"Did you pay cash for the car, sir?" Nigel asked. The enthusiasm had gone from his voice.
"No," the pharmacist replied. "We drew up a contract and I pay him monthly. It was actually his idea said there was no point in paying exorbitant interest charges. He was terribly decent about the whole thing. And trusting. To tell the truth, I was a bit taken aback by him. If I'd been in his shoes I wouldn't have been so trusting, I can tell you."
I said: "Maybe he was a good judge of character Mr. Weatherall."
The chemist nodded and said: "Presumably I'll have to keep making the payments into his estate."
"I would imagine so."
"Ah, well."
"The trustees will probably be in touch with you."
"We did find some regular deposits in the doctor's bank account that we couldn't explain," Nigel told him. "Presumably they were from you?"
"Probably," he replied. "I transfer three hundred pounds a month to him, sometimes a bit more, if I can afford it."
"Right, well, I think that clears that up nicely," Nigel conceded. He turned to me. "Do you have any further questions, Mr. Priest?"
"No." I shook my head. "As you said, I think that clears things up, er, very nicely, thank you."
"In that case, thank you for your assistance, Mr. Weatherall."
On the stairs I casually asked him where he'd been at eight thirty on the night in question, "Just to complete our record of the interview, sir." He and his wife had been working at the new house all evening. I resisted slamming Nigel's car door but yanked the seat belt tight.
Nigel rattled numbers into his mobile phone as I watched two young girls walk by. They looked about fifteen but must have been twenty and had six kids between them: two infants in buggies, two toddlers pulled along by hand and two older ones following behind.
Nigel folded the phone and started the car engine.
"Tell me the news," I invited.
"It's a white Lotus Elan, owned by A.J.K. Weatherall of Sweetwater, Heckley. Previous owner: Dr. CD. Jordan, also of Heckley. Shit!"
"And botheration," I added. "Back to the station, please, driver, let's have an early night."
"Sorry, Boss," he said.
"Nothing to apologize for, my young friend. It had to be investigated."
I closed my eyes and dozed as we drove back, the heater blowing on to my legs and the weak winter sunshine flickering across my eyes. It was my antidote for disappointment. I pretended I was lying on a sun bed on a Caribbean beach and felt curiously content. I went to Heckley Grammar School. I was school captain, too, about fifteen years before the doctor had that honour.
"What's making you smile?" I heard Nigel say, above the whisper of the breeze in the palm trees.
"Oh, I'm just daydreaming."
"What about?"
"I was wondering what toffee-flavoured condoms are like."
Chapter Seven
On my way home I called in at Marks and Spencer's and bought two new shirts it was easier than ironing and stocked up with ready meals. The travel agent next door was still open, so I collected brochures for Italy, Kenyan safaris and, as an afterthought, cruises.
Annabelle and I needed a holiday. I'd love to have taken her to Kenya, but the memories might be too bittersweet for her. She married a missionary worker there when she was still very young, but he couldn't resist the temptations of the Happy Valley set. They made a fresh start back over here and found happiness of a sort, until he died of cancer.
A week in Florence doing the galleries, followed by a walking tour in the Dolomites, sounded just perfect, but would mean waiting until the weather was warmer. I'd leave the brochures with her on Friday, see what she thought.
Sparky interviewed the residents of Canalside Mews and came away with lots of ideas about salt-water aquariums and integrated hi-fi systems but nothing that helped in the hunt for the doctor's killer. He even talked to Darryl Buxton, but managed to keep the two cases isolated from each other. Darryl had been out at the time of the shooting, he said, with his secretary. They had, Darryl told him, "Something going, know what I mean?"
Two residents had heard a bump or a bang that could have been a gunshot, which gave us an accurate time of death. We place great importance on knowing the exact time of death. In the absence of the name of the trigger-puller, knowing the precise moment that the trigger was pulled is a small victory over ignorance. The doctor kept himself to himself, everybody said, and no strangers had been seen hanging around. It was all in the original reports and now we had it twice.
I talked to the staff at the White Rose Clinic. When I first started grammar school my father had just been made sergeant and we moved to Leeds for a while. I used to come home via the city centre and would often make a diversion through the various department stores. More and more often I found my route taking me past the perfumery counters. The ladies who sold Clinique, in their high-collared white tunics and immaculate make-up, were my favourites. I remembered all this when I first saw the White Rose's receptionist.
Her hair was pulled tightly back, but she had the features to carry it.
The eyelashes looked like two black widow spiders and her teeth out-dazzled the uniform. I pulled my stomach in and flashed my ID like there was an intruder on the premises and I had a.357 Magnum in my belt that hadn't been used for two days and I was scared of it growing rusty.
"My name's Priest," I said, 'from Heckley CID. I have an appointment with Dr. Barraclough."
She smiled and tapped a number into a state-of-the-art communications system. I mentally filled in an MFH report on her: five-three, forty-five, hundred and twenty pounds, and stunning with it, in spite of the heavy make-up. She could have saved herself fifty minutes in front of the mirror every morning and still given the odd cardiac arrest to the clinic's male visitors. Her shoulders were like an American foot baller but they may have come with the uniform. The name badge said: "Cicely Henderson, Receptionist'.
"There's Mr. Priest to see you, Dr. Barraclough," she said into a microphone the size of a toothbrush.
The foyer of the clinic was all exposed brickwork, but it looked good.
Chinese rugs were scattered around and a huge shaggy collage hung on a wall, depicting a stylised moorland scene, with mill chimneys in the valleys with smoke streaming from them. The artist must have done that bit from memory. The heating was high, which is always a sign of prosperity.
"Would you like to take a seat, Mr. Priest," she said. "Dr.
Barraclough will be with you in a moment."
I preferred to lean on her desk. "How many reception staff are there, Mrs. Henderson?" I asked.
"Two of us full-time, and two part-timers who cover the weekends," she replied.
"So do you and the other person work different shifts?"
"Yes. We cover from eight in the morning to ten at night."
I was about to say that I'd like a word with her later when a door opened and Dr. Barraclough, Medical Director, swept into the foyer.
"Inspector…" he greeted me, hand extended.
He was wearing a suit that was just a tone too blue, white shirt and complementary striped tie. His hair was a fraction longer than respectable and greying to order at the temples. He could have stepped straight off the set of a Northern Upholstery commercial.
The hand might have been a musician's or a surgeon's, with long, perfectly manicured fingers. I tried not to crush them, although I suspected his livelihood had long-since ceased to depend on them.
"Dr. Barraclough," I said. "Thanks for seeing me at such short notice."
He led me to his office after asking Cicely to make us two coffees, if she didn't mind. "The decent stuff," he added, with a wink.
Her look said that for him she'd gladly have fetched it herself from Brazil, walking all the way with one stiletto heel missing.
The office was tidy and hi-tech, as I'd expected. A photo frame stood on his desk but I could only see the back of it No doubt it helped him resist the temptati
ons of his position and gave off a signal to predators. His window looked up the moor, towards Blea Fell, our local hill.
"Nice view," I said, accepting his invitation to sit down "It is, isn't it? Some of us jog to the top three times a week."
"Really? I'm impressed."
"But I'm not one of them," he added, smiling at his own joke.
"Oh."
"I believe you said your predecessor had broken his leg while skiing, Inspector."
"Yes, I'm afraid so. I've read his reports but I find the personal approach more useful."
"I can understand that. We were all devastated by Clive's Mr. Jordan's death. He was one of the best obs and gynae surgeons in the business and one of the finest human beings I've ever known. The Lord truly moves in mysterious ways How can I help you, Inspector?"
I'd just noticed the tiny crucifix in his lapel. "I believe," I said, 'that you perform abortions here?"
"We do, Inspector, but do not confuse that by assuming we approve of them. Nobody approves of abortion. It is wrong, full stop. However, the issue is not as simple as that. I'm sure you know the arguments, but to fast forward to the bottom line, the attitude of the White Rose Clinic is to be in favour of giving the prospective mother the informed choice of either continuing with the pregnancy or having a termination.
Ultimately, it is between her and God, or her conscience. We create a safe, non-judge mental environment in which she can reach a decision, and supply all the counselling and medical support she needs. We consider this to be a responsible approach to a very difficult situation."
Perhaps, I thought. "And Dr. Jordan actually performed the terminations?" I suggested.
"Yes, he did."
"So how many would he do?"
"Most of our other clients are with us for two, sometimes three, days.
We work to a cycle which means most beds are available on Wednesdays and Saturdays, which is when we perform the terminations. The usual figure is somewhere between a dozen and… oh, as many as twenty on a Wednesday, with perhaps six or eight on a Saturday."
Cicely came in with the coffee and returned the smile I gave her. This time I decided to indulge myself, and used the cream and sugar.
I quizzed the doctor about the workings of a private clinic. He was helpful and completely at ease with the situation. The cosmetic surgery was usually done on Mondays and Thursdays, by surgeons moonlighting from other hospitals, although he didn't use that word.
He'd moved into administration early in his career, after finding that "It was all something over nothing," he said, his brow furrowed with concentration, 'but I can't remember the details. It was completely unfounded, I can assure you of that. We'd just opened, and Clive had been highly recommended to us, then this happened, at the General. It put a bit of a cloud over him for a few weeks, but it all blew over.
Your best bet will be to ask at the General they'll tell you all about it."
"If I can find someone to ask," I said. "If I can cut through all the red tape. If I can find someone who doesn't start telling me about confidentiality. There are ways of extracting information from institutions like the General, Dr. Barraclough, but like I said, I prefer the personal approach. I'd be very grateful if you could give me a head start."
"Yes, I know what you mean, but I'm sure it was all a storm in a teacup."
"It might not have been a storm in a teacup to the complainant."
"You mean someone might have borne him a grudge?"
"Something like that."
"Could you leave it with me, Inspector? You're quite right, there was something, a few days after he joined us, but it all blew over. I'd forgotten all about it but it should be in there, somewhere. My secretary is off today, but I'll ask her to dig out Clive's file, first thing in the morning, if that's OK?"
"That will be fine. I'll look forward to hearing from you and thanks for your cooperation."
I went down the short corridor that led back to the foyer. I thought about standing there and yelling: "Step forward everybody that Clive Jordan was shagging!" but decided it might be against Dr.
Barraclough's guidelines, and I didn't want anyone killed in the stampede. I'd have to do it the hard way.
Mrs. Cicely Henderson was not one of the names I'd highlighted, but I decided to start with her. I like to keep my methods flexible.
"Thanks for the coffee," I said.
"You're welcome," she replied. "Was Dr. Barraclough able to help you?"
"Yes, he was. And he's given me permission to talk to all the staff, so I've decided to start with you." I gave her my lopsided grin and just knew her legs were turning to jelly Some of her make-up had rubbed off on to the edge of her tunic's mandarin collar. She'd have to have a fresh clean one every day, eye-squinting white and crisp as an iceberg lettuce. I wondered what she was like at ironing shirts I told her about Makinson' sbroken leg, just to be friendly and explained that I was doing follow-up interviews. Someone had spoken to her early in the enquiry, but she'd said that she rarely saw the doctor and had heard no scurrilous gossip about him.
"How often did you see him?" I asked.
"Just once a week, when he came in on a Wednesday ' "Did you speak to him?"
"He'd stop here for a moment and ask me how I was that's all."
"I get the impression that he was a bit of a charmer' "Yes, he was, if you like that sort of thing."
"A ladies' man?"
"Yes, I'd say so."
"You're an attractive woman," I stated. "Did he ever approach you?
Chat you up? Invite you out?" I gave myself a small pat on the back for slipping the compliment in and making it sound like a professional observation She looked uncomfortable and might even have blushed under the make-up.
"N-No," she stuttered, meaning yes.
"You don't seem sure."
"Well, it doesn't seem right, talking about the dead when they can't defend themselves."
"The doctor was murdered, Mrs. Henderson," I reminded her. "It's my job to defend him, by tracking down his killer. If you know something that isn't in your previous statement you'd better tell me right now."
She sighed and said: "Right."
I was standing at her desk and there was no handy chair for me to pull closer. "Come and sit over here," I said, and walked across to a small sofa.
She sat down next to me and crossed her legs. Her tights were the same shade as the pancake mix on her face. "That's better," I said. "Now what do you want to tell me?"
"About four years ago," she began. "Clive Mr. Jordan invited me out.
I'd left my husband about three years earlier and was still off men. He was very persistent but I kept saying no. Then he stopped asking me."
"Right," I said. "Right. Thank you. He must have been very disappointed."
"There's more."
"Oh. Go on, then."
"As I said earlier, two of us work full-time on reception. This week I'm covering from eight a.m. to four p.m. My opposite number is called Josephine Farrier. She comes on at three and stays until ten. Josie Mrs. Farrier was having an affair with Clive."
"Are you sure?"
"She told me herself. He must have approached her after I turned him down. Last summer she poured her heart out to me said she loved him, wanted to leave Eric, her husband, and the two children. Unfortunately for her, that was the last thing on Clive's mind. It was all a bit pathetic real Marj Proops stuff. It had been going on for years, she said, after work. When she was on early she was supposed to be at a pottery class, would you believe?"
"It happens," I said. "People in love do desperate things. Do you think her husband Eric knew?"
"I don't know. I told her not to be so stupid. Men only wanted one thing, I told her, and Clive was no different to the rest of them."
For a moment I felt… invisible. "You weren't very sympathetic," I said.
"It wasn't sympathy she needed, it was a good shaking."
"Right. Did you tell her that she'd been the doc's
second choice, after you?"
"No. I couldn't be so cruel."
"And she never mentioned that her husband knew?"
"No, but do you think it's possible to keep something like that secret?"
"I don't know," I replied, untruthfully. I'd discovered the answer the hard way, a long time ago. I didn't have a highlighter pen, so I underlined Mrs. Josephine Farrier's name on my printout. She had some questions to answer.
I interviewed the ward sister, two enrolled nurses and the finance manager without coming to any conclusions, other than agreeing with Nigel's statement about them all being good-looking. I couldn't help contrasting the accommodation every bed in a private room, wallpaper on the walls, no hospital smell with Heckley General where my father spent his final days. As a visitor, I'd definitely prefer to come here. As a patient, I wasn't so sure.
Hunger's clammy tentacles, clutching at my innards, drove me away. I had hoped to last out until Mrs. Farrier came to work, at three o'clock, but I'd hardly eaten for twenty-four hours. As I strolled into the foyer for the last time, after seeing one of the nurses, Mrs.
Henderson looked up from a keyboard and smiled expectantly, awaiting the next name on my list.
"I think that's it for today," I said. "I need to be in the station, shortly."
"Will you be coming back, Mr. Priest?" she asked.
"Yes, I think I'll have to, but thanks for your help today."
"You're welcome."
I turned to leave, then stopped, hand to head as if deep in thought.
"There was one final question I'd like to ask you," I said, turning back to her.
"Yes?"
"Now, what was it?" I tapped my cheek with a fingertip. "Ah, yes," I said. "I remember. You said you were off men, Mrs. Henderson. I was wondering: are you still off them?"
"Yes," she said, but her smile was so broad her make-up did well to contain it. A little flirting can go a long way.
I called in a cafe in the town centre that did steak and kidney pies you could trust, with apple pie and custard to follow. Maggie came in a few minutes after I arrived back at the station. She'd been to see Herbert Mathews, who sent his regards, and to consult the court histories at Burnley. We now had a clear picture of Buxton's career as a serial rapist allegedly but nothing that helped much. All it did was harden our resolve to nail him.
Deadly Friends dcp-5 Page 12
