Deadly Friends (12 page)

The grey-haired lady behind the pharmacy counter said she’d tell Mr Weatherall we were here. She slipped into the back room, behind a partition made of striped glass that we could be seen through, and we heard her say that two reps were asking for him.

‘Mr Weatherall won’t be a moment,’ she told us with a smile when she returned.

I studied the goods on offer. Half of the front counter was dedicated to the prevention of pregnancy, with a variety of choice that was bewildering. Colour, shape, size and flavour had all to be considered. I feigned shock and turned away.

Apart from the usual flu and indigestion remedies, the rest of the shop was filled with all the stuff you needed after the things on the counter failed. Perhaps abstention was the best way after all, I decided.

‘Sorry to keep you waiting, gentlemen,’ Weatherall blustered as he came into the shop. He looked expectantly from one of us to the other, as if he ought to recognise us. He was about thirty-five, seriously thinning on top, with cherubic features and rimless spectacles.

‘That’s all right, sir,’ Nigel said, showing his ID. ‘I’m DS Newley from Heckley CID and this is DI Priest. Do you think we could go somewhere private for a
chat? It shouldn’t take more than a few minutes.’

‘Oh, er, right. I thought you were company representatives. Sorry about that.’

‘That’s OK, sir.’

‘We’ll be upstairs, Monica, if you need me. This way, please, gentlemen.’

He lived above the shop. We sat on easy chairs that had seen better days and he lit the gas fire. He adjusted the vertical blind on the window to admit more light and apologised for the mess. ‘We’re in the middle of moving out,’ he explained.

‘Going far, sir?’ I asked.

‘No. We’ve bought a house on Sweetwater Lane, not too far away.’

‘So you’re not leaving the shop?’

‘No. No. Just the opposite. Thinking of buying another, in fact.’

‘Business must be good, sir.’

He smiled. ‘Yes, I suppose it is. We just happen to be in a good location, with a decent catchment area and no big national nearer than the town centre. We’re doing well.’

‘I’m glad to hear it,’ I said.

Nigel broke in with: ‘We’re looking into the death of Dr Clive Jordan, Mr Weatherall. We believe you knew him.’

‘I wondered if that was it.’ He looked worried. Or sad, it’s hard to tell the difference. ‘Yes,’ he continued, ‘I knew him, but not very well.’

‘How well?’

He studied his fingernails for a moment, realised he was fidgeting and placed his hands on his thighs. ‘We met about three years ago, at the Lord Mayor’s Ball in the town hall. I heard someone say his name and introduced myself. I see his prescriptions now and again, but not very often, so I made a joke about his handwriting.’ He chuckled at the memory. ‘I remembered him from school but he was a year above me and almost certainly didn’t know I existed. We both went to Heckley Grammar, and he was school captain. I’m afraid I wasn’t very good at sports.’

‘And when did you last see him?’

‘About a year after that.’

‘What was the occasion?’

A fingernail went to his mouth for a moment before he thrust his hands into his pockets. ‘That first time,’ he began, ‘at the town hall – we bumped into each other again, waiting for the ladies’ coats, and walked out together. I was with my wife and he was with a girlfriend. She looked extremely young. When we reached the cars he was in a beautiful little Lotus. We were admiring it, me saying I’d always wanted one, and he said he’d probably be selling it in about a year, might I be interested? We said yes, and the following summer he rang me and I bought it. I haven’t seen him since then.’

Nigel glanced at me, his face sagging like a melting cake. I pursed my lips and looked up at the ceiling.

‘Did you pay cash for the car, sir?’ Nigel asked. The enthusiasm had gone from his voice.

‘No,’ the pharmacist replied. ‘We drew up a contract and I pay him monthly. It was actually his idea – said there was no point in paying exorbitant interest charges. He was terribly decent about the whole thing. And trusting. To tell the truth, I was a bit taken aback by him. If I’d been in his shoes I wouldn’t have been so trusting, I can tell you.’

I said: ‘Maybe he was a good judge of character, Mr Weatherall.’

The chemist nodded and said: ‘Presumably I’ll have to keep making the payments into his estate.’

‘I would imagine so.’

‘Ah, well.’

‘The trustees will probably be in touch with you.’

‘We did find some regular deposits in the doctor’s bank account that we couldn’t explain,’ Nigel told him. ‘Presumably they were from you?’

‘Probably,’ he replied. ‘I transfer three hundred pounds a month to him, sometimes a bit more, if I can afford it.’

‘Right, well, I think that clears that up nicely,’ Nigel conceded. He turned to me. ‘Do you have any further questions, Mr Priest?’

‘No.’ I shook my head. ‘As you said, I think that clears things up, er, very nicely, thank you.’

‘In that case, thank you for your assistance, Mr Weatherall.’

On the stairs I casually asked him where he’d been at eight thirty on the night in question, ‘Just to complete our record of the interview, sir.’ He and his wife had been working at the new house all evening. I resisted slamming Nigel’s car door but yanked the seat belt tight. Nigel rattled numbers into his mobile phone as I watched two young girls walk by. They looked about fifteen but must have been twenty and had six kids between them: two infants in buggies, two toddlers pulled along by hand and two older ones following behind.

Nigel folded the phone and started the car engine. ‘Tell me the news,’ I invited.

‘It’s a white Lotus Elan, owned by A.J.K. Weatherall of Sweetwater, Heckley. Previous owner: Dr C.D. Jordan, also of Heckley. Shit!’

‘And botheration,’ I added. ‘Back to the station, please, driver, let’s have an early night.’

‘Sorry, Boss,’ he said.

‘Nothing to apologise for, my young friend. It had to be investigated.’

I closed my eyes and dozed as we drove back, the heater blowing on to my legs and the weak winter sunshine flickering across my eyes. It was my antidote for disappointment. I pretended I was lying on a sunbed on a Caribbean beach and felt curiously content. I went to Heckley Grammar School. I was school captain, too, about fifteen years before the doctor had that honour.

‘What’s making you smile?’ I heard Nigel say, above the whisper of the breeze in the palm trees.

‘Oh, I’m just daydreaming.’

‘What about?’

‘I was wondering what toffee-flavoured condoms are like.’

On my way home I called in at Marks and Spencer’s and bought two new shirts – it was easier than ironing – and stocked up with ready meals. The travel agent next door was still open, so I collected brochures for Italy, Kenyan safaris and, as an afterthought, cruises.

Annabelle and I needed a holiday. I’d love to have taken her to Kenya, but the memories might be too bittersweet for her. She married a missionary worker there when she was still very young, but he couldn’t resist the temptations of the Happy Valley set. They made a fresh start back over here and found happiness of a sort, until he died of cancer.

A week in Florence doing the galleries, followed by a walking tour in the Dolomites, sounded just perfect,
but would mean waiting until the weather was warmer. I’d leave the brochures with her on Friday, see what she thought.

Sparky interviewed the residents of Canalside Mews and came away with lots of ideas about salt-water aquariums and integrated hi-fi systems but nothing that helped in the hunt for the doctor’s killer. He even talked to Darryl Buxton, but managed to keep the two cases isolated from each other. Darryl had been out at the time of the shooting, he said, with his secretary. They had, Darryl told him, ‘Something going, know what I mean?’

Two residents had heard a bump or a bang that could have been a gunshot, which gave us an accurate time of death. We place great importance on knowing the exact time of death. In the absence of the name of the trigger-puller, knowing the precise moment that the trigger was pulled is a small victory over ignorance. The doctor kept himself to himself, everybody said, and no strangers had been seen hanging around. It was all in the original reports and now we had it twice.

I talked to the staff at the White Rose Clinic. When I first started grammar school my father had just been made sergeant and we moved to Leeds for a while. I used to come home via the city centre and would often make a diversion through the various department stores. More and more often I found my route taking me past the perfumery counters. The ladies who sold Clinique,
in their high-collared white tunics and immaculate make-up, were my favourites. I remembered all this when I first saw the White Rose’s receptionist.

Her hair was pulled tightly back, but she had the features to carry it. The eyelashes looked like two black widow spiders and her teeth out-dazzled the uniform. I pulled my stomach in and flashed my ID like there was an intruder on the premises and I had a.357 Magnum in my belt that hadn’t been used for two days and I was scared of it growing rusty.

‘My name’s Priest,’ I said, ‘from Heckley CID. I have an appointment with Dr Barraclough.’

She smiled and tapped a number into a state-
of-the
-art communications system. I mentally filled in an MFH report on her: five-three, forty-five, hundred and twenty pounds, and stunning with it, in spite of the heavy make-up. She could have saved herself fifty minutes in front of the mirror every morning and still given the odd cardiac arrest to the clinic’s male visitors. Her shoulders were like an American footballer’s, but they may have come with the uniform. The name badge said: ‘Cicely Henderson, Receptionist’.

‘There’s Mr Priest to see you, Dr Barraclough,’ she said into a microphone the size of a toothbrush.

The foyer of the clinic was all exposed brickwork, but it looked good. Chinese rugs were scattered around and a huge shaggy collage hung on a wall, depicting a stylised moorland scene, with mill chimneys in the
valleys with smoke streaming from them. The artist must have done that bit from memory. The heating was high, which is always a sign of prosperity.

‘Would you like to take a seat, Mr Priest,’ she said. ‘Dr Barraclough will be with you in a moment.’

I preferred to lean on her desk. ‘How many reception staff are there, Mrs Henderson?’ I asked.

‘Two of us full-time, and two part-timers who cover the weekends,’ she replied.

‘So do you and the other person work different shifts?’

‘Yes. We cover from eight in the morning to ten at night.’

I was about to say that I’d like a word with her later when a door opened and Dr Barraclough, Medical Director, swept into the foyer.

‘Inspector …’ he greeted me, hand extended.

He was wearing a suit that was just a tone too blue, white shirt and complementary striped tie. His hair was a fraction longer than respectable and greying to order at the temples. He could have stepped straight off the set of a Northern Upholstery commercial.

The hand might have been a musician’s or a surgeon’s, with long, perfectly manicured fingers. I tried not to crush them, although I suspected his livelihood had long-since ceased to depend on them.

‘Dr Barraclough,’ I said. ‘Thanks for seeing me at such short notice.’

He led me to his office after asking Cicely to make us two coffees, if she didn’t mind. ‘The decent stuff,’ he added, with a wink.

Her look said that for him she’d gladly have fetched it herself from Brazil, walking all the way with one stiletto heel missing.

The office was tidy and hi-tech, as I’d expected. A photo frame stood on his desk but I could only see the back of it. No doubt it helped him resist the temptations of his position and gave off a signal to predators. His window looked up the moor, towards Blea Fell, our local hill.

‘Nice view,’ I said, accepting his invitation to sit down. ‘It is, isn’t it? Some of us jog to the top three times a week.’

‘Really? I’m impressed.’

‘But I’m not one of them,’ he added, smiling at his own joke.

‘Oh.’

‘I believe you said your predecessor had broken his leg while skiing, Inspector.’

‘Yes, I’m afraid so. I’ve read his reports but I find the personal approach more useful.’

‘I can understand that. We were all devastated by Clive’s – Mr Jordan’s – death. He was one of the best obs and gynae surgeons in the business and one of the finest human beings I’ve ever known. The Lord truly moves in mysterious ways. How can I help you, Inspector?’

I’d just noticed the tiny crucifix in his lapel. ‘I
believe,’ I said, ‘that you perform abortions here?’

‘We do, Inspector, but do not confuse that by assuming we approve of them. Nobody approves of abortion. It is wrong, full stop. However, the issue is not as simple as that. I’m sure you know the arguments, but to fast forward to the bottom line, the attitude of the White Rose Clinic is to be in favour of giving the prospective mother the informed choice of either continuing with the pregnancy or having a termination. Ultimately, it is between her and God, or her conscience. We create a safe, non-judgemental environment in which she can reach a decision, and supply all the counselling and medical support she needs. We consider this to be a responsible approach to a very difficult situation.’

Perhaps, I thought. ‘And Dr Jordan actually performed the terminations?’ I suggested.

‘Yes, he did.’

‘So how many would he do?’

‘Most of our other clients are with us for two, sometimes three, days. We work to a cycle which means most beds are available on Wednesdays and Saturdays, which is when we perform the terminations. The usual figure is somewhere between a dozen and … oh, as many as twenty on a Wednesday, with perhaps six or eight on a Saturday.’

Cicely came in with the coffee and returned the smile I gave her. This time I decided to indulge myself, and used the cream and sugar.

I quizzed the doctor about the workings of a private clinic. He was helpful and completely at ease with the situation. The cosmetic surgery was usually done on Mondays and Thursdays, by surgeons moonlighting from other hospitals, although he didn’t use that word. He’d moved into administration early in his career, after finding that other people’s varicose veins and bowel troubles were more than he could take.

‘And you’ve never had any problems with the
pro-life
people?’ I asked.

‘The only problem I have with them is that title,’ he said. ‘I like to think that we are pro-life at the clinic.’

‘No threatening letters? No demonstrations outside? Nothing like that?’

‘No, Inspector, not at all. We pride ourselves in our discretion. All, our referrals come by personal recommendation and we never advertise. A lady might come in to have a blephorectomy, for example. Some time later the daughter of a friend – at university, perhaps – confides in her that she is pregnant and doesn’t want to marry the father. Our client tells her that she knows a very nice clinic where she can obtain all the support and attention she needs. It’s amazing how the word spreads, Inspector.’

And the same would be true, I thought, if it just happened to be the au pair confiding in the lady’s husband.

‘Doesn’t the father need to give his consent?’ I asked.

‘We consider it desirable, especially if she’s married, but it’s not a requirement. And it’s only a signature on the bottom of a form. We don’t check it.’ He smiled and flapped a hand.

‘Right,’ I said. My ex-wife had an abortion after she left me, without my consent. I hadn’t known she was pregnant until it was too late. The top of Blea Fell had vanished in the mist and a squall was dashing sleet against the window.

‘… anything else?’ Dr Barraclough was saying.

‘Er, no. I mean, yes,’ I stumbled out. ‘Dr, er, Mr Jordan’s private life. I get the impression that he led quite a colourful one. What can you tell me about that?’

‘Nothing, Inspector. He was a fine doctor and that’s all I cared about. He was a single man, I believe: young and handsome. The surprise would be if he wasn’t breaking a few hearts, here and there, don’t you think?’

‘But whose? That’s what I want to know. Was he, can you say, having a relationship with anyone from the clinic?’

‘I really have no idea.’

‘A married woman, perhaps?’

‘I’m afraid gossip of that sort never reaches me, Inspector. The nursing staff may be able to help you with that, but I hope you will be discreet. Many of us were very fond of Clive, in our own ways. Please try not to cause any further upset.’

‘Thank you. I was going to ask you if you minded me having a word with some of the staff.’ I had a printout of all their names that Nigel had obtained. ‘If possible I’d like to interview the ones I’ve highlighted,’ I said, sliding it across his desk.

‘No problem. We want to see someone behind bars for this dreadful crime as much as you do. Feel free to talk to anyone you care to, but please appreciate that this is a working hospital and time is money, as with your job. If you show the list to Mrs Henderson she’ll be able to tell you when they are available.’

‘Smashing. I’ll try to be brief with them. There is one last thing that you may be able to help me with. We have received a suggestion from other quarters that Dr Jordan may have been cited for malpractice, sometime in the past. Possibly about five years ago. Were you aware of this?’

He looked puzzled and fiddled with his shirt cuffs, adjusting them to the optimum fifteen millimetres. ‘Ye-es,’ he said, after a while. ‘There was something …’

‘Can you remember what, Doctor? We could go to the Medical Council, but, as you said, time is money.’

‘It was all something over nothing,’ he said, his brow furrowed with concentration, ‘but I can’t remember the details. It was completely unfounded, I can assure you of that. We’d just opened, and Clive had been highly
recommended to us, then this happened, at the General. It put a bit of a cloud over him for a few weeks, but it all blew over. Your best bet will be to ask at the General – they’ll tell you all about it.’

‘If I can find someone to ask,’ I said. ‘If I can cut through all the red tape. If I can find someone who doesn’t start telling me about confidentiality. There are ways of extracting information from institutions like the General, Dr Barraclough, but like I said, I prefer the personal approach. I’d be very grateful if you could give me a head start.’

‘Yes, I know what you mean, but I’m sure it was all a storm in a teacup.’

‘It might not have been a storm in a teacup to the complainant.’

‘You mean someone might have borne him a grudge?’

‘Something like that.’

‘Could you leave it with me, Inspector? You’re quite right, there was something, a few days after he joined us, but it all blew over. I’d forgotten all about it but it should be in there, somewhere. My secretary is off today, but I’ll ask her to dig out Clive’s file, first thing in the morning, if that’s OK?’

‘That will be fine. I’ll look forward to hearing from you and thanks for your cooperation.’

I went down the short corridor that led back to the foyer. I thought about standing there and yelling: ‘Step forward everybody that Clive Jordan was shagging!’ but decided it might be against Dr
Barraclough’s guidelines, and I didn’t want anyone killed in the stampede. I’d have to do it the hard way.

Mrs Cicely Henderson was not one of the names I’d highlighted, but I decided to start with her. I like to keep my methods flexible.

‘Thanks for the coffee,’ I said.

‘You’re welcome,’ she replied. ‘Was Dr Barraclough able to help you?’

‘Yes, he was. And he’s given me permission to talk to all the staff, so I’ve decided to start with you.’ I gave her my lopsided grin and just knew her legs were turning to jelly. Some of her make-up had rubbed off on to the edge of her tunic’s mandarin collar. She’d have to have a fresh clean one every day, eye-squinting white and crisp as an iceberg lettuce. I wondered what she was like at ironing shirts.

I told her about Makinson’s broken leg, just to be friendly, and explained that I was doing follow-up interviews. Someone had spoken to her early in the enquiry, but she’d said that she rarely saw the doctor and had heard no scurrilous gossip about him.

‘How often did you see him?’ I asked.

‘Just once a week, when he came in on a Wednesday.’ ‘Did you speak to him?’

‘He’d stop here for a moment and ask me how I was, that’s all.’

‘I get the impression that he was a bit of a charmer.’

‘Yes, he was, if you like that sort of thing.’

‘A ladies’ man?’

‘Yes, I’d say so.’