Nicola Barker - Burley Cross Postbox Theft

I have yet another surprise in store for them. Further to my unfortunate meeting by the lake with Mr Eliot Tooth — and an extended correspondence on the matter (during which, I’m afraid, some rather harsh truths were exchanged: there really was no palpable, visual evidence of a large, freshwater leech in the general vicinity), I have taken the liberty of contacting Donovan Lefferts and setting him straight on a couple of issues.

Mr Lefferts has undertaken to drive up to Salford from his home in Buxton and finally ‘make peace’ with the two sisters. I’m hopeful that some kind of permanent accord may soon be reached between them. Tilly’s happiness (and Rhona’s, of course) is an issue of paramount importance to me. I am absolutely determined to do everything within my power to bring it about…

Could we try and reschedule for early May?

That would be lovely.

Yours, whistling at the wheel,

PC Roger Topping

PS I picked up a rare, Staffordshire monkey on the market in Saltaire last Saturday for the princely sum of £4! Victorian. Tiny chip to the tail, but pristine beyond that!

PPS Yes, I know that t’ai chi instructor of PC Hill’s quite well. Odd he should say he was Bulgarian — he’s actually Austrian. And he has a lisp, not a stutter.

Back problems can be very troublesome. I remember suffering from them myself, roundabout the time I first got together with Sandy (you’ll know — only too well — how demanding she can be in the boudoir; her needs bordering on the athletic, even the gymnastic, on occasion!).

Now I come to think about it, weren’t you wearing a corset yourself for a while back there (during the late 1990s — around about the time Sandy and I initially filed for our divorce?). Yes. I’m certain that you were. In fact I remember it troubling you, no end. The chafing was the worst part. Most aggravating for you, as I recollect.

PPPS County Wicklow? Really? Is my memory finally deserting me? I could’ve sworn Sandy’s father was buried in the family grave just outside Bolton.

PPPPS I hear the tear in Janna Lee’s scalp has almost entirely healed up, now — there are even promising signs of new growth!

R

Ilkley,

17/03/07

15.30 hrs

(Via internal mail)

For attn Chief Inspector Iain Richardson

CONFIDENTIAL

Dear Chief Inspector Richardson,

The evidence has now been unofficially ‘buried’ (just as you requested). Further to a short, private conversation with Mr Augustine, I have ensured that all remaining photographic proof of PC Peter Richardson’s ‘moment of madness’ (there were three such ‘moments’, in total) has been destroyed.

You will be relieved to know that Mr Augustine was just as keen as yourself to keep the matter under wraps. The original copy of his letter has been burned (although I returned the stamps, which I actually thought were quite attractive: modern, but still reassuringly seasonal). I have obviously not opted to keep a copy of the original on file.

Mr Thorndyke won’t be a problem. I believe Inspector Everill and Sergeant Hill have already seen to that — at a price, naturally (although I’m sure the force will be all the better for it).

How right you were to deduce that my desk in Ilkley was the perfect place to direct a ‘tricky, little problem’ so that it might (I quote), ‘quietly breathe its last — in an atmosphere of shuddering obscurity — and then die’.

You were also correct to realize that I was one of the few people left on the force ‘stupid enough to care about the difference between right and wrong, but still sufficiently respectful to take direction from above — without even the remotest expectation of personal gain…’.

I am, of course, thoroughly overwhelmed at receiving such a huge accolade from a police officer of your great stature.

Please extend my very best wishes to your son. (Still no word on that blasted dog, I’m afraid…)

Happy Easter.

Yours, as ever,

PC Roger Topping

PS Am thinking of giving up all remaining shreds of my professional credibility for Lent. How about you, Chief Inspector? Just chocolate again, this year?

Ilkley,

17/03/07

16.00 hrs

Dear Mrs Hawkes,

Back on the old fags again, eh? And after you swore blind that you’d given the damn things up! Of course it’s really none of my business (I’m perfectly aware of that), but I won’t pretend I’m not a little disappointed, Wincey. It’s a filthy habit.

I quit because of Duke — we both did: you, me, five or six others (Meredith Coles, Duncan Tanner, Mhairi Callaghan, Joan Dunkley) on New Year’s Day 2004 — ten months before Duke finally passed.

I remember how pleased he was — how proud he was (of you, me, all of us). He was a shadow of his former self by then. So thin, pale, reduced… That terrible, hacking cough.

Quitting wasn’t easy, but whenever I’ve felt the urge to chuck in the towel and start up again, I’ve thought of Duke. I’ve called to mind that autumn evening (that damp, early autumn evening in 2003) when he clambered on to the saloon bar with his trusty harmonium, sat down, cleared his throat, began pumping away at it with his feet (and banging away on it with his hands — doubtless intent on performing some wonderfully libellous composition about certain, stand-out members of the local community), opened his mouth to sing, and then… then nothing . Nothing came out! Not a single note! That awful look of confusion on his face — quickly surpassed by one of haunting fear…

I’ll never forget it.

I’ll never forget Duke. He was an extraordinary man; the spirit of Burley Cross (the old spirit, the true spirit), and greatly missed by all of us.

Perhaps we don’t get around to telling you that quite as often as we should…

So how did I find out, you’re wondering? About the smoking? Well, I’ve been suspicious for a while. The clues have been there: a slight whiff of smoke on your clothing, your eagerness to dash ‘out back’ every twenty minutes or so in order to ‘check on the barrel’, followed by a swift re-application of lipstick on your return. On one occasion — quite recently — I could’ve sworn I saw a trace of ash on the toe of your court shoe.

Oh, and then there’s Mhairi, of course. She’s back on the snout herself. Don’t worry, she didn’t tell me (didn’t break the faith between you), this was just a little theory I came up with, all by myself. I was actually in Feathercuts on Tuesday, following up on a case I’ve just recently inherited from the Skipton Constabulary (the Burley Cross Postbox Theft Case — as one of the official victims of the crime, you’ll probably have received formal notification to this effect from Skipton by now).

You’re probably also aware of the fact that it was Mhairi who discovered the stolen cache (out in the back alley, behind her salon), and that — contrary to popular belief — the letters weren’t found pilfered — violated, even — by the thief. They were pristine. Untouched. It was Mhairi herself who tore some of them open (and perused the contents), before finally doing what she should have done in the first place: ringing the police.

Did she tell you about Rita Bramwell’s secret daughter? (You’d been pretty worried about Rita for a while, hadn’t you? Hadn’t everyone? I mean it wasn’t just idle gossip on Mhairi’s part so much as an act of charity — a gesture of honest concern.)

But when Mhairi told you how she’d acquired the information? From a letter in the stolen cache? Weren’t you horrified? Truly horrified? And then, when Rita got wind of it and attempted suicide? How did you feel then? Eh? Bad? Conflicted? Culpable? As if you’d pushed that cruel, sharp blade on to her delicate wrists with your own hand?