Deadly Friends, page 10
‘Why,’ I began, ‘did nobody think it worthwhile to bring to my notice the fact that our dead doctor and our serial rapist lived in the same block of flats?’
‘Do they?’ Nigel answered, wide-eyed.
‘We didn’t know,’ Sparky replied, on the defensive.
‘I thought Mr Makinson kept you fully informed,’ I told them. ‘I thought he was very professional.’
‘Oh, we knew where the doctor lived,’ Nigel countered. ‘It was where your rapist lived that we had no idea.’
I felt my cheeks pull back into my sickly grin. ‘Love –forty,’ I conceded, deciding to change the subject. ‘What’s in here?’
Nigel flicked open the lid of his box and read from the inventory that was inside. ‘Not much worth talking about: contents of his pockets; his mail, diary, address book; one bullet, used; and his door keys.’
I turned to Sparky. ‘Any photographs of the body?’ I asked. ‘We might as well start again, from the beginning.’
He spread the ten-by-eights on my desk. The doctor was laid more or less in the recovery position, with a halo of blood around his head, soaking into the pale carpet. I pulled a close-up towards me.
‘He was a good looking so-and-so,’ I said, quietly. With a good brain, too, until someone drilled a hole through it. I pushed the pictures around, re-arranging them, absorbing their message.
‘There’s the SOCO’s video of the flat here,’ Sparky said. ‘Do you want to watch it?’
‘Umm, no, I don’t think so. Did you mention the keys to the flat, Nigel?’
‘Yes, they’re here.’
‘I think I’ll have a look for myself, then. Have you two seen it?’
They both shook their heads.
‘OK. Well, let’s not move about in a pack. I’ll have a ride over there now while you two have another look through this lot. Draw up a table. You know the score: motive, opportunity, evidence; that sort of thing. Sort out a list of acquaintances for us to interview. Then maybe you can have a look at the scene later, if you think it worthwhile. We’ve been lumbered with this, good and proper, so let’s show them how a murder enquiry should be conducted, eh?’
‘Right, Boss,’ they replied in unison. They looked pleased.
Mews is agent-speak for upmarket. There was no central courtyard, no alley where horse-drawn delivery carts used to clatter over the cobbles. The Canalside development was a rectangular block of a building, in newly cleaned Yorkshire stone that had been carved and crafted when skills were cheap and the best materials could be dug straight out of the ground. It backed on to the canal, with the old lifting beam still jutting out like a witch’s nose. The building was preserved for posterity and earning a bob or two for the owners. That was fair enough. For once, the word pretentious didn’t spring to mind.
Most of the parking places were empty, apart from a couple of small but newish cars and a Suzuki four-wheel drive with silly coloured splashes on the sides. The front door of the flats was made of wood but free from the jemmy marks and metal plates screwed next to the lock that you always see on the council-owned blocks. To one side was the communications system, with a button for each of the eight apartments and a digital display; to the other was a bank of mail boxes. I put the appropriate key in the lock and turned it.
The central hallway reached the full height of the building. Once, bales of wool or finished cloth would have been swung and raised and lowered here. Labourers would have manhandled them, clerks in stiff collars registered them and bowler-hatted buyers cast knowledgeable eyes over them. This had been Heckley’s gateway to the world. Now it housed the staircase and the lift shaft. The floor was quarry-tiled and there were framed prints by a failed impressionist on the walls. In the middle of the floor was a water feature whose photograph had probably graced the cover of the brochure, with a small fountain but no fish.
The first door on the left was number one. I’d half expected it to bear a plaque saying ‘D. Buxton, Branch Manager, Homes 4U’, but it didn’t. He had the good sense to realise that anonymity is sometimes preferable to advertising. It all depends on the line of work you are in. I ignored the open lift door and attacked the stairs.
The rooms must have had high ceilings, for I was puffing by the second floor. There was one flat on each side of the stairwell, eight in all. The doctor had what the agent no doubt called the penthouse. I gathered my breath as I examined his door. It told me nothing, so I went in.
It was love at first sight. The doc had furnished the place from scratch with a generous budget, whereas I’d inherited my house and its contents from my parents. His tastes were not exactly mine, but his mark, his stamp, had been on it from day one. My house is slowly evolving to something more my style. Meanwhile, it looks as if it were furnished by a committee.
I’d have gone for something more up-to-date. This was strictly art deco, which looked dated, in my opinion, and conflicted with the building as a whole, but he’d done a good job. The kitchen was custom made with neatly integrated Neff appliances and the carpets were off-white throughout. In his sitting room I flicked a row of switches just inside the door and several wrought iron standard lamps came on but did little to dispel the gloom. Romantic but impractical. A thin coating of aluminium powder on everything, left by the SOCOs, reminded me that this was a murder scene. The pool of congealed blood, defiling the centre of the carpet like a stigmata, confirmed it.
All his Christmas cards had been gathered up and left in a pile. I read through them although I’d seen a list of the senders in the reports. He’d received about five times as many as me. From patients, I told myself. Our clients rarely send us greetings cards. It was a small consolation.
The pictures on his walls were black and white prints of film stars. Humphrey Bogart in Casablanca, squinting through wreaths of smoke. Greta Garbo. Dorothy Lamour. Not my taste at all. I love the cinema, but not the people in it. Bogie is held up as an icon of the twentieth century. For what? About ten hours’ work and an ability to talk without moving his lips while blowing smoke down his nose.
I didn’t stay long. I knew before I came that there was nothing useful for me to see – it was just a starting point. To find the person who killed him I first needed to know the man. I studied the view from his windows, across the town with the hills looming up like a wall across the valley, and wondered how much the flat would sell for. Probably more than I’d want to pay, unless they had to bring the price down because of its recent history. Then I remembered the neighbours and decided that it wasn’t for me, after all. Who wants to live next door to someone who drives a Suzuki with red and yellow splatters on the sides?
I was on my way out when I saw it, on the worktop in the kitchen. Tucked in a corner, next to his electric kettle, was a plastic container about six inches high, like a miniature swingbin. Exactly what I wanted for putting used teabags in, I thought. I pushed the top open with a finger and saw that it contained … teabags. Great minds, and all that.
I considered stealing it, but its presence would have been recorded on the video of the crime scene, and besides, I’m supposed to be fighting that sort of thing. I’d look out for one in the shops, and one for Gilbert, too. Anything to please the cleaning ladies. After a last lingering look at the place where the doctor’s life had leaked away I switched off all the lights and carefully locked the door behind me. Outside, I emptied his mailbox and took the contents back to the station.
My mobile rang as I pulled into the station car park. ‘It’s me, Charlie,’ Sparky said. ‘Do you want some fish and chips bringing in?’
‘Ooh, yes please. What about Nigel?’
‘He’s here with me. ’Bout fifteen minutes.’
‘I’ll put the kettle on.’
I had a quick look through the thick pile of mail I’d brought in. The only proper letter was from someone called George, probably an old college friend. It was a résumé of the past year, as if they kept their friendship alive with an annual report but rarely met. There was a bank statement, the usual quota of junk, and reminders that the doctor’s subscriptions to the RSPB and the British Medical Journal were due. A Christmas card from a lady called Melissa, who was still thinking about him, had been redirected from an address in Chesterfield. I dumped the junk and put a rubber band round the other stuff.
My desk was as clear as it ever gets. Nigel had left a list of people he thought we ought to interview again. I pushed everything to one end and covered the rest of it with used sheets of paper from the flip board, held down by strips of Sellotape. That’s the nearest we have to table covers in CID. I fetched an extra chair out of the main office and the salt and vinegar from Sparky’s bottom drawer. The kettle was just coming to the boil as they breezed in, closely followed by the familiar aroma.
We ate the fish and chips with our fingers, out of the paper. The first ones after Christmas always taste especially good. Nigel and Sparky had been to the General Hospital, to talk to the doc’s former colleagues. ‘One bloke’s a bit cagey,’ Sparky said. ‘A registrar. That’s one below a consultant, isn’t it?’
Nigel confirmed that it was.
‘How do you mean, cagey?’ I asked.
‘He wasn’t as fulsome in his praise as most of the others. I got the impression he didn’t like him.’ He screwed his paper up and put it back in the plastic bag the fish and chips came in. Nigel produced a roll of kitchen towel for him to wipe his hands on.
‘That’s because our dead doctor was having an affair with his wife,’ Nigel told us.
‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Go on.’
He wiped his own hands and took a drink of tea. ‘I enjoyed those. One of the ward sisters took great relish in telling me about the doc’s sexual exploits. Actually, he wasn’t a doc. Being a consultant made him a mister. She went all misty-eyed at the memory. She said there was a story going round that he was doing a bit for the registrar’s wife, who knew all about it but turned a blind eye.’
‘Is this in the reports?’ I asked.
‘No. She thought it wasn’t important and it didn’t seem right to mention it so soon after his murder.’
‘How jolly considerate of her,’ I said.
When we’d finished the currant squares Nigel had brought in from the bakery over the road I reached out for the list he had compiled. ‘We’ll talk to all these again,’ I said. ‘No doubt they have all remembered something new, or there’s a little titbit they didn’t like mentioning earlier.’ I studied the list.
‘I wouldn’t mind going back to the General,’ Sparky said. ‘One or two who worked with him don’t come on until one.’
‘OK. That’s you sorted. Nigel, how do you feel about going to York to see his parents?’
He nodded. ‘Mmm. No problem.’
‘Fine. This is his mail, collected from the flat. Take it over there, ask them if they want to let people know before they learn it from us. Keep copies of anything that might be useful. And that leaves me. Now let me see …’ I held the list at arm’s length and studied it. ‘I think I’ll have a word with, oh …’ I gave them a big smile. ‘… The girlfriend, Natasha Wilde, whoever she is.’
CHAPTER SIX
I knew Natasha Wilde was an actress in a soap, I’d read it in the reports. I washed my hands in the smelly stuff that comes out of the dispenser and cleaned my teeth. I wasn’t swayed by her fame – I’d have done the same for any royalty.
Appletreewick is a neat little village in Wharfedale. It’s a proper working dales village, hardly touched by ‘oftcomers’. I’ve done plenty of walking around there, when scenery and a decent pub for lunch were more important than packing the miles in. Most of my walking is like that, these days. She lived outside the village, towards Burnsall, in Apple Tree Cottage. ‘You can’t miss it,’ she’d told me on the phone when I arranged to see her. ‘It’s the last cottage on the right, with the lovely crooked chimneys.’
It took me nearly an hour and a half to get there, and although it was still only mid-afternoon the light had nearly gone as I left the main street behind and cast my eyes chimney-wards. The sky was heavy with snow and I realised that I had a sporting chance of being snowed in with her. Who’d be a cop? I found the cottage first time and walked up the long path to the front door. There was a parcel on the doorstep. I picked it up and pressed the bell. The parcel was addressed to Miss N. Wilde and came from Star & Media Photography of London.
The door was opened by a vision in pink. The pants were tight enough to protect the wearer from a ten G turn and the blouse shone and shimmered like a mirage.
‘Hello,’ he said. ‘Can I help you?’
‘My name’s Priest,’ I told him. ‘Miss Wilde is expecting me.’ I thrust the parcel forward. ‘And your postman’s been.’
He studied the parcel for a moment, then turned and shouted: ‘Natasha! Your policeman has arrived, and your photos are here.’ He looked back at me, smiled as if he meant it, and invited me in.
For a so-called cottage the rooms were huge. The frontage appeared reasonable, but it must have stretched back for ever. The walls were stone and a big fire blazed in the hearth. I’ve been in smaller saloon bars. At the far end of the room was a baby grand piano with the lid propped open, as if someone had just stopped playing it. Mr Pink invited me to sit down on a spindly easy chair with Laura Ashley loose cushions and said Natasha wouldn’t be a moment. He started to open the parcel.
She made her entrance just as he pulled the first photograph out. She was about five foot tall and not much less from front to back. It’s a fact of life that actresses are on average two cup sizes larger than their non-thespian sisters.
‘Inspector!’ she gushed, approaching like an attacking shark. I stood up and held a hand out, wondering if I should kiss her on the cheeks or curtsey. We settled for a simple shake.
Her hair was ash blond, in a style that I last saw on Doris Day. The complexion was perfect and her teeth looked as if they had been precision machined from a billet of the finest marble. They were small and regular and could have inflicted serious damage on small animals. She was good looking – beautiful, even – but I found her curiously sexless. It’s something I’ve been experiencing more and more, recently. Maybe I should have a word with someone.
‘Sit down, please, Inspector,’ she insisted, graciously, and sat opposite me, with the fire between us.
‘Your pictures are here,’ Mr Pink said again, handing one to her.
‘Ooh, that’s just lovely,’ she replied, after examining it, and passed it across to me.
‘Very nice,’ I concurred.
She was wearing exactly the same oufit as in the photograph – skin-coloured jodhpurs and a white polo-necked sweater. The jodhpurs on the real thing were so tight they left nothing to my imagination. I could have done a reasonably accurate anatomical drawing right there and then. In the photo the camera angle was chosen to show off her other physical charms.
‘Can I keep this?’ I asked.
‘Of course you can.’
I placed it on the floor alongside my chair. ‘Right. Thank you. First of all, can I introduce myself? I’m DI Charlie Priest from Heckley CID …’
‘Oh, what must you think of me?’ she interrupted, putting a hand to her head. ‘I’m Natasha Wilde and this is Peter Khan, but everybody calls him Genghis.’
I nodded towards him. ‘How do you do.’
‘Genghis is an arranger,’ Natasha went on. ‘One of the best in the business, and a very good friend of mine.’
‘Flowers or furniture,’ I asked.
‘Music,’ he replied, as if everybody made the same mistake.
‘Genghis did the score for the Pedro Wallis commercial,’ Natasha said.
‘Really.’
‘You won’t have seen it,’ he said. ‘It hasn’t been released yet.’
‘I’ll look out for it. Now, no doubt you realise that I’m here in connection with the death of Dr Jordan. I’d like to go over a few things with you, if you don’t mind, Miss Wilde.’
‘Please, Natasha,’ she insisted.
‘Thanks, and I’m Charlie. First of all can I say how sorry I am. It must have been a shock to you.’
‘Oh, we were all devastated, weren’t we, Genghis? We’ll help all we can, Charlie, but we told that Mr Makinson everything we know. He was ever so kind.’
Genghis nodded his agreement.
‘I know, and I’ve read his reports. Unfortunately he’s broken his leg, skiing …’
‘Oh no!’ she exclaimed, and Genghis looked stricken.
‘… and I’ve taken over the investigation.’
‘What about that drugs man?’ she asked. ‘Haven’t you found him yet?’
‘Yes, we’ve found him, but he has an alibi. We’ve eliminated him from enquiries. He’s called Ged Skinner – I don’t suppose the doctor ever mentioned him, did he?’
‘No, I’m afraid not.’
‘When did you last see the doctor?’
‘The weekend before. He stayed here, and was supposed to be coming over on Christmas Eve. We were having a house party. When we heard that poor Clive was dead it ruined the whole thing.’
Natasha had known Dr Jordan about three years. She met him at the clinic when, she said, she was having her nose fixed. Since then they’d been very close but she knew little about his other acquaintances or his work. It looked as if the doc lived in parallel universes: one at weekends with his showbiz friends, and in the real world from Monday to Friday.
A mobile phone warbled on a bookshelf. Genghis picked it up and took it out of the room. I don’t know whether it was for privacy or because he was well-mannered, but I suspected the latter and warmed a little towards him. I was asking Natasha if Dr Jordan had ever told her about any problems with the anti-abortionists when Genghis returned. He hovered close to her, like a humming bird, as she said: ‘No, I’m afraid he never mentioned anything like that.’
When she finished speaking he said: ‘Shall I make us all some coffee? How do you like it, Charlie?’
‘Black please,’ I replied, ‘with nothing in it.’ I was trying to cut down on the sugar, so I might as well impress them with my sophistication.
