The Bad Samaritan

by Robert Barnard

  “You think his wife knew what you were doing?”

  “Oh, of course she knew, and that was the point.”

  “How did she look when he took you to meet her?”

  “Oh, it’s difficult to describe. Weary. Almost indifferent.”

  “Was there hate there?”

  “Maybe. But she didn’t show it. She didn’t even show contempt for me, if she felt it. Her look was more . . . pitying.”

  “Did you see her again?”

  “No. When we’d done he just got up and put his clothes on, and I did the same. Back to business seemed to be the message he wanted to get across. On the way out, in the hall, we met the father—old ‘Onions’ Unwin, her father. Stephen said, ‘Oh, you know Janet Sheffield, don’t you, Dad? Paul and Rosemary’s girl. She’s been doing work for us at the shop.’ The old chap sort of bumbled a greeting, Stephen shouted ‘’Bye, Dottie,’ and we left the house. He was oozing with self-satisfaction. He drove me home, hardly speaking, but he gave a nasty grin as he dropped me off at the vicarage as if the fact that I was the vicar’s daughter gave added spice—maybe the only spice—to the affair. That was his sort of humour.”

  “And—?” asked Charlie.

  “And that put paid to it. I suppose that was the intention. Nobody was in, and I went up to my room and sobbed and sobbed. You know people nowadays are always talking about low self-esteem? That was the rock bottom of my self-esteem. I bathed him out of me, and by the time I had finished I knew that the affair was over, knew that I wanted it to be over, and knew that I would never ever look at that type again.”

  “Have you seen much of him since?”

  “I’ve seen him often enough. Couldn’t avoid that, with him always being at church. I’ve not exchanged a word until last night at the party. He came up behind me and whispered, ‘How come we never get together these days?’ I gave him a look and froze him out. I think he only came up because he saw I had a boyfriend and was happy with him. That would have been something worth ruining. And I knew he really hated women who rejected him or showed him that he could never get anywhere with them. It’s not very effective after he definitely has got somewhere with them, but that’s why I froze him out.”

  “So the fascination had really worn off.”

  “Really!” She looked him in the eye with what seemed a genuine frankness. “It had become repulsion. But that summer it was like a basilisk. It was only the sheer nastiness and cruelty of what he did and made me an accomplice in doing that saved me.”

  “What did you feel when you heard he was dead?”

  “Nothing. I’m glad I didn’t feel exultation, feel my humiliation had been revenged or anything melodramatic like that. I was empty of feeling for him.”

  “Could you have killed him yourself?”

  She thought.

  “No. I suppose you’ll think, ‘She would say that,’ but since you thought it worth asking, I’ll tell you. I couldn’t have killed him, not even then. I felt disgust for myself, and I think that’s what I felt for him too. Disgust, not hatred.”

  “Do you think that’s what his wife felt as well?”

  “I couldn’t fathom what she thought then. She’s the sort you look at and feel you never can. Those eyes—they’re almost frightening. I think the old phrase about still waters running deep very much applies there.”

  Charlie shifted in his chair.

  “The emotions you feel towards Mills are pretty similar to the ones your mother feels towards him, aren’t they?”

  “I suppose so. I’ve come to toe the family line on the subject.”

  “Do you think your mother could ever have had a similar experience?”

  Her eyes opened wide.

  “No! No, I really don’t. I never thought about it, but it’s absolutely out of the question. Mother and father are completely faithful to each other.”

  “A lot of children feel that about their parents, quite wrongly. And there has been talk in the parish recently about your mother and the boy from the pizzeria.”

  “Oh, you’re on to that, are you?”

  “I haven’t talked about it with your mother yet. Have you?”

  Janet nodded.

  “A little. She is fond of him, she is sorry for him, she wanted to help him. Anyone would feel the same, except for someone like that old battle-axe Florrie Harridance. That’s all there was to it. No affair. And no affair with Stephen Mills either.”

  “You’re very loyal. Do you think your brother feels the same?”

  “Mark? Oh, he’s training for the priesthood and knows nothing whatever about real life.”

  “He struck me as a pillock.”

  “He is. You wouldn’t trust his opinion rather than mine, would you?”

  “No, I wouldn’t,” said Charlie truthfully. Especially as on the whole Janet’s agreed with his own.

  • • •

  Janet’s boyfriend Kevin had little to tell. He admitted that he had spent most of the evening observing the wrong things—in his case Mark Sheffield and Florrie Harridance. He had been watching and listening to them with an inexorable author’s interest, and anything else had passed him by.

  When he had got rid of them both it was half past nine. Time to knock off for the day. Charlie made some notes to himself for the next day’s work and then drove back to the flat. His plans for a cosy supper and an early night were shattered the moment he opened the door.

  “Do you want him?” Felicity asked.

  “Who?”

  “The boy from Pizza Pronto—the other one. I could be mistaken because he was working at the back of a long, narrow takeaway place, but I think he’s at Pizza Suprema, which is on the Crompton Road—number 45.”

  Charlie thought, looking round regretfully.

  “If I don’t get him now—” he said, and then turned and ran down the stairs again. Felicity knew better than to ask if she could come. She felt rather proud, however, of the participation she had been allowed thus far and knew that that wasn’t something Charlie was going to mention to Mike Oddie.

  Charlie spotted Pizza Suprema well before he got there, so he parked a good way away. It was on a corner, and the little yard at the back was open to the street. He sauntered towards the place. The back door was open, and the lid of a garbage bin was on the ground. The boy—a boy—was cleaning up for the night. When he reached the place Charlie nipped into the shadows of the yard and waited. It was only a couple of minutes before the young man came out with an armful of tins, packets and other debris and began piling them into the bin. When he banged the lid on it and turned to go in he found Charlie in the doorway.

  “Before you do anything silly, like trying to run away,” Charlie said, “let’s get this straight: I am a policeman but I’m not in the least interested in seeing your papers. I don’t care if you’re on the run from the police of five continents and I certainly don’t care if you’re working here illegally.”

  The young man was coffee-cream-coloured, round-faced and curly-haired. He looked at Charlie uncertainly.

  “C’est Stanko, n’est-ce-pas?” he said, then changed to a very Gallic English. “It is about Stanko, is it not?”

  “If he’s the one who’s sometimes called Silvio, yes. Shall we go inside?”

  He stood aside, and they went into a long, narrow kitchen still smelling irresistibly of tomatoes and garlic and basil and oregano. He was reminded that he had had nothing but a sandwich all day. The young man, with the instinct of the hotel trade, sensed his need.

  “You ’ave ’unger? You like ’alf a pizza?”

  Charlie nodded, just at the moment when his stomach let out a pathetic whine. The boy smiled, took a large pizza from a cooling oven and cut it in half. When he handed Charlie his section they both agreed to dispense with a knife and fork, biting into the gooey heart of the pie.

  “You eat with me. You can’t mean me ’arm,” said the boy.

  Charlie could think of colleagues who could share a pizza with
a suspect and nick him while he was wiping his fingers, but he didn’t mention them.

  “What’s your name?” he asked, and then amended that to “What shall I call you?”

  “Call me Yussef,” the young man replied.

  “Right, Yussef. I’m not going to ask you anything about yourself. How long have you known—Stanko, is it?”

  “Yes, Stanko. But I don’t think that’s ’is real name. ’E ’ave many names. ’E came about three weeks ago to Pizza Pronto.”

  “Did you get on well with him?”

  “Yes, very well. ’E is a nice, gentle man, very sympathique. We talk a lot, ’ave a lot in common—you know?”

  “I know. Where was he from?”

  Yussef considered his loyalties before replying.

  “’E is from Yugoslavia—what used to be Yugoslavia.”

  “Are you both Moslem?”

  Yussef spread out his hands.

  “We ’ave not discussed. I am Moslem, but not so much. If ’e is Moslem, I think ’e is even less.”

  “Right. Did he have any friends in Leeds?”

  “Oh yes. ’E ’ave Mr and Mrs Sheffield, especially Mrs.”

  “Nobody else?” Yussef shook his head. “Or enemies?” Yussef shook his head again.

  “Right, now about yesterday. Was it a normal day, or did anything stand out?”

  The young man thought long before replying.

  “The evening ’e was different. When ’e came down ’e was all shook.”

  “Shook?”

  “Like ’e’d ’ad bad news, or ’ear something ’orrible.”

  “You say came down. You were in the takeaway?”

  “Yes. One of us always prepare for the evening with Signor Gabrielli. The other came down when we opened at half past five. Stanko came down then, and ’e was all shook.”

  “Did he say why?”

  “No. I asked and ’e shook ’is ’ead and said ’e didn’t want to talk, but ’e would tell me later. Said it was atroce. We talk French and sometimes Italian together.”

  “What does it mean?”

  “’Orrible. Like you say a-att-atro-cee-us.”

  “Was that all he said?”

  “Yes. ’E made a phone call—quite short. I didn’t ’ear nothing what was said. We was very busy with lots of pizzas for the party at the church.”

  “He took them, didn’t he?”

  “Yes. ’E drove our little van.”

  “What about when he came back?”

  “Was shook. Still more shook.”

  “I see. And what happened as the evening went on?”

  “We was not so busy. About five to ten Stanko asked if ’e could go. Said ’e ’ad to meet someone. Signor Gabrielli said ‘fine,’ and ’e went.”

  “But that wasn’t the last you saw of him?”

  Yussef seemed to consider his loyalties again, then realised his own peril and shook his head.

  “No. ’E come in about eleven, when I was going to bed. Come into my room, all very shook and upset. Said ’e ’ad to leave Leeds that night.”

  “Did he say why?”

  “Said ’e ’ad been in a fight. ’E ’ad some martial hearts—said they was very useful in Yugoslavia, with lots of troubles even before the war start. ’E said ’e’d done awful damages to this man. ’E didn’t think the man—’e didn’t say ’is name—would go to the police, but ’e couldn’t risk it. Someone might find ’im before ’e come round, and call the police. So ’e ’ad to go.”

  “I see. And next day you heard of the murder?”

  Yussef looked at him challengingly.

  “’E is not a murderer. Is not possible. ’E is a gentle boy. But Signor Gabrielli, ’e think: better if neither of us is there, in case the police come, so ’e arrange a swap for me.”

  “With someone who has got his papers? Right. Stanko had already taken off, I suppose. Was there anything else—anything you know about Stanko?”

  The young man shook his head.

  “His surname?”

  “We didn’t ask. It was better.”

  “So you’ve nothing else to tell me?”

  The boy came up close, wiping the tomato from his lips.

  “Stanko is gentle. A good, gentle, peace-loving boy.”

  “A gentle boy with skills in martial arts?”

  “Yes. That is the point of martial hearts. They protect you. Like they are taught to women who ’ave not great strength so they can protect themselves.”

  “And do you think Stanko was protecting himself last night?”

  The boy looked down.

  “I do not know. But if ’e attacked, ’e ’ad good cause. Terrible good cause.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Talking About Rosemary

  “Fascinating evening?” Charlie asked Mike Oddie when they came in to work next morning.

  “Wonderful,” said his boss. “Now I know what it’s like to be drowned in paper.”

  “So you know all about his cash flow, his assets and liabilities, his business plan and whatever.”

  “I have an idea,” said Oddie cautiously. “That is if his papers are an honest record. It all seems above board, it all seems like a genuine service which fills a real need. Letters testify that he had expertise and contacts, used them intelligently . . .”

  “But?”

  “But why do I get the idea that I know everything about his business except the most important thing?” He paused to sort his ideas out. “The only obvious ‘but’ is that I can’t see from the records that it would have been all that profitable. Of course we don’t know that Mills had a lavish life style, his wife probably has plenty of money, and yet—”

  “And yet what we know of Mills doesn’t suggest he’d be content with a modestly successful business.”

  “No, it doesn’t,” agreed Oddie enthusiastically. “That’s not my picture, anyway.”

  “Was there anything to suggest other activities—any other source of income?”

  “Well, only something very small, something I very nearly didn’t pick up: there were a couple of references in business letters to ‘number 94.’ ” He frowned, trying to be as exact as possible. “Quoting from memory they were: ‘This is straying in the direction of number 94 matters’ and ‘I’ll leave the unfinished number 94 business until I see you at Rotary.’ Not a lot to go on.”

  “You don’t want to ask the people who wrote the letters?”

  “Certainly not now. I may have to as a last resort. If we assume it’s an address, and if we start on the idea that it’s in the Abbingley area of Leeds, there aren’t a great many roads that go up as high as number 94.”

  “You could try a camera shop called Snaps,” said Charlie reaching across the desk for the telephone directory.

  “Why there?”

  “It’s to a flat above that he took Janet Sheffield. She saw it as a love nest, but it could have had a business side as well. Yes—here we are: Snaps, 94 Ilkley Road.”

  Oddie rubbed his hands.

  “Right! Got it in one! Let’s hear about your evening before we do anything more.”

  When he had heard Charlie’s account of the two interviews, Oddie said: “What do you make of Stanko coming down at half past five in a foul mood?”

  “I’m kicking myself I didn’t ask Yussef what there was upstairs,” Charlie admitted. “Was there a telephone? A television? Somehow or other he’d heard something that enraged him. That’s how I read it, anyway.”

  “Why not ring Gabrielli at Pizza Pronto?”

  Charlie leafed through the book and did just that. Luckily he found him in, taking in supplies. He also found him terribly and earnestly anxious to help the police. Charlie managed the conversation without even mentioning Stanko, and when he put the phone down he said: “Television but not telephone. If they needed to ring anyone they had to use the phone in the takeaway.”

  “So this ‘Yussef’ had been downstairs preparing for the evening trade, while Stanko was upstair
s. It’s a fair bet he wasn’t watching Neighbours or Home and Away.”

  “It was Saturday, remember. The likely thing is the BBC news, which is generally just after five.”

  Oddie nodded.

  “In his situation, coming from Yugoslavia, watching the news would be pretty obsessive, I’d guess. Get on to BBC North and see if you can get a video, and if not get on to Television Centre in London. I’ll see about getting a warrant to search the flat above Snaps. Do you want to come along with me? Or have you got things to do on your own?”

  As Oddie knew he would, Charlie said he had one or two things he’d like to do on his own, follow-up things. Charlie believed in hunting solo whenever possible. His first port of call was a shop called Flowers First. It was on University Road, and the name meant (as its proprietor Florrie Harridance would explain when asked or if unasked) that if couples had had a tiff they should buy flowers first and have the explanations afterwards. This certainly made commercial sense, and perhaps psychological sense as well. Whether the university people who largely lived in the Abbingley area were particularly liable to tiffs and makeups she did not say, but there were no signs of the shop being other than a viable financial concern when he dropped in there, other than the fact that there were no customers, which on a Monday morning was hardly surprising.

  “We’ve not met, but we’ve spoken on the telephone,” said Mrs Harridance, coming weightily forward like an aircraft carrier doing a manoeuvre in shallow water. “And I’ve caught a loook at you as you’ve gone past in the police car.”

  “I stand out,” agreed Charlie.

  “You do. Footballers you expect, and pop stars and newsreaders and drug traffickers, but black policemen you notice, and you’re the first that’s come my way. Not that I have a lot to do with the police, though I’ve supplied flowers to funerals you’ve had an interest in, that’s for sure.”

  Charlie murmured his interest.

  “Well, it’s the Mills murder you’ll be wanting to talk about, won’t you? Well, like I say, I’m not one to get involved with the police, and at St Saviour’s—”

  “Questions,” said Charlie forcefully. “And answers.”