The Bad Samaritan

by Robert Barnard

  “I beg your pardon, young man?”

  “Questions and answers. I don’t want to talk about anything. I want to ask questions, and get answers from you. Short and direct answers, please. Right?”

  Florrie looked daggers, but nodded.

  “Why was there all this fuss about Mrs Sheffield and the Mothers’ Union?”

  Florrie swallowed. Her answer, when it came, was more a protest against his demand for brevity than compliance with it.

  “She lost her faith. The Mothers’ Union is a church organisation. Everyone felt it wasn’t right her holding office.”

  “I see,” said Charlie carefully. “I can see that loss of faith would be fatal for a clergyman, but for his wife? You say ‘everyone,’ but I haven’t come across a great deal of opposition to Mrs Sheffield as yet.”

  “Well of course it’s not personal. It’s a matter of principle. I mean we’re all sorry for her (though I think she could make an effort to get it back) but when she’s one of the officials of the organisation, and it’s the main women’s group in the parish—”

  “Short,” said Charlie. “Short answers. I get your point. But I’m not convinced it hasn’t been a question of other people wanting to take over her job.”

  “You’re trying to make it sound unpleasant, young man, but you’ll not rile me. I’m made of sterner stuff. People who do jobs like chairing the Mothers’ Union get no thanks for it, and no financial rewards either—not like the Masons and Rotarians. All you get is hard work from morning to night. So just because some people in the parish desperately wanted me to take over the chair, I’ll not have you saying—”

  “Right, well let’s change the subject a bit. I gather that at some stage the matter developed into gossip about Mrs Sheffield’s private life. Were you responsible for that?”

  “I was not. Quite the reverse, young man, if you did but know. Not that I need to justify myself to you, but when Selena came to me with what she’d heard people saying in that guesthouse in Scarborough, I said ‘Hold on,’ I said. ‘It’s all very flimsy,’ I said, ‘and the last thing we’d want people saying about us is that we’d been spreading malicious gossip, and it could rebound on us,’ I said—”

  “Us?”

  “Well—” She was caught up short. Charlie was sorry he had tried to insist on short answers, because she obviously gave more away when given her rein. “Well, I meant those of us who thought it was time for a change, and time for those who’d been occupying all these positions for years to step aside and let others have the chance.”

  Charlie was a mite puzzled by this, because there was a ring of truth about what she said, and an atom of shrewdness. There had always been, he suspected, a good chance that sexual scandal about the vicar’s wife, if ill-substantiated, would rebound on the scandalmonger. Apparently Mrs Harridance had recognised this.

  “And yet the scandal did get around,” he pointed out.

  “Well eventually it did, yes. Don’t ask me how. People only started gossiping later, more than a week after Selena got home from Scarborough, and it wasn’t with my agreement, because I’d told her right away I thought it was wrong and silly. But then maybe she’d been talking to someone else, getting other advice—”

  “Such as?”

  A cunning look came into her bulging eyes.

  “You’d better ask her that. I wouldn’t know anything about Selena’s private life. We’re different generations. Manners are different these days, to say nothing of morals. Any road, she found she had to go round afterwards and take it all back, so it rebounded on us, like I said it would. I’m disappointed in Selena. Whoever gave her the advice, you couldn’t say it was good advice, could you? Now what you’d best do, young man, and I’m sure you don’t want my advice but you could do worse than take it, is go round to Selena’s and ask her what and who—”

  “That’s exactly what I’ll do,” said Charlie and turned and got out of the shop.

  As he drove to Selena Meadowes’s house he was turning over in his mind two thoughts: if Florrie Harridance was to be believed, she and Selena had rejected using the Rosemary-Stanko story against her, believing it might do them harm rather than good. But later something had changed Selena’s mind and she had gone ahead and used it. Secondly, Florrie knew, or had a good idea, what or who that was, but she wanted it to come from her lieutenant, especially since she felt let down by her. If these propositions were correct, they could be useful.

  Selena Meadowes’s reception of him was very different from Florrie Harridance’s. The moment she opened the door to him her manner was winsomely welcoming to the point of flirtatiousness. She made no bones about the fact that she knew who he was, though Charlie had no idea which of his various activities of the day before she had watched him at. Perhaps the mere fact that he was black made her land on the right assumption. In any case she led him through to the sitting room and prepared—or so it seemed, and Charlie reserved judgment on that—almost enthusiastically to be grilled.

  “Though to be honest I can’t tell you much,” she said, turning her full face and and smiling a Doris Day smile, “because I wasn’t that close to the Encounter.”

  “Encounter?”

  “Between the boy from the pizza place and Stephen Mills of course!” she said, as if talking to a child. “That’s what everyone is talking about, isn’t it? I could see there was something—I mean, I could feel the tension, almost see the electricity in the air—but I was too far away to know what was going on. Luckily Derek was near.”

  “Is that your husband? I’ll have to talk to him.”

  “Oh, he’ll be thrilled. He says the moment Silvio saw Mills—he was on his way round to help dish out the pizzas—he was thunderstruck. Flabbergasted. Obviously there was something in that boy’s past—something criminal Derek thought—that he had thought was hidden forever, and there was Stephen Mills who knew all about it.”

  “That’s how it struck him, did it?”

  “Oh, I think it struck everyone like that.”

  Charlie raised his eyebrows.

  “Because it could be exactly the other way round, couldn’t it? Something criminal or disgraceful in Mills’s past that the boy knew about.”

  She screwed up her English rose forehead.

  “But why would he be thunderstruck?”

  “Because he, or people close to him, had been affected by whatever criminal or disgraceful thing it was.”

  “Oh, I don’t think that’s very convincing. I don’t want to teach you your job, but I mean, we’ve known Stephen at St Saviour’s for yonks. And the boy is quite young.”

  “What about something disgraceful in his present life?”

  “I don’t think so,” she said obstinately. “We know him.”

  She tried to give it a Lady Bracknell-like imprimatur of respectability.

  “So what does your husband say happened then?”

  “Silvio—if that is his name—turned, muttered something, some lame excuse or other, and fled. End of episode.”

  “I see,” said Charlie neutrally. “Well, as I say, I’ll have to talk to your husband if that episode does turn out to be significant. But that wasn’t what I came to ask you about.”

  “Oh?” Slight access of tension, Charlie thought.

  “It’s the matter of Rosemary Sheffield I wanted to talk about.”

  She smiled forgivingly.

  “Rosemary? Oh, the whole parish knows about that. Rosemary lost her faith—quite suddenly, like mislaying your spectacles, or so it seems. Odd, isn’t it? Everyone thought it so sad in a vicar’s wife. Awfully embarrassing for both of them of course. But I can’t see why you’d want to talk to me about that.”

  “Can’t you? Well, let’s just go through what happened after she lost her faith, can we? There was some trouble over the positions she holds, wasn’t there?”

  She bridled, very prettily.

  “Well, where they were church positions there was bound to be, wasn’t there? I mean
, in a way she had signed herself out of the Church. So naturally people felt she shouldn’t go on holding the positions she had had.”

  Charlie nodded, still very friendly. Those who knew him could have told Selena to beware.

  “As I understand it, someone was retiring as chair of the Mothers’ Union, and people—or rather some people, some parish members—didn’t want Mrs Sheffield to move up from vice-chair and didn’t want her to stay in that position. Is that a fair summary?”

  “I suppose so, though you make it sound so nasty.”

  “I’m sorry. And Mrs Harridance would have liked to take over, is that right? And perhaps have you as her deputy?”

  “Certainly there were some that wanted that—quite a lot, actually. But there was no row. I remember talking it over quite happily with Rosemary in the train when she was on her way back from Scarborough.”

  “Ah—I hadn’t heard about that. Was that when you decided to go to Scarborough yourself?”

  A shade came over her vapid prettiness.

  “Well, no . . . No, I think that was later. I remember meeting Rosemary by chance in the street and asking her where she’d stayed, and thinking that was just the place to take my old mum, who needed a tonic.”

  “She must have recommended it powerfully. And while you were there, you met the boy who later came to work at Pizza Pronto and who confronted Stephen Mills at the church party?”

  She pouted, not very prettily.

  “You say ‘met,’ as if it was a social thing. Actually he was the waiter there.”

  “I know he was. And while you were there you heard a juicy story: that he had been seen coming out of Mrs Sheffield’s bedroom at night.”

  “Of course I never imagined—”

  “And the day you left you heard he’d been sacked.”

  “We met the boy at the station, checking ticket prices, and that’s what he told us. We were so sad.”

  “Right. Now we get to the interesting bit. You didn’t use any of this when you got back to Leeds because you and Mrs Harridance thought that it might boomerang.”

  “That’s most unfair!” said Selena, getting hot and flustered. “I would never have hurt Rosemary, who’s the sweetest person. Who have you been talking to?”

  “That’s neither here nor there.”

  “I’ll never speak to Florrie again!”

  “What interests me is that something changed your mind. When you’d been home a week or so, the rumours started getting around. What was it made you switch tactics?”

  “Nothing! I never spread those stories. If Florrie has told you so, she’s lying.”

  Charlie leaned forward so his face was close to hers.

  “I’m not sure you should try to pin blame on Mrs Harridance. I think you changed tactic because of someone else—someone you told the story to.” Suddenly he saw a purple blush spreading up from her neck, and he added softly, just as speculation: “Pillow talk, perhaps?”

  She broke down at once, taking out a delicate little hankie and a bundle of paper tissues and sobbing into the clumsy, absorbent ball, murmuring things like “You won’t tell?” and “Derek would never forgive me.” Charlie wished he could rid himself of the idea that he was being watched out of the corner of her eye and his reactions estimated. He congratulated himself on the success of his long shot, but he was in no mood to let Selena Meadowes off the hook. He said briskly:

  “There’s no reason why anyone should know if you are totally honest. How did Stephen Mills get to hear about this?”

  “Well, I don’t know—because we haven’t talked about it, how could we?—but I gave my husband some little . . . well, hints about Rosemary and the waiter, and that evening he was going to Rotary, and I think—”

  “I get the message. Coy little jokes about the vicar’s wife having been a naughty girl. I was once told that men make the best gossips, and my experience is that it’s true. What makes you think that was how it was?”

  “The next day we met—Stephen happened to be around when I dropped the children at school. He’d never been there at that time before. And he was very . . . particular. Very warm. And he’d never done more than freeze me before, or sneer, even though I’d . . . well, sort of . . .”

  “You’d sent out signals and he hadn’t responded?”

  “That’s a horrible way of putting it,” she protested. “You . . . people are so crude.”

  Charlie grinned, his teeth glinting terrifyingly.

  “Well then, you’d sent out tiny, ever-so-subtle hints indicating interest, and he pretended he hadn’t registered them.”

  “No. He indicated he had registered them but wasn’t interested. I’ve known him do that to others too.”

  “Whereas now, suddenly, he was all over you. Where was he all over you?”

  “Oh really—you are so . . . He rang that evening, when he knew Derek would be watching the European Cup. Said he’d be at the Quality Inn in Leeds all day the next day, under the name of Cameron Winchell. If I’d care to come along to do secretarial work I’d be very welcome. I could use the name Beryl Bates . . . . I should have been outraged, or pretended to be, but . . .”

  “You went along.”

  Her voice took on a whining tone.

  “I was flattered, and . . . it’s a terribly expensive hotel. Way outside our range. I told the receptionist I was there for secretarial work, like he’d said . . . . We were there from half past ten to when I had to pick the kiddies up from school. He gave me a wonderful time. He had a suite, and we ate lunch there, and we . . . But after lunch he started asking about Rosemary Sheffield.”

  “And you told him all you’d learnt at Scarborough?”

  “Yes. It didn’t seem to matter, somehow, him being a man. And we were in bed, and it was just—well, like you said, pillow talk. But then, when he’d got it all out of me, I was about to swear him to silence—”

  “A bit late, though I don’t suppose earlier would have made any difference.”

  There was silence, then she said in a tiny voice:

  “I don’t think it would. Because before I could say anything, he lay there and said, ‘Very interesting. I owe Rosemary one.’ And I got panicky and said, ‘What do you mean? You’re not to say anything,’ and I went on a bit, and he turned to me and smiled and said, ‘I never let a debt go unpaid. You should remember that. If someone’s done me an injury, I do them one back. That’s nature’s law.’ Then he got up and dressed and told me to do the same.”

  “End of perfect romance.”

  The unlovely pout returned to her lips.

  “You’re horrible . . . but so was it, really. The experience. He made it so clear that he’d got what he wanted, which wasn’t even me, and that was the end of it. He really liked turning the knife, you know. As we were leaving the hotel, in the foyer and before we got to the door, he said, ‘Good-bye Selena, see you around,’ and waved—he did it then so the receptionist would hear. I felt about two feet tall.”

  “If he liked turning the knife,” said Charlie, getting up, “and we’ve other evidence that he did, maybe it’s not surprising that someone took a knife to him.”

  “It wasn’t me!” said Selena eagerly. “I wouldn’t have—I mean it was just an episode. But I was terrified Derek would find out. He would have—”

  She stopped, a horrified expression on her face.

  “Don’t worry,” said Charlie. “Regularly in a murder investigation we hear someone say that someone else would have killed if they’d known. It’s just an expression.”

  Selena nodded. Encouraged, she made a last attempt to make a better impression.

  “I wish you’d understand about . . . what happened—my side of it, anyway. I did find him terribly attractive, had done for ages. I knew I was being unfaithful to Derek, of course I did, but somehow his showing interest was like a fairy tale, an Audrey Hepburn film come true, and it didn’t seem sordid, or mean, but somehow . . . beautiful. I wish I could make you see that.”
/>   “I’ll try,” said Charlie. “But we blacks are so crude.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Scenarios

  “You’ve got a nice new room for your little business,” said the desk sergeant when Charlie arrived back at headquarters. “Very cosy—I think you’ll like it. It’s a sort of miniature United Nations in there.”

  Charlie saw what he meant when he’d been told where the room was and opened the door. Oddie had managed to get six small desks into a medium-sized room, and at them sat six people of various ages and types dictating translations of documents on to tape recorders in a variety of accents.

  “And even so we’ve got two languages we haven’t found translators for yet,” said Oddie. “Azeri and Albanian. I’m not too worried. I’m getting the general picture.”

  “I’m glad about that,” said Charlie, sitting on the edge of a desk. “And what is the general picture?”

  “Settle down and I’ll give it to you . . . . Number 94 was the centre of the other side of Mills’s European activities—as well as a love nest, as we know. It’s a two-bedroom flat, and most of this stuff was tucked away in filing cabinets in the second bedroom. He was good and methodical, thank heavens, so that’s made the job easier. It’s clear that the whole business grew into illegality, so to speak—left the track gradually before taking off into rough country. What started as a perfectly legitimate part of European Opportunities Ltd. began wobbling over during the eighties into something slightly off-colour, first, and then to something absolutely out of order.”

  “During the eighties . . . Was this because of some of the Balkan countries breaking free of the Soviet Union?” Charlie asked.

  “Partly. But the biggest single factor was the rise of gangsterism in the Soviet Union itself. This started with bootlegging when Gorbachev tried to curb vodka consumption—a pretty futile endeavour, by the sound of it. Really it was very much like America during prohibition. Soon the bootlegging snowballed into large-scale crime and profiteering, with rival gangs, hit squads, politicians in the pay of the different groups, and so on. By all accounts that’s the situation today. The gangs have more power than the politicians in some parts of the old Soviet Union.”