"Dave!"
He poked his head back round it.
"And don't forget," I told him, 'knowledge catches crooks."
He nodded and repeated my words. "Knowledge catches crooks. I'll try to remember."
It was the quietest incident room I'd ever been in. For two hours the phone never rang. It looked as if nobody knew I was there. Somewhere there should have been several other officers taking care of the assorted jobs that come with a murder enquiry: control staff, SOCO, liaison officer, correspondence diary, HOLMES expert, et cetera et cetera. It looked as if Mr. Makinson hadn't thought it necessary to tell them that I was taking over. Everything was tied up, and all I had to do was lift the culprit and keep him in cold storage until he returned. I thought about getting annoyed, but decided that life was too short.
I tore the grubby top sheet off a new A4 pad and attacked the pile of reports. Two hours later I decided that Makinson was right. The hot suspect for the doctor's murder was Ged Skinner. There were plenty of side alleys along the trail, and I like to think I'd have taken a longer look down them, but the right answer, as I'd learned at the quiz, is usually the obvious one.
From the reports I discovered that the doctor had been a bit of a lad do on the quiet. He had a girlfriend in every consulting room and a few others besides. There were going to be a lot of distraught females at the funeral, casting sideways looks at each other as they dabbed away the mascara. Then the recriminations would start. What's the collective noun for distraught females, I wondered? An anguish? A wail?
A jealous boyfriend or husband could have shot him, but it wasn't likely. The anger usually surfaces long before the violence does, and we'd have heard about it. There would have been public embarrassment and threats, but the doctor appeared to be as discreet as an undertaker's cough.
The White Rose Clinic was something else. I'd driven by many times, watched it being built. It was just another private hospital, as far as I knew, cashing in on the demise of the NHS. Now I learned that it specialised in cosmetic surgery. Why did the doctor, a Fellow of the Royal College of Gynaecologists, freelance one day per week at a clinic that specialised in cosmetic surgery? My mind went into free fall Maybe I should have taken out that subscription for Cosmopolitan after all.
I found the answer in Nigel's next report. The clinic had a lucrative little sideline. They would, at special request, and only for certain valued clients who complied with their rigorous screening procedure, perform abortions. They didn't advertise this service, and relied on word of mouth to attract custom.
Once again, discretion was the name of the game. There'd been no hate mail, no letter bombs, no noisy protestors outside the gates. The anti-abortion lobby is fanatical and violent, but they didn't know the White Rose Clinic existed.
Ged Skinner was our man, no doubt about it.
I went upstairs and had five minutes with Les Isles, the superintendent in overall charge of the case. He was happy to wait another couple of days to see if Skinner surfaced. If he didn't we'd have a rethink. I was ten minutes late when I read the name of the Tap and Spile's landlord above the door and strolled in.
I'd been in the Tap before. I've been in most pubs at least once. The style was nineteen thirties Odeon: all big open rooms, dark wood and half-tiled walls. A drinking palace, nothing more. Back in the fifties they'd tried ballroom dancing, and the mirrored globe still hung in the middle of the ceiling. Pool tables and a juke box were an impoverished attempt at attracting a newer, younger, clientele. They had the money, these days, and were happy to pay two quid for a bottle of cheap foreign lager and not bother with a glass. Hopefully, it would be a long time before I came in again. I spotted Sparky in a corner contemplating a glass of orange juice and made a drinking gesture as I headed to the bar. He shook his head.
The place was nearly deserted. I ordered a glass of orange juice and soda and told the landlord who I was. "We'd like a word," I said, pointing to where I'd be sitting. He vanished for a few moments and returned with a female sumo wrestler who looked as if she'd been dragged out of hibernation. She stayed behind the bar and he came to join us.
"This is DC Sparkington," I said, and launched straight into it. "We're looking for a man who is known to be a customer of yours. He's about five-six, five-seven, late twenties and a snappy dresser. Three piece suits and a tie. Close cropped hair. He comes in on Thursdays and Fridays and stands at the bar, but we don't think he's been in since before Christmas. Does he ring a bell?"
The landlord nodded. His shirt sleeves were rolled up and his forearms were black with tattoos. "Yeah. I fink I know who you mean," he said.
"Asn't been in for a while, though."
"He was in on Christmas Eve," I said.
"Might 'ave been," he admitted. "Can't be sure. It was 'eaving in 'ere."
"Do you have a name for him?" Sparky asked.
"Nah. I chatted to 'im, like, now and again, if you know what I mean.
You 'ave to, in this job. Never asked 'is name."
"He's called Darryl," I said.
He stroked his stubble with nicotine-stained fingers. "Yeah, now you mention it, I did 'ear someone call 'im Darryl. What's 'e done?"
"Nothing, we hope. You know what we say: just want him to help us with our enquiries. So what can you tell us about Darryl? What did you find out when you had these little chats?"
He tapped the table with the edge of a beer mat, rotating it in his fingers, gathering his thoughts. How much did he ought to tell us? "E was a good bloke," he announced, when he was ready. "I liked 'im. He 'adn't lived in "Eckley long, 'e was finding 'is feet, if you know what I mean."
"Any idea where he came from?" I asked.
"Nah. Never asked."
"Or his second name?"
"Nah, sorry."
"Did he come in a car?"
"Good question. I fink 'e did, sometimes, but now and again 'e'd ring for a taxi, if 'e'd 'ad a skinful, if you know what I mean."
I turned to Dave. "You know what he means by a skinful, don't you?"
"I've heard of it," he said.
"E 'as some funny tastes in booze," the landlord declared.
"Funny? In what way?"
"E kept asking if we 'ad any Benedictine. Said there was nowt like it with a drop of 'of water for keeping t'cold out."
"I'll remember that," Sparky said. "Anything else?"
"Nah, I don't fink so." He studied for a few seconds, his brow furrowed with concentration until enlightenment brightened his face.
"Yeah, there is one fing. I know what 'e does for a living. "E's an estate agent. "E said that if I 'eard of anyone who wanted an 'ouse, or a mortgage, to let 'im know. "E was their man, 'e reckoned."
"An estate agent. That's useful," I said, draining my glass and placing it carefully smack in the middle of its mat. It was time to move up a gear. "According to our information," I told him, 'on Christmas Eve he was chatting up one of your barmaids. Know anything about that?"
The frown returned briefly, but he'd evidently decided to play ball with us. In the balance of things keeping in with the police might be more profitable than Darryl's friendship. "Yeah, that'd be Jan Janet," he replied." "E asked me where she lived; said 'e might walker 'ome, if you know what I mean."
"So what did you tell him?" Sparky asked.
"Ow d'you mean?"
"Did you tell him where she lived?"
"No. Well, yeah. I don't know the number. It's the end 'ouse on Marsden Road, near the light, 'bout five minutes walk from 'ere."
"And you told him that?"
"Yeah, I might 'ave done," he admitted.
Sparky was about to speak again but I raised a finger to silence him.
"Has Janet been in lately?" I asked.
"No, not since that night." He pondered on this, then said: "Ere, they 'aven't run off together, 'ave they?"
"Not that we know of," I told him. "Now we know where she lives we might call on her. Sorry, Dave," I added. "What were you about to say?"
<
br /> Sparky is as tall as me but about four stones heavier. He's probably my closest friend, and I'd hate him for an enemy. He's an archetypal Yorkshireman, with an attitude. He planted his elbows on the rickety table and leaned forward, towards the landlord. "You told Darryl where Janet lived," he stated.
The landlord nodded. "Yeah, I fink I did."
"What else did you tell him?"
"Nowt."
"Nothing? Are you sure?"
"Yeah, 'course I'm sure."
Sparky sat upright again. "Have you ever been to Janet's house," he asked.
The landlord cast a furtive glance at Godzilla behind the bar. She was engrossed in that morning's tabloid. "Er, yeah, a couple o' times," he confessed in a hushed voice.
"Were you invited?" Sparky asked.
"Yeah, well, not exactly."
"You invited yourself round, was that it?"
"No, not exactly. She's all right, is Janet. I like erIt was raining cats an' dogs one night, 'owling down, so I ran 'er 'ome in t'car.
Then I called in a couple o' times on a Monday night. It's dead in 'ere, so I 'ave a night off, if you know what I mean."
Sparky leaned forward again. "Did you," he asked, very slowly, 'ever have sex with her?"
The landlord shook his head. "No."
"But you would have liked to?"
"Yeah, well…" He cast another glance towards the bar. No other words were necessary.
Dave heaved a big sigh and sat up, looking at me. It was my turn. I said: "But you tried? You offered your services?"
"Yeah, well, I fought, you know, she was on 'er own, like, an' I'm as good as, an' everyfing."
"What did she say?"
"She weren't interested. She was good about it, though. Said she preferred to keep fings on a business footing, if you know what I mean."
Good for you, Janet, I thought. "And did you tell Darryl that?" I asked.
The landlord shuffled in his seat, uncomfortable.
"Or," I continued, 'did you just tell him that you'd been round to her house a couple of times and that she'd made you welcome, If you know what I mean? Is that what you did, eh? Make him think that Janet was available for any fucking deadbeat who fancies a screw! Was that it?"
I wanted to take him by the throat and shake him until his eyeballs turned to cheese. I wanted to tell him that thanks to him and his pathetic inadequacies Darryl went round and raped Janet with a Kitchen Devil carver held to her throat, while she was wrapping her daughter's Christmas presents. But I didn't, because I wasn't allowed to.
I felt Sparky's hand on my arm. "Let's go," he said. "We've got all we can here."
Our cars were side by side in the car park. I leaned on the side of mine while Sparky unlocked his door. "Thanks for your help, Dave," I said. "You did well."
"I thought you were going to plant him."
"I meant before that. I think we know a bit more about our friend Darryl, now."
"Except the important stuff, like his surname and his address."
"Yeah, well, maybe Maggie will come up with something."
Dave swung into the driving seat and pulled the belt over his stomach.
"It's odd we don't know him," he said. "I wonder where he comes from?"
"Who? Darryl?"
"Mmm."
"Oh, I know where he comes from."
"You know? How?"
I tapped the side of my head with a forefinger and asked: "Remember the office motto: knowledge is power?"
"I thought it was knowledge catches crooks."
"Sorry, you're right. Knowledge catches crooks."
"So where does he come from?"
"Burnley."
"Burnley!"
"Burnley. As sure as God made Wallace Arnold buses."
Chapter Three
Annabelle rang me that evening. "Before you ask," I told her, "I've had piece of cod from the market, grilled to perfection mmm! with some melted cheese over it, and a few vegetables." Actually it was boil-in-the-bag, but what you don't know can't give you indigestion.
"Well done," she replied. "I'm glad you are eating sensibly, if you are telling the truth."
"Scout's honour. Followed by a big cream bun from the bakery. What about you? How did your evening with Farouk go?"
"Farouk? Who's Farouk?"
"This Egyptian carpet dealer who took you to his restaurant."
"He's Persian, and he's called Xav. I imagine it is short for Xavier.
Actually he's very nice. Older than I expected, but ever so charming."
"I'm jealous already. How was the meal?"
"The meal itself was fine, but I think I may have upset George and Rachel."
"Go on," I laughed.
"Blame it on your Yorkshire forthrightness rubbing off on me…"
"Bluntness," I interrupted. "We call it bluntness."
"Bluntness, then. Poor old Xav asked me what I thought of his lovely new restaurant, so I told him. George looked ever so embarrassed and if looks could kill you'd have an APW out for Rachel. Did I get that right?"
"Ha ha! That's my girl. What did you say?"
"Well, the restaurant is called Omar Khayyam's, rather predictably, and Xav has the contract for a chain of them, attached to something called Luxotel Hotel and Conference Centres. It is supposed to be an alternative dining experience, more up market than the hotel restaurants, to give top businessmen somewhere to impress their more affluent clients."
"I'm impressed already," I said, 'and I haven't even been."
"You would have seen it for what it was," Annabelle assured me. "For a start, I told him that the name was naff. I said it sounded like a take away She giggled at the memory. "Then I criticised the decor. It was all done in pale green and lilacs, what you would describe as a puff's boudoir. I told him that I would have chosen something bolder; perhaps largely white, with black and red panels and gold borders; something with a more Eastern feel."
"Sounds good to me. What did he say?"
"That was the surprising thing. He had a good look around and said he agreed. He wished that he had consulted me earlier. I wondered if he was just being polite, or patronising me."
"Don't be silly," I said. "I've told you before, you have a flair for that kind of thing."
"Then he asked me to suggest another name, before it was too late and he'd had all the signs made. After some thought I said I'd call it Jamshyd's."
"Jamshyds?"
"That's right. He was a Persian king, fabulously wealthy, mentioned in the Rubaiyat."
I said: "As in: "The wild ass stamps o'er his head, and he lies fast asleep"?"
"Mmm, not quite, that was another king. "The lion and the lizard keep the courts where Jamshyd gloried and drank deep," but I'm still impressed."
"Don't be it's the only poem I know. Your version sounds much more appropriate. I'm glad you enjoyed yourself, Annabelle, and it sounds as if you gave them something to think about. So when are you coming home? You know I'll be extremely happy to come and fetch you."
"Ah. That's why I rang." her voice had dropped several tones. "Would you be very disappointed if I stayed down here for the New Year, Charles? Xav rang me earlier today and said he would like to show me the designs for the next restaurant. Apparently it is nearly at the decoration stage and he needs to move fast if he's changing things. He says he will even pay me consultancy fees, would you believe? Do you mind, love? I'll come back if you insist."
What do you say? Do you insist? The words no win situation are not usually anywhere near the tip of my tongue, but right then I couldn't think of a better expression.
"Oh," I said.
"It's only a couple of days. I'll come back on the train, the day after New Year's day."
That was three days. "Er, right," I mumbled. "You'veer caught me off balance. I was looking forward to coming to collect you."
"Oh, I'm sorry if I've upset your plans, Charles, but I really would like to have a go at this. It's a wonderful opportunity."
Bugger my plans, I thought, it's me that's upset. "Yes, I can see that," I told her. "Don't worry about me. You show those experts a thing or two that they couldn't learn at college, and tell me all about it when you come home, eh?"
"I knew you would understand, and you know what they say?"
"What's that?"
"Absence makes the heart grow fonder, of course."
"Of course." And so does lying in each other's arms under a duvet, with the rain blowing soundlessly against the double glazing and Rimsky's Sheherazade playing very low on the CD. And I know which I prefer.
You don't see a suspect for weeks, then two come along at the same time. I was listening to Today on Radio 4, mug of tea in hand, feet on the gas fire, when the phone rang. The Prime Minister was on the radio, delivering his New Year message. Law and Order was high on the priority list again. He was determined to make Britain a safer place for young and old alike. Measures would be announced to curb the increasing tendency towards violence and he promised five thousand more policemen on the beat by the end of next year. I yawned and reached for the phone.
A refrigerated van had drawn up at the end of Ged Skinner's street and a figure answering to his description had leaped down from it, carrying a sports bag, and entered the squat.
"I'll be with you in about twenty minutes," I said.
I was pulling my coat on when the phone rang again.
"Priest."
"It's Maggie, Boss. I didn't want to ring you last night, but I went for a look-round with Janet Saunders and we found Darryl."
"Brilliant! Well done."
"He's called Darryl Buxton, but we've nothing on him."
"Great. Look, Maggie, I'm sorry to cut you off in your finest hour, but I'm on my way to lift the bloke we think did the doctor. You stay with it today, see what else you can find, and I'll have a word with you later. OK?"
"Will do. Good luck."
"Cheers."
The unseasonable weather was changing; the sky clearing and the breeze swinging to the North. I pulled my down-filled jacket out of the closet and swapped the contents of my pockets round. Once I wore it up mountains, but now it was just another winter coat. Outside, the field fares were stuffing themselves with my cotoneaster berries, as if they knew something we didn't.
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