‘For God’s sake, get to the point, George,’ I say exasperatedly. ‘Where was it that Corbet didn’t arrive until August? Oxford?’

  ‘Well, yes – but, more specifically, the St Aldate’s nick.’

  ‘You surely don’t mean …’ I begin.

  ‘Yes I do – Tom Corbet’s an inspector in the uniformed branch.’

  Which was another interesting fact that Mary Corbet hadn’t bothered to mention when she’d come to see me.

  THREE

  Oxford may be the city of dreaming spires, visited annually by hundreds of thousands of tourists, but its railway station – as bland and unimaginative as most of the other stations along the line – is something of a let-down. In fact, the only thing that distinguishes it from those other stations is the bicycles. There are hundreds of them – maybe even thousands – chained up in front of the station, left there by commuters who work in London but live in Oxford. It is, of course, a chancy business leaving your bike unattended at the station, as it is leaving it anywhere unattended in the city, but at least there, since a thief can only steal one bike at a time, the odds are several hundred to one against it being yours.

  These are the thoughts that pass through my highly trained mind as I cycle past the station but, once I have crossed the river, I start to plan what I will say to the man I expect to find working on one of the Twenty Pound Meadow allotments.

  These allotments lie just beyond the river. Once I turn off Botley Road, I am on a rough track which skirts the edge of the allotments, and can see for myself the patchwork of mini-fields cultivated by men who might live miles away from the meadow.

  All the allotments are neat and tidy (if they weren’t, the omnipotent allotment committee would repossess them) but, within the rules of acceptability, there are a variety of styles. Some of the plots look almost like private gardens, with lawns, neat wooden sheds which could almost be called chalets, and tables and chairs laid out for a comfortable picnic. Others are single-mindedly dedicated to the cultivation of marrows, turnips and butterbeans. These latter have sheds too, but, far from being chalets, they would blend in nicely in the slums of Caracas.

  This being a Wednesday afternoon, most of the allotment holders are at their places of employment, but there are a few men – probably shift-workers – spreading manure on their flower beds or weeding between the cabbages.

  The man I’ve come to see is a shift-worker of sorts. His allotment has a solid-looking shed – with no pretensions to being anything else – and a small greenhouse. Beyond these two structures are the beds of vegetables, laid out with almost military precision, and the man himself, wearing a blue boiler suit and heavy green wellington boots, stands in the middle of one of these patches, digging away as if his very life depended on it.

  He is so intent on his task that he doesn’t hear my bike rattling as it hits the ruts in the track, and doesn’t even seem to notice me when I dismount next to his allotment.

  I stand there for a moment, just watching him, and thinking that his combination of energy, strength and skill is really quite marvellous. I also decide – if I’m being honest – that he is quite handsome and rather fanciable.

  Back to business, Jennifer!

  Since I wish to attract his attention, I could just speak to him, I suppose, but I am English, and we don’t do things that way, so instead I cough (quite loudly!).

  He spins round. At first, he seems quite startled, then the smile of a gentleman welcoming you to his little kingdom fills his face, and he says, ‘Can I help you in some way?’

  ‘Am I right in assuming that you’re Inspector Corbet?’ I ask.

  The smile stays fixed, but now it is edged with curiosity – and perhaps even a little caution.

  ‘That’s me,’ he admits, ‘and who might you be?’

  ‘My name’s Jennifer Redhead, and I’m—’

  ‘And you’re the private detective that my wife has hired to look into Lindie’s disappearance,’ he interrupts me.

  ‘You knew about that?’ I ask, slightly surprised.

  ‘Why wouldn’t I?’ he counters.

  ‘It’s just that you weren’t at the meeting we had this morning, so I assumed …’

  ‘You assumed Mary hadn’t told me about it? Is that what you were going to say?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you have any grounds at all for making such an assumption, Miss Redhead?’

  ‘Experience,’ I say. ‘A lot of women don’t tell their husbands they’re coming to see me.’

  ‘And why is that, do you think?’

  ‘Because the very fact that they feel the need to consult me is often a sign that the family decision-making process has broken down, and one of the members has decided to go rogue.’

  ‘Clever answer,’ Corbet says. ‘Did you also assume that if I’d known she was coming to see you, I’d have tried to stop her?’

  ‘Maybe,’ I admit.

  ‘I didn’t come with her because I knew it would be a waste of time – more than a waste, it would only have added to her emotional distress, since I would have felt obliged to contradict most of what she told you. I explained all that to Mary but, after I had explained it, I didn’t try to pressure her any more, because she’s an adult and it was her decision.’

  ‘I see,’ I say.

  ‘You used to be a member of the force, didn’t you, Miss Redhead?’ Corbet asks.

  ‘Yes, I did.’

  ‘Why did you resign?’

  I shrug. ‘I wanted to try something else.’

  He frowns. ‘If this conversation of ours is going to go any further, Miss Redhead, you’ll have to start being as honest with me as you expect me to be with you.’

  He knows what happened, I tell myself.

  Or, at least, he’s heard the rumours that probably still linger in the corners of the police station like the faint buzz of a dying fly as winter approaches.

  The faint buzz of a dying fly as winter approaches?

  Yes, sometimes, that’s just the way I think – it must be something to do with all that literature I’ve force-fed myself.

  ‘Well?’ Inspector Corbet asks.

  ‘I began to suspect that one of my senior colleagues had been corrupted,’ I say cautiously.

  ‘That’s an interesting choice of words,’ he muses. ‘Why did you say “been corrupted” instead of “was corrupt”?’

  ‘Does that really matter?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes, it does matter, if you’re trying to get the measure of someone like I’m trying to get the measure of you.’

  ‘All right, I’ll explain it to you,’ I say. ‘If you’ve got a natural inclination to be bent, then the chances are that the career path you choose will lead you to a life of crime, rather than one of crime prevention and detection. So I think that most coppers start out being honest – and maybe even idealistic. It’s only later, when the prospect of incredibly easy money is being continually dangled in front of their eyes, that some cops go bad.’

  ‘You’re really quite the little philosopher,’ Inspector Corbet says, favouring me with a smile which is more sardonic than amused. ‘Now, about this copper who has, as you put it, “been corrupted” – we are talking about Chief Superintendent Dunn, aren’t we?’

  Oh yes, he knows, all right.

  ‘We’re talking about Chief Superintendent Dunn,’ I confirm.

  ‘And what did you think he was guilty of? Selling heroin? Running a prostitution ring?’

  ‘You’re playing games with me,’ I tell him. ‘You know it was nothing like that.’

  ‘Then what was it like?’

  ‘I suspected he’d been using his position – and the access to information that position allowed him – to give certain members of the business community an unfair advantage.’

  ‘In other words, he’d been taking bribes.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Tell me all about how it all started.’

  It all started with Mr Khan, who ran a corner general shop which was on my route to work.

  Mr Khan was a jolly man, a few stone overweight, and with a white spiky beard you could have used as a yard brush. His shop was the kind that sells everything and, if whatever you wanted wasn’t on the shelves, Mr Khan would disappear into the dark recess at the back of his store, and, after the sound of much clattering about, would emerge again with the rare shade of shoe polish you needed to make your interview shoes positively glow, or the plastic giraffe you wanted as the centrepiece of your daughter’s birthday party.

  I became a regular customer, partly because the shop was so convenient, partly because I liked talking to Mr Khan and – I flatter myself – he liked talking to me.

  It was during one of these conversations that he revealed he had had an offer for his shop.

  ‘Is it a good offer?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh yes, it is a very good offer – generous, even.’

  ‘Will you accept it?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘So someone else will soon be running the shop,’ I said, trying my best to hide my disappointment.

  ‘No, no, my dear, it seems you’ve got quite the wrong idea,’ Mr Khan said, waving his podgy index finger in the air as if he was conducting a massive orchestra. ‘The offer has come from a property developer. He wants to buy the whole of Primrose Street.’

  Primrose Street! For some people, the name might instantly conjure up images of a neat, bright road with a tub of flowers next to every freshly painted front door. Others, of a more cynical nature, would perhaps picture it as an ironically named northern industrial street, where even the sparrows have a smoker’s cough. In fact, it was neither of those things, and, consisting as it did of just one row of six terraced houses, it was a bit of a stretch to call it a street at all. Still, I could see how it might easily appeal to someone wanting to build executive houses or luxury flats.

  The next time I saw Mr Khan was about a week later, and he had changed his mind about accepting the offer.

  ‘When I lived in Kenya, I had a small factory which employed thirty people,’ he told me. ‘Then the government changed the law, to encourage what it called Africanization, and I was not allowed to own my little factory any more. I sold the business for a miserable pittance …’

  ‘Because people knew that as an Asian trader you had to sell, and they saw no need to offer you a good price?’

  ‘Exactly. I came to England a broken man. As I walked down the gangplank of the ship which brought me here, I saw – even from the docks, which you would think were the same all over the world – that this was a country which was so clearly alien to me. I did not think I would ever have the will to start another business, yet – almost by a miracle – I did find that strength from somewhere, and this shop is the result. I like the shop. It is no Woolworth’s or Marks & Spencer, but I am proud of it – and of myself. I do not want to move again.’

  ‘And how do your neighbours feel about moving?’ I asked.

  ‘Two of the families would be quite willing to move, but the rest are happy where they are. They do not want money – they want the homes that, over the years, they have lovingly made for themselves.’

  Tom Corbet, his big-booted foot resting on the top of his spade, has moved so little while I’ve been telling my story that I am almost convinced that he hasn’t heard a word I’ve said.

  Then he proves me wrong by asking, ‘What was it that came first? Parking restrictions?’

  ‘That’s right,’ I agree. ‘Everybody woke up one morning to find that there were double yellow lines right down Primrose Street, and also a hundred yards in each direction along the Cowley Road. It wasn’t necessary, and there was nothing like it either on – or just off – any similar stretch of the road. Mr Khan’s neighbours suddenly found that they could no longer park close to their own houses.’

  ‘And Mr Khan’s customers couldn’t stop in front of his shop?’

  ‘Just so! Whenever they did, a traffic policeman would magically appear out of nowhere.’

  ‘You checked that was actually what happened?’

  ‘I didn’t need to – because it happened to me. I was only in the shop for a minute, and when I came out again, he was already filling in the summons. Then he remembered seeing me around the station, and he stopped writing. But I don’t imagine for a second that anyone else was that lucky.’

  ‘Is that it?’ Corbet asks. ‘Or were there other things which raised your suspicions?’

  ‘One of the young couples who lived on Primrose Street was raided by the Drugs Squad – and not once, but twice. Nothing incriminating was found, either time, and when I spoke to them about it, they told me they were in the Salvation Army, and didn’t even drink alcohol.’

  ‘You verified they were actually in the Sally Army?’

  ‘No, but there was a big bass drum with Salvation Army written on it in their hallway, and unless they kept it there on the off-chance they might need to fool an off-duty cop who dropped in unexpectedly, I think they were telling the truth.’

  Corbet nods. ‘Is there more?’

  ‘The man at number seven was pulled over by the traffic police for a “random” car inspection a total of four times before they found anything wrong with his vehicle. The couple at number three soon learned that if they ever went to the pub, there’d be officers waiting in the car park when they came out, and that these officers would accuse them of being drunk and disorderly.’

  ‘What you’re suggesting is that there was a giant conspiracy,’ Inspector Corbet says.

  ‘No, I’m not suggesting that at all,’ I counter. ‘Traffic comes within Chief Superintendent Dunn’s remit, and if he asks for more restrictions to be imposed, everybody assumes that – since he’s the expert – he has a perfectly valid reason for making the request.’

  ‘Getting the Drugs Squad involved would be trickier.’

  ‘No it wouldn’t – it’d be a doddle. All he had to do was to tell the Drugs Squad that he had information from a confidential source which would indicate that drugs are being sold on Primrose Street, and they’d automatically apply for a warrant and raid the place.’ I pause for a second. ‘Each individual action is only one tiny innocuous piece of the puzzle, you see, and it’s only when you put them all together – as I did – that you can even start to get the complete picture.’

  ‘And you’re sure that Chief Superintend Dunn is your man?’

  ‘I’m certain of it, because most of the harassment came directly out of his department. Besides, a couple of months after the residents of Primrose Street ran up the white flag, the developer who pulled the street down busied himself with building a rather splendid extension on Dunn’s house.’

  ‘Maybe Dunn paid for it.’

  ‘I’m sure he did – he’d have been a fool not to. But I’m equally sure that it won’t have been long before the money he paid over found its way back into one of his less conspicuous bank accounts.’

  Corbet nods again. ‘So you went after him?’ he says.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What rank were you at the time this was happening? WPC?’

  ‘No, I’d just been promoted to detective constable.’

  ‘You were a mere DC, but you still went after a chief superintendent. Did you ask for help from anybody else?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because I knew there was a more than fair chance of me going down, and I didn’t want to drag anybody else with me.’

  Corbet takes his hand off his spade, and gives his head a slow, thoughtful massage.

  ‘So you knew you were likely to come out the loser, but you went for it anyway,’ he says. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I knew it was the right thing to do – and that really left me no choice in the matter.’

  ‘What happened in the end?’

  ‘What do you think happened?’

  Dunn called me into his office. When I arrived, he pretended to be working, just – I think – to give me time to examine the numerous commendations which hung on the wall behind his desk. I declined the opportunity, and instead stared fixedly out of the window.

  When he did finally look up, there was a look of almost sorrowful sympathy on his face.

  ‘You’ve been investigating me,’ he said softly.

  ‘Have I, sir?’ I replied.

  ‘Yes, you bloody well have,’ he said, the mask of reasonableness cracking just a little. ‘I normally applaud enthusiasm in young officers. More than that, I actually encourage it.’

  ‘But …?’ I suggested.

  ‘But for it to be effective, it has to be directed, intelligent enthusiasm – and yours isn’t. You’ve shown a shocking lack of judgement, which may – in the future – endanger both you and your colleagues. And that is why I think it might be best if you resigned.’

  ‘What if I refuse?’ I asked.

  ‘I prefer to look at things from a more positive angle,’ he told me. ‘If you show the good sense to resign, I will write you a sparkling recommendation for whatever more appropriate career you choose to pursue.’

  ‘What if I refuse?’ I repeated.

  He sighed. ‘You are temperamentally unsuited to police work, and if you insist on remaining in the force, then soon or later – and I strongly suspect it will be sooner – you will make a mistake which cannot be excused, and you will be dismissed – or perhaps even end up going to prison.’

  ‘What you mean, sir, is that if I refuse to resign, you’ll find a way to fit me up.’

  ‘I’m not saying that at all,’ he told me – and now there was a look on his face which could only be described as complacent sadism. ‘But, for the sake of argument, let’s assume that I was. Say I told you, right here and now – and in the most explicit terms possible – that I’d find some way to knobble you. Would the chief constable believe you if you told him what had passed between us?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Of course you do – and the answer is, you know he wouldn’t. Or, say we lined up every officer in this station and asked them which of us they trusted more. What would their answer to that be?’

  They’d say they trusted you, I thought – because they know which side their bread is buttered on.