Deadly Friends (22 page)

‘And then?’

‘And then we did it. She wouldn’t wait any longer. She was desperate for it, I’m not kidding.’

‘Standing up in the shower?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Isn’t that dangerous? I’d have thought you’d fall over.’

‘Nah, course not. You lean on the wall, don’t you.’

‘What, both of you?’

‘Christ, ’aven’t you ever ’ad it against a wall? She leans on the wall wiv ‘er legs open and you do it to her; it’s no different.’

‘A good old knee trembler!’ I declared.

‘Yeah, a knee trembler. In the shower. You got it.’

I pursed my lips and thought about things. After a moment I said: ‘Let’s get this clear. I’ve led a sheltered life and it’s all new to me. You’re standing in the shower, both of you, covered in soap. You take her by the
shoulders and gently lean her on the wall and … hey presto, you’re away. Is that it?’

‘Yeah, more or less.’

‘Didn’t she protest?’

‘Protest!’ he echoed. ‘What about? She was begging for it. I leant her on the wall and she couldn’t wait for it inside her. She didn’t do no protesting.’

I worried about the double negative, but decided his meaning was clear. ‘None at all?’ I asked.

‘None,’ he assured us, adding, ‘She was desperate for it.’

‘Did it take long?’ I wondered.

‘No,’ he admitted, grinning modestly. ‘We was boaf a bit too eager.’

‘So was she disappointed?’

‘Nah, not a bit. But I like to give satisfaction, if you know what I mean. Well, we all do, don’t we? We got dried and I took her in the bedroom and we did it again, on the bed. This time I waited for her. She lapped it up, I’m telling you.’

‘Sounds fun,’ I said, nodding appreciatively. I turned to Sparky, who’d pushed his chair back from the table. ‘What do you think?’

He leant forward. ‘A fair f- f- f-, a fair, er, very fair, I’d say,’ he replied.

I allowed myself a little laugh. ‘Have you ever had it in the shower?’ I asked him.

‘No,’ he replied. ‘I’m strictly under the blankets, with the lights off.’

‘Do you talk to your wife while you’re doing it?’

‘It’d be difficult. We have separate bedrooms.’

This time Darryl joined in with my laugh, and even Mr Turner allowed himself a little smile.

‘Well,’ I said, ‘I reckon that just about concludes it. We’ll let you have a copy of the tape and video, Mr Turner, and a transcript. Can you think of anything else, Dave?’

‘The tattoo,’ he replied. ‘Don’t forget the tattoo.’

‘God, the tattoo!’ I exclaimed, bashing a palm against my head. ‘It’d completely slipped my mind.’ I opened my notebook and thumbed the pages, first in one direction, then the other. ‘Here we are,’ I said, flattening the pages. ‘Do you, Darryl, have a large tattoo on your back?’

Turner looked at him and raised a hand before Darryl could answer. ‘I think I’d like to consult my client in private,’ he said.

I nodded my approval, ‘No problem,’ and slid my chair back.

‘I ain’t got no fuckin’ tattoo,’ Darryl blurted out. ‘Tattoos is for fuckin’ weirdos.’

‘Maybe we should have a talk,’ Turner said.

‘It’s OK, Mr Turner,’ Darryl assured him. ‘I ain’t got no tattoos.’

I turned to Turner. ‘Nasty case,’ I said, grimacing. ‘Another rape. We have to ask, I’m sure you understand. The chap who did it – the woman said he had this big tattoo on his back. Apparently she had mirrors on her ceiling, and he didn’t realise.’ I consulted my
notebook. ‘According to her, it was a mural of someone called … Bart Simpson, riding a Harley Davidson motorbike. Does that mean anything to you, Darryl?’

‘Bart fuckin’ Simpson,’ he scoffed. ‘Get real.’ ‘Should I know who he is?’

‘He’s a cartoon character, Boss,’ Sparky informed us.

‘Right. And you don’t have a likeness of him reproduced anywhere on your torso, Darryl?’

‘No.’

‘Fair enough, but to eliminate you from enquiries I have to confirm it. Unfortunately your word is not enough. With Mr Turner’s approval, would you be good enough to remove your shirt?’

Turner shrugged, Darryl stood up and slipped his jacket off. He unfastened his tie and started unbuttoning his shirt, determined to prove his innocence of this one. His stumpy fingers had problems with his cuffs, but in a few moments the shirt was draped over the back of his chair. He turned round and flexed his muscles.

‘Let’s have you on film,’ I said, looking at Martin. Darryl held the pose as Martin checked the viewfinder. He nodded at me and I said: ‘That’s fine, thank you.’

Darryl relaxed and turned back to us, rotating his shoulders as he reached for his shirt, obviously pleased with his performance. He was well built, but turning to fat. His shoulders were overdeveloped and the muscles on his neck could have buttressed a small cathedral. His shape reminded me of one or
two Olympic athletes who fell foul of the drug testing procedures.

‘Just a moment, please,’ I said as he lifted his shirt from the chair. He paused as I got to my feet and let the shirt fall from his fingers. I approached him, flapping my hands like a novice curate addressing his flock.

‘This … sex in the shower thing,’ I said. ‘I’m still a bit baffled as to how you did it.’ I stepped past him and gestured to the wall of the cell we were using. ‘Just … stand here a moment, please, if you don’t mind.’ He moved to where I’d indicated, looking uneasy. Turner’s chair scraped on the floor but he made no objection.

I moved forward until I was standing almost toe-
to-toe
with Buxton. ‘Let’s just say,’ I suggested, ‘that you are her and I’m you.’ He looked wary, his cockiness rapidly evaporating, but didn’t protest. I raised my hands and held them palms towards him, but not quite touching. Touching is deemed an assault. ‘Now … you said … that you leant her back against the wall …’ I shuffled forward until I could smell last night’s beer on his breath and see the wrinkles of skin through the stubble on top of his head. I inched my palms towards him and he leant backwards against the ancient glazed tiles of the Bridewell.

‘Whaa!’ he exclaimed, jerking upright.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘It’s fucking freezing!’

‘Just lean back again,’ I insisted.

He tried again, flinched and stepped forward.

‘OK,’ I told him. ‘That’ll be enough. It looks as if I’ll never know how to do it against a wall.’ I passed him his shirt and sat down. We watched him refasten the buttons and stuff the flaps into his trousers. When he was back in his seat I said: ‘You’re a big lad. You obviously work out.’

‘Yeah,’ he agreed. ‘Now and again.’

‘At a gym?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Which one?’

‘It’s in Manchester.’

‘I see. We had a gym in Heckley, once. A good one. Unfortunately the proprietor killed someone.’ I paused, studying his face, then added: ‘I put him away for life.’

Turner shuffled and said: ‘Is any of this relevant, Inspector? I’ve other places to be and I’d be grateful if we could bring this interview to a conclusion. My client has fully and satisfactorily replied to your questions and I suggest that there is therefore no case to answer to.’

‘He was on steroids,’ I continued. ‘He killed two people in a fit of ’roid rage. Are you taking steroids, Darryl?’

His mouth was set in an expression of hate, his head lowered, eyes fixed on mine. ‘No,’ he said.

‘Not ever? You’ve never been offered any at the gym?’ ‘No.’

‘You’ve never done any … stacking, I believe it’s called?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Pity,’ I told him. ‘Nowadays it can be used in mitigation. I don’t know if it makes any difference, but it gives the defence something to pontificate about. We’re not letting you go, Darryl. I want you charged with the rape of Janet Saunders and in front of a magistrate tomorrow morning. We’ll be opposing bail.’

‘This is proposterous,’ Mr Turner protested. ‘On what grounds can you do this? My client has made it clear what happened. At the previous interview he told you that Mrs Saunders became hostile when he tried to leave and demanded money. She has a reputation in her locality for being a woman of some sexual experience.’

‘Some sexual experience!’ I gasped. ‘And what about his reputation?’

‘If my client has any sort of reputation it is inadmissible as evidence.’

‘But hers isn’t?’

‘No.’

‘Does that strike you as fair?’

‘It’s the law. Fairness doesn’t enter into it.’

‘Mrs Saunders says Buxton raped her, at knifepoint.’

‘And he says she consented. I suggest you release my client and pass the file to the CPS for their consideration. I can safely say that they will not entertain it. The words “wasting time” might appear somewhere on their response.’

I was in my shirt sleeves, my jacket draped over the back of the chair. I half turned and retrieved the
Wetherton package from a pocket. ‘This,’ I said, unwrapping the contents and holding it towards Buxton, ‘is a digital thermometer. You switch it on … here, and press this end against whatever it is you want to know the temperature of, like this.’ I held the probe end against the palm of my hand and offered the instrument so his solicitor could read the liquid crystal display. ‘Could you please tell us what that says, Mr Turner?’ I asked.

‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t wish to take part in this charade.’

‘Read that, DC Sparkington,’ I said.

‘Thirty-six point … something,’ he replied.

‘That’s degrees centigrade,’ I told them, ‘which is blood heat, near enough. That’s how you check the thermometer. I am now going to take a reading from the wall where Darryl leant a few minutes ago. Would all those present like to come and check this?’

Sparky stood and moved round the table but Turner and Buxton remained glued to their seats. I nodded to Martin to join us. I pressed the probe against the tiles and waited for the numbers to, settle.

‘What does it say?’ I asked.

‘Twenty-one degrees,’ Martin informed us.

‘Yep, twenty-one,’ Sparky confirmed.

We resumed our places. ‘You used to be a bailiff, a repo man, I believe,’ I said to Darryl. He didn’t answer.

‘You have to be able to handle yourself in a job like
that,’ I continued. ‘Fancy yourself as a tough guy, do you?’

He glowered at me, his top lip distorted and his forehead shiny with sweat, but stayed silent.

‘Perhaps you just don’t like the cold,’ I suggested.

‘You’re a hothouse plant. I’m not. There’s nothing I like better than to be out on the moors on a frosty morning with the wind whistling round my ears and the air like champagne.’ I did an exaggerated breathe-in and exhaled with a sigh. ‘Yesterday morning … I visited Mrs Saunders’ home. I went upstairs to the bathroom, where you claim intercourse took place. I removed my shirt and stood in the bath, right where you say you did. I leant back against the wall. Your actual words, a few seconds ago, were: “It’s fucking freezing.” You were dead right. Her bathroom wall was fucking freezing. It was cold enough to freeze the balls off a … pawnbroker’s sign. I couldn’t lean on it for two seconds. So, I took out my faithful friend here.’ I tapped the thermometer. ‘And measured the temperature. It was eighteen degrees, a full three degrees centigrade lower than the wall in this room. Your story is a pack of lies, Buxton. Sex in the shower is one of your pathetic fantasies. In the North of England, in winter, in an unheated bathroom, it’s strictly for masochists.’

‘Inspector,’ his brief, Turner, began, raising a conciliatory hand. ‘All this is rather far-fetched. What happens in the clinical conditions of this interview room cannot be compared with the high passions that were
running that night. The cocktail of lust and alcohol that both parties were under the influence of would surely overcome any chilliness of the tiles in her bathroom, don’t you agree?’

‘Mrs Saunders doesn’t drink,’ I said. ‘But your client was no doubt under the influence of alcohol, and probably anabolic steroids, too. A simple drugs test will show that. Meanwhile, we’ll let a jury decide about the anaesthetising effects of “high passion”, as you called it. I want him in court, and when he is, we’ll play it clever, like you usually do. For a start, there’ll be women on the jury. We’ll make sure that there’s an overnight adjournment between them hearing our evidence and retiring. And do you know what they’ll do, every one of them, when they are at home or in the hotel? They’ll all stand in their showers, stark naked, and lean on the wall. Just like you will, tonight, Mr Turner. And that’s when they’ll make their decisions.’ I leant back, flicking my notebook closed.

Sparky said: ‘And then there’s all the other women you’ve attacked. We’ll call them, just for identification purposes, of course. “Is this the man you knew as Darryl Burton?” “And when did you last see him?” That sort of thing.’

‘You can’t do that!’ Turner protested. ‘It’s inadmissible.’

‘We’ll get round it,’ I told him. ‘When they learn that your client is probably going away for a long time one or two might be willing for CPS to re-start their cases.
Young Samantha Teague might press charges. The phrase I’m wanting to hear from the judge’s lips is the one about being put away until no longer a danger to women.’ I turned to Sparky. ‘How old do you reckon that is, Dave? About seventy?’

‘God, older than that, I hope,’ he replied. ‘Charlie Chaplin put their Oona in the family way when he was about ninety.’

‘A long time, anyway.’

‘You can say that again.’

‘Anything else?’ I asked.

Sparky shook his head.

‘Mr Turner?’

‘Not at the moment, except to confirm that we will be strenuously denying these charges and protesting about the way the evidence of this morning was obtained.’

‘Buxton?’

He glared at me, one corner of his mouth pulling in uncontrolled twitches towards his ear. ‘I’ll get you, you bastard!’ he hissed. Turner slapped a hand on his arm to silence him.

‘We’ll take that as a negative,’ I said. ‘Interview terminated at … twelve forty-seven p.m.’

We took him to the charge office, read him his rights under PACE and showed him the menu. Our natty paper suits do not come in a full range of sizes, and the one that fitted his shoulders was rather long for him. The crutch was level with his knees and the legs were concertinaed around his ankles. All part of the dehumanising process, of course, but sometimes it doesn’t bother me a bit. As soon as he was settled in we left.

As we walked out of the headquarters Sparky thumped me on the upper arm and said: ‘Well done, Squire! Bloody brilliant.’

I rubbed my arm. ‘You don’t know your own strength,’ I complained. As we’d missed the Saturday morning remand court we’d have to keep Buxton until
he could appear before a magistrate on Monday, and not ‘tomorrow’, as I’d told him during the interview. It would give him another twenty-four hours to reflect on his misspent youth. I drove us both back to Heckley nick.

‘I’ll sort out the remand file in the morning, if you don’t mind,’ Sparky said as he unbuckled his seat belt. ‘I promised to take Daniel to the match, if we got done early enough.’

‘I’ve nothing on,’ I told him. ‘I’ll pop upstairs and do it myself. It won’t take long.’

‘Come on, then. We’ll both do it.’

‘What about the match?’

‘We’ve plenty of time. Why don’t you come with us? I could ring Shirley, arrange for an extra place for dinner.’

I considered his offer for two milliseconds, nodded and said: ‘Mmm, thanks, that’ll be nice. Let’s go upstairs and sign Mr Buxton’s card for him, then.’

There was a big white envelope on my desk, where I couldn’t miss it. Inside I found a re-sealable plastic bag containing a catalogue for Magic Plastics – ‘filled with all those essential things you’ve been waiting for someone to invent.’ I put it where I wouldn’t forget it and turned my mind back to Darryl Buxton.

You can work fast when the office is empty and free from distractions. Dave typed and I dictated. The Crown Prosecution Service are interested in two main areas: evidence and public interest. The former didn’t
look too convincing in print, so we laid it on thick about the risk to the female population.

‘That should do it,’ Sparky said, tapping in the final full stop. Now it was up to the CPS prosecutor.

I asked him to ring Maggie before we left, so she could inform Mrs Saunders of the latest developments, and then we drove in convoy to Dave’s house.

As we arrived, I was surprised to see young Sophie with a team scarf around her neck. She’d changed her mind and decided to come along at the very last moment. Thanks, Sophie, I thought.

We won, four-nil, and celebrated with pints of shandy in the pub outside the ground. Dinner had been postponed until after the match, and Shirley had put in an extra Yorkshire pudding for me. Whisper it softly, but her puddings are better than my mum’s were.

Dave washed, I dried and Shirley put them away. ‘Are you taking Annabelle anywhere tonight?’ Shirley asked.

‘Er, no,’ I replied, passing a dish back to Dave with a terse, ‘rejected.’

He examined it and gave it another scrub. ‘Tell you what,’ he said, ‘why don’t we all go to the Eagle tomorrow, for lunch? We’ll get in if I give them a ring.’

‘That’s a good idea,’ Shirley agreed. ‘Will you and Annabelle be able to make it?’

‘No,’ I mumbled. ‘We’ve, er, something on.’

‘Oh, what a pity,’ she said. ‘Are you going anywhere special?’

‘Yes.’

There was an uncomfortable silence. I started on the cutlery as Sparky emptied the bowl and reached for the first pan.

‘The kids ought to be doing this,’ Shirley said. ‘We’re too soft with them,’ Sparky concurred.

‘Leave them alone,’ I protested. As their uncle-
by-proxy
, it’s my role to defend them.

‘Now I know why Dave’s hands are always so soft,’ I told her.

‘No, his head’s just as soft,’ she responded. ‘Annabelle loaned Sophie some books,’ she went on. ‘I’ll find them, so you can return them, otherwise they’ll be forgotten.’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ I replied.

‘Oops, how did that escape,’ Sparky said, finding a plate in the bottom of the bowl and passing it to me.

‘Of course it matters,’ Shirley continued. ‘They look expensive. And tell Annabelle: “Thank you,” when you see her. As well as having a crush on you, I think poor Sophie has one on Annabelle, too. I’m not sure which I disapprove of more.’

One fib you can get away with. Any more and you start to build a house of cards. That’s how we catch crooks.

‘I won’t be seeing her,’ I replied. Before they could comment I went on: ‘Truth is, Annabelle and I have
finished. We’re not together any more.’ I carefully dried the Denby plate I was holding and offered it to Shirley. She didn’t attempt to take it.

Dave’s hands stopped swishing about in the sink. ‘Sorry, Chas,’ he mumbled. ‘I didn’t know.’

‘Finished?’ Shirley repeated, eyes wide. ‘Finished? You and Annabelle?’

‘Yep,’ I managed to say, biting my lip.

‘Oh, Charlie,’ Shirley began. ‘I’m so sorry. I thought … I thought you and Annabelle were … I don’t know, you just seemed so right together. You must be devastated.’

‘I’ll get over it,’ I said, gently placing the plate on the work surface before I dropped it. More lies.

Shirley put her hand on my arm. ‘I’m sorry, love,’ she said. ‘I … I’m sorry. Are you sure it’s, you know, final?’

‘Yep,’ I said.

‘Oh, I am sorry. Well, you know where to come if you want to talk about it.’

Sunday I dedicated to housework. My parents had lived in this house, but I’d be in big trouble if they could see it now. Decorating it myself was out of the question. I’d ask around, see if I could find anyone who did a good job, cheap. I vandalised all the cobwebs, consigned various books and ornaments to a box destined for Help the Aged and gave the place a thorough hoovering. It was a big improvement. I
found several items that belonged to Annabelle: a bottle of Mitsouko; her hiking socks; toothbrush; that sort of thing. I dropped them in a carrier bag and went out to the dustbin, then changed my mind and stuffed it to the back of a cupboard.

Later, I showered and had a can of lager. The Magic Plastic catalogue was on the coffee table, with the squash club membership list, alongside my favourite chair. I made a mug of tea, found my place near the middle of the list, and resumed plodding through the names.

My finger was on Davis, James Ashley, when I realised that my brain hadn’t registered a thing for God knows how long. I folded the pages, put them to one side and went to bed. I never looked at the Magic Plastic catalogue.

I’d run out of shirts again. Ever since Mrs Tait returned from her daughter’s I’d been struggling to re-establish my routine for taking them round to her for ironing. I found the denim Wrangler with the mother-of-pearl studs and pulled that on. No doubt Mr Wood would make his usual comment about me looking like Jesse James, so I wriggled into the tightest pair of jeans I could find, just to irk him. I can be a real mean hombre, at times. One day, I promised myself, I’d buy a pair of snakeskin boots with high heels and silver buckles. As I was leaving home I saw the theatre tickets behind the clock and put them in my
inside pocket. Nigel might have a use for them.

The good news that Monday morning was that Darryl Buxton appeared before a stipendiary magistrate, charged with rape. It’s an indictable offence, which means it has to be dealt with by the crown court – the appearance in front of the mags is just to set the wheels in motion. Mr Turner asked for bail but wasted his time. Darryl was remanded in custody and the trial bounced straight to the higher court. Round one to us.

Maggie followed me into my office and told me that she’d seen Mrs Saunders over the weekend and put her straight.

‘Fair enough,’ I said. ‘And now you can tell her that Buxton is in custody and start preparing her to give evidence. It’ll be a worrying few months for her. Do you think she’s up to it?’

‘Would it matter much if she cracked up on the stand?’ Maggie asked, by way of an answer.

‘No, I don’t suppose it would. But I don’t send my witnesses out with the intention that they’ll go to pieces. I’m quite content for them to answer questions in a controlled manner.’

Maggie looked contrite. ‘Sorry, Boss,’ she replied. ‘I think maybe I’m cracking up myself, lately.’

‘It’s overwork, Maggie,’ I said, adding: ‘That catalogue came from Magic Plastic, by the way. Thanks for that.’

‘Oh, good. What do you want it for?’

I pulled a face and sighed. ‘I don’t know,’ I admitted. ‘Something’s gnawing away inside my head, but I can’t put my finger on it.’

‘The good old intuition.’

‘I don’t believe in intuition.’

‘You say you don’t.’

‘Maybe. After you’ve seen Mrs Saunders I’d like you to go through the list of Darryl’s other victims. Interview them all, see who might take the stand.’

‘Great,’ she replied.

‘I want you to mother this one, Maggie,’ I continued. Tax the other divisions; ask them about unsolved rapes and murders, particularly indoor ones and any that have produced DNA samples. Tell them we have a possible candidate. If he’s as much as wagged his willy in Stanley Park I want him for it.’

‘Super,’ she replied, beaming.

‘And tomorrow,’ I told her, with my wickedest smile, ‘you can come back on the doctor’s case.’

Nigel was jumping round the office like a squirrel in a wheel. One second he was on the computer, then the phone, and next he’d be maniacally thumbing through the telephone directory.

‘Not yet,’ he hissed at me, covering the mouthpiece, when I asked him what he was on with.

At half past five, just as I was planning to leave, he burst into my office with a ‘Ta Da!’ and a two-fisted salute. ‘Barraclough!’ he announced. ‘I’ve got him!’

I placed the cap on my pen, closed the pad I was
using, pushed it away and leant back against the wall. ‘What’s he done?’ I asked.

‘I’ll tell you what he hasn’t done,’ Nigel declared. ‘He hasn’t passed any medical exams. He’s a fraud.’

‘Really!’ I exclaimed, dropping my chair on to all four legs. ‘You mean … he’s posing as a doctor?’

‘Well, not quite. I’ve just been talking to – wait for it – the San Bernadino Faculty of Transcendental Philosophy and Tantric Learning, in California.’

‘It had to be,’ I interjected.

‘Right. And that’s where his doctorate is from. I’ve run up a heck of a phone bill, by the way.’

‘Don’t worry, we’ll deduct it from your salary. Maybe that’s what he does at the clinic, this transcendental stuff. He doesn’t practise medicine, does he?’

‘He’s called the medical director. He flunked his first year medical exams at Leeds University and dropped out. It’d be interesting to know what he put on his CV and application form, don’t you think? Maybe Dr Jordan rumbled him.’

‘And was killed for his trouble? It’s worth knowing Nigel, well done, but I’m not sure if it’s a good enough motive. And don’t forget he has a cast-iron alibi. Let him know you know, and use it to prise information about the abortions out of him. That’s our best avenue, I think.’

‘I’m sure you’re right, but I can’t wait to see his face.’

None of the pubs do meals so early in the evening,
so I went to the cafe over the road and had tomato soup, gammon and pineapple, blackberry crumble with custard and a pot of tea. I took my time over it, preferring watching real people go about their mundane activities to watching second-rate television at home. I was about to ask for a refill when the old gimmer at the next table lit his pipe, so I decided to leave. As I reached inside my jacket for my wallet I found the tickets for Romeo and Juliet.

I walked back into the station yard, where my car was, and stood there, indecisive, wondering what to do. I’d already been accused once of approaching a witness with a view to obtaining sexual favours; would I be tempting fate?

The performance started in fifty minutes. Sod ’em all, I thought, and marched back into the nick.

Her number was in my book and she answered her phone almost straight away. ‘Is that Mrs Henderson?’ I asked.

‘Yes, it is. Who’s speaking?’

‘Hello, Cicely. It’s Detective Inspector Charlie Priest, from Heckley CID. Do you remember me? I met you at the clinic.’

‘Hello, Inspector,’ she replied, warmly. ‘Of course I remember you. How can I help?’

‘It’s Charlie,’ I told her. ‘Please, call me Charlie. Actually, it’s not business, it’s a personal call …’

I told her that I’d been left with these tickets for Romeo and Juliet and forgotten all about them until
just now and I was still in my working clothes because I hadn’t had time to go home and change and hoped she wouldn’t get the wrong impression but I’d intended giving her a ring when this whole thing was over and I realised it was very short notice and if she’d prefer to go with a friend she could have the tickets but it was a shame to waste them because it was a good production and …

She said she’d love to accompany me, and could be ready in twenty minutes.

I found the emergency razor and toothbrush in my bottom drawer and made a hasty toilet in the office loos. Somebody had been there before me and left a bottle of aftershave, so I used it liberally, including large dollops in my shoes, like Jon Voight in Midnight Cowboy. I tipped myself a wink in the mirror and left.

Cicely looked good. Fantastic, in fact. Not my type, with her heavy make-up, tight-back hair and impossible heels, but I’d have looked twice. Any man would. I imagined her doing the flamenco by the light of a campfire, stomping her sturdy legs, arms aloft, as she danced passionate tales of old Iberia.

It was drizzling, so I dropped her off at the Playhouse entrance and went to park the car. I dashed into the foyer as they gave the two-minute warning and brushed my wet hair out of my eyes. ‘You look stunning,’ I told her. She’d taken her coat off and was wearing a blue suit, with a black polo-necked blouse and black tights. Her hair wasn’t black all the way to
the roots, but nature sometimes needs a little help.

‘You don’t look bad yourself,’ she replied, with a+ smile that I took to have a trace of disapproval in it. I imagined she liked her men in suits.