Deadly Friends (16 page)

‘Sounds interesting, Eric. I’ll think about it and have a word with pay section on Monday.’

We chatted a while and some of his enthusiasm transferred to me. The weather forecast had said that tomorrow was going to be fine and clear. I found another number and booked myself into a guest house in Keswick for the night. Three hours later I was eating rabbit pie in a Lake District pub, my down jacket over the back of the chair and hiking boots on my feet.

Sunday morning I had the compulsory full English
and walked over Helvellyn and Striding Edge. There was a thin covering of snow on the hilltops and the air froze the cilia in your nostrils as you breathed it, feeling like shards of broken glass being stuffed up your nose. I screwed my eyes into pinholes against the glare and absorbed the wonder of it all. There’s a
well-known
conundrum about noise. Does a sound exist if there’s nobody to hear it? I feel the same about beauty. Is beauty wasted if you’ve nobody to share it with? I think it is. I ate my bar of mint cake and strode off downhill.

Weekdays, I do murders. I told Mad Maggie about the weekend’s adventures with Darryl and told her to keep an eye on things. If forensic couldn’t come up with anything and Samantha didn’t make a complaint we’d done all we could. I asked Mr Wood if he could join us and pulled a few chairs around the white board in the main CID office. Sparky re-drew the chart, bigger and with more colours. I was peeved. I’d wanted to do it.

‘Right, Dave,’ I said as the super joined us. ‘You’re on your feet so you might as well do the honours.’ I rocked my chair back until it was leaning against the top of a radiator. After a few minutes I could feel the heat striking through my shirt.

Sparky ran through our list of suspects, although acquaintances was a more accurate description of them. No one leapt off the board as a fully fledged,
twenty-four
carat suspect. The doc was a popular character,
with lots of friends and colleagues ready to say what a splendid fellow he was. He’d have had no trouble at all getting HP from a double-glazing company. But there is always a dark side to popularity. Success breeds jealousy, and that can fester away inside you like a malignant worm. More so if the person you envy just happens to be screwing someone you love. Reading between the lines, there were plenty of people who might have been glad to see Mr Jordan dead.

Trouble was, they all had cast-iron alibis.

‘Maybe it was a contract killing,’ Nigel suggested.

‘OK. So who might have the necessary connections with the underworld?’

‘Perhaps someone came into the clinic for a face-lift. Or someone’s wife.’

‘And just happened to say they were an assassin?’

‘Not like that. They might have got to know them over a period of time. First of all as friends, and then perhaps the conversation worked round to it.’

‘It’s a possibility,’ I admitted.

‘I think we’re getting a bit fanciful,’ Mr Wood said.

‘If it was a contract killing,’ Sparky began, ‘I’d place it back with Ged Skinner and his friends. They’ve got the contacts.’

‘Why would they want him dead?’

‘Because he was refusing to play ball.’

‘So we’re back with drugs?’

‘Yes.’

‘What about his showbiz friends?’ Maggie asked.

‘Good point,’ I said. ‘Is any of them about to play the part of a murderer? It’d be just like one of them to get into the role by indulging in homicide.’

‘This isn’t being helpful,’ Mr Wood protested.

‘Sorry,’ I replied. ‘Truth is, we’re floundering.’

‘OK,’ he said. ‘Let’s be thoroughly unprofessional. Dave, who’s your favourite for the deed?’

Without hesitation Sparky said: ‘Him,’ stabbing a finger against Ged Skinner’s name. ‘Or one of his cronies,’ he added.

Gilbert nodded. ‘I don’t think we need to go into motives. Nigel?’

‘Dr Barraclough,’ he replied, again without hesitation. ‘Go on,’ Gilbert invited.

‘Professional jealousy, plus possible sexual angle, but I don’t know what.’

I let my chair drop on to its front legs with a clomp.

Nigel’s theory was interesting. There was the added attraction that I hadn’t liked Barraclough, but I’d never let a personal opinion affect an investigation. Much.

‘And,’ Nigel continued, ‘there’s always the possibility that he’s in cahoots with someone else.’

‘You mean … they’re giving each other alibis?’ Gilbert suggested.

‘Mmm.’

‘Don’t!’ I protested, clamping my hands over my ears. ‘Please don’t!’

Jeff Caton was with us. He thought Skinner was
worth another look at, but was interested in the malpractice suit against the doctor.

‘Barraclough’s supposed to be finding me details of that,’ I said. ‘Maggie, when we’ve finished how about if you go round there and see if he’s found the information? You might even learn something about the man himself from his secretary or the other staff.’

‘Will do, Boss.’

‘Meanwhile, Margaret,’ Gilbert said, ‘who’s your favourite for the killer?’

‘Hey, we should be running a book on this,’ Sparky said.

Maggie studied the chart. ‘I haven’t been in from the beginning,’ she said, ‘but there’s an awful lot of grief down there.’ She nodded to the box that said ‘Abortions, X 10,000’. ‘That’s where I’d be looking.’

‘And you, Charlie?’ Gilbert asked.

I folded my arms and shook my head. ‘None of them,’ I replied. ‘None of them.’

In a way, I was right. But then again, in a way, I was wrong.

Maggie went off to the White Rose; Sparky and Nigel rang the wife of the registrar, ex-lover of the late doctor, and made an appointment to see her while hubby was at work; and I settled down with the reports. Mr Wood’s conclusion, after our meeting, was that we should pursue all the alibis until the Pope himself was a more likely suspect. I decided that some lateral thinking was called for and made another list. Melissa, the mysterious sender of Christmas cards was on it, followed by Mr Farrier, husband of the receptionist at the White Rose. It wouldn’t hurt to have a word with George, his chum from college. To prove my impartiality I added Mrs Henderson. Maybe Dr Jordan hadn’t chatted her up first, and maybe she thought he should have done. Lastly I wrote ‘Malpractice’. That was a gaping hole
in our investigation that needed looking into, pronto. I drew a line through ‘Mrs Henderson’ and a thick box around ‘Malpractice’.

The SOCO had made a video of the murder scene. I collected it from the associated property store and watched it in the CID office. It showed general views of the doctor’s kitchen, where he’d been found, followed by close-ups of everything in sight. The doc died with his eyes open, a look of terror and surprise carved on his features. The camera zoomed in close and moved slowly over his chin, nose and sightless eyes, like a helicopter tour of Mount Rushmore. His shirt was undone and he was in his stocking feet.

We were taken on a journey across his carpet, the shiny toecaps of the SOCO’s shoes bobbing into the bottom of the picture like two bald headed men on a see-saw at the other side of a wall. The camera panned over his kitchen cupboards and along the worktop. In a corner I saw the plastic bin that I’d thought about stealing, between the electric kettle and a box of muesli. The doctor’s tie was draped over a chair back, given an extra turn to prevent it sliding to the floor, and his shoes were just inside the door.

The office was quiet. Everyone was out. I switched off the video and reached for the telephone.

‘Pay section?’ I asked, when someone answered. ‘Oh, good. This is DI Priest, at Heckley CID. I was wondering if you could work out for me what terms I could expect if I took early retirement?’

Maggie returned as I was finishing the video and we watched the last few minutes together.

‘Learn anything?’ she asked as I ejected the cassette and returned it to its envelope.

‘Mmm. He knew his killer, as we suspected. The doc’s shoes were just inside the door, so when his visitor rang he must have opened the front entrance for him and let him come up to the apartment, not gone to meet him downstairs.’

‘Sounds sensible.’

‘And he was male.’

‘How do you work that out?’

‘It’s a guess, but the doc’s tie was hanging over a chair. If his visitor was female I think he’d have whipped it back on, and his shoes. Did you see Barraclough?’

‘Yes. He’s a charmer, isn’t he?’ She opened her notebook and slid it across my desk. ‘That’s the party who made the complaint – Rodney Allen. His mother, Mrs Joan Allen, was a fit and active sixty-year-old who liked to have a good time. She was booked in to the General for an hysterectomy. The operation was done succesfully, as they say, by Mr Jordan, but the patient died. She had an aortic aneurism later that day, right out of the blue. According to the rules there had to be a post-mortem, and this found that her condition could not have been anticipated by the pre-operative investigations. However, her son, Rodney, has learning difficulties. He’s forty, by the way. Mrs Allen had been comfortably off and he was left everything, in trust. The
trustees, who are a firm of solicitors in Scarborough and a retired GP in Heckley, decided to sue the hospital and Mr Jordan for malpractice and negligence.’

‘For a fee, no doubt,’ I said.

‘No doubt. But the inquest brought in a verdict of natural causes and the case was dropped. I’ve had a word with the retired GP. He was a friend of the family, before they moved to Scarborough. He says he was opposed to the action but outvoted. Rodney, he told me, was deeply disturbed by the thought of his mother’s body being cut open, and dwelt on it for months.’

‘And he probably still blames the hospital,’ I said. ‘We need a word with him, soon as possible. Nigel was checking with the GMC. We’ll make sure the official version tallies, then we’d better see what Rodders has to say. Thanks, Maggie, that’s a good day’s work.’

‘There was one other thing,’ she began.

I sat back, inviting her to continue.

‘I think you have a fan.’

‘A fan?’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘One Cicely Henderson, receptionist at the White Rose. I was supposed to be asking the questions, but she wanted to know all about you. She’s an attractive lady.’

‘I had noticed,’ I admitted, ‘but she’s not my type. What did you tell her?’

‘That you were a very nice man – single – but you had a girlfriend who you were besotted by. Did I do right?’

‘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.