Deadly Friends dcp-5

by Stuart Pawson

  Mr. Turner asked for bail but wasted his time. Darryl was remanded in custody and the trial bounced straight to the higher court. Round one to us.

  Maggie followed me into my office and told me that she'd seen Mrs.

  Saunders over the weekend and put her straight.

  "Fair enough," I said. "And now you can tell her that Buxton is in custody and start preparing her to give evidence. It'll be a worrying few months for her. Do you think she's up to it?"

  "Would it matter much if she cracked up on the stand?" Maggie asked, by way of an answer.

  "No, I don't suppose it would. But I don't send my witnesses out with the intention that they'll go to pieces. I'm quite content for them to answer questions in a controlled manner."

  Maggie looked contrite. "Sorry, Boss," she replied. "I think maybe I'm cracking up myself, lately."

  "It's overwork, Maggie," I said, adding: "That catalogue came from Magic Plastic, by the way. Thanks for that."

  "Oh, good. What do you want it for?"

  I pulled a face and sighed. "I don't know," I admitted. "Something's gnawing away inside my head, but I can't put my finger on it."

  "The good old intuition."

  "I don't believe in intuition."

  "You say you don't."

  "Maybe. After you've seen Mrs. Saunders I'd like you to go through the list of Darryl's other victims. Interview them all, see who might take the stand."

  "Great," she replied.

  "I want you to mother this one, Maggie," I continued. "Fax the other divisions; ask them about unsolved rapes and murders, particularly indoor ones and any that have produced DNA samples. Tell them we have a possible candidate. If he's as much as wagged his willy in Stanley Park I want him for it."

  "Super," she replied, beaming.

  "And tomorrow," I told her, with my wicked est smile, 'you can come back on the doctor's case."

  Nigel was jumping round the office like a squirrel in a wheel. One second he was on the computer, then the phone, and next he'd be maniacally thumbing through the telephone directory.

  "Not yet," he hissed at me, covering the mouthpiece, when I asked him what he was on with.

  At half past five, just as I was planning to leave, he burst into my office with a "Ta Da!" and a two-fisted salute. "Barraclough!" he announced. "I've got him!"

  I placed the cap on my pen, closed the pad I was using, pushed it away and leaned back against the wall. "What's he done?" I asked.

  "I'll tell you what he hasn't done," Nigel declared. "He hasn't passed any medical exams. He's a fraud."

  "Really!" I exclaimed, dropping my chair on to all four legs. "You mean… he's posing as a doctor?"

  "Well, not quite. I've just been talking to wait for it the San Bernadino Faculty of Transcendental Philosophy and Tantric Learning, in California."

  "It had to be," I interjected.

  "Right. And that's where his doctorate is from. I've run up a heck of a phone bill, by the way."

  "Don't worry, we'll deduct it from your salary. Maybe that's what he does at the clinic, this transcendental stuff. He doesn't practise medicine, does he?"

  "He's called the medical director. He flunked his first year medical exams at Leeds University and dropped out. It'd be interesting to know what he put on his CV and application form, don't you think? Maybe Dr. Jordan rumbled him."

  "And was killed for his trouble? It's worth knowing Nigel, well done, but I'm not sure if it's a good enough motive. And don't forget he has a cast-iron alibi. Let him know you know, and use it to prise information about the abortions out of him. That's our best avenue, I think."

  "I'm sure you're right, but I can't wait to see his face."

  None of the pubs do meals so early in the evening, so I went to the cafe over the road and had tomato soup, gammon and pineapple, blackberry crumble with custard and a pot of tea. I took my time over it, preferring watching real people go about their mundane activities to watching second-rate television at home. I was about to ask for a refill when the old gimmer at the next table lit his pipe, so I decided to leave. As I reached inside my jacket for my wallet I found the tickets for Romeo and Juliet.

  I walked back into the station yard, where my car was, and stood there, indecisive, wondering what to do. I'd already been accused once of approaching a witness with a view to obtaining sexual favours; would I be tempting fate?

  The performance started in fifty minutes. Sod 'em all, I thought, and marched back into the nick.

  Her number was in my book and she answered her phone almost straight away. "Is that Mrs. Henderson?" I asked.

  "Yes, it is. Who's speaking?"

  "Hello, Cicely. It's Detective Inspector Charlie Priest, from Heckley CID. Do you remember me? I met you at the clinic' "Hello, Inspector," she replied, warmly. "Of course I remember you.

  How can I help?"

  "It's Charlie," I told her. "Please, call me Charlie. Actually, it's not business, it's a personal call…"

  I told her that I'd been left with these tickets for Romeo and Juliet and forgotten all about them until just now and I was still in my working clothes because I hadn't had time to go home and change and hoped she wouldn't get the wrong impression but I'd intended giving her a ring when this whole thing was over and I realised it was very short notice and if she'd prefer to go with a friend she could have the tickets but it was a shame to waste them because it was a good production and…

  She said she'd love to accompany me, and could be ready in twenty minutes.

  I found the emergency razor and toothbrush in my bottom drawer and made a hasty toilet in the office loos. Somebody had been there before me and left a bottle of aftershave, so I used it liberally, including large dollops in my shoes, like Jon Voight in Midnight Cowboy. I tipped myself a wink in the mirror and left.

  Cicely looked good. Fantastic, in fact. Not my type, with her heavy make-up, tight-back hair and impossible heels, but I'd have looked twice. Any man would. I imagined her doing the flamenco by the light of a campfire, stomping her sturdy legs, arms aloft, as she danced passionate tales of old Iberia.

  It was drizzling, so I dropped her off at the Playhouse entrance and went to park the car. I dashed into the foyer as they gave the two-minute warning and brushed my wet hair out of my eyes. "You look stunning," I told her. She'd taken her coat off and was wearing a blue suit, with a black polo-necked blouse and black tights. Her hair wasn't black all the way to the roots, but nature sometimes needs a little help.

  "You don't look bad yourself," she replied, with a smile that I took to have a trace of disapproval in it. I imagined she liked her men in suits.

  "Yeah, well," I mumbled, "I normally do make a bit of an effort…"

  "You look fine," she said, 'and I wasn't looking forward to another night in with the cats. I'm glad you rang."

  "How many cats do you have?" I asked.

  "Just two. Sasha and Mustapha."

  "They sound Persian."

  "That's right."

  Ah well, at least they weren't Omar and Khayyam.

  It was a good production. It must have been on that year's national curriculum, for several school parties were present. The kids were more familiar with the story and led the laughter at the bawdy bits, which created a happy atmosphere. Cicely had a gin and tonic I made it a large one during the interval, and asked me how the enquiry was progressing.

  "Not very well," I admitted. "We're nearly at a standstill with it. In fact, we're wondering if it might have been a case of mistaken identity."

  "You mean, they murdered the wrong man?"

  "It's possible. How do you like working at the clinic?" I was supposed to be asking the questions.

  "Oh, it's all right," she replied.

  "Only all right?"

  "It's fine. Conditions are good, pay is reasonable and they treat us well."

  "Cheap cosmetic surgery, if and when the time arises?"

  "Ha! They're not that generous."

  "What about Dr. Barracl
ough," I asked. "How do you get on with him?"

  "I hope you didn't bring me out just to grill me about the clinic, Charlie," she admonished.

  "Sorry," I said. "Force of habit. No more shop talk. What do you think of the play?"

  "He's not a real doctor, you know?"

  "Isn't he? Which one's the doctor?"

  "I mean Barraclough," she giggled.

  "Oh, that doctor. What is he, then?"

  "He thinks nobody knows, but we all do. He's a doctor of divinity, or something, from one of those American universities that sells qualifications. He's never passed any exams."

  Nigel was going to love this. "Well, well," I said. "It looks as if we'd better have another word with Dr. B."

  It went downhill in the second half. The kids grew restless and I couldn't understand why the friar and the nurse were taking such apalling risks just to get two spoilt brats into bed with each other. I nodded off a couple of times, towards the end.

  "It was a bit like West Side Story," Cicely observed as we filed towards the exit.

  "Yes, it was," I agreed, 'but without the tunes," and the woman in front turned to give me the look she usually reserves for when she's cleaning up dog sick.

  I offered to fetch the car but Cicely said she'd be OK. The rain had slowed to a drizzle and after years of practice she'd mastered the technique of trotting in five-inch stilettos.

  "Brrr!" I said, spinning the engine and pushing the heater controls to maximum.

  She fastened her seat belt and looked across at me. "Thank you for a lovely evening," she said. "I've enjoyed it."

  "Shakespeare's not to everybody's taste," I replied. "Personally, I prefer Ayckbourn." I smiled at her and she smiled back. There and then, in that light, she looked stunning. In the next fifteen minutes I had to decide if I wanted to see her again. I wasn't sure.

  I didn't stop the engine outside, her house. It seemed presumptuous to do so. She opened her door and stretched one leg out on to the pavement.

  "Thanks again, Charlie," she said. "It's been lovely."

  "My pleasure," I replied, the decision made.

  "If…" she began.

  "Mmm?"

  "If I invite you in for a coffee… you won't get the wrong idea, will you?"

  "You mean…" I hesitated. "You mean… you're not really inviting me in for a coffee?"

  "No!" she protested, laughing. "I mean I am inviting you in for a coffee. And that's all. Nothing else."

  "Thank you," I said. "I'd love a coffee."

  She hung her coat on a stand in the hallway and led me into her kitchen. It wasn't quite as de luxe as I'd expected, but not bad.

  Somehow, I'd gained the impression that she was well off, probably because I associated her with the no-expenses-spared surroundings of the clinic. Two bowls of cat food stood on a plastic mat on the floor, but the moggies were absent.

  "Can I leave you in charge?" she asked, retrieving milk, sugar, mugs and and all the other stuff required for the seemingly simple task of making two cups of coffee.

  "No problem," I replied.

  "Look, Charlie," she said. "I want to get out of these clothes and into something more comfortable. You won't get the wrong message, will you? I dress smartly all day and like to be more relaxed when I come home."

  "I know the feeling," I replied, holding my arms wide and looking down at my own clothes. "I promise to behave myself and not get any ideas."

  "Good. And that's the kettle," were her last words, as she tapped it before disappearing upstairs.

  It was one of those kettles that lifts off its base, so you're not dragging the flex across to the sink. I filled it right to the max mark and pushed the button.

  I put the mugs on saucers and placed them on opposite sides of the table, with a vase of narcissi that I found on the windowsill as a centrepiece. Cicely had produced a box of biscuits, so I arranged a selection on a plate in a geometric pattern. Might as well demonstrate that I was reasonably civilised. The kettle wasn't making any noises.

  Cicely returned just as I realised what the problem was.

  "Switched off at the plug," I explained. "Coffee will be delayed by a few minutes."

  She was wearing a silk kimono, high at the neck, in an ivory colour and heavily emboidered. I was about to pay her a compliment, then decided not to. It might be misconstrued.

  "Do you like Lionel Ritchie?" she asked, walking into the adjoining room, where her music lived.

  "Some," I answered, untruthfully, watching her go. She was still wearing her tights, which had seams up the back. I hadn't noticed that before, and her stilettos looked even higher than I remembered them.

  A rich voice flooded the room, singing a song I didn't know. Cicely walked back in and put her arms around my neck.

  "Let's dance," she said, 'while the kettle boils."

  We danced, round in circles, in the middle of her kitchen, her face resting on my chest, my fingers caressing her neck.

  The song ended. Cicely took my hand and led me into the other room.

  The gas fire was hissing and the wall lights were low. As we kissed, her hands fumbled between us, undoing the belt of the kimono. She wriggled it off her shoulders and it fell to the ground. It looked as if we were taking a raincheck on the coffee. I held her at arm's length and deliberated on what I saw, taking my time, savouring the experience. She was wearing the kind of underwear you see in the adverts near the back of the tabloids, catalogue sent under plain cover. Her bra was more uplifting than Elgar's "Nimrod', and if her briefs had been cut any higher she'd have been able to put her arms out through the leg holes.

  "Do you like me?" she whispered, suddenly vulnerable.

  I didn't answer with words. Words can express everything, which makes them meaningless. This wasn't what I wanted, but going now would hurt her more than if I stayed. Sometimes, I'm just a victim of circumstances. Our tongues tangled as my hands traced the silhouette of her body, following the valleys and making forays into the mountains and forests. She un popped the top stud of my shirt. Then the next and the next: pop, pop, pop. There's no fumbling with a Wrangler.

  Button.

  Zip.

  She looked down, then up into my face, eyes wide with approval, and, I like to think, just a hint of apprehension.

  My hands came to rest on her hips and I gently pressed downwards. We sank to the floor, our legs folding and buckling beneath us, like two disused power station chimneys, after they fire the dynamite.

  In the kitchen, the kettle came to the boil and switched itself off.

  It had gone. It wasn't on the side of the sink, where I'd left it, or in the bin for the paper towels. Damn! A toilet flushed and young Caton emerged from a cubicle.

  "Lost something, Boss?" he asked, turning a tap on and squirting monkey spunk on to his hands from the dispenser.

  "Aftershave," I replied. "It was here last night."

  "Can't say I've noticed any. What brand was it?"

  "That's what I need to know."

  "Why? Are you thinking of buying some?"

  "No. I want shares in the company."

  Mr. Wood was at one of his meetings, giving funny handshakes to people he didn't like while standing on one leg saying that yes, it was cold, but it would get colder before it got warmer. In other words, I was in charge. In other words, I had to stay in the office, if possible.

  He started sending me to the meetings, but I misread the signals and then invented a few of my own. I think someone must have had a word with him, because he stopped sending me, which is what I'd intended all along. When all the troops were deployed I trudged up to his office to see what the postman had brought him.

  I dealt with all of it except a request for a donation to the Chief Constable's retirement present. I decided he might like to handle that one personally. When I'd finished I pushed his chair back, put my feet on the desk and pondered on what might have been.

  I'd fucked it up, from beginning to end, home and away, no doubt about it. The
job wasn't the same. A few of us, old-timers, stuck together, bonded by ancient loyalties, but nobody would help you out of a jam any more. They couldn't one step out of line and you were down the road.

  My offer of retirement was still open, but what would I do, at home all day, on my own? That was the crunch. On my own.

  I'd taken the membership list and the Magic Plastic catalogue up with me, hoping that I'd have a chance to look at them. I reached for the catalogue and flicked through it, wondering where I'd find the mini-bin.

  And that made me think about Janet Saunders. What would I do, I wondered, if Mrs. Henderson walked into the front office and said that I'd raped her? We'd been to the theatre, as arranged; she'd invited me in for a coffee, all good and proper; and I'd turned nasty and raped her at knife point How could I defend myself against the allegation?

  I couldn't. But she wouldn't, would she? Truth was, I hadn't really wanted a date with her. I wasn't complaining, far from it, but Cicely and what she had to offer wasn't what I was looking for. The implication from that, of course, was that I was looking for something.

  She'd be at work. I pulled the phone towards me and dialled the number for the White Rose Clinic. Magic Plastic, I noticed, did a device for catching spiders in the bath. Just what I've always wanted.

  "Good morning, White Rose Clinic," a precise voice said in my ear.

  "Good morning," I repeated, holding the phone with a hunched shoulder as I turned the page. "My name is Detective Inspector Charlie Priest, of Heckley CID. I believe you have a Mrs. Cicely Henderson at the clinic'

  There was a pause, before she said: "This is Mrs. Henderson speaking.

  How can I help you, Inspector." I could feel the smile in her voice.

  "Hello, Cicely," I said. "How are you?"

  "I'm fine. And you?"

  "Excellent. It's amazing what a good night's sleep can do. I just thought I'd thank you for coming to the theatre with me. It was a very enjoyable evening."

  "Yes, I thought so, too. Thank you for the invitation. Shakespeare has taken on a whole new meaning for me."

  "He's full of surprises, isn't he? I was thinking that maybe we could go out for a meal, say, Thursday or Friday. What kind of food do you like?"