Death Bed

by Leigh Russell

‘It’s quite alright, Mrs Stafford. Nothing’s happened to your husband. I saw him yesterday and he’s fine.’

  ‘I want to see him.’

  ‘He’s in London.’

  ‘London?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve come up from London to see you.’

  ‘Is he in trouble? What’s he done?’

  ‘Mrs Stafford, may I come in? As far as we know for now, your husband hasn’t done anything, but we need you to help us eliminate him from our enquiries so I want to ask you a few questions.’

  ‘I suppose you’d better come in, now you’re here.’

  She led Geraldine into a small neat living room and they sat down.

  ‘Oh, where are my manners? Would you like a cup of tea?’

  ‘No, thank you. I haven’t got much time.’

  ‘Well go on then. What is it you want to know?’

  ‘What sort of a man is your husband?’

  ‘He’s a lovely man.’

  ‘Why did he leave here?’

  ‘It was when he lost his job. He wasn’t the only one,’ Evelyn added quickly. ‘He was head porter at one of the big hotels in York but they made him redundant over a year ago, along with a lot of other staff. The hotel was taken over and as soon as it changed hands they laid-off a third of the staff. My husband did a grand job for them, but they don’t care, do they? One day he was earning good money, what with the tips and all, the next he was out on his ear. On the scrapheap before he reached forty. So he went down South to find work, because a man’s got to do something, hasn’t he? So what’s he got himself involved in? Whatever it is, Robert didn’t do it, I can promise you that. He’s not one to get mixed up in any trouble. He respects the law.’

  She nodded complacently.

  Geraldine stifled a sigh. Her journey to Scarborough was turning out to be a complete waste of time.

  ‘We just need to eliminate him from our enquiries.’

  ‘What enquiries? Has Robert been arrested for something he didn’t do? I knew it was a mistake, him going to London. I knew he’d get himself in trouble.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  Geraldine leaned forward slightly in her chair.

  ‘Has be been in trouble before?’

  ‘No, of course he hasn’t. I told you he’s not one to go getting on the wrong side of the law. But when he lived here he had me to keep an eye on him, didn’t he? A man on his own, in London, there’s no knowing what might happen. He never should have gone. I knew it. He’s been led into trouble, hasn’t he?’

  Geraldine glanced at her watch. She had travelled all this way to learn that Robert Stafford’s wife was still devoted to him.

  ‘Alright, Mrs Stafford,’ she said, making a show of putting away her pad and pen. ‘I’ve made a note of everything you’ve said.’

  ‘And you can tell him - ’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Well, he knows where I am. Just tell him - ’ She hesitated.

  ‘Yes? What is it you want him to know?’

  ‘Tell him he needs to be careful with his diet. He’ll know what I mean.’

  ‘I’ll give him the message,’ Geraldine lied.

  She tried a different tack, leaning forward confidentially.

  ‘Just between us, woman to woman, what’s he really like?’

  Evelyn looked down and folded her arms.

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘Does he ever show any violent tendencies? He’s tall, isn’t he, and strong? I imagine he can be quite intimidating when he loses his temper. He must raise his voice sometimes. Does he ever lose control? Use his fists?’

  Evelyn looked shocked.

  ‘Use his fists? I should think not. What do you take me for? I don’t know what you want me to say, but Robert’s a real gentleman. We’ve been married for nearly ten years and in all that time we’ve never had so much as a cross word. Robert’s not one of your rough types.’

  She sniffed.

  ‘He knows how to treat a woman with respect.’

  ‘And yet he went to London and left you behind,’ Geraldine pointed out, determined to provoke her into some criticism of her husband.

  ‘I told you he had to look for work.’

  ‘And - ?’

  ‘And what?’

  ‘How did he get on?’

  Evelyn shrugged but didn’t reply.

  ‘Why didn’t you go with him?’

  ‘What? To London?’ Evelyn sounded appalled. ‘I can’t think of leaving my mother, not now she’s all on her own. Robert understood. That’s the sort of man he is. And it was better for him to try it on his own. He was hoping to get into the comedy clubs and they work all hours, don’t they?’

  ‘Comedy clubs?’

  ‘Yes. He’s brilliant with his impressions. It’s a gift. He can do all of the film stars. You ask him to show you his Elvis. There’s no one to touch my Robert when it comes to impressions. I told him, he could do that programme on the telly, you know, where they do their impressions of the stars. He did turns at our local, but he wanted to try his luck in London. That’s the place for it all, isn’t it?’

  ‘Are you telling me that in all the time you lived with Robert Stafford you never once saw him lose his temper? Even when he lost his job?’ Geraldine asked, bringing Evelyn back to the question of whether her husband was ever violent.

  ‘He didn’t lose his job. He was made redundant.’

  ‘Didn’t that make him angry?’

  Evelyn shook her head and her brittle curls trembled.

  ‘No, Inspector. That’s not his way.’

  ‘I appreciate you’re keen to show your loyalty, but is there something you’re not telling me? You can talk to me in confidence. Nothing you say will get back to Robert.’

  ‘He’s my husband. Why would I want to tell you anything I wouldn’t tell him?’

  ‘Even though he left you?’

  ‘He hasn’t left me.’

  ‘So you don’t feel he’s abandoned you?’ Geraldine pressed her.

  ‘He’ll be back.’

  ‘After six months without a visit?’

  ‘He’s my husband.’

  ‘Mrs Stafford, do you sympathise with your husband’s political convictions?’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘You are aware that he joined the National Front when he was younger?’

  ‘Did he? That’s politics is it? I can’t say he ever mentioned it, but I’m not one for politics myself. What difference does any of it make to people like us, you tell me that.’

  It was no use trying to wheedle information out of her. Geraldine thanked Evelyn Stafford and gave her a card, urging her to phone the station if she thought of anything else to tell the police.

  ‘That was a complete waste of time,’ she grumbled as she climbed back in the car.

  Evelyn’s devotion to her husband appeared unshakeable but Geraldine wondered if she would have something different to say about him if she was talking to her friends. She might have been too proud to reveal her husband’s true nature to a stranger from the South.

  ‘A complete waste of time,’ she repeated sourly.

  28

  A STRAIGHTFORWARD QUESTION

  Robert Stafford sat down heavily opposite Geraldine and Sam. Pasty-faced and dishevelled, he looked very different from the ebullient man they had met the previous day. There was an unhealthy sheen on his pale forehead and his cheeks were grey with stubble. His hair was no longer arranged in a miserable attempt to conceal his bald pate but hung unkempt and absurdly uneven on either side of his face.

  ‘You don’t look too good, Robert. Rough night was it?’ Geraldine made no effort to hide her satisfaction.

  ‘This is disgraceful! I’ve been here overnight and now you’ve kept me here all day, without any explanation. I demand to see a solicitor.’

  ‘Is there something on your mind you’d like to share with us?’

  He dropped his gaze and sat, shoulders hunched, scowling at the floor. />
  ‘Let’s start at the beginning. We’re in no hurry. We can keep you here for as long as it takes. You told us yesterday you were a regular visitor at the Paradise Parlour.’

  Stafford mumbled something.

  ‘Speak up please.’

  ‘I went there for the massage.’

  ‘Speak up.’

  ‘I went there for the massage,’ he repeated more loudly. ‘It helps with my back problems, and it’s good for relieving stress.’

  ‘I bet it is,’ Geraldine said cynically.

  Stafford glared at her.

  ‘You should try it sometime.’

  ‘You went there to see Jessica Palmer, also known as Jessica Jones.’

  Stafford mumbled again, looking down.

  ‘You’ll have to speak up.’

  ‘I said yes. That’s right. It’s not a crime is it? She gives a good massage.’

  ‘She wasn’t a trained masseuse,’ Sam pointed out.

  Stafford glanced across at the sergeant, irritation showing in his face.

  ‘I can’t help that, can I? I don’t ask to see their qualifications before the treatment.’

  ‘Didn’t it bother you that she was black?’ Geraldine asked.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Jessica was black. Didn’t that bother you? It’s a simple enough question, Mr Stafford.’

  ‘What do you mean, bother me? Why would it bother me? Are you calling me a racist?’

  ‘It seems odd that you would visit a black masseuse given that you were a member of the National Front.’

  ‘Oh my God, that was more than twenty years ago. So what? Didn’t you do stupid stuff when you were a teenager?’

  ‘Are you saying you think joining the National Front is stupid?’

  Stafford considered.

  ‘I’m saying I think politics is stupid.’

  Geraldine returned to the victim.

  ‘Tell us about your relationship with the black masseuse, Jessica.’

  ‘There was no relationship.’

  ‘You saw her regularly.’

  ‘Her - or one of the other girls. It made no difference to me. She was just one of the girls there. There was nothing special about Jessica. Nothing going on.’

  ‘That’s not what we heard.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘We were told you used to ask for Jessica. She was a good looking girl.’

  Stafford didn’t answer.

  Geraldine put a photograph of Jessica on the table in front of him.

  ‘That’s Jessica, isn’t it?’

  ‘It looks like her.’

  ‘She doesn’t look like that any more.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  He scowled up at Geraldine without raising his head.

  ‘Jessica’s dead, Robert.’

  ‘What happened to her?’

  ‘You tell me. Her face is a real mess now. Black eyes, broken nose - ’

  ‘What? You don’t think I did that to her?’

  He stared at Geraldine, his eyes wide in astonishment. She thought it was genuine.

  ‘I never touched her. I swear to God I never touched her. This is crazy.’

  ‘When did you last go to the Paradise Parlour?’

  Stafford shook his head and wiped the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve.

  ‘I want a lawyer.’

  ‘It’s a straightforward question.’

  Geraldine raised her voice.

  ‘When did you last visit the Paradise Parlour?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘I want a lawyer. I’m entitled. And I want to make a phone call. And - ’

  ‘Take him away and call the duty brief,’ Geraldine said. ‘Interview suspended.’ She smiled at Sam. It was past the end of both their shifts, but neither of them wanted to go home yet.

  ‘When did you last visit the Paradise Parlour?’ Geraldine resumed when the solicitor arrived.

  ‘I don’t know. A few weeks ago. I can’t remember exactly. I don’t keep a diary.’

  ‘You saw Jessica Palmer there?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Speak up please.’

  ‘Yes. I saw her.’

  ‘And then you suddenly stopped going to the Paradise Parlour, just when Jessica Palmer disappeared.’

  ‘Now there’s a coincidence,’ Sam commented.

  She turned to Geraldine.

  ‘Only we don’t set much store by coincidences, do we?’

  ‘Why did you stop going there?’ Geraldine insisted.

  Stafford looked at his lawyer before answering.

  ‘I told you, I went there when my back was playing up.’

  ‘You went there regularly, every week, and then you just stopped going because your back suddenly stopped playing up?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve told you. I went there for a while and then I stopped. I didn’t need the massage any more.’

  ‘Come on, Robert, you’ll have to do better than that. Why did you stop going to the Paradise Parlour? There must have been a reason.’

  ‘My client has already answered your question,’ the solicitor put in, his voice dry and indifferent.

  ‘You stopped going because you knew Jessica wouldn’t be there any more.’

  ‘That’s not true.’

  Stafford glanced frantically at the solicitor who was gazing at the table.

  ‘I went there for a massage when my back was hurting, and that’s all.’

  ‘Your back hurt every Tuesday in June and July?’ Sam asked.

  ‘I already told you, it’s an old rugby injury. Weekly massage relaxes the muscles and relieves the tension. It just happened to be Tuesdays that I went. It could have been any day but Tuesdays fitted my work rota. And when my back wasn’t aching any more I stopped going. I would have gone if I’d needed to but there’s no point paying for a massage when you don’t need one is there? I’m not made of money.’

  ‘What had Jessica done to annoy you? Or was it something she refused to do for you?’

  ‘My client has already answered that question,’ the lawyer replied.

  ‘Does your wife know about your visits to the Paradise Parlour?’ Geraldine asked.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your wife. I met her yesterday.’

  ‘Evelyn?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is she here?’

  Stafford looked over his shoulder as though he half expected to see his wife march into the room, brandishing a bottle of prune juice.

  ‘Does she know about your relationship with Jessica?’

  ‘There is no relationship,’ he replied, his voice rising in frustration. ‘She’s just a girl who works in the massage parlour.’

  He gazed at the photograph that Geraldine had put on the table.

  ‘Or she was,’ he added quietly. ‘The last time I saw her she gave me my usual treatment. I paid up and I left and I haven’t seen her since. I can’t say she’s so much as crossed my mind. I’m sorry to hear she’s dead but it’s nothing to do with me.’

  Stafford looked at the solicitor who sat stony-faced at his side.

  ‘Why am I here?’

  He waved his arm around the room and turned back to Geraldine.

  ‘Why the hell do you want to pin this on me? Are you telling me I’m her only client? Like I said, I’m sorry to hear the girl’s dead but I had nothing to do with it. Why would I? She’s nothing to me. Nothing. Now, I’d like to go home.’

  He shut his mouth and folded his arms as though to signal that he wasn’t going to say another word.

  ‘Charge my client or release him,’ the solicitor said, brisk for the first time.

  ‘Yes, you can go - for now,’ Geraldine replied, too tired to push any longer for a confession. ‘But don’t leave the area.’

  ‘We’ll be speaking to you again very soon,’ Sam added.

  Stafford muttered angrily under his breath.

  29

  THE DEVIL’S FACE

  Peter made his
way slowly down to the towpath. The rain had given over and he liked to spend time on a bench beside the canal, watching the occasional boat glide past. It was a pleasant spot to sit and contemplate, as long as the rain held off. He wasn’t hungry yet but would probably go along to the homeless shelter later on for something to eat. As he had expected, it was deserted down by the canal. The footpath came to an abrupt end by the entrance to the tunnel where the waterway went underground. Few people ventured this far along the path so the last bench was usually free. Peter’s blistered feet stung like hell as he limped up to it, sat down and scoured the path for cigarette butts. Spotting one he leaned forward, picked it up delicately between his forefinger and thumb and brushed it against his trouser leg. He lit up and leaned back puffing contentedly. After a while he pulled an almost empty can of lager from the pocket of his raincoat and flung his head back to down the last dregs. Then he stood up and, with a furtive glance towards a narrow boat moored on the opposite side of the canal, tossed the can into the bushes behind the bench.

  There was no one about as Peter shuffled to the end of the path to take a piss in the undergrowth at the foot of the tunnel wall. As he relieved himself he glanced up the slope and spotted a pile of clothes someone had chucked from the top of the spiral stairs down onto the weedy slope that ran alongside the brick wall. It was rare for boats to go in or out of the tunnel, and he was invisible from every angle, hidden below the wall and the overhanging trees. In any case, it wasn’t a crime to investigate a pile of rubbish someone had chucked away. He scrambled over the low lip, one brick high, at the bottom of the staircase and clung to the cold metal railing as his foot caught in a tangle of ivy on the ground. Avoiding thick nettles he reached out for the clothes and froze, one arm extended. The devil’s face was staring up at him from the weeds, black with white staring eyes.

  Letting out a yell, Peter leapt down onto the path and charged back past the bench, the blisters on his feet forgotten. He was racing along so fast he almost barged straight into a man jogging towards him. A young woman was running at his side and Peter nearly shoved her into the canal.

  ‘Oi, watch out!’ the man shouted angrily as he swerved to one side.

  ‘The devil’s here, I saw the devil,’ Peter babbled, seizing the man by the shoulders.

  ‘There, by the tunnel, it’s the devil.’