Mortal Taste

by J M Gregson

  Jane let them go with no more than a nod of thanks for the warning about her daughter.

  She told herself that she had always known it would come to this, in the end. She should have listened to Steve from the start. He had always said that they should tell the police about their affair, acknowledge that they had a motive for murder, and then defy the police to find the evidence to arrest them.

  She dialled his number hastily now. ‘They know!’ she said. It was the only phrase she could get out.

  Sixteen

  Mark Lindsay didn’t want to face the wrath of the man in black again. He decided he must push the drugs harder. And more often. He would make a start right away, on this Saturday night.

  But life immediately provided a diversion. Life, Mark was beginning to learn, was like that. The girl he had been forced to snub on the previous night turned up at Shakers ten minutes after his early arrival and beamed at him. She had not, after all, been irreparably insulted. She seemed, on the contrary, more friendly than ever. Perhaps she had thought he was playing hard to get.

  Mark Lindsay was still inexperienced enough to speculate about the female psyche.

  Her name was Ellie Peters. She was blonde, with small, pretty features, a smile which lit up her unlined face, and curves beneath her dress that had Mark suppressing a groan of desire. All these delights in one small, exquisitely female person, and she was speaking to him.

  ‘Didn’t think you’d be here again tonight,’ she said. ‘You must be a rich man to come to this place twice in a weekend.’ It was all she could think of to say. To Mark it sounded like the epitome of wit, the kind of thing those French women had set up salons to hear in centuries past.

  He said, ‘Oh, I have my moments, you know. And I’m glad I made the effort, now that I see you here again.’ It was almost a witty riposte; he was very nearly at ease, making conversation with this goddess.

  It was easier than he had thought possible. In a few minutes they were dancing, on a floor which was still uncrowded because it was early in the evening. And when the dance was over she said she had enjoyed it. Mark could scarcely reply: he was still trying to memorize every movement of her sinuous body, ready for instant recall in his later erotic fantasies.

  He had always felt at a disadvantage when his fellows, newly arrived in the sixth form with him, enlarged upon their sexual conquests. He decided now that on Monday he would merely smile quietly and enigmatically when the moment came, keeping his own counsel. He would not demean Ellie by boasting about her soft flesh and what he had achieved with it. He was such a gentleman at heart, as his mother had always said.

  He had never been alone with anyone so enchanting before, never made conversation with a really pretty girl like this for so long. Mark, who played second violin in the school orchestra, thought that this must be what it was like to be a soloist. You had to concentrate for every second, were exposed on all the high notes. It was almost a relief when Ellie Peters said she was going to the ladies’ cloakroom.

  It was whilst she was away that he saw the man in black at the other end of the room. Standing there watching him. Like a ghost. Come here to whet his almost blunted purpose. That was Hamlet, which Mark had just started to study for A level and didn’t understand at all. Well, he understood that bit well enough now, at any rate.

  He shot off to the gents, stationed himself near the door. As luck would have it, two of his customers from school came in as soon as he had taken up his post. They renewed their order for grass, but turned down his suggestion of coke or horse. They couldn’t afford it, full stop. He agreed that the exchange for the cannabis would take place in school on Tuesday morning, when they all had a free period.

  There was the faint, sweet smell of cannabis from one of the cubicles. Mark waited until the man came out and went across to the washbasins for a desultory rinse of his hands. ‘Quiet tonight,’ said Mark.

  The man agreed that it was. They watched each other warily in the big mirror over the basins as he dried his hands, as if to look directly at each other would imply more commitment than either wanted to admit to at this stage.

  Mark recognized him. Although he did not know his name, he had seen him here before. The youth was perhaps two years older than Mark, but he hadn’t attended Greenwood School; perhaps he had been a public schoolboy at the Cheltenham School for Boys. In which case he would have plenty of money. And he was already a user of pot. Mark put him down as a promising prospect. He was desperate to say something before the prosperous young man should turn and leave him. He forced a smile and said, ‘It’s so quiet here tonight that you need something to liven it up, don’t you think?’

  The older boy smiled briefly, and Mark realized with a shaft of surprise that he was as nervous as he was. The youth suddenly pulled out a comb from his back pocket and slicked it unnecessarily through his neatly parted brown hair. He addressed Mark’s image in the mirror: ‘You offering to provide something?’

  ‘Spliffs,’ said Mark promptly. Then, when his elder didn’t react, he said hurriedly, ‘There’s other stuff available as well if you want it. Good-quality stuff. Coke and horse and – and LSD if you want it.’ It had all tumbled out too hurriedly, making him into too eager a seller, but you never knew when you were going to be interrupted, he told himself.

  The well-dressed youth had sensed his nervousness now. He smiled, took his time, prepared himself to patronize this eager young seller. ‘Grass will do nicely, for the present, thank you. What’s your price?’

  ‘Twenty quid for thirty spliffs,’ said Mark. ‘And it’s good quality, as I said. You won’t—’

  ‘I can get them cheaper in the precinct,’ said the older man. ‘You’ll have to do better than that to beat my regular supplier.’ There was no such being, but he divined correctly that Mark was anxious to make a sale, too anxious to haggle for long about the price.

  They settled on fifteen quid for the thirty spliffs, which left Mark a very slender margin of profit. But he told himself he had made a new customer, that he was developing new markets, as he had been bidden by the man in black. He said hopefully, ‘And you’ll give serious consideration to whether you’d like some of the harder stuff. I can even do Rohypnol, you know.’

  ‘Can you, indeed? In that case, I shall give the matter “serious consideration” as you suggest.’ The youth inspected his reflection again, then turned away from the mirror and smiled mockingly down into the eager young face. ‘But that’s all for today, thank you.’

  ‘I’m here every week. Tell your friends I can supply good stuff at competitive rates, won’t you?’ But Mark found that he was reciting his sales spiel to a door which was shutting slowly in his face on its automatic spring.

  At least it was a sale. And he had acquired a new customer, a man who might bring other clients in his wake, in due course. He had sold at too low a price, but he would regard it as a loss leader, designed to expand his markets and bring the punters in. He liked that word ‘punters’. He would try to think of his future customers as punters from now on: the very sound of the word would make him feel superior to them.

  Mark went back and talked to Ellie, had another dance, bought her a Coke with lordly generosity. The club was filling up to its full Saturday night capacity now. In between the bouts of noisy music, people greeted each other and moved across the floor to form tight little groups among the rising tide of enjoyment. Mark was part of one of them. With Ellie by his side among eight of his peers from the sixth form, the world was a happy place. He felt more than adequate now to cope with the world, empowered by his secret status as a dealer.

  He saw the man in black once more at the other end of the room, his face appearing and disappearing behind the mass of gyrating bodies. Mark watched anxiously for another sighting of his supplier, but there was none, and after another half hour he was convinced that he was gone. The thought lifted his spirits. Even when Ellie was carried off to dance with one of his friends, she kept smiling reassuringly at him as
she tapped her feet and writhed her body to the rhythm, emphasizing to him that she was his girl now, that he could safely let her out of his keeping for a few minutes.

  He went off to the main toilets at the other end of the big room. He arrived there as the dance finished and the crowds flocked in, exchanging noisy views on girls, the afternoon’s football results, and life in general. Mark went and sat in one of the cubicles, waiting for the insistent thump of the music to begin again on the other side of the wall, listening to the crowd thinning in the tiled room outside the door with its scratched obscenities.

  He had judged it right. Only a couple of youths who were even younger than he was were in the toilets now, and they left without a curious glance at Mark Lindsay, who stood with his back to them, watching them surreptitiously in the mirror.

  A moment later, a man came into the cloakroom, looked briefly around it, then pulled a spliff from his shirt pocket, lit it, and puffed out a long, appreciative breath. Only then did he pay any attention to Mark, as if he was noticing him for the first time. ‘Good stuff, this. The world seems a better place, when you look at it through a haze of pot smoke!’

  Mark smiled back at him. ‘You’ve got it right there, mate!’ This man was older than his previous customer, and much less smooth. He had tight blue jeans and a Next shirt which had seen better times. He hadn’t shaved for a couple of days at least, and the stubble was black and thick upon his chin and the neck beneath, emphasizing the brightness of the gold ring in his ear. He was perhaps six or seven years older than Mark, but friendly enough, and probably with money: despite his clothing, he carried the air of confidence that usually went with money.

  He looked the kind who might be in the market for the heavier stuff, for the Class A drugs that Mark knew he had to push to make himself big money. And he seemed in no hurry to leave. Mark determined to pitch his spiel more carefully to these promising ears.

  He said as casually as he could, ‘Happy with your supplier, are you?’

  ‘I might be. Might not. You in the market?’

  Mark smiled. ‘Supply you with as much of that stuff as you want, mate. Do you a good price, as well.’

  The man pursed his lips, scratched his chin a little to play for time, his nails rasping against the black stubble. But Mark could see he was interested. The thin face looked at the open doors of the cubicles, reassuring itself that there were no hidden witnesses to this. ‘I’m ready to buy, but I can get pot any time I want. Do any of the harder stuff, do you?’

  It was almost too good to be true. Mark forced himself to pause for a moment, looking round the room cautiously as the man beside him had done, though he was well aware that they were alone. ‘I can do the lot, mate. Coke, horse, LSD, Ecstasy.’ He grew expansive, leaned a little nearer to his man, fancied he smelt the sweat upon him, felt a further lift from that. ‘You name it, mate, and we can do it. Good stuff at good prices.’

  The man’s eyes flashed his excitement. They glittered blue in the swarthy face. ‘How much is the horse?’

  ‘Hundred and ten pounds a gram. Good stuff mind, not rubbish! Five grams for five hundred pounds.’

  He’d left himself a few pounds to barter with, so that the man could feel he’d beaten him down, got himself a bargain. But the chin nodded acceptance as the blue eyes narrowed craftily. ‘You do Rohypnol?’

  Mark was almost enjoying it now. Perhaps he was a natural salesman after all. Maybe in a few years he’d be doing well for himself in something more legitimate – selling Jaguar cars or expensive furniture perhaps. But he must concentrate on closing a deal here. He let his lips frame a soundless whistle at the mention of the date-rape drug. ‘We can do it, mate, but it will cost. Doesn’t come cheap, Rohypnol – but then, look what it can do for you with the girls!’

  Mark’s attempt at a conspiratorial leer was not all that successful, but he was pleased to see his companion nodding at the thought. Mark moved a little nearer to the ear with the gold ring, preparing to clinch a deal on the hard drugs, where the big profits were.

  But it was his ear into which the words were breathed. There was an agonizing flash of white pain through his head as his arm was twisted high into his back. Then the words gushed in a rapid stream into his ear: ‘I arrest you on suspicion of attempting to deal in Class A drugs. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on for your defence in court. Anything you do say will be recorded and may be given in evidence.’

  Mark Lindsay scarcely heard the last of the words. He was conscious only of the agony in his arm, of the searing pain which seemed to go from his arm through his shoulder blades and up into his head. He gasped, ‘You’re breaking my arm, mate!’

  The voice was harsh in his ear now; he felt the bristles like wire against his neck. ‘On the contrary, there are another two inches to go to break it. We’ll move out of here quietly now. Any attempt to get away and I will break this arm, for sure. You’re well and truly nicked. Mate!’

  The man moved him through the main room of the club almost at a trot, with his left arm still held against his back in a grip of steel. Just before he went out into the cold dark of the night, Mark caught a glimpse of Ellie Peters’ pretty, astonished face.

  He tried to smile reassuringly at her, but failed totally.

  Seventeen

  Sunday morning is normally a quiet time in police stations. The Saturday night drunks have mostly been sent on their way, charged or uncharged, and apart from the odd weekend ‘domestic’, the station sergeant does not expect to be much troubled.

  It is very rare indeed for an attractive young woman to present herself on a Sunday morning and say she has valuable information to divulge. The desk sergeant pushed aside his mug of tea and his Sunday Sport and prepared to give this member of the public a model display of police diligence. He was quite disappointed when he found that she was a candidate for CID attention. He took her through reluctantly to where Detective Inspector Rushton sat at his computer.

  A less conscientious officer than DI Rushton might not have been there at all at 9.20 a.m. on a Sunday. But Chris had not found himself another partner since his divorce, and the neat but sterile little flat he was now forced to inhabit was a lonely place, though he did not care to admit that to his fellow officers. Loneliness tended to make a man conscientious.

  She was small and very pretty, in a healthy, buxom sort of way. She was a natural blonde, with shoulder-length golden hair and a fresh, unlined complexion. She had never been in a police station before. When the magic word ‘murder’ ushered her straight through into CID and set her in front of a hastily rising DI Rushton, she was a little disconcerted by the place.

  She was bubbly and cheerful by nature, and she knew enough of life by now to understand that these were attractive qualities to the opposite sex, so she did not normally curb them. But early on Sunday morning in a police station, she found herself a little subdued.

  To Chris Rushton her confusion was rather fetching. He explained to her about how murder rooms were set up, about the machinery of a murder investigation, about forensic laboratories, about how anything which might eventually prove to be an exhibit in court had to be carefully labelled and enclosed in polythene.

  If there had been other people around, Chris would have been brisk and efficient, even impatient with his visitor. But now he took his time, trying to give the girl confidence as that annoyingly successful Bert Hook might have done. He found it an unexpectedly enjoyable process.

  Statistically – and no one knew his statistics better than DI Rushton – there was every chance that this enchanting Sunday morning presence would be nothing more than a time-waster: most people who volunteered information in a murder investigation were no more than that. But this might just be the exception, and it came packaged in a wholly diverting form.

  The girl took the initiative herself in the end. ‘You must wonder why I’ve come here. Well, I’ve had a sl
eepless night again. I decided I couldn’t keep quiet about this any longer.’

  ‘That’s usually much the best course. If it proves to have nothing to do with the victim’s death, we shall be discreet.’ Chris smiled encouragement to mitigate the formality of phrases he had used many times before. ‘May I have your name and address, please?’

  ‘Liza Allen. I work at the school where Peter Logan was the headmaster.’

  ‘At Greenford Comprehensive? But all the teaching staff have given us statements. I don’t recall—’

  ‘That’s just it. I’m not teaching staff. I’ve been expecting someone to ask me for a statement but no one has been near me so far.’

  ‘What do you do at the school?’

  ‘I’m a lab assistant. In the science laboratories.’

  Chris typed the information rapidly on to his computer screen. He said in his most avuncular manner, ‘Now, Liza, you must have something you think is going to be useful to us, or you wouldn’t—’

  ‘Peter was coming to see me, on the night he died. I live near the park where he was killed. Three streets away. Not more than three hundred yards from where . . .’ She was suddenly in tears, and they came not just without warning but in floods, shaking her whole frame, shuddering the top of the blonde head as it fell forward, making Chris yearn to spring from his chair and put his arm tenderly round the trembling shoulders.

  He did no such thing, of course. He said stiffly, ‘What makes you think that, Miss Allen?’

  She looked up at him as if he had accused her of murdering the man herself. ‘I don’t think it, I know it! He’d arranged it the day before, then he rang me at lunch time from Birmingham to confirm it.’

  ‘You were lovers?’

  ‘Yes. Of course we were!’