Free Shooting Elvis by Stuart Pawson

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    ‘Yeah. I’m sure of it. Midnight.’
     
    Four of them were stooped over Jeff Caton’s desk, looking businesslike, when we arrived back. I wandered over to see what they were doing.
    ‘Anything I should know about?’
    Jeff looked up, grinning. ‘Hi, Chas,’ he greeted me. ‘There’s been another memo about this memorial seat for the old codger who’s died. Canwe suggest a suitable location for it?’
    ‘Right. Well, no doubt the collective brains of the CID can come up with something suitable.’
    ‘We’ve a few ideas. If it was for you, where would you like it to be?’
    ‘What? If the seat was for me? Do you mean for me to sit on or in memory of me?’
    ‘In memory of you. The Charlie Priest Memorial Seat.’
    ‘No idea.’
    ‘C’mon, Chas, there must be somewhere where you’ve spent many a happy hour, just enjoying the view?’
    ‘Um, I suppose so,’ I agreed.
    ‘Where, then?’
    ‘Oh, let me see… How about… Yes, I’d like my seat to be overlooking Heckley Girls Grammar School netball courts.’
    They smiled and chuckled and straightened their backs. Jeff said, ‘Right, then. That’s two for Robin Hood’s Bay, one for somewhere in Nidderdale, one for Fountains Abbey and one for overlooking Heckley Girls Grammar School netball courts.’
    When I was safe in my own office I rang High Adventure and asked to speak to Sonia. ‘What’s the chances of having an afternoon off tomorrow?’ I asked.
    ‘Sorry, Charlie. Can’t do. We’ve some corporate people coming to use the ice wall and they expect the boss to be available. They’re from the motortrade. Sales people from one of the big outlets. Cars U Like , or something equally naff. It’s all about bonding. They share the dangers, or what they perceive as dangers, and become closer to each other as a result. And trust. They learn about trust. Trust in each other, trust in the equipment and trust in themselves. The sales people bond with other sales people, the managers bond with the typists, that sort of thing. They pay good money and expect value for it. And they all go away with a photograph to put on the office wall. They have a whale of a time and…’
    ‘Sonia!’
    ‘Sorry?’
    ‘I’ll take that as a negative, shall I?’
    ‘I’m afraid so, Charlie. What had you in mind?’
    ‘Oh, nothing special. I need to go up to Leyburn and it would have been nice to have some company.’
    ‘Can’t you take Dave?’
    ‘Not really. It’s a bit of a wild goose chase. And you’re handsomer than he is. I don’t get the same wobbly feeling when he’s sitting next to me.’
    ‘You say the nicest things.’
    ‘What time tonight?’
    ‘Seven.’
    ‘Don’t be late.’
    I put the phone down and sat looking at it. A couple of months earlier there had been this article in the paper about a youth who’d had this tattooput on his upper arm at great pain and expense. He’d asked for the Chinese symbols for Loyalty, Respect and Courage, assuming, presumably, that the tattooist was fluent in Mandarin. The irony of being a convicted thief and girlfriend-beater never occurred to him. Afterwards, he’d taken to wandering the streets wearing a singlet, even though it was February, showing off his newly acquired status symbol. Until, one night in his local takeaway, the chef, who was educated at Leeds University but had a smattering of his parents’ native language, told him that having Best before the year of the rat tattooed on his arm was very amusing, very droll, very English. He loved the English sense of humour. The youth went straight round to his tattooist and broke the man’s jaw.
    It appears that not many tattoo artists are familiar with Chinese script, so when somebody comes in and asks for a Chinese cipher to be emblazoned across their torso, they turn to whatever they have handy in an attempt to oblige. This means that there are thousands of young men, and a few women, wandering around with memorable legends such as Do not