Devil Take The Hindmost

Chapter Nine

I walked the streets, meandering without purpose but being drawn inexorably towards the city centre like a moth to a flame or a fly to a turd.

In keeping with generations of my antecedents who found themselves at an equally loose end, I came to rest on a bench in Queen Square watching the world go by under the parlous gaze of the statue of Prince Albert to which locals referred, with a characteristic lack of deference, as the Mon on the Black Oss.

Cliques of teenagers clowned, moped, or shouted the odds, undeterred in their hormone-riddled high jinks by the onset of a misty drizzle beginning to darken the concrete landscape a more baleful shade of grey.

I cradled my mobile phone in my hands, staring alternately at my contacts list and the passers-by for inspiration.

I was battling an urge to call Tish and give her the good news; a solid lead on the clock that should see us both much better off. On reflection, I judged the reward would probably just make Tish richer, she already seemed fairly well-heeled.

Competing with that desire, was the more sensible inclination to call Sophie and to tell her we would be able to do something nice soon. Maybe a week on a beach somewhere. I hated lounging inert on beaches, but she might like it, and I'd be willing to give it a punt in the hopes of rebuilding our relationship.

Or was that what I wanted? It was Tish's number my finger hovered over while my brain tied itself in knots.

I could have sought counsel in Ty, but he'd set off to check out the underpass at the bottom of Darlington Street where Darren Atkins had been murdered. In any case, I knew what he would say; nothing.

In reality, I was simply killing time until I could return to Malky's Movers and get the information I needed; the name of the auctioneer to whom Malcolm Weatherby sold the clock, and that gave me unwelcome opportunity to dwell.

I pushed dial and held the phone to my ear.

"Hello?" Sophie's voice answered after a dozen rings, volume elevated to be heard above a cacophony of noise in the background. Female voices, words indistinct, laughing and hubbub of a large social gathering.

"Sophie!" I mirrored her sonority, hoping she might hear me while simultaneously self-conscious about being in public.

"Not now, Satchmo, I'm right in the middle of something."

"This is important,"

"And this isn't?" she snapped back.

"No, wait, that's not what I meant," I pleaded with a dead line. Sophie had gone.

I slumped back on the seat and let the drizzle fall on my face for a moment before coming to a judgement. In my teenage years, these precise park bench dilemmas became simplified by the presence of a large plastic bottle of White Lightning cider.

I glanced around at the current generation to see if any of them had the same available decision lubricant. They did not. Evidently an altogether more responsible crowd.

Fuck it.

I pressed dial again.

This time the phone rang out and, after a series of beeps and clicks, Tish's plummy-voiced answerphone message chimed in my ears like the impact of silverware on a fine crystal champagne flute.

"I'm awfully sorry, but I can't come to the telephone at the moment ... "

I hung up. I'd be seeing her later at the farm. It could wait.

I was just trousering the phone when it rang in my hand. I hit answer and snatched it toward my ear, expecting and hoping to hear Tish or Sophie, respectively. At least, I think it was that way around.