Deadly Friends dcp-5

by Stuart Pawson

  It was totally inappropriate, so I put it on. I'd arrived home safely, after cruising up the motorway in the slow lane and having a long stop for supper at the Woodall services. I sat in front of the fire, my coat and shoes still on, nodding my head in time to the music and occasionally conducting with a raised finger. Love him or hate him, he plays like an angel. Each time it ended I pressed the replay button and heard it again, until the heat from the fire was burning my legs and stinging my eyes.

  I crawled into bed with Vivaldi's frantic rhythms pulsating through my head, leaving no room for other thoughts. At two o'clock a cat started yowling in next door's garden; at three I heard a train pulling a heavy load up the gradient towards Manchester the wind must have been from the West; and at four thirty my central heating switched itself on with a clunk that reverberated through the house. I had a shower and found some clean clothes.

  Unpredictability is a quality I've tried to cultivate over the years.

  If I realise I've fallen into a habit, I change my behaviour. It wasn't habit that took me to work that morning, it was a determination not to do what anybody might have expected of me. I could have driven to Cape Wrath and studied the sequence of the waves. I could have put my boots on and hiked over Black Hill and Bleaklow until hunger drove me off the tops. More sensibly, I thought about ringing Sparky's wife and offering to take Sophie and Daniel off her hands for the day. Two films at the multi-screen, followed by a beefburger and chips, with all the fixings, would have been a handy diversion. But I went to work.

  I cruised through the morning briefings, deployed the troops, feigned interest when answering the phone. I read reports and information sheets, made notes and generally created an impression of busyness. At ten to twelve I received a message from Scarborough saying that Rodney Allen had been granted bail on condition that he stayed at North Bay House. He was off my list of suspects. He couldn't possibly have shot Dr. Jordan. It was just the excuse I needed to dash over there to see him.

  The home wasn't in the same league as the White Rose Clinic. It dated from early in the century and every attempt at modernisation had gone to the lowest tender. The walls were dirty above the easy reach of an underpaid cleaner and ribbons of electric cables for phones, power and monitoring were stapled on top of oak panelling that would have had the green lobby crying into their tofu. I saw Rodney but hardly spoke to him. He didn't remember our phone call the siege or hitting a policeman. There are stories about Yorkshiremen knowing when to be slow, but his condition had been encouraged by the application of certain class B substances. They'd doped him to make him docile. The doctor hadn't found time to make a statement, so I persuaded her to write me a brief assurance that Rodney had been at the home on the night of the crime, and I left. I had fish and chips in Scarborough and sat in the car for nearly an hour listening to the news and watching waves crash over the Marine Drive. A scientist in California was claiming to have identified a gene for homosexuality and an MP had been found dead in his Westminster flat with a plastic bag over his head and his trousers around his knees. Foul play was not suspected.

  As my mother used to say, there's always someone worse off than yourself.

  Sometimes, before an interview, I run through all the likely answers. I choose my questions carefully and consider as many responses as I'm capable of imagining. More often, these days, I just make it up as I go along. I ask a few sighting questions, to test the range and the direction of the wind, then let go with the big guns. This time I didn't know what to do, because I knew the outcome was already settled.

  Annabelle's little car was on her drive as I reversed in behind it. I'd been home and shaved. I was going to change my clothes but decided not to. What you see is what you get. I switched off the engine, pulled the brake on and left the gear in neutral. It was ready for a smooth, unhurried getaway.

  I pushed the doorbell, but didn't go in.

  "Hello, Charles," she said, softly, when she saw me standing there. "I thought I heard a car. I wasn't expecting you."

  "I won't keep you long," I said, following her in. She sat at one end of the settee, but I stayed on my feet. "About the note I left," I said.

  She was wearing grey trousers in a silky material, with an emerald green blouse outside them. Her face looked pale against the bright green. "I… I was going to ring you," she began. "I don't know what to say…"

  "I'll make it easy for you," I told her. "The note is withdrawn. I rang your hotel last night and left a message. Did you receive it?"

  "A message? No. I received no message. What did you say?"

  "I said I was coming down to the Post Chase, to take you to dinner."

  She swallowed and looked shaken. "I was asking for you at the desk when Audish walked in. I saw you with him, Annabelle. I saw you kiss each other. I saw the way you tilted your head as you spoke to him, and watched the swing of your skirt as you walked away from me."

  Her eyes were filling with tears. "I've got to say this," I went on, 'although I know the answer. We could start again. We had something special, Annabelle. You don't throw that away lightly. I don't know anything about Audish, except one thing: he's not for you." I left it at that. Slagging him off would be counter productive. "Come with me," I begged. "Now."

  Tears were running down her cheeks. She sniffed and wiped them away with her fingertips. "I didn't want to hurt you, Charles," she sobbed.

  "You've been so good to me. I didn't know what to do."

  "I thought you loved me."

  "I did love you. I still do."

  "So come with me."

  She shook her head.

  "You love Audish more?"

  "Yes," she sobbed.

  "Right," I said. "Right. You can keep my things. Take them to the Oxfam shop, if you still remember where it is." At the door I turned back to her. "I always knew I'd lose you, Annabelle," I told her.

  "Deep down, I knew that one day you'd hurt me, that I could never hold on to you. But I thought it would be the kind of hurt I'd cherish for the rest of my life. I thought you'd be in Africa or India or somewhere, maybe married again, but we'd always be friends. I'd get a card from you, at Christmas; that sort of thing. I knew you'd hurt me;

  I never dreamed you'd… you'd… do this to me." I never dreamed you'd disappoint me. That's what I nearly said.

  I opened the door. "You know where to find me," I told her. "But I won't be waiting."

  I'd run out of things to do, places to go, dogs to kick. You can only drive up on to the tops so many times to watch the lights in the valley until they blur together in a yellow swamp. I was a big boy, now. I tuned-in to the country music station, because I can't stand country-fucking-music, and drove home.

  The postman had been. Lying on my doormat was an envelope with a window, postmark and style of typing that told me exactly from where it came. It was the same as the ones my monthly salary statements come in, except the next one wasn't due for another three weeks. That was quick, I thought. Pay section had been on the ball, for once. Maybe they wanted rid of me. I put the envelope on the telephone table, unopened. If I didn't open it I could always swear I hadn't received it.

  I love my shower. When I'm lost for something to do, or have twenty minutes to spare, or people in the office start giving me sideways glances and moving away, I have a shower. I do some of my best thinking with the hot jets impinging on my back and soap running into my eyes. Annabelle had given me some smelly stuff for my birthday. I finished it off with a lavish portion that had the plug hole struggling to cope with the foam. Tonight I'd smell nice, for nobody in particular, and one reminder of her would be consigned to the bin.

  I pushed my thought processes in other directions. Rodney would be in a drugged sleep. Maybe he was the lucky one. I turned the temperature control up a few degrees and rinsed my hair. It was now too hot, but I left it at that. Tomorrow we'd have to start looking at the abortions, all five thousand of them. Most of the shampoo suds had gone. I slicked my hair back with my hand
s and turned my face into the hot jets. If there really was a gene for homosexuality, like the scientist in California was claiming the so-called gay gene surely they would all have died out by now, wouldn't they? I opened my mouth and let it fill with water, struggling to inhale through the storm. Autoerotic asphyxiation, that's what the MP died of, with his head in the plastic bag. They say it increases the intensity of the orgasm. I tipped my head forward so the water ran from my mouth, grabbed a breath and looked back into the spray. I reached up and swung the shower head to one side, keeping my face directly under it, and leaned back against the tiled wall. And I made a discovery.

  Chapter Eleven

  They were gathered around Sparky like the apostles around Jesus, expressions of beatitude on their upturned faces. I'd been up to see Mr. Wood to tell him what he didn't want to know that we were roughly in the same place in our enquiry as we were when Dr. Jordan's body was found. I didn't mention the rape and he didn't ask, and I certainly didn't tell him about my revelation in the shower. He wasn't ready for that, yet.

  Sparky was in full flow: '… and the French television reporter looked at them and said: "Wait a minute, wait a minute…"

  "Un moment! Un moment!" Jeff Caton interrupted, one hand raised with the fingertips together, as if plucking a grape.

  "I'm translating for Nigel's benefit," Sparky told him.

  "Oh, sorry."

  "That's all right. So this Frog reporter says: "Wait a minute. You don't like our wine. You don't like our food. You don't like our ladies. So just why do you keep coming back to France all these times?" And the Siamese twin on the left says: "It's the only chance I get to drive."

  They drifted away, morale boosted, back to the tedium of reports and observations and the frustrations of court. Nigel and Sparky stayed behind. them at half Sparky "Where's Maggie?" I asked.

  "She went straight to the clinic," Nigel said. "Wanted to collar Barraclough before the daily grind of executive meetings started. I've told her I'll join her, soon as I can, if you don't need me."

  "Fair enough."

  "There's a package on your desk," Sparky informed me. "Special delivery from Wetherton. A hell's angel from traffic brought it a few minutes ago."

  "That was quick," I said. "I only rang past seven."

  "You could tell he was happy at his work," declared.

  "Who?"

  "The biker."

  "How?"

  "He had dead flies on his teeth. What's in it?"

  "In January? It's just a little something I wanted to borrow," I replied. "I'll tell you all about it when I've had a think. Meanwhile … I'm going to set you some homework."

  "This sounds omnibus, Nigel," Sparky complained.

  "It does, doesn't it?" he replied.

  "Nigel, are you still going out with that red-headed WPC from City?" I asked. He opened his mouth to speak but I cut him short. "On second thoughts," I said, 'are you going out with anyone?"

  "Er, sort of," he answered.

  "Right," I said, turning to Sparky. "And you're still in a blissful relationship, I presume?"

  "Ye-es," he replied, cagily.

  "OK, here's what I want. Tonight you will both make love to your respective partners in the shower, and be prepared to discuss same tomorrow. Understood?"

  "Is that all?" Sparky said. "I was expecting something exciting."

  "Forget the "respective partners" bit, if it helps," I suggested.

  "Will, er, you be joining in this research?" Nigel wondered.

  "No," I told him. "I did the initial fieldwork; your job is to confirm my findings." I didn't mention that I was alone at the time.

  When they'd gone I pulled the piece of equipment I'd borrowed from Wetherton lab from the package and found the instructions. It sounded simple. I tested it against the palm of my hand and discovered that I was fit enough to survive the day. In that case, I'd carry on. On the way out I stopped at the front desk to see if there was a female officer available to accompany me, but I was out of luck. Ah well, never mind.

  Janet Saunders was in when I knocked because I could hear Radio 2 filtering quietly through the door. I knocked again and the volume lowered. There were footsteps inside and a key turned in the lock. The door opened a fraction and she peered out at me, a chain bridging the gap.

  "Yes?" she asked, timidly.

  I held my ID in front of her face. "DI Charlie Priest," I said. "I met you when you came to Heckley Police Station. I wonder if I could have a word with you?"

  "Who is it, Mummy?" a tiny voice asked, and I looked down to see a little face framed with platinum blonde hair gazing up at me.

  "I didn't recognise you," Janet said, steering her daughter to one side so she could close the door to unfasten the chain.

  She led me through into the living room and invited me to sit down, "If you can find an empty seat." There was a scattering of toys and clothes, but the place was clean and fairly tidy.

  "You must be Dilly," I said to the angel face that came to stand alongside me. She nodded.

  "And how old are you?"

  Dilly looked up at her mother for a prompt.

  "Tell the gentleman how old you are," she said.

  "I'm five."

  "Five! You're a big girl for five. I thought you were at least six."

  Sparky would have been proud of me. "And how long have you been five?"

  I asked.

  She thought about it, swinging her body from side to side. "Um, since my birthday," she calculated.

  I decided I was out of my depth and looked across to Janet for rescue.

  She suggested that Dilly go up to her room and put some different clothes on, suitable for a trip to the shopping mall.

  "She's back with you," I said, when we were alone.

  "Yes," Janet replied, walking over to a portable radio and switching off Terry Wogan or one of his clones. "Her father is working away Edinburgh so I've got to have her, all this week."

  "You appear to have a civilised relationship with him."

  "Yes, we try to have."

  "It must be difficult, arranging your lives around Dilly."

  "It is, but we manage."

  "She's a lovely little girl," I said, smiling. "It's easy to see who she takes after."

  It was a stupid thing to say. Janet coloured slightly and asked: "What did you come for?"

  Shelter from the storm? "I'm sorry," I told her. "I shouldn't have said that. Maggie is busy, otherwise I wouldn't have come alone. Maybe I should have waited."

  We sat in silence for a few seconds. "Maggie has told you all about Buxton?" I said.

  She nodded.

  "He's done it before," I continued. "More than once."

  "I know. Maggie told me."

  "Right. I need to break his story, Janet. He says that on that night Christmas Eve you did it the first time in the shower."

  She gave a sigh that came from right down in her cheap trainers. "No.

  I'd just come out of the shower. He dragged me into the bedroom and..

  and… and did it to me on the bed."

  "He says you consented."

  "He's a liar."

  "He says you were a willing participant."

  "He had a knife at my throat."

  "But you didn't have sex in the shower?"

  "No! For what it's worth, I've never had sex in a shower, either here or anywhere else."

  "OK. I needed to know. I'd like you to make a statement to that effect in the next few days. Maggie can take it, if that's all right."

  She nodded. Her hands were in her lap, engaged in a subconscious wrestling match, and her feet were shuffling about as if the floor was too hot to bear.

  There was an uneven clomping on the stairs as Dilly came down, leading with the same foot on every step. She dashed to her mother and posed for inspection and approval. She was wearing fluorescent tights and a blue dress.

  "Have you got them on the right way round?" Mummy asked.

  Dilly nodded.


  "Good girl."

  "She's, er, colourful," I observed.

  "You're a little rainbow, aren't you?" her mother said, swinging her up into a cuddle. Dilly giggled.

  "Is it all right if I have a look in your bathroom?" I asked.

  "Yes, of course it is. It's at the top of the stairs, facing you."

  The stair carpet was threadbare. The welfare state considers rent and food bills when calculating its allowances, but carpets and repairs to washing machines and a host of other expenses are considered non-essential. I closed the bathroom door behind me and slid the bolt across.

  There was no radiator in there, just an electric heater high on the wall. The element was covered with dust, showing that it hadn't been used all winter. Those things eat electricity. I took my jacket off and hung it behind the door, next to a white to welling dressing gown and a tiny pair of pink pyjies with yellow teddy bears on them.

  The shower worked straight off the taps, which isn't the best way to do it, and fingers of mildew were eating their way along the grouting between the tiles. I pulled the curtain out of the bath and turned the shower on for a few seconds. It didn't take me long to decide that Buxton and Janet almost certainly had not had sex in there. Problem was, could we convey that certainty to a jury? I had a pee. Down the side of the toilet was a plastic seat, designed to reduce the size to that of a child's bottom. I smiled, acknowledging that although I would have liked kids, having none has plenty of compensations. I was flushing the toilet when I noticed something on the windowsill that caused a jolt of recognition.

  It was a miniature swing bin, just like the one that Dr. Jordan kept his tea bags in. I picked it up and flipped the lid open. It was half filled with remnants of soap tablets; that final flake that breaks in half and tells you that trying to use it any longer is not worth the effort. Janet saved them for recycling. Thrifty girl. I washed my hands and went back downstairs, taking it with me.

  Dilly had gone outside, and Janet had her coat on.

  "I, er, saw this," I said, waving the bin at her. "I've been looking for one, all over."

  "That," she said with a shrug. "It's called a mini-bin. I just keep bits of soap in it. You can have it, if you want."