Deadly Friends (18 page)

‘He was with you for a few days?’ I said.

‘Yes. Some of our regulars went home to their families for Christmas, which meant we had some spare beds. There are many temptations and pressures for someone like Rodney at Christmas, so we felt it desirable to keep him with us.’

‘Temptations like alcohol?’ Nigel wondered.

‘Alcohol and loneliness are a potent combination,’ she replied.

‘So how long was he with you?’ I asked.

‘Ten days.’

I couldn’t do the sums. ‘The doctor was killed on the twenty-third,’ I told her, ‘at eight thirty in the evening.
Was Rodney Allen an in-patient at North Bay at that time?’

‘He came in during the afternoon of the
twenty-second
, Inspector,’ she replied. ‘The following evening – the day before Christmas Eve – we had our party. Rodney earned everybody’s displeasure by hogging the karaoke machine. If that is when the doctor was murdered then I can assure you it wasn’t Rodney who pulled the trigger. I’m afraid you’ve had a wasted journey.’

I told the superintendent that Rodney had been given an alibi and thanked him for his cooperation. Before the enormity of my words registered in his brain we were in the car and driving away. As we pulled on to the main road an ARV and a van load of the heavy mob sped in the opposite direction. When they’d vanished from my rear-view mirror I slapped my thigh and declared: ‘Well, that’s nicely cocked-up their overtime budget!’

Nigel laughed. ‘I’m just grateful that you were with me,’ he said. ‘It goes on your record, not mine.’

‘Think positive,’ I said. ‘It’s another suspect we can draw a line through – eliminate from enquiries, as they say. And it’s probably the best bit of excitement they’ve had since the candy floss stall was condemned by the health inspector. We’re asking all the right questions – it’s just a pity that we’re asking them in the wrong order.’

As we headed inland the sleet turned to rain. There
was no moon and the night was blacker than the bottom of a gipsy’s chip pan. I was surprised how much commuter traffic was heading east, towards the coast, a pre-dinner sherry and the little woman. Nigel fiddled with the radio and found a country music station. A cracked voice was wailing: ‘I left you tied to the hitching rail and my best friend rode you awayee …’

‘Do you think that’s meant to be a metaphor?’ he asked, pressing the off button.

‘What’s a metaphor?’ I mumbled, squinting against the glare of headlights. I was thinking about Rodney, and North Bay House. Did his trustees pay his bills when he was admitted? It sounded to me as if they had a few vacancies over Christmas, so they rounded up their regular reserves to fill them. I’m paid to have a suspicious mind.

‘Why,’ I wondered aloud, ‘did Mrs Allen have her operation in Heckley when she’d already moved to Scarborough?’

‘Waiting lists,’ Nigel explained. ‘She’d probably been on the General’s waiting list for about two years.’

‘Of course. Thank you.’

This side of York, heading towards the Al, I swung into a layby and hit the brakes. ‘I’d better ring Annabelle, I’m running late,’ I explained, reaching into the back for the telephone, in the pocket of my down jacket. I pressed the last number recall button and held the phone to my ear.

‘WHAT YOU WANT?’ a voice boomed at me. A male voice, close to hysteria. ‘Why not you leave me alone?’

I jerked back in my seat and stared at the instrument. ‘It’s him!’ I hissed. ‘It’s him!’ The last number I’d dialled hadn’t been Annabelle, it had been Rodney!

‘Hello,’ I ventured. ‘Is that Rodney Allen, please?’

‘Yes!’ he snapped. ‘Why you not leave me alone?’ ‘My name’s Charlie,’ I told him. ‘Do you think we could have a little talk?’

‘What about?’ he asked, his voice wavering with fear. I could imagine him, quailing in a corner of his little room.

‘Oh, this and that, Rodney. Are the policemen still outside your house?’

‘Yes, they are. Lots of policemen.’

‘Well, I’m not with them, Rodney. I was, about an hour ago, but I’m fifty miles away, now. I’ve decided to go home for my tea and leave you in peace. Tell me this: do you have a gun?’

‘Not a real gun. Don’t have a real gun. Real guns dangerous.’

‘Very dangerous, Rodney. I’m glad you don’t have a real gun. Did you make it yourself?’

‘Yes. Rodney made it.’

‘What with?’

‘Some pipe and a piece of wood.’

‘That sounds very clever. All those policemen are fooled by it. Why did you make a gun, Rodney? What did you want it for?’

‘To scare lads and lasses.’

‘What lads and lasses, Rodney?’

‘Lads and lasses that come round and throw stones at windows. Say Rodney’s not all there. Bad people.’

‘They gave you a bad time.’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you point your gun at them?’

‘Yes. Rodney point gun at them.’

‘Did they run away?’

‘Yes.’

‘And did they stop coming round?’

‘Yes, but tell police.’

‘I see.’ The local youths had given him some hassle, and then we had. My contribution hadn’t helped at all. ‘Listen, Rodney,’ I said. ‘Listen very carefully to what I say. Can you hear me?’

‘Yes. Rodney hear you.’

‘Where are you sitting?’

‘On floor, in corner.’

‘Right. Are you sitting in the dark, in there?’

‘Yes. Not put light on. They shoot me if I put light on.’

‘No they won’t. Nobody will shoot you unless you start pointing your gun at people. Have you got your gun with you?’

‘Yes. Is here.’

‘Good. Do you want me to help you get out of this, Rodney? If you do as I tell you the policeman and the lady doctor from North Bay House will look after you. Are you listening?’

‘Rodney frightened.’

‘I know you are. I’m frightened, too. Will you promise to do exactly as I tell you? Then you’ll be OK.’

‘Promise to do as you tell me.’

‘Good man. I want you to unwrap the gun, Rodney, and throw it to the other side of the room. Have you done that?’

There was a pause, then: ‘Done that.’

‘OK. Now this is the bit where you have to be brave. I want you to stand up and put the light on. Then I want you to put your hands above your head and walk very slowly to the window and stand there, so they can see you. Do you understand what I’m saying, Rodney?’

‘Surrender. You want me surrender.’

‘I want you to give yourself up. You’ve made your point, Rodney, and we don’t want anyone else to be hurt, do we?’

‘Rodney not want to hurt anyone.’

‘Good man. When they come to get you they will shout at you, but they won’t hurt you. Some policemen like shouting, but they don’t mean it. I promise that.
They’ll tell you to lie on the floor. Just do as they say, very slowly. Nobody will hurt you. Understand?’

‘Rodney know what you mean. See it on telly.’

‘OK, Rodney, this is what you do. Stand up. Put the light on. Walk very slowly to the window and stand there with your hands above your head. Understand?’

‘I understand.’

‘There’s a good man, Rodney. Do it. Do it now.’

I heard a rumble and a scrape as he laid the handset on the floor, leaving the line open. I thought I heard the click of the light switch, but it may have been my imagination. A trickle of sweat ran down my spine, zigging and zagging an inch at a time, like the raindrops on the windows.

‘Just pray that one of those trigger-happy bastards doesn’t open fire,’ I whispered, holding the phone at arm’s length.

‘Keep still!’ we heard someone bellow, quite distinctly, followed by what might have been a Heckler and Koch’s rifle stock being slammed into the extended position.

‘Put your hands on your head!’ They had a very loud voice.

‘Now! Slowly. Kneel down.’

‘Face down on the floor.’

‘Stretch your arms out.’

I counted to ten, to give them time to put the cuffs on, and shouted: ‘Hello! Hello! Anyone there?’ into the phone.

More rumbles and scrapes, before a voice demanded: ‘Who is this?’

‘This is DI Priest of Heckley CID,’ I told him. ‘Who are you, please?’

‘Oh, er, Sergeant Todd, sir. Tactical firearms unit.’

‘Good evening, Sergeant. Rodney is a friend of mine, so treat him kindly. Remember, he did give himself up. Please tell the superintendent that I’m glad to have been of assistance. Goodnight.’ I clicked the phone off and clenched my fists in a gesture of triumph. Nigel was grinning like a fireplace.

‘You jammy so-and-so!’ he said.

I rang Annabelle, the long way, and told her we were running late but homing in on a fair wind and a wide throttle.

‘You sound happy,’ she said. ‘Have you been drinking?’

‘Nothing stronger than tea has passed these lips,’ I told her. ‘Coming to see you always fills me with the joy of life.’

Nigel tutted and looked away.

Guns have a language all their own. You cock a single-action revolver by pulling the hammer back with your thumb. Pawls mesh into gears and rotate the chamber one sixth of a turn, bringing the next cartridge in line with the barrel. The resulting c-click has been used in a thousand westerns to terrorise goody, baddy and audience alike as the gun was pressed against someone’s head.

It’s different with an automatic. You slide the mechanism back to bring the first cartridge from the clip into the breech, with a ka-chink that is as familiar to armchair fans of gangster films as the smell of a
smoke-filled
speakeasy or the tinkling of a honky-tonk.

A sawn-down repeater shotgun says chunk-chunk as the next round is jacked into the chamber, and you know that death or serious bleeding is coming to someone.

But the Heckler and Koch is a disappointment. There’s nothing like that with the Heckler. You put the safety to fire and you’re away. The gun comes with an extending rifle stock and they usually snap it into position silently, in the privacy of the van, before moving into position. For more intimate situations a few officers have invented a little strategy that’s not in the manual. They will have the stock loosely extended but not locked. At the right moment they will bark their instructions at the target and yank the stock home, hard. The resulting chuck of catches snapping into place is mundane and meaningless, but in the psychology of brinkmanship it strikes terror in the already sweaty palms of the hearer.

Annabelle had cooked one of my favourites – trout and almonds – for me, followed by home-made cheesecake. We’d called at the Granada services on the M62 and I’d bought a bunch of carnations, to put me in the good books, and the JFK video, to save time collecting Sparky’s copy from home. Only trouble was, I was wearing the clothes I’d been sitting and standing
about in all day and was unshaven. I apologised for my appearance and told her about Rodney, which was a mistake. All her sympathy immediately transferred to him.

‘So,’ I said, after I’d topped up her glass with the last of the Spanish red we both like, ‘how did the trip go?’

‘Very well,’ she replied. ‘I’ll show you my ideas.’ She stood up and left the room. We’d eaten off the large refectory table in her kitchen. I cleared our crockery away and when she returned we spread the drawings out.

‘Unfortunately the fabrics have already been ordered,’ she said, ‘so we have to work around them. Actually, it makes it easier, I suppose.’

They were architects’ impressions of the interiors, and Annabelle had coloured them in. Her schemes looked good, although her skills with the pencils required polishing. ‘Use the edge, like this,’ I said, and coloured a wall on a spare drawing. ‘And make the end of the wall that is nearer to you a little bolder. If you’re doing it quickly, for an immediate impression, use big zig-zags, full of confidence. Don’t be faint-hearted. Like this.’

I handed her the pencil and made her show me. We were talking about drawing, which I know about, and avoiding discussing her trip to London, which I didn’t. She was grateful for the diversion, I accepted it.

‘These are very good,’ I told her, pointing, meaning it. ‘You have brilliant colour sense, and you’re prepared
to be adventurous. Zorba should be delighted.’

‘He’s called Xavier,’ she reminded me.

‘Sorry. So when is your next expenses-paid jaunt?’

‘I have to go to the new site, near West Midlands Airport, to meet the architects, sometime on Thursday.’

‘Will you stay down there?’

‘I think so. It’s called market research. If it’s a morning meeting it might be easier for me to go down tomorrow night. I’ll stay at the Post Chase – our big rivals – to see what I can learn, and consider ways of improving upon same.’

‘It sounds fun,’ I admitted.

‘Mmm, it is. I’m enjoying myself.’

‘Will you drive down?’

‘Yes, I’ll have to. I can manage the West Midlands.’

‘You know you’ve only to say the word and I’d gladly take you.’

When she smiles at me like she did I know there is nothing I wouldn’t do for her. I almost wished some great catastrophe would overtake us, some suffering we could rise above that would hold us together for ever. But all I had was a lopsided grin and a few stumbling phrases.

‘I know you would, Charles,’ she said. ‘You’re very kind to me. Shall we take our tea in the other room and watch the video?’

I was a child of the Kennedy era. We believed we were poised on the brink of a new age, when war
would be waged against poverty and ignorance, and not against our fellow men. ‘Let us begin,’ he told us. Those shots at Dallas didn’t just kill a president, they blew out the dreams of a generation. I’d never known that a prosecution had been brought against factions of the mafia and their Cuban connections. New Orleans District Attorney Jim Garrison pursued his case until it almost destroyed his family, but in the end he lost the trial and saved his marriage. I’d call that success.

Annabelle’s head was on my shoulder as we watched it, my arm around her. I had cramp for the last hour, but bore it stoically. ‘Do you think we’ll ever know the truth?’ she asked, as we washed the supper dishes.

‘Not really,’ I replied. ‘Where does this go?’

‘In there, please.’

‘We’ll know it, but not recognise it. It’s there, somewhere, along with all the other stuff.’

‘Do you believe there was a conspiracy?’

‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘I’m a pathological believer in conspiracies.’

I stayed the night. We went to bed and made love, because that’s what grown-ups do when they go to bed together. Afterwards, I lay awake for hours, wondering what might have been. I think Annabelle did, too. She was snuffling in her dreams when I sneaked away at about six thirty, my car engine rattling like a clarion call in the stillness of the vicarage close.

I was close-shaved and clean-shirted when I took the morning meeting. The petty criminals of Heckley hadn’t taken a day off while I went to the seaside, so there was plenty to talk about. After that the first team met in my office for an update on the doc’s murder. I let Nigel tell Sparky and Maggie all about the Siege of Scarborough.

‘And the psychiatrist is calling in the local nick this morning to make a statement,’ he finished with. Sparky put a number three in the appropriate box on his chart and looked glum.

Nigel had a report to write and the computer to update. Sparky and Maggie were investigating ways of breaking the confidentiality rules around the abortions at the clinic. Barraclough was the obvious approach, or perhaps their counsellor might be helpful. He’d told us that all the potential mothers were given counselling. We didn’t want copies of all the records – a nudge towards someone they’d had concerns about would do nicely.

I rang Les Isles with the bad news and spent the rest of the morning on paperwork. Les said not to worry, it had been worth a try, which was seven orders of support away from what he’d claimed yesterday. In the afternoon I went to the regional inspectors’ meeting. We’re supposed to talk about trends, developments and tactics. As usual we discussed pay, tenure of office and the precarious nature of the chief inspector rank. I didn’t hear a word of it. My mind was elsewhere. Before I left
Annabelle’s, earlier that morning, I’d written her a letter and left it propped against the electric kettle. Now she knew exactly how I felt, and what my plans were.

I called in the office on my way home, in case there was anything brewing that I needed to know about. It could all wait. I had the place to myself, so I rang the force medical officer. He’s an old pal of mine. We wished each other a happy New Year and had a long chat. He complained that he and his wife hadn’t seen me for a long time and, pleasantries over, confirmed what he’d told me a few years earlier about the state of my health. I promised to go for Sunday lunch in the near future and dialled my next number.

Our divisional chief inspector (personnel) was still at his desk. ‘No,’ he said, as soon as he recognised my voice.

‘You don’t know the question,’ I argued.

‘The answer’s still no.’

‘So, if my question was … oh … “Are there any disadvantages if I retire at the weekend?” the answer is still no?’

‘Bugger!’ he exclaimed. ‘It’s no wonder you’ve got to where you are. Happy New Year, Charlie. What can I do for you?’

‘Happy New Year, Bob. I’ve just rung Doc Evans and he’s confirmed that I can still go on ill health, if I so desire. I’ve had a word with pay section and they’re calculating my terms. All I want now is the go-ahead from you.’

‘You’re wanting out?’

‘I think so.’

‘I don’t blame you, Charlie. I’ve had enough, myself. It’s a different game from when we joined. You haven’t been sick, have you?’

‘No, it’s the old war wound. There’s still a couple of shotgun pellets floating around inside me that could cause trouble anytime. The doc tried to persuade me to go when it happened, but I didn’t want to leave, then. Now I want to sort out my private life, so it might be better to jump, before I’m kicked out.’