put in these so-called dispensing tubes?"

"Can you see anything like that here?" Davis main achievement was to make Grace irritable that the police had involved her in an investigation which as she said, concerned events before she arrived in town. She replied as politely as she could. "I don't even sell cosmetics. If anyone in town is likely to sell that kind of stuff, then it's surely that weirdo in Good Earth."

"You don't like him."

"As you ask, no. Perhaps you think I was the one that scrawled 'Up Yours' over his window? What possible connection would I have with a man that drinks herbal tea and is in bed by half past ten?"

"You seem to know a lot about his personal habits."

"It's a small town, Detective. Even I've learnt that. And I haven't been here a month yet."

Davis was dispatched back into the High Street. He didn't like assertive females, no more than he considered becoming a 'new man'. It was against the natural order of things.

He returned to his car that was parked close to the Sad Café and sat with the local map on his knees.

His car was parked facing Joy of Looking. Only about five minutes after he had left another visitor entered. He had to check his notes but he was sure. It was Anne Shelton, the wife of Patrick Shelton who was an executor of Alan Price's will. It could be just a co-incidence. Then he recalled the meeting at Marion Walker's office.

It didn't occur to Davis that Anne could have been just another customer looking to buy some underwear. Nor that Grace had been having an affair with Anne Shelton's husband; nor that Grace had any problems about letting Anne Shelton into her plans.

Harley was exerting a strong influence on him, did he but know it and even he was succumbing to the idea of one large conspiracy in a very small town. Anne Shelton was another circle and link mentally etched on his office blackboard.

He now had two sets of initials identifying Grace Slick and Anne Shelton; and another couple of pale green lines were mentally drawn to form a diminishing triangle in the middle of the blackboard. Somehow all these people were linked together; somewhere there was a common denominator. Grace Slick was right, it was a small town and eventually secrets have a way of surfacing in even the best maintained households. He could wait.

Then just as he placed another large full stop in his notebook James Taylor walked in front of his car and up the stairs by the side of the Sad Café to Marion Walker's office.

Detective Constable Miles Davis decided to wait awhile in Fordhamton High Street.

James Taylor had spent one last sleepless night. Watching his wife beside him, listening to the occasional movement of the children in their beds and the memory of his interview with DI Harley filling his closed eyes had placed him firmly at a point in his life where there were no more decisions to be made. All he had to do now was see Marion Walker.

Which is where he found himself this morning. His first emotion was one of surprise. He found the giant frame of Dave Edmunds filling the doorway. Dave shuffled inside to let James through.

"James, old chap. It's good to see you," boomed Dave.

"Sorry, Marion, I'll come back later."

"James, come in. I've been trying to get hold of you. Where have you been?" Marion got up from her desk and pulled James Taylor by the arm towards an empty chair. James tried to resist the pressure.

"I didn't know you had an appointment with the Bank."

"You don't know, do you?" Marion tried to comfort the confused James Taylor. "Dave left the Bank last week. He's working for himself now. At this precise moment he's working for me. Dave knows all about our plans. Or did, until the factory burnt down. "

James didn't know to which enquiry to respond to first. He took off his glasses and gave them an unnecessary wipe on his handkerchief. "I was there. With the fire brigade. Then they bring out a dead body. They thought I knew who he was. Never saw the bloke before. Dead or alive. Then there's a very suspicious detective," added James, replacing his glasses.

"Davis," suggested Marion.

"No, I saw an officer called Harley. Some sort of cockney."

"The other one's been here."

"That man's been everywhere," added Dave, and held out his fat, stubby hand to cement a new friendship. "He's a nasty bit of work; seems to take the view that we're all guilty of something."

"What happened at the factory?" asked Marion.

"I honestly don't know. When I got there it was well alight. The fire inspector's pretty well convinced that it was arson. Reckons the dead man was there about something else. Then this Harley actually interviewed me as if I had done it. That was the last straw."

Marion looked at Dave. Neither were too sure what James meant. James needed to talk.

"I couldn't believe what I was hearing. He's got the idea that just because I'm unemployed as a result of Alan's death that I'd burn the place down as a sort of revenge. And he's got me down for all this green paint that's being sprayed around town. Can you believe it?"

Dave looked a bit sheepish. Marion let no emotion show. James was not to know that yesterday both would have believed him capable of arson and worse.

James continued. "I'm not going around having everyone believe I'm capable of all that. Well, that was my first thought. Then I realised how the police came to take that view. But why should I take the can for something I'm innocent of? Anyway, the thing's done now. This is what it's all about."

James handed a well filled brown envelope to Marion. "I've spent a lot of time at that factory and at first I didn't want anything to do with conning the Bank. But I do like to keep everything neat and tidy. I had already arranged for those tubular drop dispensers you saw to be shipped out."

"What the firemen and the police saw was what I told them. A few spare sheets of plastic and cardboard. The goods had long been taken. No one would let me back into the factory until it had been made safe. And the only thing to survive was the safe. And in the safe were these. All the documentation you need to claim against the Letter of Credit.

"I only wanted to leave things tidy; claiming the money wasn't part of my plans. I thought it wrong to carry on working when others were on the dole. But it's me that's the one left without a job, and I'm the one that the police suspect. So I thought, right James. Where's the harm now? And I've still got a family to think about."

For the first time that morning James Taylor smiled. He felt so much better having explained his actions to Marion. It was like confessing to the police, but there were no jail sentences, no fines. James had finally passed 'Go'.

Dave Edmunds picked the envelope up and gingerly examined the documents. Then a broad smile swept over his shining cheeks.

"Why didn't you tell me all this earlier?" asked Marion.

"Would you have understood?"

"Maybe not," admitted Marion. "But you've given us all heart attacks."

She turned to Dave who was checking the paperwork. The stresses of the last week suddenly collapsed like a hot air balloon coming down to land. The material once stretched so tightly by flammable gases now fell limp, like Marion around the startled Dave Edmunds.

She kissed him on the cheek and then with feelings that she had never known before, full on the mouth. Dave had never experienced the impulsive love of a woman and hardly responded to the warm mouth on his own.

It was a hurried apology from Marion and an embarrassed one from Dave but strange nerves and vessels pulsed and twitched in his stomach and legs. Was this love? Dave wouldn't have known.

Marion wanted to share her excitement. For the first time in many years she wanted a little more than just a friend. Good fortune needed to be shared. Most women would have looked at Dave Edmunds with horror and sexual repulsion but the shape that repelled other women just didn't exist for her.

Overcoming her public show of pleasure, Marion soon regained a measure of her former businesslike demeanour. The cold detachment towards men in general had gone, replaced by the birth of affection towards one in particular.

She didn't see the confusion covering Dave's face. She looked over at James Taylor who watched the flowering of this affair with amazement. He thought back to his meeting with her at the Wine Bar, unsure if it was the same woman that had planted so much torture in his mind. It really didn't matter any more.

"Dave, you can check that later. After we've had a drink to celebrate."

Detective Constable Davis was still waiting in his car. He watched Grace and Anne giggle like two silly office girls on a lunch date with the bosses and head for the Bo Jolly Wine Bar.

Shortly afterwards he sat still as Marion Walker arm in arm with Dave Edmunds, with James Taylor a step behind like an Eastern wife, made their way to the same licensed premises.

He ran through his notes again. Everybody said the same thing. Fordhamton was a small town. Everybody knew everybody else. There were no secrets. Perhaps Harley was right after all, it was one giant conspiracy that the whole town was involved in. He was the outsider, like a member of a theatre audience watching them play out their parts. He had to find a way to make the Town give up its secrets.

He waited a few more minutes before walking down towards the Bo Jolly. Through the small glass panes he peered into the dimly lit interior.

He saw them all sitting together, all except Patrick Shelton. Where yesterday they were drinking scotch and looking miserable, today it was champagne and laughter. Even the grim James Taylor was smiling and shaking his straw coloured hair backwards with the motion of the glass.

The identity of the dead man on the factory floor and his reasons for being there had faded against the smell of money rapidly making its way around the world's Banking system. Where there had been despondency there was now cheer.

Davis wanted to know what had happened in the last twenty-four hours to cause such a reverse in behaviour. He would have to recheck every note, retrace every step. He had missed something. But of one thing he was sure, there was a conspiracy afoot. What it was remained a mystery. But he knew the main players. They were all in the same place, drinking champagne like millionaires.

He had to wait for a few hours to compare notes with DI Harley who had responded to a call to attend the crazy Horse Hotel in Greenwich Village by the local PC. The comforting smells of fried breakfasts were still in the air. Harley had been met at reception by the attractive half of the management team, of which Ronnie Carroll played the beast.

Helen Reddy did not need adverse publicity. If couples wanted to spend a night together then they should not expect to find a policeman asking questions the following morning. She ushered Davis into the small bar alongside reception.

"He booked in last Thursday. On business, he said. Then we saw nothing of him since Saturday morning."

"What time was that?" Another time in another place Harley might have smiled and engaged in small talk, just to capture the beauty of Mrs Reddy. But there was more important business to conduct.

"Early. He had breakfast. Full English....."

"Eggs, bacon, fried bread."

"As I said, full English. Is that important?"

"Fits with the description; he doesn't appear to have been a healthy man. When did you find him missing?"

"Last night. He hadn't appeared for breakfast on Sunday. Or Monday. And we make up the bills on Monday mornings. For the weekend guests you see."

"Can I see the room?"

"Oh yes, feel free. Who can I send the bill to now?"

"The bill?"

"Well, someone has to pay don't they?"

"I suppose they do," replied Harley. "I have no idea. I'll let you know if and when we have a next of kin."

"We left everything as it was. He seemed a nice sort of bloke. By himself. Don't get many singles here really."

"No business people?"

"Oh, lots of business people. Usually here 'on business'. You know what I mean," joked the very open Helen. "With their secretary. They sometimes call them their wives. We don't pry."

Harley just smiled.

Room number 8 was guarded by a uniformed officer who let Harley into the room. Robert Palmer had already bagged up all the personal items and laid them in a straight line on the bed.

"Travelled light," said Palmer by way of introduction. "But I think you'll find he's your man."

Davis opened the passport first. "John Sebastian. A Yank. That's odd. Definitely him though. Anything else?"

"Apart from some loose cash, enough clothes for a couple of days, there's not much. Apart from this. It's OK, it's been checked. Only one set of prints. Check the images first."

Davis scanned the images on the high end camera that he had been handed. "He's been here on business. Real business. Not what goes on in this high class knocking shop."

"I've heard they do a good weekend break."

"You married Robert?"

"You know I am."

"Then it's not for you. Unless your name's Smith. Been here since Thursday Mrs Reddy tells me and he's certainly got about. Look, one of Price's house, and the auction. That's the estate agent Jonathan King and he's got a shot of the house early on with 'wanker' painted all over it."

"Found Saturday yet?" Palmer sounded helpful, the other knew he was savouring every moment.

"Picture of the Bank. That's me and Davis going in. The two of us coming out. Me talking to that oddball West. What would he want with pictures of me?"

"God only knows," replied Palmer.

When he got back to the station Harley had the photos printed. The recently deceased John Sebastian had mirrored his every move. It was a little unnerving. Why would an American visitor want pictures of an English detective?

Sebastian's mobile phone was an essential piece of evidence. Except that the phonebook entries made no sense. He continued to examine all the menus and still the same question kept coming back to haunt him. What was an American doing in a sleepy little town and dropping down dead in a disused factory?

Then he discovered the answer. All the numbers were based in the States. He looked at the clock; it was a quarter past four. In England workers were tidying desks, in America they were just beginning to clock on.

He started at the first entry and began ringing numbers. They rang without reply until he reached 'D' for Doobie Brothers. After a few rings the call was answered.

"Good morning, I'm Detective Inspector Harley calling from England."

"That's not Seb?"

"No."

"What you doing with his phone?"

"Pardon?"

"You're using his phone. His number comes up on the switchboard."

"I'm sorry; Mr Sebastian has had an accident. I'm a policeman. I need to talk to somebody in authority."

"Is he hurt?"

"You are?"

"I'm Mandy."

"I need to speak to someone in authority."

"I'll put you through to Ron Mael. He's just walked in."

It was still a few minutes before the southern drawl of Ron Mael broke through the transatlantic silence. "Hi there," greeted Ron. "Where you from?"

"England. I'm Detective Inspector Steve Harley investigating an incident in Fordhamton. You may not have head of the place. It's a small town a few miles....."

"Sure I've heard of it. Say, you're a real detective?"

"You've heard of Fordhamton? No one else has the slightest idea where it is." Harley could have been thinking aloud.

"We've got a man out there. Right now."

"You have."

"We sure have. John S. Good man."

"You couldn't tell me what he's out here for?

"Well, I'm all for encouraging the special arrangement as our President likes to call it but I guess you ought to go first, being as you rang me."

Harley thought for a few moments and had to suppress his natural inclination to continue to ask questions.

"I suppose so, Mr Mael."

"Oh Ron please."

"Yes, Ron. The reason I'm ringing is I suppose that I'm the bringer of some bad news."

"We don't shoot the bellboys anymore Steve. Don't go beating about the bush. Play a straight bat, that's what you Brits say isn't it?"

"I'm from the other side of the tracks Ron. I play with the big round ball." Harley was not going to be drawn into a discussion on Anglo-American differences. "I sorry to say that I'm ringing to tell you that Mr John Sebastian has had an accident."

"Serious?"

"He's dead."

"Car crash was it?"

"Heart attack."

"Doesn't surprise me in the least. If he had been on the company payroll he'd have to have had regular check ups, low cholesterol diets"

"He wasn't an employee?"

"Nope. Freelance."

A freelance what?"

"Investigator. Say Steve, why you ringing Doobie Brothers?"

"I was going through his personal effects and all I had to help me locate someone who might know him was his mobile. Can you tell me what he was doing over here?"

"Can't say too much Steve; commercial confidentiality and all that. I can tell you that he was investigating a local company."

"Does Price's Tools mean anything to you?"

It was a stroke of genius.

"Gee Steve. How did you know?"

"That's where he was found. Died from a heart attack after he had apparently broken in."

"Well I'm sure he'd have been pleased to have died on the job."

"It's not quite what happened Ron, but I get your drift."

"Tell me Steve. What do you know about this company and this man Price? Investigating him as well were you?"

"Not exactly but there's been some funny goings on in the town."

"Sex Steve."

"It's certainly at the bottom of it."

"Always is in my experience."

"Pardon?"

"Everyone has an obsession with sex Steve. We all do, admit it. Look what brought down Apollo Health Foods Incorporated. Everyone wants a bigger cock. Ten inches would have been good enough for me but that model wanted more. Greedy in my mind"

"What then was John Sebastian doing over in Fordhamton?"

"Checking out Prices Tools. We wind up companies. They had a big contract with Apollo. We have to know what we're exposed to."

"Nothing now Ron."

"Nothing?"

"Place went up in flames last Saturday night. Nothing to do with Mr Sebastian as far as I can make out. He was just unfortunate to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Someone threw a petrol bomb in through a window. Mr Sebastian was dead before the place was set alight."

"Anything left Steve?"

"Nothing at all. The place was empty. No work, no staff, no money."

"Well, gee Steve, that's the best news I've heard all week."

"What about John Sebastian?"

"Told you Steve, freelance. You're sure there's nothing left?"

"All up in flames."

"You've saved us a fortune Steve. Thanks for the call. Have a nice day." The line went dead.

John Sebastian's death may have been the silver lining on some people's cloud but Harley was convinced that there was a crime being committed even if he had no sense of exactly what it was.

As soon as Davis returned Harley watched him put a few more lines on the blackboard. "What do you call that?" he asked.

"It's my own form of linear programming. You add in all the variables by drawing straight lines between two or more people who have a connection. The more lines you draw the smaller the triangle in the middle gets. As it gets smaller one name either appears to connect them all or someone that you never suspected suddenly appears and connects the whole thing together right in the middle."

"I don't know where you're coming from Davis, but it appears to have worked for you so against my better judgement I am not going to wipe it off. But none of this little local affair makes any sense. Bring that A-Board over here and lets approach it from another way."

"Like lateral thinking?"

"No the Steve 'arley way."

Davis prepared a blank sheet of A3 paper and drew a singe line down the middle.

"This all started with Alan Price getting killed. No problem with the cause. It was a bloody great lorry which he hit head on. His body had enough alcohol to be over the top and also some as yet totally unknown substance similar to curing brewers droop."

"We know he drank a pint in the local pub and another one at the Crazy Horse Hotel. Somewhere either in town or at the knocking shop someone slipped him the Mickey Finn. My guts tell me it was this mystery woman, your MW on the board."

"No, that's Marion Walker. The mystery woman is that MX, Madame X."

"No matter. We believe she was dropped off at the Horse With No Name by a local cab firm where she was picked up by Price and they drove off to the Crazy Horse for what reason I do not know. Not sex because he had no lead in his pencil."

"She wouldn't have known that though."

"Bear with me Davis. When they get to the Hotel she does the business with the magic powder unseen by Price because he's too busy on the blower. Then he shoots off and rams straight into the lorry. Madame X disappears. Until turning up once again at the pub posing as a journalist and asking questions. Then ringing around all the people who had a connection with the late departed Alan Price."

"So, straightforward up to now. Look for the woman. But this is when I start getting a dicky tummy. Why did she do it? And was she working alone or on behalf of someone else? Lets start putting names in the frame. Who liked Alan Price?"

"As far as I know. No one. Apart from Marion Walker. She's never actually said anything nasty about him."

"Right, put her on the left hand side. Anyone else?"

"No."

"Good. Who hated the bloke?"

"Just about everybody."

"That's too many. Who had reason to want him dead? Or to put it even more mildly, out of the way for a bit."

Davis remained silent for a while as if trawling his own hand written notes. "No one actually wanted him dead either. His death caused more problems than if he was alive."

"Who actually gained from his death?"

"No one at the moment. His fortune went down with Apollo. He was mortgaged up to hilt, debts everywhere although well secured. The family stand to gain nothing, but once the Bank wind it all up the Town Council get a memorial apparently and the Football Club get a new stand. But Les Crane is more concerned about paying for the beer for the next game than contracting local builders for the new Alan Price Stand. No one wants an election. No one round here actually votes. The only other people to get anything are the Bank, and most of them will be out of a job soon anyway."

"None of this makes sense," said Harley. "You tell me that yesterday they're all sitting like the Glum Family drinking Marion Walker's best scotch, the next they're sitting around like they've won the Lottery. What changed Davis?"

"Only thing that happened was that the factory burned down."

"Was it insured?"

"Leased. The machinery was insured and any stock in progress but there wasn't any. The Fire Service confirmed that."

"Why torch the factory if there's nothing in it, and its not worth a dime. And what is a fat American doing over here?"

"If Price had a contract with Apollo there might be an insurance scam going on."

"Only there's no factory anymore and no Alan Price to run it."

"But his estate might get something."

"Something's happened Davis. Something is definitely happening. You my son are not wrong. If you were a drinking man I'd buy you a drink. We are definitely missing something. I'll put money on the fact that the Walkers and the Sheltons and that toerag Edmunds are up to something. And James Taylor knows something as well. But what can you gain from a business that is down the shute and a man that's got no money. I need a break Davis."

Steve Harley was not a God fearing man but would have been instantly converted when his phone rang and a small miracle occurred.

It was Ronnie Hilton over at the Crazy Horse Hotel. "I've just had a call from a young lady claiming to be that dead American's daughter and asking if she can collect his belongings. I told her to drop over and speak to you. She rang off when I mentioned the outstanding bill."

"I owe you a large one," replied Steve Harley.

### CHAPTER 15 – Easter Monday, April 12

Alex Harvey was awake early. In fact he had hardly slept. Grace was asleep in the bedroom next door. He sat in the leather armchair with a cold coffee and Cream Radio turned down low.

They had spent the Easter weekend eating, drinking, smoking but mostly talking. About their past, their background, their hopes for the future. They had reached their crossroads from opposite directions.

Grace knew where she was going. Alex had stayed at the intersection of his years and stood staring backwards, watching the past creep further away, leaving him behind.

But the reason for his sleepless nights, never a problem when full of Bill Withers best bitter, was sex. He had tried everything. Mental pictures of Melanie Charles failed to stiffen the reluctant flesh, the smell of Grace's perfume or the touch of lace brought no rush of blood. All the caressing and stroking, the wetness of tequila stained saliva or the electric tingle of flailing auburn hair struggled unsuccessfully to rouse the shy seven inches of erectile tissue into a state of preparation.

Why did sex make a mockery of men? And him in particular. He looked at himself in the mirror. What a state he must seem. Why did Grace bother with him? His hair needed trimming, his beard had no shape and a useless piece of furniture hung between his legs.

Until her arrival in town he had been happy with his life. He was content to be the Record Man. He could come and go as he pleased, open when he felt like it, refuse work if he wasn't too keen and accept work for little or no money if he wanted to.

First it was Victor wanting him back in the recording studio, then Peter Noone and his absurd idea that he stand as a Town Councillor, and then Grace. He had often thought what it would be like to be wanted again. Now that it had happened, was he sure that this is how he wanted it to be?

There was no point in turning back now. He took the scissors and began hacking at his beard. The brown hair tinged an orange reddish colour around his sideburns and around the corners of his mouth, fell in lumps to the sink.

Thick stubble still covered his cheeks and upper lip, but already he watched in fascination as a stranger's face began to appear in the mirror. He would have continued, but as a man who didn't shave, his bathroom cupboards and shelves lacked a razor. Instead he hacked at the long strands of hair that fell from his head; his do-it-yourself hairdressing course only ran to a one line introduction.

He was so absorbed in his barbershop activities that he failed to be aware of Grace until she put her arms around him. He could feel the warmth of her body through the silk robe.

"I'm sorry," was all he could find to say.

"About what?"

"Everything. Sex, or lack of it." Alex looked miserably at the mirror. There was no change in Grace's face. "I don't know what's happening to me."

"Sex isn't everything, you know."

"I bet you say that to all the men."

"You see," said Grace, standing by Alex's side and talking to him in the mirror. "You can still joke about it."

Alex watched his reflection twist its mouth and shake a few more hairs into the sink. "I've been thinking about what you said over the weekend."

"What's that?"

"About me. It's time to change. Starting with this beard. And this hair."

"To show what you've been hiding from the world."

"Will you still want me?"

"It'll be like getting to know a completely new person."

"You may not like him."

"Looks are nothing. However, it does add a bit of a mystery to you. No one will recognise you. How many years have you been hiding under all that hair? It's a chance to begin again."

"That's what I've been thinking. You're right, everyone has to move on; I've been going neither forward or back. It's been like a self-imposed limbo. I never intended to remain the Record Man. So I've made a few decisions. First the hair, then tell Victor that I'll get back into the recording studio. And then this shop. I've got to see Jonathan King about something."

"Well, first I think you'd better let a professional do something about that haircut."

"But it's a Monday and Easter Monday at that. There's no one open."

"That's right, it's Easter Monday. It's the one Monday in the year that hairdressers are open."

Grace was right. Alex found himself in Air Cut, sitting in an unfamiliar chair whilst Debbie Harry wrapped a sheet around him.

"If it wasn't for the long hair I'd never have recognised you." Debbie paused before deciding which side of Alex's hair to cut first.

"Make him look younger, don't you think?" asked Grace.

"Quite frankly, Grace, I've always wondered what was beneath all that hair. I've always thought that cutting and styling Alex's hair would be a challenge. It's like an artist starting out with a bare canvas or a writer staring at a blank page. You think, 'there's a lot I could do with this.'"

"All I want is a trim," demanded Alex, head shoved onto his chest.

"Jesus Christ," gasped Jonathan King. "I didn't recognise you Alex. What have you done to yourself? You look almost, well ...almost normal."

Alex brushed a hand over his unfamiliar short hair, and stroked his newly shaved cheeks. Grace had hugged and kissed him as soon as they left Air Cut, but the clean shaven face and neat hairstyle still belonged to another man.

"All I've done, Jonathan, is had a haircut."

"I know, Alex. But there is such a thing as style. I dress like people expect an estate agent to dress. People come to expect rock musicians to look like...well..." stammered Jonathan, unusually at a loss for words.

"Dirty, scruffy and long haired." Alex completed the sentence. "I've changed the image, Jonathan."

Grace stood a little behind Alex, then grabbed a chair from Brian Poole's desk and sat next to him, grinning and holding his arm as if a teenager in love.

"I want you to sell the shop for me, and the flat of course. I'm selling up."

"What! You can't leave, Alex. You're part of the town. It was bad enough Glad leaving, but not you. Fordhamton will never be the same."

"No flattery, Jonathan. Who's going to miss a second hand record store?"

"Don't put yourself down, Alex. You know exactly what I mean. You have a certain image in town; you're part of the scenery."

"Do I take it then that you don't want to handle the sale? You'd rather keep the place going for me?"

"Don't be flippant. If that's your decision I'll gladly come round and do a valuation. Tomorrow suit you?"

"No. Have to go to London. Wednesday? Shop will be closed as from tomorrow anyway."

"London? Leaving us for the bright lights?"

"No," said Alex very firmly. "Actually I'm looking for another property in this area. It's time I invested a bit of money in property now that the market's finally looking better. Something big, away from the traffic, plenty of room; you know the type."

"I think so. But it depends on what you want to spend. It depends on how much you can get for your place."

"I'm not relying on Teargas, Jonathan. I want you to treat this as two separate deals. Money is not a problem. What have you got in my line?"

Jonathan fished out a bundle of prospectuses. He watched Grace watching Alex. She was in love; there was no denying the looks. He failed to see what attraction the old Alex had for a modern woman but the new Alex was much more decisive. Alex of old would have sat in front of him for hours talking about anything but what he really needed. He seemed a much better prospect now.

"The market is picking up, Alex. Take this lot away and have a good look. You must know most of them. Of course," remarked Jonathan, leaning back in his chair. "There is one property that isn't actually on the market but might suit you just perfectly."

Alex looked at Grace first. She agreed with her eyes. "And...?"

"Alan Price's old place. I think that the right kind of offer might tempt her into an early sale; if the price is right and the executors agree."

Alex nodded. "It would be just right. How do we set about it?"

"I'll talk to Keith Emerson first; then Marion. Then you can approach both of them with an offer."

Alex laughed. "Don't let the scruffy musician fool you. I've heard all about the Price affair. I'll make what I think is the right price."

"It's been a pleasure doing business with you, Alex. I'll see you Wednesday then? About ten?"

"I like to get an early start these days, Jonathan. Make it nine."

"That was a very cool move," congratulated Grace as they walked away from Jonathan King Estate Agents. "What's happened to you?"

"Do you prefer the old Alex?"

"Actually I think the new Alex is much more handsome, younger and much, much, more sexy."

She stopped him in the street and kissed him. The new Alex Harvey was still a little embarrassed about public shows of affection and tried to push her away but found himself being dragged by the hand towards Joy of Looking and pushed through the door. Grace put an arm around his waist and showed him the rail of costumes for hire.

"If you had a free choice which one would you most like me to put on? French maid? Do you fancy a nun? Do schoolmistresses turn you on?"

Alex needed little encouragement. Grace was as quick to shed her clothes. Alex watched the straight, lean back of a stranger in the mirrors of the opened changing room and somewhere in a distant jungle a freed lion roared.

### CHAPTER 16 – Tuesday April 13

"It's been almost a week. Do you still think she'll turn up?" asked DC Miles Davis.

"No, I don't," replied Harley. "I thought we'd got a breakthrough but I don't know of many villains who would voluntarily put their head in a noose."

He was wrong. There was a call from the front desk to say that there was a Miss Cleotha Staples with her legal representative wishing to speak to him. Harley had them placed in an interview room, waited for a few minutes, combed his hair, adjusted the knot on his tie, finished his coffee and went downstairs to meet them.

There was little reaction from Davis but DI Harley was stricken. How much he envied the light grey suit that hugged the slender figure of Miss Cleotha Staples. From the salon sculpted black hair and deep brown eyes all the way down to the slim ankle bracelet Steve Harley could not think of a more attractive female. It was a while before he managed to assume his normal attitude; but he was already on the back foot in the face of such beauty.

"I am Gordon Lightfoot," began the bespectacled and slightly balding solicitor. "Of Lightfoot and Lightfoot. I would like to begin by stating that Miss Staples is here voluntarily in the hope of assisting you with your ongoing enquiries,"

"I take it then," said Harley, staring into the eyes opposite, "that you are not the daughter of the late departed John Sebastian?"

"No," agreed Lightfoot. "That was a slight misunderstanding."

"So, having cleared up that little misunderstanding, as you like to call it, why exactly are you here."

"Miss Staples has prepared a statement but I think it might be best if she explains her reasons for being here in her own words. My client is willing to answer all your questions but I would advise you that she is an American citizen in the UK on business."

"I'm only interested in the truth," said Harley. "Whatever that may be. If anyone can offer some insight into this affair then you can take it from me, I will be very grateful."

Cleotha Staples smiled.

"Yes," said Lightfoot, hesitantly. "Perhaps we might begin by letting Miss Staples explain why she is here."

"That my old son is a very good place to start. Miss Staples, this is not a formal interview, it is not being recorded but we are investigating a suspicious death so my constable here will be taking some notes. Don't worry about talking too fast; he has diplomas in speed writing."

Cleotha Staples smiled again. Harley wished he could have met her in different circumstances. It was difficult to remain detached for the soft and easy American accent had already started to lure him away from the real reason for being here.

"When you're ready Miss Staples," said Harley.

"Inspector I work as a freelance investigator," began the beguiling Cleotha Staples. "My business partner is, or was, John Sebastian. It works very well; people do not think that we are a partnership considering the differences in our age and appearance. However it is strictly business. He was a very nice person to me but as for the physical side, that could never happen."

"We were asked to see what the situation was with Price's Tools. As you know Apollo Health collapsed but before it did so people were aware that there could be a large financial exposure through any outstanding business deals."

"One such contract was with Prices Tools. We had heard nothing so I arranged to meet Alan Price under the pretext of being Apollo's European representative. We met in the car park of The Horse With No Name and Mr Price drove us to the Crazy Horse Hotel."

"Here," interrupted Gordon Lightfoot, "you must realise that Miss Staples is offering this information of her own free will."

"As Mr Lightfoot says this is as it happened. Many of Apollo's product range consist of tablets and potions to increase and stimulate the intensity of some physical actions. During the research and development stage some mistakes were made. Some were actually quite beneficial. I gave Alan Price a small dose of a chemical compound called mosynthanol. It does virtually the same thing as Viagra but I didn't know at the time Alan Price was impotent."

"The problem with mosynthanol is that in smaller doses it does act as a truth drug. All I wanted to know was what he knew about an outstanding contract. If it resulted in him becoming a bit sexually aroused then I would naturally have taken things as far as I felt safe."

"You'd have slept with him?" asked a very convinced Steve Harley.

"I have done. In the pursuit of my job. However before I had any chance to get any information his phone rang and he rushed out."

"What happened?"

"Well, mosynthanol has quite a few side effects which is why it was withdrawn. It can cause symptoms of panic, sometimes power, maybe some malfunction of the nervous system and of course a damn good erection."

"So Alan Price rushes out with a terrific hard on and crashed into a lorry load of booze."

"It wasn't meant to happen that way."

"I would like to believe you. This contract, what was all that about?"

"Price's Tools had just signed a multi-million deal with Apollo. That's what it was all about. I wanted to know if he had received the paperwork or done anything about it."

"Had he?"

"I don't think so. He didn't say so."

"And the factory? Who burned that down? Was that a slice of industrial espionage, a Plan B if all else failed?"

Cleotha Staples looked across at Gordon Lightfoot. "I had nothing to do with that. Or John S. That's not our style.

"My client was at her hotel the whole night. We can provide witness statements if necessary."

"I'm sure you could Mr Lightfoot. Right Miss Staples, what happens if this contract doesn't turn up?"

"It's a Letter of Credit. It will expire and that will be that."

"What now?" asked Davis. They had left Cleotha Staples and Gordon Lightfoot in interview room.

"What can I charge her with? Price ran out of his own accord and she admits she'd gladly have a bit of the other with him if he'd stayed. She wasn't anywhere near Fordhamton when the factory went up so she's out of the frame there. As far as she's concerned it's job done and she'll be on the next flight back to Uncle Sam."

"Of course!" Davis did something unusual. He smiled. "That's why Alan Price was in such as bad mood that day. Marion Walker said he complained to her about some missing paperwork. He had a row with Michael Jackson at the Post Office and with Dave Edmunds at the Bank. He was looking for a letter but the Royal Mail have been going through a sorting office strike."

"That's right Davis. You're getting good at this game. Where is the letter now then?"

"Most probably up in flames with the rest of the factory."

"I'm going to have to let the lovely Miss Staples go but then we'll go and have a final word with Marion Walker."

The four of them sat uncomfortably in Marion Walker's office. Marion and Dave Edmunds on one side and Harley and Davis on the other

"What do you know about a Letter of Credit?"

"Nothing, said Marion. "I've got nothing to do with the company. It was all Alan's."

"And you?"

"Me?" asked Dave incredulously. "We never see anything like that at branches. Even if we did, that sort of amount all goes to Head Office and in any case it would have gone straight to customer because it's a Letter of Credit in his favour. First we know of it is when the documents come in. And there haven't been any. I would have thought it all went up in the fire."

"It would have come in quite handy really," remarked Marion. "For Alan anyway. And the workers. Now he's dead it's no use to anyone, and besides there's no factory to produce any of those tube things."

"That's right," agreed Dave.

Harley had to admit defeat but as he was about to leave he turned and for a moment he thought Marion looked worried.

"When Davis here came to see you the other day you were all like a bunch of school kids caught smoking behind the bike sheds. Next day you're living it up in the wine bar. Have I missed something?"

"You've missed nothing Inspector. You've been extremely thorough. But let me tell you something that you may already know. No one liked my ex-husband. He was a bully. Simple as that. When the factory went up that was our last chance of salvaging anything. Then I thought well, good riddance. The house will sell, as it has; they'll be a bit of money from the insurance policies and I am finally rid of any connection with the man I've virtually been shackled to all my life. I'm glad to get rid of him so we had a drink on it."

"Do you think they believed all that?"

"I think so Dave. What is there not to believe?"

"Do you believe her?" asked Davis.

"Is there any reason not to? So now we're left with a clear case of arson and a bit of petty vandalism. Who else hated Alan Price enough to do all that. Is there anything else to go wrong in this town?"

### CHAPTER 17 \- Wednesday April 14

Things were not going well for Councillor Joan Regan. No one was taking her warnings about Joy of Looking seriously. There had been no loose women seen outside; the children from Geno Washington County didn't hang about the shop window any more and despite Joan canvassing all her friends and acquaintances none of them felt compelled to write a letter to Council to object to a licence being granted. In fact, there was a slight majority in favour.

The Mayor had tired of Joan's persistent complaining over the Post Office counter during business hours and had reluctantly agreed to meet her in the Sad Café.

Joan used the coffee shop to meet all her local friends and was momentarily nonplussed by the early arrival of Michael Jackson who had already claimed her normal seat by the window.

"Sex and politics just don't mix," began the Mayor.

They were two words guaranteed to catch the attention of the Beverley Sisters who turned their backs on their customers and moved silently around the work surface, straining to catch every nuance of Joan's remonstrance with the senior Councillor.

"I quite agree that we should keep sex out of politics but the issue at stake here is keeping sex out of the town." Joan emphasised her feelings by stabbing her forefinger heavily on the table, causing the cups to shake, rattle and roll in the saucers.

"Sex isn't an issue," complained Michael.

"Then what is?" demanded Joan.

"There are no issues. I thought that was plainly obvious. There wouldn't even have been an election had Alan Price not got himself killed."

"I think the town is well rid of him. And then as soon as we lose one corrupting influence another raises its head. Or should I say her head."

"I think you're getting all this out of proportion, Joan. What on earth has the woman done to you?"

Joan twisted her whole body around in the chair and pointed down the High Street. "Haven't you seen what she's selling? The name itself implies sexual curiosity. Can you imagine what kind of thoughts that type of clothing can put into impressionable young minds? It's dirty. No respectable person would want to wear that kind of thing. It can only lead to depravity. You should be out there campaigning. It should become the cornerstone of our election address. The electorate has a right to vote against it."

"The shop isn't an election issue," repeated Michael.

He wondered how control of this election had started to run away from him. First it was Alan Price dying. What a fine time to get himself killed. Then Scott Walker jumped in the ring. Then a mystery man goes around spraying green paint and everyone is saying that CCTV and movement sensitive floodlights would be a good idea, completely undermining his hold on Roger Miller. Alex Harvey goes missing to complete the loss of the independent vote and now to cap it all Joan wants to get on her high moral horse and make sex an election issue.

His intention was to keep the election low key, to fan the limpid flames of apathy that descend on rural backwaters like Fordhamton when elections come round. There are some political hot potatoes that you can't control, and one of them is sex.

Once people get round to discussing sex they could do all manner of things. The Conservative Party used to hold the high moral ground but in these more liberal days any attempt to stifle whatever sexual freedom the electorate believe they hold would most probably backfire in a Labour landslide.

"Personally, Mr. Mayor, I don't believe that you've been taking this election at all seriously. I was quite happy to go along with Phyllis and Roger Miller but once this anarchist entered the contest it puts a wholly different complexion on things. What on earth is CRAP anyway?"

Michael almost choked on his tea. "I have no idea, Joan. Who knows what they teach them at University these days."

He had to think of something quickly to side-track Joan who seemed intent on examining his political inactivity at closer quarters. "Have you had any more thoughts about this memorial idea? Harmony, Industry and Co-operation?"

"No I have not," replied Joan, spitting out each syllable. "I told you before I will have nothing at all to do with a man that peddles filth. And if you had any sense you wouldn't either. I take it you will be going tonight."

"Tonight?"

"Miss Slick's fashion show. It will bring home to everybody in this town the precise nature of the pornographic material that she is selling in that so-called clothes shop of hers."

Michael Jackson groaned. This wasn't the kind of newspaper coverage he required. He just prayed that Joy of Looking was no more than what Grace Slick said it was. Of course he was going to her show in his official capacity as Mayor, even though Camilla was none too keen. She was going to have no husband of hers, Mayor or not, ogling semi-naked women. Like most other red blooded men, he couldn't wait to see the likes of Melanie Charles in see-through lacy bras and panties.

Dave Edmunds on the other hand, sat in his expansive executive swivelling chair and smiled like the director on the opening night of a big budget musical.

He didn't want to call Marion on her mobile. She was visiting a client and Dave wanted his news to be enjoyed by just the two of them.

In mid morning Marion Walker walked into her office dressed in a salmon pink suit and sunshine chasing the hair around her face. She could not ignore the huge grin that spread from one ear to the other on the chubby face of her partner.

The joy in his frame would not release him from the chair. "Its come, Marion," was all he could manage to say, and waved a letter around his head.

Marion was about to experience that heady cocktail stirred from money and power that other females called sex.

Marion took the letter, glanced at it long enough to read the important opening paragraph and placed it on her desk. She dropped down on to Dave's lap and kissed him on the mouth. Dave could hardly respond to the moist lips that only parted from his own when Marion's arms clasped him around the neck.

"You're a genius, Dave. You really are."

Dave Edmunds had the power of speech removed from him. He felt obliged to reciprocate his appreciation so took Marion's arms in his and gave her a clumsy, open mouthed kiss back.

He tried keeping his eyes tightly closed as the kiss was returned with increasing fervour. He felt her arms around him, exploring the mounds and ridges of flesh and fat. He shivered as her mouth brushed his own and flew to his ears and blew soft zephyrs down the pathways that had only ever heard the coarse humour of crowded bars.

His slow reaction alarmed Marion who rested her arms on his wide shoulders. "I'm sorry," she said. "I'm not much good at this sort of thing."

"Me neither," replied Dave. "In fact, you're the only person who knows this but I haven't had much experience with women. In fact," he stammered. "I've had no experience of women at all."

Marion eased off of him. 'Oh shit,' he thought. But she didn't laugh, nor tease him. Nor leave him.

"I don't go around doing this sort of thing either, Dave. In fact I'm no expert when it comes to sex. I'd be a great disappointment if you thought that."

"But you were married, Marion. You've got two boys."

"That doesn't make me an expert on it. In fact I never ever enjoyed it. Alan wanted it all the time. I thought that if I kept going along with him then the enjoyment might come. I always thought I must be doing something wrong. All this talk of multiple orgasms had me beat. I don't think I ever had one. As long as Alan got his leg over every other night then he was happy. He wasn't what you would call a modern man. He didn't hang around waiting for me to scream and yell. He just got on with it. And when it's like that, children just sort of come along naturally. Did you know he was impotent?"

Dave looked at her. He didn't know what to say. He was still a virgin; sexual knowledge was a mystery to him

"It wasn't something he bragged about. After all, it wouldn't do for Fordhamton's leading man to be found wanting in that direction, would it? But there again, it became the town's worst kept secret. Once the drive left him, then our marriage became a little more tolerable but the fire had gone out long ago. So we got divorced. There was no hatred; I knew exactly what made him tick, power. That's why they all hung around him you know; in the hope some of his magic would rub off. He thought it was just great, all that adoration. What he really wanted was sex; all that power broking was just a substitute. Still, that's all in the past. You don't know how long I've been wanting to say that to someone. For years. You don't mind?"

"About what?"

"Me and Alan. There are men out there who wanted me because I was Alan Price's ex-wife. They wanted me just to have something of his. But I wasn't interested. In them, or sex. I'm sorry, Dave, sex was never very high on my wants. Until now, you're so very different. I can't promise you that sex will be good. But I'm willing to try."

"What exactly are you saying?"

"Don't you know, Dave? I thought that you and me well, I thought we got on well together. You do like me, Dave?"

"Of course I do. I just didn't think that you would want me that way. For sex I mean. I mean I'm not everyone's idea of a male model."

"It doesn't matter. I like you, Dave. I want you; it's something I thought I'd never say to a man. But there it is."

"You mean. Me? Me and you? A pair? What will everybody say?"

"Who cares what people say. Let's face it Dave, we can hardly keep it a secret between you and me. I'm a small smart businesswoman and you're six foot and sixteen stone. Couples like us tend to get noticed in public. I'm willing if you are."

Dave just shook his head. Having never had sex with anyone made him the more embarrassed about losing his virginity at thirty-eight. "Oh what the heck. Let's give it a whirl, eh. Don't you want to know about our good news though?"

"Oh yes, I almost forgot. Tell me."

"My very good ex-employers have paid us one hundred thousand United States Dollars into our very own Dollar account. I told you the documents were okay. They were, and the Bank has paid up. Anne Shelton can pack her bags for the States and she's got a letter of introduction from the Hues Corporation introducing her to any Bank in America to open an account."

"What now?"

"Nothing. Until the goods come back. In the meantime, say nothing to Keith. This account has nothing at all to do with the main estate. Anne and Patrick and James can have their share transferred in Dollars to America and sterling can be transferred back into James' account. Anything left after we've paid all expenses, like buying the tubes back, is yours."

"And yours, Dave."

"No, I only ever wanted my independence."

"No. We're partners, Dave. Fifty-fifty. Agreed." Marion stroked his knees and edged upwards. Dave looked at her, never understanding how emotions worked, how some eyes see beauty when others see plainness. Why should Marion Walker want him when she was the object of so many other men's desire?

"Actually I could do with a drink."

"Drink it is and then your place? Just in case Scott's at home."

"Should I get some .. some er...?" enquired a very nervous Dave Edmunds.

"Something else Alan never knew was that I was sterilised many years ago. Funny isn't it, he was impotent and worried about it, and I couldn't have kids even if he could get a hard on. Ready?"

Dave gulped, turned off his computer and watched Marion smooth out the wrinkles in her skirt. He still couldn't believe that a woman with legs like that would want to have sex with an overweight, beer drinking sexual ignoramus like himself.

Dave felt like he usually did with a belly full of beer. His legs refused to obey him and his brains turned one way whilst his skull rotated another. He just prayed that another part of his anatomy worked better without the beer and meekly he followed Marion to her car.

Gossip travels the length of small towns like osmosis. It starts with one person exchanging the time of day with another and then spreads by personal contact until the same piece of news, chewed and masticated like a dog's bone, arrives back at the home of the instigator. Which is how Joan Regan got to know of the incredible interest shown by many of those she had thought of as friends, in a display of fancy lingerie to be held at the Geno Washington County School?

Joan had not set foot in Joy of Looking since the opening day. She was the first person at the school door to buy what remained of a limited number of seats.

She sat with her pale blue floppy rimmed hat stuck firmly into her hair with a large pearl studded hatpin and refused to remove her headgear despite the polite coughing that echoed around the school hall from behind her.

The hardwood squares that were used to extend the stage area for school plays were placed in pairs, and stretched down into the hall to form the catwalk. Roger Miller had set up his film equipment at the end of the walkway and Alex Harvey had his deck at the rear of the stage.

Joan watched with interest as the hall filled up. Amongst the guests were all those that she had considered friends. Some of them had nodded wisely when she had forewarned of the trouble Joy of Looking might bring. Now they were nodding their head in anticipation. Joan felt betrayed. But that was the fate of all martyrs.

Backstage there was laughter. Anne Shelton shook George Hamilton's hand nervously. "When Grace said she had a 'George' helping out I thought she meant a 'Georgina'."

"There's no need to be embarrassed," replied the clean shaven cross-dresser. "I'll change in the corner; you can put the clothes rails round me like a screen."

"We don't mind if you don't." Donna Summer, the smaller, more bubbly of Grace's old school friends, was already in an uplift bra over which her large brown nipples peeked cheekily.

George had gratefully accepted the offer of sharing; there was little inhibition amongst the amateur models, especially after a few more glasses of bubbly. He had stripped down to frilly underpants. Anne and Melanie Charles looked at him and then at each other. It was hard to stifle the laugh.

A couple of minutes later the giggles had turned to admiration as George applied make-up and set his blond wig in place. With a lightly padded corset and smooth legs wrapped in sheer nylon he would have passed as any other middle-aged woman out for an evening with the girls. Very soon they were exchanging views on make-up, hair removal creams and the best suntan lotion for pink nipples.

Australian champagne, chilled in the school kitchen's fridge, kept flowing and a suitably buoyed up Lynne Anderson enquired of George's sex life. Then they heard Alex turn up the volume and it was time to adjust bra straps, check for ladders and one last wee.

Annie Malvig had volunteered to go first to excite her husband Frederick who was in the front row, and drew gasps of admiration as she strutted down the makeshift catwalk in a satin red bra and panties set. By the time Anne Shelton pirouetted in front of Roger Miller in cream corset and lacy stockings all fears of performing in public had been conquered.

Only Joan Regan sat silent, anger filling every pore. Whilst others followed Annie's black high heels along the length of the catwalk, Joan raised her eyes to the row of sixth form helpers standing by the side curtains. She saw the girls nudge each other and occasionally one of the boys would nervously rearrange his trousers when he thought no one was looking.

Joan could no longer stand the betrayal. Annie Malvig twisted on her slim legs and pulled on the bow of the nightie to reveal just enough of her bare chest where her breasts separated, before turning once more to let George on to the stage.

"Traitor," yelled Joan, storming to her feet. "I knew we could never trust you. You're in with this woman, peddling filth."

Lee Dorsey the local newshound stopped scribbling and began clicking his digital camera. The whole event would be recorded for posterity. His editor would love it. 'Local councillor caught up in sex storm'. In the background Roger Miller kept recording

Joan stood in the midst of friends and acquaintances who tried to restrain her by word, or gentle touch on her arm. But Joan was possessed. So much fine, feminine material that slim, attractive women wore so well had pushed her over the edge of discretion. This was not the safe, body hiding stuff that was sold by the container load in High Street department stores. This was feminine lingerie that accepted the knowledge of sexual organs and made women desirable. It teased and raised in Joan emotions she did not understand.

"You're no more than a common hussy, Miss Slick. You're no better than women who sell their bodies for sex. What respectable woman would wear those kinds of things? It will lead men to all kinds of unspeakable acts. It is disgusting."

Joan's outburst had brought all the models onto the stage. Alex ceased the music and Grace began to walk down towards where Joan was standing.

But George was there before her. "Do you realise what you are doing, madam? You are ruining a show that this lady has taken weeks to organise. There are women out there who want to wear this sort of thing. It makes them feel women again after a long day's work and bringing up kids. It makes them feel feminine. And if it makes their husbands desire them again then what is so wrong in that? Why not bring some fun back into dressing?"

"I don't know who you are. You're not from round here. I don't know you. You're just the kind of element that I told everyone that this shop would bring into town. Look at you. Make up coated on your face; that hair isn't yours and I wouldn't be mistaken if you were padding out your chest. What kind of woman are you?"

George remained calm. He was caught between unmasking himself as a man or walking away from trouble to protect Grace. He had little time to decide because Joan had barged through two rows of chairs and clambered up on to the stage.

"There is only one word for you. Disgust. People like you, and all the rest. That foreigner. And that hussy Melanie Charles, what will your father say? Does he know you're up there parading your body for every young man to leer at? And Anne Shelton, I expected more of you. Your father's a M.P."

George stood his ground but found himself the victim of Joan's next attack, which became more physical as she approached him. First she wielded her handbag like a cricketer perfecting a hook shot in the nets; then realising that George was built more solidly, reached for her hatpin.

Whilst the audience gasped and stood helpless John Williams the Headmaster, put his arms around her and tugged her backwards; but not before she had made a series of unsuccessful stabbing motions at George's shoulders.

"Call yourself a woman. You're a hussy, a woman of the night, a low life. And as for you, Miss Slick, all you peddle is filth. The gutter is too good for you. You should be ashamed to be using a school hall to exhibit this collection of pornography. Joy of Looking! This is no joy. This is...sex. This is perversion."

John Williams wrestled her off the stage and down to the rear doors. Joan's strength was exhausted. Mentally she was spent; physically she was weakened and she let herself be escorted out of the hall.

As she was let out into the cool night air by John Williams they passed another figure who had been watching events with the joy of looking that middle age bestows on world weary detectives.

Something was still very wrong in town. Harley had heard of Joan Regan, she had been pointed out but he had no cause to speak to her. He could not imagine her being part of any conspiracy. But here she was, escorted out of the school by the Headmaster, in a decidedly distressed state. This was not the action of a respectable lady Town Councillor.

He sat out the rest of the show in the back row, certain that sex was still at the heart of this affair. Someone who had a deep seated grudge against the late Alan Price.

### CHAPTER 18 – Friday April 16

Dave Edmunds stared out of the office window. The sun crept silently along the High Street, slowly lighting each shop front as an artist would fill in deep tones of colour.

There were storms in Africa; snow was falling in Philadelphia and gales wracked the small islands of the Hebrides . But none of this concerned Dave. It was just another beautiful day in Fordhamton. He didn't realise that unusual weather systems were a warning to the unwary.

Marion finished her phone call in monosyllables and clicked off the cordless handset. "I've just had a call from Keith Emerson. Alex Harvey's made a firm offer for the house."

Dave Edmunds swivelled in his chair and faced Marion. Two days of sexual experimentation had left him tired but elated. It reminded him of the emotional release that ten or twelve pints of Barclays Harvest Bitter gave before unconsciousness fell.

Dave tried to forget that the woman in front of him had only that morning raised his once dormant sexual drive to new heights. He had never thought his body possible of such continuous power. Marion dug her nails into the soft flesh on his back and groaned desperately as she bit his shoulder, begging him to explode. Dave duly obliged.

It was hard to forget those images. He only responded when Marion repeated her question. "What do you think, Dave?"

"I think you should take it."

"What do you know about Alex? I can't think that shop of his can give him much of an income. We may have to wait months for the place to be sold, even though Keith said that there's no chain. Where can he get that kind of money?"

"I've known Alex for years. Don't be fooled by appearances. He may look like a poor musician but he's better off than you might realise."

"Did he bank with you?"

"He kept the shop account with us. And he had a private account as well. Always well funded. But I know he had accounts and assets all over the place. If it makes you feel any better I'll have a drink with him lunchtime and see what I can find out. I may not be back till late."

"Try not to be too late. John's coming home. I'd like you to meet both of my sons; and you seem to have struck it off with Scott already."

Dave walked the unfamiliar pavements down to The Horse With No Name, rather than crossing the road from the Hues Corporation as he had for three years. Teargas was dark. One of Jonathan King's 'For Sale' boards had been hammered in by Bobby Lord. Some habits die harder than others and Alex Harvey was standing at the bar.

They greeted each other like rival explorers meeting at the North Pole. They both had their stories to tell, of hazards met and misfortunes overcome. They would share the same road back, but not before other tales of derring-do and distant lands begged to be told.

"The woman's completely off her trolley," agreed Bill Withers, pulling them all another pint.

"There's always been something odd about the woman. Always going off half cock about some charity or other. We had a special petty cash account for charities in case the Mothers of Misinvention or other oddball outfit called. Most of it went to Joan Regan. The problem with these do-gooders is that they all turn out to have whopping big hang-ups about something. Usually sex." It was the first time Dave had actually talked about the subject of sex in earshot of Alex or Bill. Neither gave it a second thought.

"Well she certainly did her best to ruin Grace's show; but once she was escorted out by John Williams the audience seemed to enjoy the show even more. It certainly put them on Grace's side. I thought you were coming, Dave?" Alex looked at Dave who avoided discussing his evening by drinking the remains of his pint.

Bill turned away to serve the advance guard of self-employed builders and decorators that had begun to drift into the pub as lunchtime turned to afternoon.

"I hope you don't mind me mentioning this Alex, but Marion told me that you've made a firm offer for Alan Price's old place."

Alex nodded. "I'd be surprised if she hadn't have mentioned it."

"You don't sound very surprised."

"It happens, Dave. People fall in love. Look at it this way, there's more beautiful women and handsome men sitting alone in one bedroom flats than there are fat, thin, ugly, smelly, flat-chested, beer drinking, or just plain ordinary people who are happily married; and all of them thinking that life is just wonderful. That's the way the world is. Don't think about it; don't be embarrassed by it. Go with the flow.

"Look at me. I never suspected from the first day Grace moved into town that within weeks we'd be lovers, that I'd sell the shop, start a new career and end up buying one of the best properties in the area. But it happened. And next, I'll most probably find myself a Town Councillor. Or maybe not. Personally I'm not worried about that. Would I want to mix with the likes of Joan Regan after last night's fiasco?"

"I think if it came down to it, I'd rather vote for an ageing rock star than a frustrated spinster who attacks other women with hatpins. It's not normal, is it? I should coco it's not. Look, you don't mind me mentioning the house. Only Marion doesn't know you that well."

"She's worried I haven't got the cash?"

"I did say that from my limited knowledge of your finances she hasn't got much to worry about."

"You don't mind."

"This affair with Marion seems to have done your brain in Dave. It's best that she does know a little bit about me. Of course I can buy it. Cash. No chain. Tell her not to be concerned on that score. If it makes you feel any better you can help me rearrange my own finances. I can be your first customer."

"You are aware that promoting unheard of pop groups can be a risky business."

"That's why I need an ex-banker. I don't want to use all my capital. I need finance. Who better to poach than the gamekeeper? Another pint and we'll talk about it."

"Got to go, Alex. Marion's eldest boy is home on a holiday. She wants us all to meet over dinner."

"And what about Bill's do tonight? The Licensed Victuallers and Spandau Ballet School for Dysfunctional Young Adults Charity Night. The only reason I'm here myself is that I'm handling the music."

"Forgot all about that. Look, if I can get back I will. But Marion, well...you understand, don't you."

Alex understood very well. He smiled and sipped his pint.

The appearance of Dave Edmunds in Marion's life was being discussed that very moment by her two sons. John Walker had taken a week off work and had decided to spend it with his mother.

That's what he had told her but John was more interested in his father's estate and the possibility of retrieving some money from out of the remains. He wanted to change his car, move flats and waste a few evenings in exclusive nightclubs.

He had prioritised his needs. Maternal concern and assisting a sibling in his political ambitions seemed the best way of camouflaging enquiries into the progress of those priorities.

"Well, he seems all right to me. He's quite happy sitting in an armchair, drinking a few cans of Barclays Best, snoring over the late night news and eating a hearty breakfast." Scott managed to sum up Dave Edmunds' lifestyle in a manner that Dave himself would have easily recognised.

"What does mum see in him? I mean, he's not your rising young executive type. He's not your Richard Gere either; and every time I saw him in the Bank he's got his collar undone and hitching up his trousers. There's not much style about him is there?"

"The way I see it he's a simple, uncomplicated, honest sort of bloke that seems to have fallen hopelessly in love with our mother. Strange thing is, she seems to love him as well."

"She doesn't actually have sex with him, does she?"

"I suppose so; he's being staying the last couple of nights. He is a bit on the large side though."

"It's absolutely gross," said John.

"Who are you talking about?" asked Marion, arriving in the kitchen.

"Scott," thought John very quickly. "I was asking about this election and Scott told me all about the fixing that's been going on."

"What made you stand anyway?"

"Strange thing is, I wasn't very interested until I ran into Peter Noone, although I think it might have been the other way round. He told me about Michael Jackson's horse trading. The man was actually going to fix the election so that there would be no contest. I mean, the man's a prat. You've got to have an election, haven't you? Otherwise what's the point? There's no democracy is there?"

"So I thought, go for it. If you're going to have an election you might as well do it for fun. I mean, who gives a toss about who actually wins. Makes no difference round here. But there ought to be an election otherwise the Council could nominate just about anybody they wanted. You get could get all kinds of fools on the Council. And there's enough of them there already."

"So when did you join this CRAP party?"

"I didn't. I made it up. Common Revolutionary Anarchist Party. No more stupid than calling yourself the Conservative and Unionist Party. Why not CUPS. Makes you think doesn't it."

It made no sense to John Walker or his mother. But as Scott seemed to be doing no one any harm and he had little chance of emulating his father's political career by standing on a forthright anarchist ticket with an acronym guaranteed to anger every upstanding citizen in Fordhamton, they both humoured him around the dinner table. Until the conversation began to turn as family conversations usually do, to the events of the last few weeks.

"So Alex Harvey is actually a very rich man." Marion looked back at Dave Edmunds who was happily pouring large forkfuls of chicken chow mien into his mouth.

"I told you he's got money all over the place. It seems that whilst all the other rock stars were spending their advance royalties in champagne parties Alex was investing in them, or to be more precise, their record companies. Just goes to show how some buggers can still surprise you even when you think you know all about them."

"We'll get something out of the estate after all then?" asked John. He was used to more select circles and found Dave's table manners fascinating; like watching animals at the zoo. He had to agree with his brother that beneath that extremely large frame Dave wasn't such a bad bloke. He was at worst unpretentious and at best, honest.

"With the sale of household effects and your father's insurance monies there should be a little bit to share out. Once the estate has paid off the Town Council and the Football Club of course."

Dave paused to swallow a glass of a well-matured Californian Zinfandel red. His appreciation of finer wines had accelerated since his first lunch with Marion in the Bo Jolly Wine Bar. He had bought a few bottles on the way home and poured out a fresh measure for himself before refilling everyone else.

Marion watched him affectionately. He was so different from Alan. Her ex-husband was always scheming; she was never too sure of his motives. Dave didn't try and impress his audience. She loved him for himself and all his bad habits.

"Mind you, it's a bloody good job you didn't try and auction the house the same day as the furniture and effects," resumed Dave. "Price would have dropped like a stone."

"Why?" asked John.

"With all that paint over it! I should coco. Do you know," added Dave, being carried along by a ruby red Californian sunset. "At one time I thought those detectives were trying to accuse me of it. What reason would I have to scrawl 'wanker' all over someone's house? Then the twat intimated I might have had a dig at my old employers as well."

"What detectives?" asked John.

"They've been sniffing around everybody that had the slightest connection with your father. He tried pinning the paint spraying and the arson attack on James Taylor at one time. What motive would he have had?"

"I had him in the frame at one time," admitted Dave, draining his glass.

"But it was all just a joke."

"What was? What do you mean joke? John, are you going to answer me?"

John Walker looked at his mother. He wished he hadn't said anything. He wasn't going to, but it had just come out.

"It was me. The paint, the factory. I was bloody annoyed at getting nothing. I got drunk."

Dave groaned and rested his head in his hands, believing he knew exactly what was coming. Scott grinned stupidly but Marion was furious. She rose from the table and then sat down again.

"You bloody stupid, ignorant fool. You could have ruined everything. Have you the slightest idea of what you have done, or what trouble you might have caused?"

Dave saw the future even more clearly. Bad weather hung over his head and depression set in, forcing his head on his chins and darkness everywhere. Over his head, storms raged.

"You owe me an explanation, John." Marion stood up and leant over her son.

"I told you. I was pissed off. Especially after Keith read the will and it meant none of us would get a penny. So I went back to London and ended up on a bender."

"I bought this horrible green paint off a bloke at a car boot sale for twenty pence. His wife hated it and he'd been trying to get rid of it for over a year. Been to every boot sale south of Watford trying to lose it. It was a bargain, believe me."

"So I came up to Fordhamton at night and painted up a few places that I really hated. I didn't want to do any serious damage, I wasn't even thinking straight. I just wanted to make a point. Then the paint ran out and I thought that the one way of getting some money out of the old git was to torch the factory. I thought there must be something inside worth the insurance money. So I threw a couple of bottles of petrol in."

"Have you the faintest idea of what you have done?"

"I'm sorry, mum. I just felt cheated. I didn't mean to hurt anyone."

"It's not the paint, it's not the protest. I can understand that it's..."

Marion felt the tears welling. Just when it seemed that she was in touch with her fortune, fate was about to snatch it away. Again. It hurt when she thought the fire had burned the stock but this second hurt was deeper; and it was a fiercer fire that scorched her eyes.

She sat down again. Scott thought about comforting her, but didn't. He didn't understand the cause of her distress. John looked around the table. Dave had raised his head and seen Marion. He walked round and held her shoulders.

"It's not your fault," he told John, philosophically. "You don't know what's been going on here. Personally I wouldn't have minded too much if you had burned the Bank down as well. I've often thought of it myself. In my dreams of course."

"There was nothing at the factory to burn down. The lease only had a few years to run, so there's no money in that now with the place gutted. And there was no stock either. Bit quixotic really."

"A what?" asked John.

"A noble but pointless gesture. Something one of my old managers used to say when refusing to lend money to a company that was going down the pan and wanted to borrow more."

"Tilting at windmills," added Scott.

"Exactly," agreed Dave, where philosophy and economics met.

"What the hell are you two going on about when everything I worked for is sliding straight down the toilet?" Marion was crying and Dave's arm was the last grip on her dream.

"I said I'm sorry," repeated John, "but why are you making such a fuss? We all know there was nothing left."

"Not quite," corrected Marion. "I'll have to tell you now but not a word to anybody. There was one last contract worth a lot of money and Dave and me, and a few friends have put together a sort of rescue package."

"And?" asked the two brothers.

"If anyone finds out that you're responsible for setting light to the factory then one of those detectives is going to come round here sniffing over everything They'll uncover the truth. Eventually. The best thing you can do John, is get back to London and say nothing."

"What if this detective tracks me down in London and asks me what I know?"

"He won't. He thinks it's local. You can see it's for the best, John"

"What's going on, mum? Whatever it is, isn't legal is it? It's a fraud, isn't it? Or otherwise you wouldn't get so angry about it all. Because everything is down the pan."

"It is not fraud. It's what's called using the system. But your mother's right. It's best you're out of the way. If the old bill gets wind that you're back in Fordhamton he'll want to speak to you. As far as I can make out they've interviewed everybody else that is still capable of movement in the village. And you might find it difficult not to let something slip."

"I like the idea of a cover up, Dave. But I'd be happier if I knew what the plot was."

"I don't know what's going on, John," said Scott. "And I don't want to. But I'll tell you something. You can't trust coppers."

There was no sex for Dave that night. Marion lay quietly beside him. He knew it was fraud, he knew what would happen if Harley and Davis went ahead and dug deep. He'd find out how he had opened fictitious accounts and misappropriated client's money. He dreamed of prison walls and a life without beer or Californian wines, a life without sex, and without Marion. It was too bleak to contemplate.

Whilst Marion and Dave individually planned a possible damage limitation exercise Bill Withers was praying that his hastily prepared Pool Night was not going to end in a similar disaster.

Scaffold Marquees had set up one of their biggest tents in the beer garden, heated by a portable generator and there had been an excellent response from the members of the North Clanton and District Licensed Victuallers Association to support the work of the Spandau Ballet School for Dysfunctional Young Adults. There were many in the audience who couldn't wait to see what a mess Bill would make of it. Their disappointment quickly turned to begrudging enjoyment as the entertainment unfolded.

A couple of hundred guests met in the bar of the Horse With No Name, then proceeded under the canopy that stretched from the back door towards the main tent, just in case it rained. A blue baize pool table was placed in the centre of the gold painted tables and chairs hired from Scaffold with the marquee.

Alex pumped out a succession of sixties hits and by eight o'clock the guests were chatting, drinking and eating the abundance of cold meats and cheeses from the buffet. But pleasant as the evening was, the audience expected more and each one looked at his neighbour wondering if all there was to a Pool evening was a pool table and chilled French wines.

Bill wore an impressive red dinner jacket and bow tie. His moustache had been trimmed and he stood by Alex for a few moments more before taking the microphone.

"I suppose you are wondering," he continued after one or two words of introduction, "why I chose to call this a Pool evening. As you can see there is a Pool table. For this I am grateful to my old friend Alex Harvey who is about to have another major number one hit with the Tabs next single."

Bill waited for the polite applause to fade before taking up the story. "You may note that I didn't ask you to come in your trunks and bikinis. But I did turn the heating up for those of you that wanted to. Like my other guests."

Three girls and three young men strutted into the tent from the main bar covered up with beach towels. Then the models let slip their robes. The girls wore skimpy bikinis and the men the tightest of leather thongs.

"Now let me explain how this is going to work. You may remember when you came in June my lovely wife took one half of your ticket. This has been placed in this big drum. I'll ask Alex, who has no interest in this whatsoever, as his girlfriend is watching, to draw out a ticket. If it's your number then you must cough up a fiver to play a round with one of the boys and girls. That means a game of pool, not hanky panky. And all money goes to charity. Then the stunning Grace Slick will pull a number from out of the smaller bucket; pink for girls, blue for boys. Each one of these glamorous models has a number somewhere on their body. And only I know where it is."

Amidst loud cheering Alex pulled out the first ticket. "Number Forty One."

The publicans on a rare Friday night off had invited guests from all possible professions: police officers, magistrates, solicitors and accountants.

From the front row, someone shouted, "Its mine."

Bill roared like an animal that had been thought to be extinct. "The first player is his Lordship the Mayor. Mr. Michael Jackson. Come up here and let's see who you've pulled."

"Fix," shouted many anonymous voices.

Michael drew number two. The slim blond with pear shaped breasts and an even suntan pulled the hair away from her ears and revealed the number two on her earring.

She leant over the table displaying the ample parts through which the thin material disappeared up her bottom. Her breasts balanced on the rim of the pool table such as Arthur Brown would have displayed his best cauliflowers. She winked at the Mayor for help. To loud cheers he slid one arm around her waist and guided the other down her arm; and smashed the cue call into play.

Whether by design or plain ineptitude at ball games the Mayor managed to miss all his shots, as did his opponent, severely hampered by the wandering hands of the senior politician. To increasing jeers Bill stepped in and called 'foul' and cancelled the match.

Bill had no intention of letting any game reach a conclusion. The more that clamoured to get closer to his agency models, the more money would flow into the charity pot.

Michael Jackson returned to his seat, his pint of beer and the long legged model astride his lap.

The next lucky ticket holder was Kerry Stevens of the Laughing Gnome. Despite being the A & M Brewery Ladies Area Pool Champion she let the muscle bound coloured model guide her around the table and didn't blush when someone asked her to pot the black.

The noise got louder, the jokes coarser and the drink continued to flow into a bottomless pool. It was an evening for public servants to enjoy themselves and raise some money for charity, but not in the fashion that the town's greatest fundraiser would have approved.

Joan Regan had spent two miserable days and nights haunted by the events at Grace Slick's fashion show. The embarrassment and humiliation was there every time she looked in the mirror. She stayed locked inside Springfield cottage, a willing prisoner of self imposed house arrest.

She felt betrayed by those she had come to regard as friends. All their talk of support was just empty words; they had just humoured her. Allowed her to drift through life letting her believe that they respected her opinions and views. They had mocked her. Now they were all having a good laugh at her expense.

How Kathy Kirby and the rest would have enjoyed seeing her marched out of the hall by the Headmaster when all she had done was to speak out against what she believed was wrong. And it was wrong.

The images of barely clad women whom she had thought were respectable citizens would not go away. It was the makings of a peep show, no less a display of flesh than could be found at a strip joint in Soho. But isn't that what all the others had said? Especially Alice Cooper. But as soon as they discovered the devil at work in their midst they were found wanting.

By time Friday night came round Joan had realised how lonely the life of a saint could be. Only that very special type of person could really appreciate the cold, heartless world that surrounded the true believer.

She knew she had to do something. It might have been Divine Guidance but Joan felt a compelling urge to go out into the town again. She had no idea what she would do, or where to go; she only knew that her fate awaited her.

Joan's lonely path around the outskirts of the Rupert Homes estate, the Bird of Paradise humming with suburban drinkers and the Great Buddha slowly filling the night air with the exotic aromas of Indian spices brought her to the northern end of the High Street, where her progress was halted by a parking nightmare.

Alan Price had worked to get the bypass built before Government Policy changed with the review of financial priorities or the growing pressures from the anti-road movements. The horrors that he had envisaged finally came to pass.

The attraction of Bill Withers charity night had attracted more cars than could possibly park in the town's limited parking spaces. Nevertheless most had managed to squeeze themselves along the breadth of the High Street allowing just enough space down the middle of the thoroughfare for one car to pass.

This temporary one way system had caused congestion at either end of the High Street as each car in turn had to reverse into any available yard space or the occasional private drive to allow the other car to pass. This was achieved with no little good grace but as Joan continued her walk she found a forty foot articulated lorry parked half way down the High Street.

Like so many before him the driver had missed the sign to the bypass and was gingerly negotiating the space between the two rows of parked cars when he found that the width of his lorry was too much for the executive BMW's, Volvos and Rovers that were parked none too close to the pavement.

He had begun to reverse when in his rear mirrors he saw that where there had been a couple of smaller two door runarounds outside the China Garden takeaway they had now been replaced by larger family saloons. The main road now resembled a funnel through which the lorry had to travel along the narrow aperture.

He locked his cab and headed for the nearest lit building which was the Horse With No Name from where he intended to call the police to extricate him. To Joan it looked suspiciously like an abandoned lorry blocking all access to the High Street.

By different routes Joan found herself heading towards the same place as the lorry driver. The driver to await police assistance, Joan by the increasing noise level that was filling the night air from the marquee erected in Bill Wither's beer garden.

It should not be forgotten that Joan was still head of the Fordhamton Road Safety Campaign. The traffic chaos made her remember for the first time in days that she still had other obligations. The bypass was designed to do away with all this. It was meant to make traffic flow faster and freer; yet here was the very opposite happening and inexorably more and more residents' cars began clogging the streets and lanes around the town.

Not for the first time was a publican the cause of all this. A fortnight ago it was Colin Blunstone and his strippers, now it was Bill Withers attracting another unruly mob into Fordhamton. Joan marched into the bar of The Horse With No name, through the covered way and into the giant marquee where she found scenes of debauchery that made Wednesday night pale into insignificance.

Barrels of Barclays Harvest Bitter were swiftly emptied, the singing was loud and out of tune; jackets, coats and ties were draped over chair backs.

On the blue baize pool table a pouting woman was dancing barefoot. A mass of five pound notes were stuffed into the string holding up her bikini bottom and she was holding her naked breasts in her hands, having let slip the bra top.

Around the table men with opened shirts and notes in their fist were encouraging her to drop her hands, but she wanted a few more notes.

Joan looked quickly round the tent. At a close table sat Michael Jackson with another half naked woman sitting on his lap, fondling her breasts. There was a hint of further sexual favours to be granted in the way that her tongue was creeping into his ear.

She grabbed the first thing to hand, which was a full pint of Hookfoot lager, and poured the liquid over Michael Jackson.

The bare breasted model sat up and grabbing what was left of Michael's pint, hurled it over the lady councillor. Joan was not going to be stopped by a trifling amount of alcoholic beverage and swung her trusty handbag with her full force. It was intended for the girl but it hit Michael Jackson instead.

Realising that he was her true target, Joan began hammering her bag around his face and shoulders. She managed a few well-aimed shots before being pulled back by a couple of heavy publicans.

"Déjâ vu," said Alex to Grace, who was sitting by his side drinking a bottle of Tijuana Brass.

Although deprived of the use of her arms Joan brought other parts of her armoury into play and having the benefit of a fulcrum in the guise of a strong publican, aimed a few direct kicks at Michael's ankles. One or two found their mark before she was pulled clear.

"You are meant to be an example to us all. Where is your public decency now? You're no better than the rest. Sex mad the lot of you. Never happy unless someone's taking off their clothes. Been taking some of Alan Price's potions, I suppose."

Joan's words reverberated around the room. Joan was resisting all efforts to drag her back into the pub. What remained of the guest's decency was enough for them not to harm an elderly woman who was clearly under the influence of a headier brew than Bill Wither's best bitter.

"You're under arrest woman. How dare you interrupt a private function?"

A broad, beer barrelled man with his hair awry and a five pound note held high in his hand, stormed towards Joan. "You're under arrest."

"You can't arrest me," replied Joan just as forcibly.

"You'll find I can. Common affray and assault just for starters. Take her away."

The Chief Constable wasted no more time on Joan as she was forced backwards to the saloon bar surrounded by guests. The Chief Constable returned to the pool table and pushed a note into the bikini bottom of the dancer. "Come on, luv. Get 'em off."

The lorry driver was still in the pub having another orange juice and packet of crisps, still waiting for the police to arrive.

Arrive they did as Joan was manhandled into the bar.

"She's under arrest," said the heaviest of the visiting publicans.

"Who by," asked Terry Jacks. "We've only just got here. There's been calls all night about the High Street being half cock. Had to drive part of the way down the pavement. Back up's on the way, but there's a bloody awful traffic jam out there. So who's doing the arresting?"

"Your guvnor, the Chief Constable. He arrested her for ...well, I don't know what for. But you can ask him. He's out there. And you can have this one. I'm getting back to the party."

Terry Jacks consulted with his superior and took Joan away. Her Great Cause was in tatters; her reputation shot and Bacchus ruled the town. Joan sat in her cell wondering how she had ever got this far but her salvation was at hand.

### CHAPTER 19 – Saturday April 17

"Have you had any more thoughts?" Detective Inspector Harley looked in on his junior, who was staring at the mass of chalk lines that might have passed for an early Jackson Pollock.

"I was chatting to some of the boys on traffic just now. Apparently there was more trouble at Fordhamton last night. The Chief Constable was attending a charity function organised by the LVA for the Spandau Ballet School for Dysfunctional Young Adults when Councillor Joan Regan attacked Mayor Michael Jackson with her handbag, then kicked him after having poured a full pint of Hookfoot lager over his head and clothes. The Chief had her arrested for common assault. Apparently so he could get back to the striptease that was in full swing."

"Sounds like every other charity event the Chief attends," replied Davis drily.

"That woman Joan Regan; she's turned her attentions to the Mayor."

"Fortunately the Mayor didn't want to press any charges. There's an election coming up and he didn't want that sort of embarrassing incident to ruin the Conservative's chances of winning the vacant seat. Uniform let her go this morning"

"I saw her on Wednesday being led out of the school by the Headmaster. Don't know what the fuss was about but it didn't look good and this is in yesterday's Fordhamton edition of the local rag."

Harley threw down the local paper. Spread over the front page was Lee Dorsey's picture of Joan Regan attacking George Hamilton and a full report of her verbal assault on Grace Slick and others. "If you want my opinion Davis, the woman's obsessed by sex."

Davis had been a little unsure about where to place the initials 'JR' on his blackboard. He etched 'JR' into the middle of the magic triangle.

Whilst Davis chalked away on his blackboard some of the election hopefuls were lunching at The Horse With No Name.

"You two should be out there pulling in votes, not sitting in here making me pull pints." Bill Withers filled three glasses full of Barclays Harvest Bitter.

"Funny you should say that, Bill," said Roger Miller. "But since that paint spraying affair at the Bank and over Keith West's place everyone's been telling me that if they'd had cameras installed or floodlights outside then none of this would have happened. Which is what I've been telling that fool Jackson all along. So you see Bill, I don't have to go out to the people, they've actually been coming in to me and telling me that they'd be happy to vote for anyone who's willing to go out on a limb and protect property."

"So why are you here sitting on your bum?" demanded Bill of the other drinker.

Alex's hand strayed to his chin, but fell a few inches short when he realised that he was now clean shaven. "Me? After your stupid announcement last night that I've written the next number one hit, the world and his dog have stopped me in the street this morning and wanted to me to get tickets for the Tabs' next gig."

"'Oh Alex,' they say 'standing for election aren't you? 'Bout time we had some new faces round here'. Slapped me on the back and gone on their way. All those years I've gone around hiding my face under a beard and the week it comes off everybody's my best mate. So Bill, I don't know what you're moaning about because if me and Roger were out canvassing now then we wouldn't be in here drinking your beer, would we? Good night last night?"

"Point taken, Alex. Yes, it was a good night. Apart from that sex starved hag. First time she ever comes in here and she chooses last night to attack the Mayor. What was she doing here? People like her ought to be locked up. She's a menace. Only time there's been a copper about when we needed one. Actually about a couple of dozen of 'em"

"Personally I can't see what she's up to," commented Roger. "I've got her on video leaping up and trying to stab this poor chap in the goolies. Mind you, when I played the shoot back he looks a bit of all right with that make up and gear on."

"Not going queer on us, are you, Roger?" asked Bill.

"No, but makes you think, doesn't it? He certainly fooled Joan."

"Something's got hold of her lately," said Alex. "What she thought she was doing last Wednesday I do not know. It's as if she thinks everyone's up to all kinds of illegal sexual practices. After all, it was only a bit of underwear being shown."

"Certainly not the kind of thing I would want to see Joan Regan in. There are limits to what turns a man on." Roger grinned and patted Alex on the back. "I'm going back to the shop. Canvassing."

The rest of the Conservative Party was canvassing on behalf of Phyllis Nelson, the official candidate, at the northern end of the High Street. After lunch they had agreed to swap with the Labour Party who were working the southern end.

Both parties were there to take advantage of the last Saturday before Thursday's election, when there was the best chance of getting the promise of a vote from an electorate out shopping in the spring sunshine. But both political machines were missing pieces of apparatus.

The Conservatives were a man down with Arthur Brown leaning heavily on non-specific aches and pains and excusing himself from further exercise. Whereas the Labour Party were temporarily without the services of Peter Noone and Valerie Masters who were making love in the back of Peter's new 4X4 on a farm track off the Rutherford Road.

Roger walked out of The Horse With No Name and into a street entertainment display by members of the second year Media Arts course at Mungo Jerry University, recruited by Scott Walker as his campaign team.

Unicyclists manoeuvred through fire eaters and jugglers; a couple of mime artists were performing the complete works of William Shakespeare and an overweight girl in nothing but a pink body stocking was having scenes from Picasso's Guernica painted all over her.

On the fringes of this demonstration of the visual arts stood a clown in purple Harpo Marx wig, large red nose, red spotted white shirt and green and yellow broad striped trousers slung around a hoop which was suspended from his shoulders by blue braces.

The clown clattered his elongated red shoes on the pavement and handed Roger a leaflet. "Morning, Roger," he said.

"Thanks Scott." Roger stood still for a moment to watch the juggler light three torches before tossing them in the air and read the literature.

'Common Revolutionary Anarchist Party

'We are the party of skateboarders, graffiti artists, rappers, street poets, buskers, tattooists, manufacturers of king size cigarette papers, bootleggers, hot air balloonists, fanzine editors, kitchen porters and cardboard cut-outs.

'We are the party of the filthy, the unwashed, the disenfranchised, the unemployable and those who do nothing.

'For years you have voted for intellectuals, shopkeepers, retired civil servants and philanthropists who claim that they seek political power to improve the lot of the common man.

'They have done nothing down the centuries apart from argue amongst themselves over tea and biscuits in thick carpeted rooms about how to spend other peoples' money. They have continuously treated the electorate as fools.

'I am therefore going to give you the chance to vote for a fool. I promise that if elected I will remain a fool and do nothing. To pass no laws, to take away no one's right to do what they want, when they want; to let everyone follow their own noses.

'I am the only person you can trust to fulfil their election promise. I promise to do nothing. Vote CRAP.'

"Do you think you'll win?" asked Roger.

"No chance," replied Scott, and pulling a handful more leaflets from out of his clown's trousers, handed them to a couple more passers by.

### CHAPTER 20 – Monday April 19

Detective Constable Miles Davis was a happy man. Steve Harley had seen enough of Fordhamton. He was really a murder squad man and both suspicious deaths had been wound up. He had time to kill waiting for his next position to be confirmed so he sent out Davis to do the leg work and remained in the office or close by in the pub awaiting a call from Region to tell him where and when his next posting would be.

Davis rarely smiled but this sunny spring morning he walked along the streets of Fordhamton with a faint smile quivering on his thin lips. As each house or shop was pointed out to him by another resident, the warm April climate insinuated itself through even his cold exterior and filled him with pleasant thoughts of an investigation being conducted properly and professionally.

Dave Edmunds watched in horror as he saw the detective stride purposefully underneath his office window. But he needn't have worried for Davis was more interested in the Sad Café and a conversation that had taken place there earlier.

His notebook was being rapidly filled and needing to be replaced. He tapped his jacket to reassure himself of that fact.

So impressed was Davis of his findings that he sat in the Sad Café with a cup of coffee and a toasted tea cake and read his notes. He paid his bill and made a call to Blueberry Hill station; then drove to his office to await the arrival of his chief suspect.

PC Annie Haslam led Joan Regan into the interview room and sat down opposite her with Davis.

"Miss Regan, I think you know by now why you're here but I would like to remind you that at the moment you are only helping me with my enquiries into what can only be described as a series of bizarre events in a small English town. Do you understand?"

Joan nodded her head. "Of course I understand. I'm only too pleased to help. This has been most distressing to me as well."

Joan had lived with the pain of embarrassment and betrayal all week. The debacle at Grace Slick's fashion show had been completely overshadowed by the humiliation of being arrested at Friday's charity night and then spending an uncomfortable night in police cells.

She had done nothing wrong. She had acted from out of the highest moral principles, holding true to them whilst others who declared that they shared those beliefs, were nothing but a sham.

Davis was her confessor; she would open up her deepest thoughts to him. But Joan didn't realise the implication of Davis's invitation to help him with enquiries. She was to find that the truth can be terribly distorted when viewed from opposite sides of the mirror.

"I'd like first to go back to last Friday night, to the charity function at The Horse With No Name. What exactly were you doing there?"

"There was traffic jam in the High Street caused by a driver that had deserted his lorry."

"So why not just go home and call the police? Do you normally walk alone through the High Street at such a late hour?"

"I've already said all this at the time. I would remind you that I am still involved in the town's road safety campaign. All that traffic was caused by guests at the public house parking wherever they felt without a thought to other residents. I went to The Horse With No Name because that was where the noise was coming from."

"And then you threw a pint of Hookfoot lager over the Mayor. Why?"

"There was a half naked woman sitting on his lap."

"Did the Mayor give you any cause for that action?"

"You do not understand, do you? The Mayor is a symbol of trust, a pillar of respectability. Or should be. What kind of example is he setting by letting a brazen tart wrap her arms around him and stick her tongue into his ear?"

"Do you really believe that is sufficient justification for ruining his suit and causing bruising to his shins with your shoes? I take it that there has never been any kind of relationship between the Mayor and yourself?"

"What exactly are you inferring Constable?" demanded Joan who had never had an intimate knowledge of any man.

"A possible motive Miss Regan," replied the police officer, who saw no reason not to suspect that jealousy was eating away at Joan Regan's intellectual powers. Then just as suddenly dropping that line of enquiry he started another.

"And what exactly do you mean by asking him if he had been taking some of Alan Price's potions?"

"Surely you've heard lately about Alan Price's business affairs. He was selling sexual elixirs."

"Maybe," said Davis. "I'd like to come back to that. Later. Let's go back a little further to last Wednesday night."

"I was attending a so-called fashion show by that Grace Slick."

"You don't like Miss Slick, do you?"

"No, I do not. She sells filth."

"The woman runs an underwear shop. As far as I know, and I've got police evidence to back this up, that is all she is selling. There is nothing illegal, obscene or immoral in the premises. In fact, she is so completely above board that she is applying for a license."

"She's a hussy."

"Yes, I have all that down somewhere. In this envelope I have a group of photographs taken last Wednesday and a DVD disc from a local resident that shows you attacking a model. Fortunately for you, this George Hamilton has also refrained from pressing charges."

"Who is this George Hamilton?"

"The model you tried to stab with a hatpin. A very dangerous and offensive weapon in the wrong hands; which is why it was removed from your person when you entered the station."

"I thought there was something funny about that woman. Now you can see why this Grace Slick has to be stopped. You do see my point of view."

"At present there is no law that forbids a man dressing as a woman. Or vice versa. It may appear odd to me and you, but there it is."

"Odd? It is perverse. And you let him go. Men like him should be locked up. It is obvious that he is in cohorts with Miss Slick. Most probably buys his underwear from her. You see the kind of element that this shop will encourage into town. I did try and warn them all; but no one would listen. Look at that Ann-Kristin Malvig; parading on the stage like a Soho tart. You just can't trust a foreigner."

"I am not a prude, Miss Regan. I may agree with you that Joy of Looking does sell clothing that might be termed risqué but Miss Slick is not selling anything that is illegal. As I said, I could charge you with wasting police time but there are more serious matters I would like to raise first. Are you conversant with the term 'wanker'?"

"I beg your pardon. You are in the company of ladies."

"PC Haslam has heard far worse than that, Miss Regan. Are you aware of the term?"

"I've heard it shouted by children in the street. And even on television. I do not hold with self-abuse myself."

"But you understand the sexual and social connotations? How a slang term for masturbation is used as a derogatory term for persons with whom you dislike. Very much as at football matches when balding men wave their clenched fists at referees."

"I don't watch football, Detective."

"But you know the term. And 'up yours'. Or 'Users'."

"What are you trying to say?"

"What did you think about Alan Price?"

"Where is all this leading?"

"Do you think it might be the time to call in your solicitor? You have already been asked."

"No. I do not need legal advice. I have done nothing wrong. As you said, I am helping with enquiries. And I am willing to do that. But I cannot see what Alan Price has got to do with it all."

"Alan Price has everything to do with this, Miss Regan. Could you answer my previous question? What did you think of Alan Price?"

"He's dead. I don't think it very polite to speak ill of the dead."

"But that's exactly what you have been doing, Miss Regan. I have been very busy lately talking to a lot of people in Fordhamton and they all seem to agree that you and Alan Price did not hit it off. 'A cheap disgusting pervert' is one comment and 'a byword for sexual depravity' another. In fact you were overheard saying that he was 'a man that peddles filth'. A strange comment in light of what you had to say about Miss Slick. Almost the very same words. Shall I go on?"

Joan nodded.

"You also said that you thought the town 'well rid of him', that 'he was a lout' that 'he was an irresponsible businessman' and 'did not make a valuable contribution to the town'. In fact you weren't very keen on him being a member of the Conservative Party and I can't help but feel that an attack on the Mayor, a week before the election, was nothing more than an attempt to further discredit a Conservative Party that allowed Alan Price to be a member."

"I have always been a tireless supporter of the Conservative Party. It is our values that Alan Price has devalued in a similar fashion as the Mayor. He was having sexual relations with a so-called photographic model in full view of the public. He was fondling her breasts when I interrupted him. Another girl was stripping on the table surrounded by men that I recognise as so-called respectable family men waving a fistful of five pound notes. And I'm sure it was the wife of a District Councillor with her hands down the trunks of a male stripper. The scene was a disgusting Bacchanalian orgy. The sort of thing that Alan Price has been encouraging.

"Some people like to close their eyes to all this. Some people don't want to know what happens behind closed doors. Just because it happens in private doesn't mean that it is right. I've heard stories of drugs and worse at some parties held at Alan Price's house. Now I hear that Miss Slick's boyfriend is going to buy the place. Just shows you never can tell. I always thought Alex Harvey a decent man. Then he starts hanging around Miss Slick and look what happens. On stage at that fashion show playing loud music and they were both at the pub on Friday night. I can only assume that she corrupted him by flaunting her sexual favours and undressing herself down to those indecent bits of undergarments."

"What do you know about Alan Price's business affairs?"

"The same as everyone else. It's common knowledge now that the man was producing plastic bottles to sell aphrodisiacs and other kinds of drugs to seduce and deprave respectable people."

"As I understand it, he only produced the plastic dispensing tubes. Not the goods that went inside them. The contents were manufactured and filled in America. In fact one could say that he was doing his bit towards helping the balance of payments by exporting and earning this country much needed foreign currency. A patriot in fact."

"A patriot does not go around drinking, swearing and having affairs with any woman that takes his fancy. He was a debauchee. He was a disgrace to his country."

"And what about the person that burnt down his factory, effectively ruining any further production and forcing a few more people on to the dole queue?"

"Sometimes morals must be paramount. It is far, far better to be correct than to stoop into the moral slough that gives birth to the likes of Alan Price. If burning down the factory means that there will be no more sexual drugs on sale to corrupt and deprave then it can only be a good thing."

"And what about Keith West's shop?"

"The man's no better for selling the stuff than Alan Price is for making it."

"You have evidence of that?"

"I don't need evidence. What else does 'health foods' imply? The whole world is obsessed by euphemisms. The same as Grace Slick calls her goods underwear. It's just words, Detective. But there are some of us who know exactly what they mean."

"And what of the Bank?"

"We all know about Banks. They'll lend to anyone as long as they earn their interest. Sex shops, gun runners, terrorists, abortion clinics and even the Communists. It doesn't matter, you see. They're in the business of lending money. You're a policeman. That's your business. The Banks don't care who they lend money to as long as they can be sure of getting it back."

Davis wrote down 'usury' and 'users'. Then he changed the subject. "Do you mind if we search your house?"

"What on earth for?"

"Green paint."

Joan had a vision. Davis was plunged into a bright light that shrouded his face. That brilliant light illuminated Joan's life. This was her Great Cause. This was her moment. This is what drove her out of her house on Friday Night.

No one wanted to believe her. Her warnings had been ignored. Everyone had laughed behind her back, telling her that she was right and then supporting the enemy like Grace Slick; happy to take Alan Price's money or go to his parties.

But she had been right. Grace Slick had attracted unwanted elements into town and Alan Price had supported an industry that had got its comeuppance in America when one of its supporters had found his private parts shrinking. It was no more than he deserved for indulging in exotic powders. It should have been a warning. But it went unheeded.

Now Davis wanted to pass the blame on to her. Let him do it. Then once the papers and the television got wind of it she would have centre stage and everyone would have to listen.

The light that bathed Davis reached out for her, to caress her and support her. She let the light fill her body, reach into every pore that craved for fulfilment. Even her speech was softer and assured. There was no need for anger, or retribution. The words would flow and people would listen.

"You won't find any."

"And why not?"

"Because there's none left. I used it all up on the Bank. And when that had gone I set light to the factory to rid the town of Alan Price's influence. Are you going to charge me now?"

"She's just a very sad old lady." Davis sat in his office drinking a cup of Earl Grey tea into which he dunked a succession of rich tea biscuits. DI Harley listened without interruption. "Years of sexual repression or celibacy, possible both has left her hating sex. Alan Price symbolised sex and power. He was the devil incarnate. His death and the associated problems in America, coupled with the opening of a very upfront underwear shop finally drove her over the edge.

"Alan Price and Grace Slick, although totally unconnected, became one person. A composite of everything Joan Regan loathed. So she attacked all those physical things that she associated with Price: his home, his Bank, outlets and then finally his factory. She tried to wreck Grace Slick's business by wrecking her fashion show.

"The Mayor, even Keith West, represented the political power of the Conservative Party that had also let her down by supporting Alan Price. Everyone was a target, you see.

"It's all on tape. And in my notes. She's got a sort of missionary zeal about her now. Classic guilt complex when she was able to unburden herself at last. It all came out like a torrent."

This was a great relief to Harley who was beginning to feel like a helpless insect caught up in the web of evidence chalked on Davis's board. He had to admire Davis's remarkable clear up rate which would add a significant gloss to the month's crime statistics.

In the space of a few days he had cleared up three attacks on property, an arson attack, two cases of actual bodily harm, a break in, the identification of a dead body and the repatriation of said body to the United Sates where the living person had been wanted for a series of low level burglaries following the release of fingerprints. The latter an excellent contribution to Anglo-American relations.

It was difficult to argue with statistics like that. He had started out with some deep misgivings about being given Davis to work with. He had come to admire the man.

"Of course Davis, it won't stick. She's completely mad. And I doubt if she did any of it but its bloody good for the clear up rate and that in turn is bloody good for me and you."

"You and me."

"That's what I said. Let her stew for a few days until the men in white suits take her away and by then everybody will have forgotten about the whole affair."

"Bloody hell," said Michael Jackson, when he learned of the charges against Joan Regan. "Assault, criminal damage, arson, wasting police time, threatening behaviour, public order acts. The list goes on and on. What is the town going to make of it now?"

Alice Cooper looked up from her tea and removed her glasses. "The same as you and me. They'll all think she's a bit of a nutter."

"And the Conservative Party?"

The part time Town Clerk sighed. "We all tried to tell her, you know. Leave well alone. The woman's harmless. But she had to carry on with her crusade. But painting walls, and arson; that's not Joan's style at all. She doesn't even know what wanking means."

"Well she does now." Michael stormed out of the vicarage and into the Albatross. But no amount of drink could dull his anger. And the election was only three days away.

### CHAPTER 21 – Thursday April 22

The sky was the blue of tourist brochures. The sun was shining; above the distant roaring of traffic on the bypass three or four different birds were singing their songs. Michael Jackson heard thunder.

More precisely, Pat Torpey. The Chair of the local party had not stopped harassing him as to the effect Joan Regan's arrest was going to have on the outcome of the election.

"She'll have to go in any event," demanded Pat, booming down the phone.

"I think she knows that. By the time they let her out it will all be over anyway."

"They're not letting her go, are they? Not a second time?"

"The police are opposing bail on the grounds that she is likely to cause even more physical damage, especially so in the view of the election. Besides they want to keep her in for psychiatric reports."

"They're not saying she's mad, are they?"

"As a hatter."

"This is not what we need at this time, Michael. You know what people are like round here. Next they'll be thinking that the whole of the Conservative Party are totally unfit to hold office. Alan Price was just about bearable; he could stand up for himself. But a frustrated spinster is no good to anybody."

Not a sentiment with which Dave Edmunds would agree. He walked up to the polling station at Desmond Dekker Primary arm in arm with Marion. A hearty, carefree laugh was never far from his face.

They had celebrated Joan's arrest with pink champagne that Dave had licked off Marion's breasts that had trickled onto her stomach and left tributaries flowing between her legs. It was the sweetest drink Dave had ever tasted.

"What made her do it," asked Scott. "Why admit to something that you didn't do? Even I'm not so naive as to believe that she's the victim of police brutality and they forced a confession out of her."

"Anyone who wants to put up their hand to that deserves all they get. Twenty five years most probably," added Dave.

"Doesn't seem fair, does it?"

"Look, Scott. If not Joan, then who else? Me, your mother? I should coco. No, let sleeping dogs lie. If the woman wants to be a martyr then let her. You'll be doing her a favour by keeping out of it. She obviously has her reasons. Can't think what the hell they could be but it's let us off the hook. That's what I say."

The school hall at Desmond Dekker Primary was deserted apart from the two ladies from County Council who were checking the electoral roll. Dave took his voting slip and walked to one of the two booths. From the secrecy of the other Marion heard that wonderful chuckle of a man at peace with himself.

"Are you going to tell me who you voted for?"

"Actually," said Dave. "In normal circumstances I wouldn't have voted at all but I thought CRAP, who the hell else is going to vote for the poor sod? So I put one of my 'x's there."

"You know," said Marion. "That's exactly what I thought."

The two ladies ate their salmon paste sandwiches and drank from their thermos flasks and read the output of the women's weeklies; and attempted the Daily Telegraph crossword. By ten o'clock they were yawning and couldn't wait to go home for a decent cup of tea and a toilet seat of the correct height.

All other interested parties followed the van that took the black box back to Rutherford Town Hall. It was not a long wait for the result for as usual the turn out for an election in Fordhamton was well below the County average. In fact only eight percent of the electorate turned out to register their interest in the election of four town councillors. The result was as follows

Harvey, Alex (Independent) 141 (elected)

Miller, Roger (Independent) 105 (elected)

Nelson, Phyllis (Conservative) 24

Simon, Paul (Labour) 82 (elected)

Walker, Scott (CRAP) 159 (elected)

The four newly elected councillors went with families and friends back to the Albatross where Colin Blunstone had organised a party.

Michael Jackson returned home alone still clutching the crumpled envelope that Arthur Brown had put in his hand. It was a little while before he realised the true implications.

### CHAPTER 22 – Saturday April 24

"What do you mean, you resign?" Michael Jackson stood on Arthur Brown's doorstep, declining to enter.

"Isn't it quite obvious in my letter? I've had enough. Bloody crazy world when an anarchist can get elected. I'm not sitting round a table with a college boy fresh out of nappies."

"You know student types. After a couple of months you won't see him anymore. Most probably a student prank."

"Anyway I've had enough what with this Joan Regan affair. Is anyone safe? Say they let her out, what will she do? Come and attack me? She's had a go at you. And Keith West. And she certainly had it in for Alan Price. All Conservatives, you know. At heart anyway."

"She's safely locked up, Arthur. Look old boy, you've nothing to fear from Joan any more. She's certifiably insane. She won't be able to show her face around town any more."

"Maybe, but I'm not getting any younger. It's a young man's game now. I'm too buggered to go round canvassing anymore. I'd rather get out now while I can. All these committee meetings just wear me out; and that old moo Alice Cooper won't even let me smoke a pipe in peace."

Arthur Brown was adamant. He had sat on his last council meeting. He walked back into his house and for the first time in months actually smiled. He was to be found smiling quite a lot for many weeks, as he recalled the day that he finally got his own back on Mayor Michael Jackson.

Arthur's resignation had come as a fatal blow to Michael's political ambitions. The Conservative majority had been wiped out and a political vacuum put in its place. Pat Torpey had refused to speak to him and any hope he might have had of securing the nomination for the District elections had been extinguished with the snap of the phone lines as she slammed down the receiver.

Instead of the intended full council of ten members it had already been reduced to eight, with Joan's enforced absence and Arthur's resignation. The Labour Party had three seats against the sole Conservative, himself. The Independent vote was also at three and he couldn't trust any of them to vote against a Labour proposal and even if they did, the balance of power was now held by an anarchist. It was unthinkable.

He left Arthur Brown's house still numbed by the events that had turned Fordhamton politics around. He wanted to sound out the intentions of Alex Harvey now that he seemed to be pursuing a different career. Perhaps he would have no more interest in the town.

Alex was in The Horse With No Name drinking with Roger Miller. Who did he put on the Planning sub-committee now when everyone in town was well disposed towards lighting and CCTV? Was it better to go with the flow? It was the only way to recapture his credibility. He had already been pre-empted.

"Hello Michael." Roger greeted him like an old friend and urged him into having a pint.

"I've been telling everyone about my new venture. I'm moving straight into CCTV. After this affair with Joan it seems an added measure of security. With video cameras in place she would have been caught red-handed from the first. There would have been no need for the police to investigate us all, would there?"

"Certainly not, Roger," agreed Michael weakly. "They'll need planning permission of course."

"Of course," added Roger. "But I'm sure that can be arranged. We're all friends together now, aren't we?"

Michael groaned.

Grace brought another bottle of Tijuana Brass lager and another round of Barclays Harvest Bitter for Alex, Roger, and Bill Withers.

"The strange thing is," remarked Grace. "Since Joan tried to upset my fashion show I've been busier than ever. She really done me a good turn."

"I'll drink to that," said Alex. "I doubt if I'd got such a good price for Alan Price's house if she hadn't have trashed it first. Marion just wanted to get shot of it."

"Funny you should say that," added Bill. "Everyone here on Friday night thought she was part of the entertainment. Even the Chief Constable. He was so drunk he didn't remember arresting her. Funny old world, eh?"

It was, to everyone but Michael Jackson. He left the pub but had hardly got past the blacked out Teargas when he was stopped by the brown track suited figure of Les Crane.

The Fordhamton Town Football Club secretary was late. He braked sharply alongside Michael and shouted at him from the driving seat.

"Have you heard the news? Keith Emerson was on the phone this morning to say that Alan Price's bequest should be with us in a couple of weeks. Good news, eh? Can't stop. Final day. You will be coming, won't you? Everyone else will."

Les roared off. Michael would not be going to the cup final. Les had called heads and won the right to stage the final at home. The Amsterdam & Mersey Brewery had taken over the sponsorship of the cup competition next season and had generously agreed to provide the drinks for this season's final. On a sale and return basis, of course.

There were other residents of Fordhamton who weren't attending the cup final. Marion Walker, Scott, Dave Edmunds and Patrick Shelton were amongst them. They were having lunch at Marion's house.

"I came to offer my congratulations. Officially." Michael had been ushered in and sat down with a glass of chilled Californian Sauvignon Blanc.

"Thank you," replied Scott graciously.

"Only I wondered if you were...well, if you were totally serious about all this."

"You thought that because I was standing as some sort of splinter group party that I wasn't taking things as seriously as other political parties?"

"Well, in a manner of speaking."

"You're quite right, of course. But I was elected and I feel compelled, nay duty bound, to fulfil my election manifesto. To do absolutely nothing. You do see my problem here. Do I, as a committed anarchist, do nothing and refuse to sit on council meetings, or as a properly elected councillor, attend meetings and do as I promised, absolutely nothing. Where are my responsibilities?"

"I think I get your drift, Scott."

"By the way Michael, has Keith Emerson spoken to you?" Patrick Shelton poured another large measure of wine and ignored Michael's offered glass. "It's quite possible with Alex's offer for the house that you should be getting that twenty five thousand pounds shortly."

"Yes, I've been thinking about that." Scott continued. "I've had a few words with some of the chaps in the Arts Faculty. What I envisage is a sort of concrete structure made up of three hollow rotating shapes. Very Henry Moorish sort of thing. These represent, of course, Harmony, Industry, and Co-operation. These three pillars rotate in such a way that their respective sides never touch, although they move independently. Then as they move, through their base is shot a fountain of water that arches towards the middle forming a pure, central force of elemental nature that falls to refill the pool below, which is of course its source, thereby symbolising the unity of nature and the eternal motion of the dragon. I've had a word with Peter Noone about it, now that he is a senior councillor. He seemed very enthusiastic."

As soon as he could, Michael rang Peter Noone. The latter confirmed his appreciation of the outline work done by the Mungo Jerry University Faculty of Modern Design and had already spoken to Valerie Masters, who was now the other longest serving councillor, in the light of Arthur Brown's resignation. She had given it her full approval.

"Won't your spouses get fed up with all these meetings and such?"

"No," replied Peter quite firmly. "Val and me will only be too pleased to carry this scheme forward. After a while you get used to the late nights."

Michael heard the noises from the pubs and clubs echo Fordhamton Football Club's historic one-nil win over Hazelwood in the final of the KYM Mazelle Windows and Double Glazing League Cup. On his windowpane the first drops of rain to fall for over a month began to distort the view. Michael had a vision of the future and he didn't like it.

###

In Return to Fordhamton \- the second part of the Fordhamton Trilogy - the secrets some residents thought safe threaten to be uncovered with the reading of Arthur Brown's will. Thoughts of containing the problems in town are blown apart when Tim Rice, a management trainee at CCS Banking Group is abandoned in a training exercise. His attempts to get back to Oates Hall are sabotaged by events out of his control. He is arrested and released by different police forces and finds himself back in Fordhamton after yet another setback. He finally becomes the suspected carrier of an outbreak of a nasty virus spread by local bats. When a high class brothel is thought to be operating in the middle of town Dave Edmunds' Nemesis, Acting Detective Inspector Miles Davis is sent back to Fordhamton. Davis knows there is a conspiracy afoot but no idea what it is; but in his own inimitable style manages to bring the whole episode to a satisfactory conclusion. Read Return to Fordhamton.

In The Last Resort – the final part of the Fordhamton trilogy - the late stand in for the school's staff production of The Real Inspector Hound is found murdered during the dress rehearsal. It is not the kind of publicity Mayor Michael Jackson was seeking for the first Fordhamton Arts Festival. Detective Inspector Miles Davis is the only man the authorities can trust to solve the crime.. The victim is discovered to be an American Intelligence Officer. As Davis continues to dig into the private lives of the teachers and business people his investigation makes a mockery of Fordhamton's recent award as the Third Most Boring Town in Britain. When the teacher playing Inspector Hound meets an unfortunate accident Davis decides that the best way of uncovering the murderer is to play the title role himself. The Last Resort.

All of my works available as eBooks can be found on my author page.

You can read many of my published articles at my web page:

http://www.johnbarber.com
