Deadly Friends dcp-5

by Stuart Pawson

  The SOCO had made a video of the murder scene. I collected it from the associated property store and watched it in the CID office. It showed general views of the doctor's kitchen, where he'd been found, followed by close-ups of everything in sight. The doc died with his eyes open, a look of terror and surprise carved on his features. The camera zoomed in close and moved slowly over his chin, nose and sightless eyes, like a helicopter tour of Mount Rushmore. His shirt was undone and he was in his stocking feet.

  We were taken on a journey across his carpet, the shiny toe caps of the SOCO's shoes bobbing into the bottom of the picture like two bald headed men on a see-saw at the other side of a wall. The camera panned over his kitchen cupboards and along the work top In a corner I saw the plastic bin that I'd thought about stealing, between the electric kettle and a box of muesli. The doctor's tie was draped over a chair back, given an extra turn to prevent it sliding to the floor, and his shoes were just inside the door.

  The office was quiet. Everyone was out. I switched off the video and reached for the telephone.

  "Pay section?" I asked, when someone answered. "Oh, good. This is DI Priest, at Heckley CID. I was wondering if you could work out for me what terms I could expect if I took early retirement?"

  Maggie returned as I was finishing the video and we watched the last few minutes together.

  "Learn anything?" she asked as I ejected the cassette and returned it to its envelope.

  "Mmm. He knew his killer, as we suspected. The doc's shoes were just inside the door, so when his visitor rang he must have opened the front entrance for him and let him come up to the apartment, not gone to meet him downstairs."

  "Sounds sensible."

  "And he was male."

  "How do you work that out?"

  "It's a guess, but the doc's tie was hanging over a chair. If his visitor was female I think he'd have whipped it back on, and his shoes.

  Did you see Barraclough?"

  "Yes. He's a charmer, isn't he?" She opened her notebook and slid it across my desk. "That's the party who made the complaint Rodney Allen.

  His mother, Mrs. Joan Allen, was a fit and active sixty-year-old who liked to have a good time. She was booked in to the General for an hysterectomy. The operation was done succesfully, as they say, by Mr.

  Jordan, but the patient died. She had an aortic aneurism later that day, right out of the blue. According to the rules there had to be a post mortem, and this found that her condition could not have been anticipated by the pre-operative investigations. However, her son, Rodney, has learning difficulties. He's forty, by the way. Mrs. Allen had been comfortably off and he was left everything, in trust. The trustees, who are a firm of solicitors in Scarborough and a retired GP in Heckley, decided to sue the hospital and Mr. Jordan for malpractice and negligence."

  "For a fee, no doubt," I said.

  "No doubt. But the inquest brought in a verdict of natural causes and the case was dropped. I've had a word with the retired GP. He was a friend of the family, before they moved to Scarborough. He says he was opposed to the action but outvoted. Rodney, he told me, was deeply disturbed by the thought of his mother's body being cut open, and dwelt on it for months."

  "And he probably still blames the hospital," I said. "We need a word with him, soon as possible. Nigel was checking with the GMC. We'll make sure the official version tallies, then we'd better see what Rodders has to say. Thanks, Maggie, that's a good day's work."

  "There was one other thing," she began.

  I sat back, inviting her to continue.

  "I think you have a fan."

  "A fan?"

  "Yes," she said. "One Cicely Henderson, receptionist at the White Rose. I was supposed to be asking the questions, but she wanted to know all about you. She's an attractive lady."

  "I had noticed," I admitted, 'but she's not my type. What did you tell her?"

  "That you were a very nice man single but you had a girlfriend who you were besotted by. Did I do right?"

  "As always, Maggie. Did you ask her about her colleague, Mrs.

  Farrier?"

  "Yes, we went over it again, but she didn't come up with anything new."

  "Do you think she's jealous of her?"

  "Cicely jealous of Mrs. Farrier?"

  "Mmm."

  "No. She told me that she was off men. She left her husband eight years ago and since then has found all the companionship she needs in her cats. However… I think meeting you may have stirred the ashes of some long-forgotten fires."

  "Gosh, how odd," I said.

  "Just what I thought," she replied, stifling a smile.

  I lunched at the cafe in town and went walkabout. There was one avenue that I could follow without too much effort and no charge to the budget. When the squash craze started a few of us from the office tried it, but we had to book a court weeks in advance and quickly lost interest. I found it too claustrophobic. The boom faded and has now settled down to a healthy core of enthusiasts. Heckley Squash Club had financial difficulties, was taken over, converted a couple of courts for other activities and is now doing quite nicely. Several of the wooden tops work-out there. I wandered in and asked to see the manager.

  I recognised him, when he came, as a foot baller with one of the local teams who never quite made the grade. I could sympathise with him. I had trials with Halifax Town and turned out for the second team when I was at art college. We lost, seven-one. I was the goalkeeper. They didn't invite me back.

  I introduced myself as a policeman, not a foot baller and asked what had happened to him.

  "Knee problems," he said. "Cartilage, then ligaments. You name it, my knees have had it. There came a time when enough was enough, but fortunately I was a qualified sports administrator by then. When this job came up I applied for it and stopped kidding myself about soccer."

  We were talking across the front counter. He invited me to take a chair at his side and lifted the flap to let me through. Two young men came and asked for a squash ball.

  "Giving up football must have been hard for you," I said, when they'd gone. Shouts of encouragement came echoing from within the building and the air smelled of sweat and chlorine. That was enough to put me off.

  "I had plenty of time to think about it, get used to the idea. Now, I enjoy myself. Life's good. When Bill Shankly said that football was far more important than life and death he was talking out of the back of his head."

  "I've always thought it was a pretty stupid thing to say. I'm investigating the death of Dr. Clive Jordan. He was murdered just before Christmas you probably read about it in the papers."

  "Never read a paper, but I saw it on the telly. He was a member here, you know."

  "Yes," I said. "Hence my visit."

  "Obviously," he replied. "Sorry about that. What can we tell you?"

  "First of all, why did he stop coming? Apparently he was a keen player, then, quite abruptly, he wasn't. Any reason for that?"

  He nodded. "That's easy. Same problems as me — damaged knee ligaments.

  He knew I'd been through it and we talked a lot. There're two methods of treatment: rest or surgery. I was a professional, my livelihood depended on my legs, so I went for the knife. For an amateur, just playing for amusement and to keep fit, there was only one sensible option. He packed in, thinking that maybe one day time would heal it and he'd be able to play again. Work was taking up a lot of his time, and he was courting a bird off the telly she's in Mrs. Dale's Diary, you know so there was no real choice open to him."

  "Right," I said. "That clears up one little mystery. What can you tell me about the man himself. Did he have any particular friends in the club?"

  "Not really," he said, after giving it some thought. He was tall and angular, his shoulders bulging through too much work with the weights.

  He wore streamlined leggings with a stripe down the side and a Heckley General heart research T-shirt. "He usually played with a crony from the hospital. Not always the same one, rarely with any of the o
ther members. Squash is a bit like that, if you don't enter the competitions."

  "And he never did?"

  "No. His working hours wouldn't let him. He was popular enough, though. He'd have a drink in the bar and chat away to anyone. People liked him. I certainly did. I thought he was a smashing bloke. Have you any ideas who killed him?"

  I shook my head and said: "We are following certain lines of enquiry," enunciating the words to make it plain that this was a euphemism for not having a clue.

  "I'll tell you what the doc was like," the manager began, a smile of affection on his face as he recalled some anecdote. "He did enter one competition. We were standing here, me and him, talking about our knees, would you believe, and this girl was pacing up and down, just there," he pointed into the foyer, 'with her kit on, waiting for her partner to arrive. The doc started to chat to her. At the time there was a mixed doubles competition on, strictly for couples husbands and wives or boyfriends and girlfriends. It was light-hearted, just to try and get partners interested, make it more a family thing, if you follow me."

  "Sounds an admirable idea," I said.

  "It was, wasn't it? Well, apparently, this girl and her boyfriend were due to play in the first round. The other couple were already on the court, having a knock-up, waiting for them. She was starting to get a bit upset. We were looking at the sheet with the draw on it and the doc noticed that the boyfriend was called… would it be Davey? Was the doc's middle name David?"

  "Yes, it was," I told him.

  "Right, that was it, Davey. She'd entered them as… I can't remember her name. It might have been Sue, or Sandra. Anyway, she'd put them down as Sue… Smith, or whatever, and Davey. Just Davey. "I'm called David," the doctor said. "I could pretend to be your boyfriend.

  Come on, let's give them a game." And they did. And they won. Blow me if they didn't win the next round, too. She was over the moon about it. That's the kind of bloke he was."

  "It sounds Mills amp; Boon," I said. "Did she fall hopelessly in love with him? Did he seduce her?"

  "No, I don't think so. They had a laugh about it afterwards and went their separate ways, as far as I know. She was a bit, you know, plain. Not really his type."

  "But was he her type?"

  "I suppose so. We all dream, don't we? But she seemed a sensible kid.

  I think her feet were on the ground."

  "Is she still a member?"

  "I'm not sure, and I can't check if I don't remember her name. I don't think she comes any more. I haven't seen her for ages."

  "When did all this happen?" I asked.

  "Oh, about two years ago."

  "And when would you say she stopped coming?"

  "I couldn't tell you. I don't see some people for months, even though they play every week. It all depends on what time they book the court for."

  "But she could have stopped playing round about the same time as the doctor did?" I suggested.

  "Probably," he replied, nodding. "About then, at a guess. Do you think that's significant?"

  "No," I admitted.

  Three women in leotards and leg warmers walked past us, eyes righting as they said hello to the manager in loud voices. I watched them retreat, several layers of even louder lycra clenched tightly between their buttocks.

  "Aerobics," he explained.

  "Are they comfortable?" I asked, wincing.

  "They like to look the part."

  "I'm interested in this girl," I told him, pulling myself back to the job. "How can we find her name? Will it still be on the computer if her membership has lapsed?" I nodded towards the terminal that sat on the counter.

  "Oh, nobody ever comes off the computer," he replied, 'but we're talking about over two thousand entries."

  "To me, that's nearly as good as a fingerprint. You think she was called Sue or Sandra?"

  "Something like that Sue, Sandra, Sally but I'm just guessing. I only saw her about three times."

  "Can't we just ask it to find all the females beginning with S?"

  "Er, you might be able to, but I can't."

  "Me neither. We must have headed too many footballs."

  "And I'm not even sure about the S. My assistant can do it, when she takes over." He looked at the clock on the wall behind him. "She should be here in about an hour."

  "Do you mind if she runs a full membership list off for me?" I asked.

  "No problem. I'll give you a ring when it's ready. And I've just remembered who the doc and this girl played in the first round of the mixed doubles. He's one of our stalwarts. I'll ask if he or his wife can remember her name they probably had a drink together, afterwards."

  "That'd be a big help," I said.

  I did my reports back at the office, and had a discussion with Luke, our civilian computer expert, about rehashing our standard interview documents, targeting them more specifically at this offence. Nigel and Dave came back, looking dejected.

  The registrar's wife admitted that she'd had an affair with Dr. Jordan, which went back several years. It started as just a fling, she told them, which developed into a habit. Her marriage was sound, but her husband was not very adventurous in bed. It was imperative that he didn't find out.

  "As he did know about it," Sparky said, 'he must have had his reasons for keeping quiet."

  "Perhaps he was waiting his opportunity for revenge,"

  Nigel suggested, adding, 'she's a bit older than I expected. I'd have thought the doc could have found someone nearer his own age."

  "Experience, Nigel," I said. "There's no substitute."

  "I'll take your word for it."

  "Maybe her husband was having it away with someone, himself," I suggested, 'and was happy for her to have her little games with the doctor. Grateful, even."

  "That's what I'd wondered," Sparky claimed. "Or maybe he just couldn't keep up with her, and was grateful for someone to help him out. It can't be easy, married to someone like that."

  "Corf I wouldn't mind giving it a try," Nigel enthused.

  "Sounds like penal servitude to me," I said. "Look into it. See what the word is among the nursing staff. What about their alibis?"

  "Engraved in stone," Nigel told me. "We've talked to everybody at the party. They started arriving shortly after seven and stayed until the early hours."

  "So neither of them pulled the trigger."

  "No way."

  I altered the number on the chart next to their names to three foolproof.

  Chief Superintendent Isles sent a message via his secretary apologising for not being able to attend my little presentation that morning and wondering if I could give him a quick run-through of the case so far in his office, first thing tomorrow? I said: "Yes," naturally, and before I went home I asked Luke to redraw the charts in a more portable format.

  I had an hour's snooze in an easy chair, catching up on the radio news, and dined on chicken tikka makhani. That's choice pieces of chicken breast, marinated in a ga ram masala, coriander and fenugreek sauce and served with turmeric rice. It only took six minutes in the microwave.

  I followed it with tinned grapefruit and a pot of Earl Grey.

  Sparky had loaned me the video of Oliver Stone's JFK. I swivelled the chair round so my feet would reach the settee and settled down, the teapot within easy reach of my right hand. The phone rang in the middle of the newsreel sequence of the assassination, as we saw the fatal shot to Kennedy's head, the secret serviceman diving on to the cavernous trunk of the Cadillac and Mrs. Kennedy trying to climb out of the back. History captured on film, as it happened, and telling us less about the President's killers than we know about King Harold's. I found the stop button on the remote control and picked up the phone.

  It was Annabelle. "Hello, Charles, I'm home," she said.

  "You should have told me when you were coming," I told her, sinking back into my chair. "I could have met you at the station."

  "I'm sure you have much better things to do. Have you eaten?"

  "No, I wouldn't have an
ything better to do, and yes, I'm afraid I have eaten."

  "Never mind. What did you have?"

  "Frozen curry."

  "Sounds delicious," she laughed.

  "It was OK," I told her. "I was just settling down to watch a video.

  Sparky lent me JFK. It's about a District Attorney from New Orleans, Jim Garrison, who took out a prosecution against some gangsters over the Kennedy assassination."

  "I've heard of it. It's on my list of "must sees"."

  "Do you want me to save it for another time?"

  "That would be nice," she said. "I was going to invite you round for a meal. We could watch it afterwards."

  "Great. When?"

  "Tomorrow?"

  "Super. That's something for me to look forward to. How did your trip go?"

  "Very well, Charles. I'll tell you all about it when I see you."

  We said our goodbyes and I put the phone down a happier man than when I picked it up. I rewound the tape and tried to pick up the threads of The Bill. It wasn't too difficult.

  Les Isles nodded approvingly when he saw my fancy computer-generated diagram. "It's nice to see that my older officers are embracing the new technology," he said, grinning.

  "It was on the flip-chart until late yesterday," I confessed.

  "Don't disillusion me, Charlie. What does it tell us?"

  I went through the list of characters, starting with Ged Skinner and making a diversion to tell him about Darryl Buxton and the rape. He listened, nodding and sucking his teeth.

  "What's happening with this one?" he asked, tapping Rodney Allen's name with the tip of his pen.

  "The malpractice allegation," I said. "DS Newley's contacting Scarborough CID this morning. If he's available we'll dash over to interview him."

  "Is that where he lives?"

  "Mmm, but he originates from Heckley. Apparently he's a bachelor, not very bright, lived with his mother, hence the grief when she died."

  "It sounds better all the time," Les declared. Middle-aged men living with their parents always attract suspicion, even if their only crime is to be unlucky in love.