Deadly Friends dcp-5

by Stuart Pawson

  "No, I wouldn't dream of taking it. I'd like to know where you got it, though."

  "It came from Magic Plastic' "Magic Plastic? Never heard of them. Where are they?"

  "They don't have a shop. Well, they might, somewhere, but a man comes round. He leaves a catalogue and comes back a week later to collect it and take your order, if you want anything."

  "I see. And how often does he come round?"

  "I'm not sure. Once a month, I imagine, but most of them don't last that long. I ordered something because I felt sorry for him, but the next time I didn't buy anything it's all a bit expensive and he didn't come any more. An empty coffee jar would have been just as effective."

  "I don't suppose you still have the catalogue?"

  "No, sorry. I left it hanging on the door handle that's what you do and it vanished. I suppose he collected it."

  "Right, thanks," I said, placing the mini-bin on the table. Gilbert would have to wait for his used-tea bag receptacle. "Thanks for your help, Janet," I said. "It's been most useful. If you're going into town I can give you a lift."

  "No thanks," she replied. "The bus stop's just outside."

  "But I'm going that way."

  "It's all right, thanks."

  Have it your way, lady, I thought. I was driving past the mall while they were probably still waiting for a bus. They're not exactly as numerous as the daisies in the fields in that neighbourhood. Recently they've gone back to two-man crews driver and shotgun.

  On an impulse I hung a right at the traffic lights, completely wrong-footing a woman pushing a pram across the road, and parked outside Heckley Squash Club. I made a mental note to paint a little silhouette of a baby carriage on my door, next to the hedgehogs, cats and traffic wardens.

  A young woman with that healthy outdoor look you used to see on Syrup of Figs posters was standing behind the desk, drinking an isotonic concoction from the neck of the bottle. Orange juice with a pinch of salt is just as good and a fraction of the price, but it doesn't have that certain cachet. Magic Johnson drinks the real stuff, whoever he is. She was wearing green jogging bottoms and a polo shirt with akangaroo embroidered on the left pocket and sweat spots in delightful places. I averted my gaze.

  "Hello," I began.

  "Hi," she replied.

  "Your manager," I went on, 'tells me that as well as being highly proficient with bat, ball and dumb ells you are also a whizz kid on this." I tapped the top of the computer VDU.

  "Yer what?" she demanded.

  I flashed her my ID and crossed her off my list of possibilities.

  "Charlie Priest, Heckley CID," I said. "He promised me a printout of all your members' names; said he'd ask you to run it off for me."

  "Aw, gee, the printout!" she exclaimed. "Completely slipped my mind."

  "I'd be very grateful for it."

  "OK, but it'll take ages. Tell yer what, are you at the police station here in town?"

  "Uh uh."

  "Right." She delved under the counter and came up with a large manilla envelope that had been used. "Why don't you just cross out our address and write your own there, and I'll set this thing going right now and drop it in on my way home. How does that sound?"

  "Very cooperative. Thanks a lot." I reinstated her as a contender.

  "Did yer want them in alphabetical order?"

  "Yes please, if possible."

  "No problem. Nice meeting you, Inspector."

  "And you."

  The office was empty. I ate the prawn sandwich I'd bought on the way back and shut myself away. A plan of action was required. I wrote my reports to clear my mind and made notes on a sheet of A4. First thing we needed was a suitable venue. I put my coat back on and drove to City HQ.

  Superintendent Isles wasn't in, which suited me fine.

  "Are the old Bridewell cells still in use?" I asked the desk sergeant.

  City HQ is attached to the town hall, and parts of it date back to Victorian times. The old cells, known universally as the Bridewell, were down in the basement. He seconded a young PC to help me and we went exploring.

  The one we chose was used to store sports equipment. We manhandled a wobbly ping-pong table into the cell next door, along with assorted cricket pads and a one-armed bandit. The PC, called Martin, tried the fruit machine and wondered if the social club would let him have it.

  There was a bit of dust around, but not enough to make the place uninhabitable. We'd ask the cleaning ladies to give it a quick once-over. There was a power point and the fluorescent light on the high ceiling worked. The walls were covered from top to bottom in white tiles, broken only by a thin blue line running round the room at waist height. I ran a hand over them, wondering how many frustrated prisoners had found their glazed surface unyielding to scratch or skull. You couldn't buy tiles like these any more. They had curved edges and special corner pieces, and were as hard and unforgiving as tungsten carbide. Just what I wanted.

  I took Martin upstairs and introduced him to the technical support wizards. They found one of the portable tape recorders we used before the new interview suites had them built in, and showed him how to drive it. I dithered over a video camera, then decided to go for it. They gave Martin a crash course on that, too. We carried the lot down to the Bridewell and I left him practising. I told him to make sure the batteries were charged, the tapes were blank and the lights worked. If all went well, I'd buy him a fruit machine. He nodded enthusiastically and went to fetch a table and some chairs.

  Maggie was in when I arrived back at Heckley. "How did it go?" I asked.

  "Like drawing teeth," she sighed. "Slow and painful. Patient confidentiality, all that crap. I don't know who they think they are."

  "Did you tell them that our investigation overrides any duties of confidentiality they may have towards their patients?"

  "Till I was blue in the face."

  "So how have you left it?"

  "I had a long discussion with the counsellor who talks to all the young women who go in for abortions. She said most of them know exactly why they are there and are not interested in counselling. A few sad ones seize the opportunity but usually decide to go ahead. Not many back out. She said that she has had one or two disturbing cases, possibly unbalanced, and nothing they did would surprise her. One involved an irate boyfriend. Trouble is, she wouldn't name names. I had a word with Barraclough and suggested that if she told him they might then be able to come to some arrangement where he could pass the information on to us, whereby she wouldn't have contravened the etiquette of her profession."

  "Mmm, maybe. I'd rather you leaned on them. Tell them that we are not interested in their consciences or the sexual transgressions of their clientele. We're trying to catch a killer. Make that a serial killer.

  Say we have reason to believe that one of them is next on his list.

  That should focus their attention."

  "Ha!" she laughed. "Some serial killer. He's only done one, so far."

  "That's the best time to catch them, Maggie. That's the best time to catch them." I decided to change the subject. "Have you," I asked, 'ever heard of a company called Magic Plastic?"

  "Magic Plastic?"

  "Mmm."

  "No. What have they done?"

  "They haven't done anything. I want to know where they are. They produce a catalogue of a hundred and one things for the home that you never thought you needed, and employ door-to-door salesmen. I'd appreciate it if you could track them down and tell them to send me a catalogue, soon as possible."

  "Right, no problem. Is this police work?"

  "Maggie!" I exclaimed. "Of course it's police work. When did I ever do anything else?"

  If you sit still too long in this job everybody learns that you are at your desk and rings you. By five o'clock my right ear was numb and my brain was reeling, so I trudged upstairs for a decent cup of tea with Gilbert. The atmosphere is always more relaxing in his office. I refused to answer questions about crime but told him that I was on the verge of
solving the great tea bag disposal problem. He wasn't impressed.

  We were on the way out, walking past the front desk, when a voice shouted: "Mr. Priest!" I turned to see the desk sergeant coming out of the office. "Packet for you," he said, reaching under the counter.

  He handed me the self-addressed envelope I'd left at the squash club.

  "Thanks," I said, taking it from him.

  "A big green Sheila brought it in," he told me. "Said it was special delivery, for you and you alone. Wish you'd tell me how you do it."

  "That's the problem with Australian women," I replied, winking at him.

  "They keep coming back."

  I drove out of town on the old Oldfield road, quiet now, since the coming of the motorway. There is a transport cafe, famous for its wholesome meals and warm atmosphere, where all the truckers stopped on their journey over the Pennines. It has had to contract, grass over the lorry park, and change the menu, but it has, thankfully, survived.

  Nowadays they make a decent living from a handful of drivers who remember where they are and hordes of senior citizens who know where to find a tasty bargain. And now me. One time, I was a regular at all the cheap eateries. I'd have to start finding my way around them again. No more sneaking away at lunchtime for trout in almonds at Annabelle's. I'd miss that. I ordered lasagne, with salad, and sat facing the telly, to give me something mindless to think about.

  A man in a jacket the colour of a ruptured gall bladder was reading from a sheet of paper. "For five points, Dorothy," he whispered intimately, as if asking for her dying testament, 'can you tell me the name of… the first man to run the mile in four minutes?"

  "Roger Bannister!" she screeched, as the camera panned to an open-mouthed matron clutching her hands to her head. The whole world was ganging up on me. I moved to the chair at the opposite side of the table, my back to the telly.

  The lasagne was not bad, for lasagne. I followed it with rhubarb crumble and a refill of tea. Today, I'd eaten well. Annabelle would be proud of me. No, she wouldn't. There I go again, I thought.

  When I reached home I took the envelope in with me. A list of a couple of thousand names and addresses is my idea of bedtime reading. The mailman had left an avalanche of correspondence spilling halfway along my hall. I gathered them up and took them into the kitchen to look at while the kettle boiled. One from the bank was put to one side for future reference and I binned missives from the AA, Damart and Reader's Digest. A note from my window cleaner said I was three payments behind. I put fifteen quid in an envelope and took it round to my neighbour's. The final piece of mail was from the Playhouse, containing two tickets for Romeo and Juliet. It was hard to believe, but Annabelle had never seen a stage performance of it. The repertory theatre in equatorial Africa prefers Shakespeare's more violent offerings. They were for Monday evening, and I'd wanted it to be a surprise. I placed them back in their envelope and stood it behind the clock.

  There was a programme about the mating habits of termites on Channel 4, so I watched that until I remembered the list from the squash club.

  She'd used half a roll of Sellotape on the envelope, but I eventually made it to the contents.

  I have a lot of sympathy with the Chinese. I usually read the front page of a newspaper first, then the back page, then work through it from back to front, like they are supposed to do. I'm sure it's more natural. I'm equally convinced that we drive on the wrong side of the road in Britain, and the Continentals and most of the rest of the world have it right, but I rarely put that one into practice. The list was on the type of computer paper with sprocket holes down the edges, in a continuous concertina of folded pages, about a hundred, although I didn't count them. I started at the last name — Younghusband, William Defoe, "Carrickfergus', Cotswold Manor Garth, Heckley and slowly started to work my way upwards on the long journey towards Abbott, John, 143 Sheepscab Street.

  I studied them methodically, unhurried. I'd read each name and dredge my memory for a spark of recognition. One or two sounded familiar, but the addresses were wrong. A couple were policemen I knew. Then I'd read the address and try to visualise where the member lived. I studied them all, but I was mainly interested in the women. If I didn't find anything we'd have to put them in the computer and let that search through them.

  Two hours later my eyes were burning. I'd be reading names, flicking through them, and realise that nothing was registering. I'd go back a few places and try again. I thought of playing some music, but when I glanced through my collection I found nothing that wouldn't have been a distraction. Just reading the labels reminded me of Annabelle. After a great deal of dithering I marked the place I'd reached in the list and rang her number. The ansa phone came on. I put the receiver down, had a think about it and dialled again.

  "It's me," I said. "Hello. Last night… I may have said things that I didn't mean… I'm not sure if I said them or just thought them..

  anyway, I take them back. I was upset. The last five years have been the happiest of my life, and I'm grateful to you for that. You're a big girl, and you must do what is best for yourself." I wanted to say a lot more, but ansa phone tapes are not very long. I finished with: "I hope it works out for you. Don't write or anything… It's not necessary… But you know where I am, if you need me. Oh, and I meant what I said in the note. Every word. Goodbye, love."

  I'd made another mug of tea and was arranging the sheets on my lap to recommence the search when the doorbell rang. I looked at the clock it said just after ten. I refolded the pages with my pen marking the appropriate place, about halfway through, and went to answer it.

  Maggie was standing there, pale and grim, her coat buttoned up around her throat. "I'd like a word, Boss," she said.

  "Come in," I invited, holding the door wide.

  She walked through into the lounge and sat down, leaning over to see what the printout was about.

  "Heckley Squash Club," I told her. "Membership list. Dr. Jordan was friendly with a girl there, called Sue or Sheila or something. I was looking through them for inspiration. So, what's happened? Is something wrong?"

  "I'm… not sure," she replied.

  "Are you taking your coat off?"

  She shook her head.

  "Cup of tea? The kettle's just boiled."

  "No. I don't want a tea."

  "Right. In that case, you'd better tell me why you're here. Sadly, I'll assume it's not a social visit."

  The fingers of her right hand screwed up the belt of her coat and smoothed it out again. I've known Maggie a long time. We have a good working relationship but there's something above that between us. She's listened to my problems and chided or encouraged me, as required. I've leaned on her. They say that there's no such thing as a platonic friendship between a man and a woman, but I'm not sure I agree.

  "No," she said. "It's not a social visit."

  "So what sort of a visit is it?"

  "What you just said, a moment ago…"

  "What?"

  "You said: "Sadly I'll assume it's not a social visit."

  I shrugged. "So?"

  "It's flirting. You do it all the time, Charlie. I don't think you know you're doing it."

  I was puzzled. "I'm not flirting with you, Maggie," I told her. "I'm being pleasant, or at least I thought I was. If I've got it wrong… if you have a problem with it, I'll change. I'll be an arrogant bastard like most of the others. Is that what you'd prefer?"

  "No."

  "Well I'm not in the mood for a lecture on political correctness, Maggie, from you or anyone else. I treat everybody the same, and you know it. I respect our differences, and work round them, but as long as we're all pulling together I don't give a toss about them."

  She unbuckled her belt and unfastened the top buttons of her coat. "I know," she sighed. "It's just that…"

  "Just that what?"

  "This morning. You went to see Janet Saunders."

  So that was it. "Oh," I said.

  "She rang me. You scared her, Charlie. Hav
e you any idea what she went through?"

  "I like to think I have."

  "No, you haven't. I thought she was pulling round, learning to trust us, but now…"

  "Maggie," I said. "It was ten o'clock in the morning. You weren't available. No one else was. I played it by the book, and for God's sake, her daughter was there."

  "You commented on her looks."

  "Yes," I admitted. "And I meant it. It was an observation, not a come-on. The last time I went to the cinema I made a similar remark about John Travolta's smile, but I've no desire to hop into bed with him. It was a crass thing to say, under the circumstances. I realised that, as soon as the words came out, and I apologised."

  "She said you went up into the bathroom and tried the shower, where Buxton says it happened."

  My elbows were on the chair arms, my fingertips pressed against their opposites in front of my face. I drummed them together in a rhythm that Dave Brubeck never mastered. "What are you trying to say, Maggie?" I whispered. "What are you implying?"

  "I don't know, Charlie."

  "If you're suggesting that I went round there in the hope of having sex with Mrs. Saunders, I want you to leave, now. Make a formal complaint, if you want, but leave."

  "I tried to tell her that you'd have a good reason for what you did, Charlie. I said you were a person who cared, like nobody else I know, but you frightened her. I told her that if she wanted to make a complaint about you, that I couldn't handle it. There was a procedure … It'd have to be someone higher up the ladder. But I assured her she was wrong, she'd misunderstood. I offered to have a quiet word with you, and she agreed."

  "So that's what this is: a quiet word?"

  "It looks as if I've made a balls of it."

  I shook my head. "No, you haven't. I'm grateful for you coming, and I'm sorry if I upset Mrs. Saunders that was the last thing I wanted.

  But I've a job to do. If she's like this after I visit her, how will she be on the stand, with Buxton's brief implying that she's every kind of slag under the sun?"

  "Do you think it will come to that? Go to court?"

  I looked across at her. "Trust me, Maggie," I said. "Trust me."