Deadly Friends, page 17
‘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 woodentops work-out there. I wandered in and asked to see the manager.
I recognised him, when he came, as a footballer 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 footballer, 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 smelt 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 other 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 & 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.’
‘Cor! 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 garam 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 anything 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.
‘It does, doesn’t it?’ I agreed.
‘And then there’s this lot.’ He pointed to the box marked ‘Abortions’. ‘God knows what we can do about them. Keep working at all these alibis, Charlie, but cross your fingers that Rodney doesn’t have one. It’s him, I can feel it in my water.’
We’d all said that about Ged Skinner, but I didn’t remind him.
Nigel was in the office, typing a report. I clicked the switch on the kettle and asked him what was happening.
‘Waiting for Scarborough to ring me back,’ he replied. ‘I’ve faxed the details to them. Sparky and Maggie are paying a return visit to the White Rose Clinic, encouraging the nursing staff to gossip about their medical director.’
‘Dr Barraclough,’ I sighed, for no reason other than to give a name to the title. In this job, we deal with individuals, not positions.
‘What did Mr Isles have to say?’ Nigel asked.
‘He’s happy enough. Thinks it’s Rodders what did it. Carry on as we are, no extra staff.’
‘Great.’
‘It won’t be great if we don’t arrest someone soon and it goes to review. Then it’ll be: “What have you been playing at for all this time?”’
I brewed myself a mug of tea, paused with the teabag dripping off the spoon as I looked for somewhere to put it, said: ‘Oh, sod it,’ and dropped it in the bin.
Nigel was on the phone when I turned round, looking as if the lottery unclaimed prizes crew had finally tracked him down. ‘Scarborough CID,’ he hissed at me, briefly covering the mouthpiece as he listened. ‘One moment,’ he told them. He moved the instrument away from his face and said: ‘They sent a DC round and he’s now in hospital. Rodders laid about him with what he thinks was a double-barrelled shotgun and he’s barricaded himself in. Fancy a trip to Scarborough?’
‘You bet!’ I told him.
‘We’re on our way over,’ he told them. ‘It’ll take us about two hours. You’d better give me some directions.’
We needed a breakthrough and this looked like it. You have a murder on your conscience, there’s a knock at the door and when you answer it a detective flashes his ID at you and asks your name. You panic. The more I thought about it, the better it looked. I drove while Nigel phoned City HQ to get a message to Mr Isles. No harm in letting him know that his hunch was paying off.
It’s a fast road to Scarborough, on a Tuesday in winter. As soon as the days lengthen and the sun comes out for more than an hour it clogs with caravans and a procession of coaches and asthmatic family cars that have seen more polish than petrol. But not today. Driving can be a pleasure on empty roads, even when the temperature is hovering just above zero and sleet is in the air. Going to catch a murderer adds a sense of purpose to the journey.
A Scarborough panda was waiting for us in a layby on the outskirts of town. I pulled in behind him and Nigel dashed out to introduce himself. They led us to a little estate of bungalows, ideal for retired couples, on the north side.
‘Brrr! It’s freezing,’ Nigel had complained as he got back in. His coat was spotted with raindrops.
It was circus time on the estate. The street was cordoned off but everyone was out to watch the excitement, wearing big anoraks and woollen hats against the weather. I expected the ice-cream man to pull round the corner anytime, jingle blaring, desperate for a sale. The wind was coming straight off the North Sea, and tasted of salt. I pulled my down jacket on and we went looking for whoever was in charge.
‘DI Charlie Priest, from Heckley,’ I told the uniformed inspector, when we found him, ‘and this is DS Nigel Newley.’ I explained our involvement, and why we wanted to talk to the man barricaded in the house, namely Rodney Allen. He was grateful for the information. Up to then, he’d been struggling to know what it was all about.
