Rupert Thomson - Dreams of Leaving

Dolphin bit down on his bottom lip. ‘Yes, sir.’

The lecture over, Peach eased back. His voice became conversational again. ‘An intriguing case, though. Quite intriguing.’

Only two nights before, the greengrocer had confessed everything. In the harsh light of the interrogation room, his robust pink features had seemed bulbous, coarse. His methodical demeanour had looked plain clumsy. A failed escape attempt — and, let’s face it, what other kind was there? — rearranged both a person’s appearance and their character. Made them ugly. Broke them. Peach had seen it happen half a dozen times during his long career, and the sight of the greengrocer slumped on that hard chair, mouth slack and hanging open, mud drying on his dishevelled clothes, had reminded him of those other triumphs.

He remembered asking the greengrocer how the idea had come to him.

On a glorious spring morning, the greengrocer replied. Through his shop window, he could see part of a field which at that particular time of year was in the process of being ploughed. He knew that, owing to its unusual shape (a long wedge tapering to a sharp point), this field stretched all the way to the village boundary, just visible as a line of trees in the distance. He saw the field every day and had become attached to it. In the spring it looked especially beautiful — the grain of the earth chiselled into furrows, the white gulls flapping in the air above the farmer’s tractor, like washing hanging out to dry –

Though he was himself a staunch advocate of the beauty of New Egypt, Peach became impatient.

‘That’s enough poetry,’ he said. ‘What about a few facts?’

After a brief wounded silence, the greengrocer continued.

On one of those spring mornings he had been unpacking a fresh delivery of apples. Granny Smiths, they were — a lovely fruit, crisp and green. (A warning glance from Peach.) He was transferring them from their crates to the window display when he noticed something extraordinary. Slowly, very slowly, so as to see everything as it really was and no other way, he stared first at the corrugated cardboard that lined the bottom of the apple-crates, then at the ploughed field beyond the window. He did this several times. Then, even though it was only eleven in the morning, he closed his shop and went upstairs.

He had spent the next two years gathering and assembling his materials. He had to work sporadically, so as not to attract attention. And, in any case, it wasn’t every day that a delivery of apples arrived, was it?

‘Do you remember how I dropped the price of my apples, Chief Inspector?’ For a moment the greengrocer had been his old self again, his head wobbling on his shoulders, a smug light in his eye. ‘I had to get rid of them, you see. So I could order some more.’

Peach nodded. ‘The cardboard.’

‘Exactly.’

‘Very clever.’ Peach’s voice was as crisp as any Granny Smiths, though sourer perhaps. ‘Go on.’

The greengrocer had worked night after night in the dusty gloom of the cellar underneath his shop, hunched over strips of cardboard, pots of brown paint and tubes of industrial glue. It had taken ages. Ages. And even when he had finished he had to wait another nine months to put his plan into action. The time of year was important, of course — but so was the weather. A moon would have been dangerous. Rain too. Snow would have been fatal.

Then, one spring evening, the conditions seemed perfect and he made his bid for freedom. Disguised as a section of ploughed field. It was so simple, a stroke of genius, really, even if he said so himself. (Again that smug look; Peach had silently prescribed further humiliation.) All he had to do was strap the corrugated cardboard on to his back, flatten himself against the ground (making sure the ridges on his back corresponded to the ridges of the field), and crawl a distance of about a mile. And crawling wouldn’t have been a problem. He had spent months working on his stomach muscles.

‘How did you do that?’ Peach asked, curious.

The greengrocer, unexpectedly, blushed. ‘I’d rather not say.’

Now Peach really wanted to know. ‘How?’ he repeated.

The greengrocer began to lower himself into his clothes as if he thought he could escape the question that way.

But Peach was relentless. ‘Come on, Mr Mustoe. How did you strengthen those stomach muscles of yours?’

‘I can’t,’ the greengrocer writhed. ‘It’s embarrassing.’

Peach almost rubbed his hands together at the prospect. ‘Joel,’ he wheedled, ‘we’re all men here.’

Joel threw a desperate glance at the ceiling, but it rebounded from the severe grey plasterwork and landed awkwardly on the floor. His resistance crumpled.

‘Well — ’ he began.

Dolphin pounced. ‘Well?’

A touch over-eager, perhaps. Peach motioned to his subordinate behind the greengrocer’s back. Not so fast.

‘— in bed,’ the greengrocer muttered.

‘In bed?’ Peach’s voice was dispassionate then, almost medical. ‘How do you mean?’

‘With the wife.’

‘Ah,’ Peach breathed. ‘I see.’

And he persisted, because degradation was part of the process. The greengrocer admitted, under duress, that he had worked on his stomach muscles in bed at night, startling his wife with a revival of sexual passion that put anything they had got up to on their honeymoon completely in the shade.

‘Is that so?’ Peach murmured. Dolphin took copious notes, the leer on his face making him look more than ever like a schoolboy.

And so, muscles toned, homemade ploughed field strapped in position, the greengrocer began to crawl. Unfortunately, he had only covered a hundred yards when a policeman trod on him — entirely by accident. Unfortunately, too, it was Sergeant Dolphin who weighed eighteen stone on an empty stomach. One yelp of surprise as the breath was crushed out of him was enough to give the greengrocer away. He was immediately apprehended and taken down to the police station. In Peach’s presence Dolphin had confirmed the basic details of the greengrocer’s story. A statement was written and signed. The greengrocer was then led away to a cell to reflect on his failure before being allowed to return home. Peach celebrated by throwing a cocktail party in his library.

‘So what are we going to do with it?’ Dolphin asked, bringing Peach back to the present.

Peach folded his hands over his stomach. ‘Put it in the museum,’ he said.

‘Of course. Good idea, sir.’

‘Yes,’ Peach said, ‘I think it will look rather splendid hanging in the museum.’

He stood up, and walked over to the section of ploughed field so lovingly, so painstakingly, constructed by the greengrocer.

‘Remarkable piece of work,’ he said. ‘Really remarkable.’ Then, touching on a pet subject of his, ‘You know, if we could only harness their determination, their creativity, somehow, if we could only persuade them to do something for the community — ’ He sighed. It would never happen. Not in his lifetime, anyway.

‘I say, Dolphin,’ and Peach became enthusiastic, ‘what about taking it over to the museum now?’

‘It’s raining, sir. Might ruin it.’

‘Nonsense. It’s only a few yards. Come on, give me a hand.’

Taking one corner each, they began to ease the unwieldy structure out of the office and down the corridor. They passed an open doorway. PC Hazard — cheekbones like knee-caps, chin the shape of a soap-dish — looked up from the report he was typing.

‘Need any help, Chief?’

Peach shook his head. ‘We can manage. If anyone calls, I’ll be in the museum.’

‘Right you are, Chief.’ Hazard turned back to the typewriter, began to stab at the keys, one finger at a time. A good man, Hazard. A bit primitive, but a good man.