Deadly Friends (20 page)

Her eyes were filling with tears. ‘I’ve got to say this,’ I went on, ‘although I know the answer. We could start again. We had something special, Annabelle. You don’t
throw that away lightly. I don’t know anything about Audish, except one thing: he’s not for you.’ I left it at that. Slagging him off would be counter productive. ‘Come with me,’ I begged. ‘Now.’

Tears were running down her cheeks. She sniffed and wiped them away with her fingertips. ‘I didn’t want to hurt you, Charles,’ she sobbed. ‘You’ve been so good to me. I didn’t know what to do.’

‘I thought you loved me.’

‘I did love you. I still do.’

‘So come with me.’

She shook her head.

‘You love Audish more?’

‘Yes,’ she sobbed.

‘Right,’ I said. ‘Right. You can keep my things. Take them to the Oxfam shop, if you still remember where it is.’ At the door I turned back to her. ‘I always knew I’d lose you, Annabelle,’ I told her. ‘Deep down, I knew that one day you’d hurt me, that I could never hold on to you. But I thought it would be the kind of hurt I’d cherish for the rest of my life. I thought you’d be in Africa or India or somewhere, maybe married again, but we’d always be friends. I’d get a card from you, at Christmas; that sort of thing. I knew you’d hurt me; I never dreamt you’d … you’d … do this to me.’ I never dreamt you’d disappoint me. That’s what I nearly said.

I opened the door. ‘You know where to find me,’ I told her. ‘But I won’t be waiting.’

I’d run out of things to do, places to go, dogs to kick. You can only drive up on to the tops so many times to watch the lights in the valley until they blur together in a yellow swamp. I was a big boy, now. I tuned-in to the country music station, because I can’t stand
country-fucking
-music, and drove home.

The postman had been. Lying on my doormat was an envelope with a window, postmark and style of typing that told me exactly from where it came. It was the same as the ones my monthly salary statements come in, except the next one wasn’t due for another three weeks. That was quick, I thought. Pay section had been on the ball, for once. Maybe they wanted rid of me. I put the envelope on the telephone table, unopened. If I didn’t open it I could always swear I hadn’t received it.

I love my shower. When I’m lost for something to do, or have twenty minutes to spare, or people in the office start giving me sideways glances and moving away, I have a shower. I do some of my best thinking with the hot jets impinging on my back and soap running into my eyes. Annabelle had given me some smelly stuff for my birthday. I finished it off with a lavish portion that had the plug hole struggling to cope with the foam. Tonight I’d smell nice, for nobody in particular, and one reminder of her would be consigned to the bin.

I pushed my thought processes in other directions. Rodney would be in a drugged sleep. Maybe he was the lucky one. I turned the temperature control up a few degrees and rinsed my hair. It was now too hot, but I
left it at that. Tomorrow we’d have to start looking at the abortions, all five thousand of them. Most of the shampoo suds had gone. I slicked my hair back with my hands and turned my face into the hot jets. If there really was a gene for homosexuality, like the scientist in California was claiming – the so-called gay gene – surely they would all have died out by now, wouldn’t they? I opened my mouth and let it fill with water, struggling to inhale through the storm. Autoerotic asphyxiation, that’s what the MP died of, with his head in the plastic bag. They say it increases the intensity of the orgasm. I tipped my head forward so the water ran from my mouth, grabbed a breath and looked back into the spray. I reached up and swung the shower head to one side, keeping my face directly under it, and leant back against the tiled wall.

And I made a discovery.

They were gathered around Sparky like the apostles around Jesus, expressions of beatitude on their upturned faces. I’d been up to see Mr Wood to tell him what he didn’t want to know – that we were roughly in the same place in our enquiry as we were when Dr Jordan’s body was found. I didn’t mention the rape and he didn’t ask, and I certainly didn’t tell him about my revelation in the shower. He wasn’t ready for that, yet.

Sparky was in full flow: ‘… and the French television reporter looked at them and said: “Wait a minute, wait a minute …”’

‘Un moment! Un moment!’ Jeff Caton interrupted, one hand raised with the fingertips together, as if plucking a grape.

‘I’m translating for Nigel’s benefit,’ Sparky told him. ‘Oh, sorry.’

‘That’s all right. So this Frog reporter says: “Wait a minute. You don’t like our wine. You don’t like our food. You don’t like our ladies. So just why do you keep coming back to France all these times?” And the Siamese twin on the left says: “It’s the only chance I get to drive.”’

They drifted away, morale boosted, back to the tedium of reports and observations and the frustrations of court. Nigel and Sparky stayed behind.

‘Where’s Maggie?’ I asked.

‘She went straight to the clinic,’ Nigel said. ‘Wanted to collar Barraclough before the daily grind of executive meetings started. I’ve told her I’ll join her, soon as I can, if you don’t need me.’

‘Fair enough.’

‘There’s a package on your desk,’ Sparky informed me. ‘Special delivery from Wetherton. A hell’s angel from traffic brought it a few minutes ago.’

‘That was quick,’ I said. ‘I only rang them at half past seven.’

‘You could tell he was happy at his work,’ Sparky declared.

‘Who?’

‘The biker.’

‘How?’

‘He had dead flies on his teeth. What’s in it?’

‘In January? It’s just a little something I wanted to borrow,’

I replied. ‘I’ll tell you all about it when I’ve had a think. Meanwhile … I’m going to set you some homework.’

‘This sounds ominous, Nigel,’ Sparky complained.

‘It does, doesn’t it?’ he replied.

‘Nigel, are you still going out with that red-headed WPC from City?’ I asked. He opened his mouth to speak but I cut him short. ‘On second thoughts,’ I said, ‘are you going out with anyone?’

‘Er, sort of,’ he answered.

‘Right,’ I said, turning to Sparky. ‘And you’re still in a blissful relationship, I presume?’

‘Ye-es,’ he replied, cagily.

‘OK, here’s what I want. Tonight you will both make love to your respective partners in the shower, and be prepared to discuss same tomorrow. Understood?’

‘Is that all?’ Sparky said. ‘I was expecting something exciting.’

‘Forget the “respective partners” bit, if it helps,’ I suggested.

‘Will, er, you be joining in this research?’ Nigel wondered.

‘No,’ I told him. ‘I did the initial fieldwork; your job is to confirm my findings.’ I didn’t mention that I was alone at the time.

When they’d gone I pulled the piece of equipment I’d borrowed from Wetherton lab from the package and found the instructions. It sounded simple. I tested it against the palm of my hand and discovered that I was fit enough to survive the day. In that case, I’d carry
on. On the way out I stopped at the front desk to see if there was a female officer available to accompany me, but I was out of luck. Ah well, never mind.

Janet Saunders was in when I knocked because I could hear Radio 2 filtering quietly through the door. I knocked again and the volume lowered. There were footsteps inside and a key turned in the lock. The door opened a fraction and she peered out at me, a chain bridging the gap.

‘Yes?’ she asked, timidly.

I held my ID in front of her face. ‘DI Charlie Priest,’ I said. ‘I met you when you came to Heckley Police Station. I wonder if I could have a word with you?’

‘Who is it, Mummy?’ a tiny voice asked, and I looked down to see a little face framed with platinum blonde hair gazing up at me.

‘I didn’t recognise you,’ Janet said, steering her daughter to one side so she could close the door to unfasten the chain.

She led me through into the living room and invited me to sit down, ‘If you can find an empty seat.’ There was a scattering of toys and clothes, but the place was clean and fairly tidy.

‘You must be Dilly,’ I said to the angel face that came to stand alongside me. She nodded.

‘And how old are you?’

Dilly looked up at her mother for a prompt.

‘Tell the gentleman how old you are,’ she said.

‘I’m five.’

‘Five! You’re a big girl for five. I thought you were at least six.’ Sparky would have been proud of me. ‘And how long have you been five?’ I asked.

She thought about it, swinging her body from side to side. ‘Um, since my birthday,’ she calculated.

I decided I was out of my depth and looked across to Janet for rescue. She suggested that Dilly go up to her room and put some different clothes on, suitable for a trip to the shopping mall.

‘She’s back with you,’ I said, when we were alone.

‘Yes,’ Janet replied, walking over to a portable radio and switching off Terry Wogan or one of his clones. ‘Her father is working away – Edinburgh – so I’ve got to have her, all this week.’

‘You appear to have a civilised relationship with him.’

‘Yes, we try to have.’

‘It must be difficult, arranging your lives around Dilly.’

‘It is, but we manage.’

‘She’s a lovely little girl,’ I said, smiling. ‘It’s easy to see who she takes after.’

It was a stupid thing to say. Janet coloured slightly and asked: ‘What did you come for?’

Shelter from the storm? ‘I’m sorry,’ I told her. ‘I shouldn’t have said that. Maggie is busy, otherwise I wouldn’t have come alone. Maybe I should have waited.’

We sat in silence for a few seconds. ‘Maggie has told you all about Buxton?’ I said.

She nodded.

‘He’s done it before,’ I continued. ‘More than once.’

‘I know. Maggie told me.’

‘Right. I need to break his story, Janet. He says that on that night – Christmas Eve – you did it the first time in the shower.’

She gave a sigh that came from right down in her cheap trainers. ‘No. I’d just come out of the shower. He dragged me into the bedroom and … and … and did it to me on the bed.’

‘He says you consented.’

‘He’s a liar.’

‘He says you were a willing participant.’

‘He had a knife at my throat.’

‘But you didn’t have sex in the shower?’

‘No! For what it’s worth, I’ve never had sex in a shower, either here or anywhere else.’

‘OK. I needed to know. I’d like you to make a statement to that effect in the next few days. Maggie can take it, if that’s all right.’

She nodded. Her hands were in her lap, engaged in a subconscious wrestling match, and her feet were shuffling about as if the floor was too hot to bear.

There was an uneven clomping on the stairs as Dilly came down, leading with the same foot on every step. She dashed to her mother and posed for inspection and approval. She was wearing fluorescent tights and a blue dress.

‘Have you got them on the right way round?’ Mummy asked.

Dilly nodded.

‘Good girl.’

‘She’s, er, colourful,’ I observed.

‘You’re a little rainbow, aren’t you?’ her mother said, swinging her up into a cuddle. Dilly giggled.

‘Is it all right if I have a look in your bathroom?’ I asked.

‘Yes, of course it is. It’s at the top of the stairs, facing you.’

The stair carpet was threadbare. The welfare state considers rent and food bills when calculating its allowances, but carpets and repairs to washing machines and a host of other expenses are considered non-essential. I closed the bathroom door behind me and slid the bolt across.

There was no radiator in there, just an electric heater high on the wall. The element was covered with dust, showing that it hadn’t been used all winter. Those things eat electricity. I took my jacket off and hung it behind the door, next to a white towelling dressing gown and a tiny pair of pink PJs with yellow teddy bears on them.

The shower worked straight off the taps, which isn’t the best way to do it, and fingers of mildew were eating their way along the grouting between the tiles. I pulled the curtain out of the bath and turned the shower on for a few seconds. It didn’t take me long to decide that Buxton and Janet almost certainly had not had sex in there. Problem was, could we convey that certainty to a jury? I had a pee. Down the side of the toilet was
a plastic seat, designed to reduce the size to that of a child’s bottom. I smiled, acknowledging that although I would have liked kids, having none has plenty of compensations. I was flushing the toilet when I noticed something on the windowsill that caused a jolt of recognition.

It was a miniature swing bin, just like the one that Dr Jordan kept his teabags in. I picked it up and flipped the lid open. It was half filled with remnants of soap tablets; that final flake that breaks in half and tells you that trying to use it any longer is not worth the effort. Janet saved them for recycling. Thrifty girl. I washed my hands and went back downstairs, taking it with me.

Dilly had gone outside, and Janet had her coat on.

‘I, er, saw this,’ I said, waving the bin at her. ‘I’ve been looking for one, all over.’

‘That,’ she said with a shrug. ‘It’s called a mini-bin. I just keep bits of soap in it. You can have it, if you want.’

‘No, I wouldn’t dream of taking it. I’d like to know where you got it, though.’

‘It came from Magic Plastic.’

‘Magic Plastic? Never heard of them. Where are they?’

‘They don’t have a shop. Well, they might, somewhere, but a man comes round. He leaves a catalogue and comes back a week later to collect it and take your order, if you want anything.’

‘I see. And how often does he come round?’

‘I’m not sure. Once a month, I imagine, but most of them don’t last that long. I ordered something because I felt sorry for him, but the next time I didn’t buy anything – it’s all a bit expensive – and he didn’t come any more. An empty coffee jar would have been just as effective.’

‘I don’t suppose you still have the catalogue?’

‘No, sorry. I left it hanging on the door handle – that’s what you do – and it vanished. I suppose he collected it.’

‘Right, thanks,’ I said, placing the mini-bin on the table. Gilbert would have to wait for his used-teabag receptacle. ‘Thanks for your help, Janet,’ I said. ‘It’s been most useful. If you’re going into town I can give you a lift.’

‘No thanks,’ she replied. ‘The bus stop’s just outside.’ ‘But I’m going that way.’

‘It’s all right, thanks.’

Have it your way, lady, I thought. I was driving past the mall while they were probably still waiting for a bus. They’re not exactly as numerous as the daisies in the fields in that neighbourhood. Recently they’ve gone back to two-man crews – driver and shotgun.

On an impulse I hung a right at the traffic lights, completely wrong-footing a woman pushing a pram across the road, and parked outside Heckley Squash Club. I made a mental note to paint a little silhouette of a baby carriage on my door, next to the hedgehogs, cats and traffic wardens.

A young woman with that healthy outdoor look you used to see on Syrup of Figs posters was standing behind the desk, drinking an isotonic concoction from the neck of the bottle. Orange juice with a pinch of salt is just as good and a fraction of the price, but it doesn’t have that certain cachet. Magic Johnson drinks the real stuff, whoever he is. She was wearing green jogging bottoms and a polo shirt with a kangaroo embroidered on the left pocket and sweat spots in delightful places. I averted my gaze.

‘Hello,’ I began.

‘Hi,’ she replied.

‘Your manager,’ I went on, ‘tells me that as well as being highly proficient with bat, ball and dumbells, you are also a whizzkid on this.’ I tapped the top of the computer VDU.

‘Yer what?’ she demanded.

I flashed her my ID and crossed her off my list of possibilities. ‘Charlie Priest, Heckley CID,’ I said. ‘He promised me a printout of all your members’ names; said he’d ask you to run it off for me.’

‘Aw, gee, the printout!’ she exclaimed. ‘Completely slipped my mind.’

‘I’d be very grateful for it.’

‘OK, but it’ll take ages. Tell yer what, are you at the police station here in town?’

‘Uh uh.’

‘Right.’ She delved under the counter and came up with a large manilla envelope that had been used. ‘Why
don’t you just cross out our address and write your own there, and I’ll set this thing going right now and drop it in on my way home. How does that sound?’

‘Very cooperative. Thanks a lot.’ I reinstated her as a contender.

‘Did yer want them in alphabetical order?’

‘Yes please, if possible.’

‘No problem. Nice meeting you, Inspector.’

‘And you.’

The office was empty. I ate the prawn sandwich I’d bought on the way back and shut myself away. A plan of action was required. I wrote my reports to clear my mind and made notes on a sheet of A4. First thing we needed was a suitable venue. I put my coat back on and drove to City HQ.

Superintendent Isles wasn’t in, which suited me fine.

‘Are the old Bridewell cells still in use?’ I asked the desk sergeant. City HQ is attached to the town hall, and parts of it date back to Victorian times. The old cells, known universally as the Bridewell, were down in the basement. He seconded a young PC to help me and we went exploring.

The one we chose was used to store sports equipment. We manhandled a wobbly ping-pong table into the cell next door, along with assorted cricket pads and a
one-armed
bandit. The PC, called Martin, tried the fruit machine and wondered if the social club would let him have it.

There was a bit of dust around, but not enough to make the place uninhabitable. We’d ask the cleaning ladies to give it a quick once-over. There was a power point and the fluorescent light on the high ceiling worked. The walls were covered from top to bottom in white tiles, broken only by a thin blue line running round the room at waist height. I ran a hand over them, wondering how many frustrated prisoners had found their glazed surface unyielding to scratch or skull. You couldn’t buy tiles like these any more. They had curved edges and special corner pieces, and were as hard and unforgiving as tungsten carbide. Just what I wanted.