Deadly Friends (4 page)

At ten to nine on the morning of the thirtieth of December I ran up the front steps of City HQ and asked the WPC manning – personning? – the front desk to direct me to the Dr Jordan incident room. This was the big day, when I took over the enquiry. Walking down the corridor I contemplated Field Marshal Montgomery’s pep talk to the Eighth Army prior to the battle of El Alamein. That should rouse them, I thought. Or should I make it Henry V’s Agincourt speech? Then again, if I gave them a compilation from the two they might not recognise the sources. At the door to the incident room I paused and looked at my watch, other hand poised over the handle. I was four minutes early, but that was how I did business and they’d better get used to it. I turned the handle and marched in.

Sparky was sprawled in a chair, his feet on another, talking to Nigel who was sitting nearby. The only two others in the room were engrossed in the Sun crossword.

‘Good morning,’ I said.

‘Morning, sir,’ said the two City HQ detectives, brushing the tabloid to one side.

‘Morning, Boss,’ Nigel added. Sparky swung his legs to the floor and nodded.

‘So, where’s everybody else?’ I demanded.

‘We’re it,’ Nigel told me.

‘Four of you?’

‘There’s another four on observations, sir,’ one of the City DCs interjected. ‘Well, two on duty and two off.’

Nigel did the introductions. I knew them by sight but had never worked with either. We shook hands and I gave them the bit about not calling me sir. Formalities over, I asked Nigel to fill me in with the story so far.

The last known person to see the doctor alive was a junky known as Ged Skinner. There was an entry in the doc’s diary giving Skinner an appointment at six thirty p.m., about two hours before the estimated time of death. He had a drugs-related record nearly as long as the Duchess of York’s last bank statement and DCI Makinson was convinced that he’d done the deed. Motive: possibly theft of a prescription pad. Or maybe just sheer wickedness because the doc wouldn’t prescribe. I had to admit that it sounded likely.

‘The trouble is,’ Nigel continued, ‘he’s done a bunk. According to his common law wife he’d arranged a ride in a lorry down to London, straight after his appointment with the doctor. She said he had friends there that he was close to, someone he’d grown up with
in care, and he tried to see them every Christmas. He’d be gone for about a week, definitely back for the New Year, she reckons, if he hasn’t run away completely. We’ve alerted the Met, but it’s like looking for a needle in a hay stack.’

‘Do we know for sure why he was seeing the doctor?’ ‘Yes. He was on methadone. It’s all in the doc’s records.’

‘So maybe he went round expecting to collect a week’s supply.’

‘That’s what we thought.’

‘And the doc wouldn’t play ball?’

‘Could be.’

When someone is on a heroin withdrawal programme they are often prescribed methadone as an alternative, to wean them through the bad times. Some people swear by it, others claim it is more pernicious than the heroin. Many junkies prefer it, as the high is more controllable and the quality is assured. Normal treatment is three doses a day, and the doctors often only issue a prescription for one day at a time. Ged Skinner was going away for a week. Maybe he got stroppy.

‘Are these the reports?’ I asked, pointing to a
foot-high
pile of papers.

They nodded.

‘Great,’ I sighed. ‘So, where does Mr Skinner normally live?’

‘In a squat in the Nansens,’ one of the DCs told me.

The Nansens were a quarter-mile square block of
terraced houses built at the turn of the century to house mill workers and named after the great Norwegian explorer and scientist. If only he could see them now.

‘How many others live there?’

‘About six adults, plus kids and dogs.’

I grimaced and nodded. ‘Have you two been on all night?’ I asked the City DCs.

They had.

‘Right, then get yourselves off home, after you’ve told the others not to move if Skinner comes back unless they have some back-up. And to let me know. I wouldn’t mind being there when we lift him. OK?’

When they’d gone Sparky said: ‘I think they prefer working for you rather than Makinson.’

‘Mr Makinson has his ways,’ I replied, ‘and I have mine. Sometimes I think I could learn a few things from him.’

Nigel started pulling his coat on. ‘Short meeting,’ he said. ‘We can’t do anything until he shows. Do you need me?’

‘Yes. Do you have a warrant to search the squat when Skinner shows?’

‘Er, no idea. You can do it, can’t you?’

‘If we arrest him. What else are you on with?’

‘The Sylvan Fields burglaries. A few complications need sorting.’

‘Fair enough. I’ll have a couple of hours here reading the file, see if anything jumps out at me. What’re you doing, Dave?’

‘Three or four scrotes to interview, see how well their stories have been rehearsed. Some stolen property to identify, and the dreaded paperwork, of course.’

‘In other words, not much,’ I said. ‘In that case, meet me in the Tap and Spile at lunchtime, if you can. I think it’s time to have a word with the landlord.’

‘About the rape?’

‘Yeah.’

‘What time?’

I glanced at my watch and at the pile of reports. They’d grown since my last look. ‘Oh, er, let’s say twelve thirty, eh?’

‘Right.’

Sparky was following Nigel out through the door when I shouted: ‘Dave!’

He poked his head back round it.

‘And don’t forget,’ I told him, ‘knowledge catches crooks.’

He nodded and repeated my words. ‘Knowledge catches crooks. I’ll try to remember.’

It was the quietest incident room I’d ever been in. For two hours the phone never rang. It looked as if nobody knew I was there. Somewhere there should have been several other officers taking care of the assorted jobs that come with a murder enquiry: control staff, SOCO, liaison officer, correspondence diary, HOLMES expert, et cetera, et cetera. It looked as if Mr Makinson hadn’t thought it necessary to tell them that I was taking over. Everything was tied up, and all I had to do was lift the
culprit and keep him in cold storage until he returned. I thought about getting annoyed, but decided that life was too short.

I tore the grubby top sheet off a new A4 pad and attacked the pile of reports. Two hours later I decided that Makinson was right. The hot suspect for the doctor’s murder was Ged Skinner. There were plenty of side alleys along the trail, and I like to think I’d have taken a longer look down them, but the right answer, as I’d learnt at the quiz, is usually the obvious one.

From the reports I discovered that the doctor had been a bit of a laddo on the quiet. He had a girlfriend in every consulting room and a few others besides. There were going to be a lot of distraught females at the funeral, casting sideways looks at each other as they dabbed away the mascara. Then the recriminations would start. What’s the collective noun for distraught females, I wondered? An anguish? A wail?

A jealous boyfriend or husband could have shot him, but it wasn’t likely. The anger usually surfaces long before the violence does, and we’d have heard about it. There would have been public embarrassment and threats, but the doctor appeared to be as discreet as an undertaker’s cough.

The White Rose Clinic was something else. I’d driven by many times, watched it being built. It was just another private hospital, as far as I knew, cashing in on the demise of the NHS. Now I learnt that it specialised in cosmetic surgery. Why did the doctor, a Fellow of the
Royal College of Gynaecologists, freelance one day per week at a clinic that specialised in cosmetic surgery? My mind went into freefall. Maybe I should have taken out that subscription for Cosmopolitan after all.

I found the answer in Nigel’s next report. The clinic had a lucrative little sideline. They would, at special request, and only for certain valued clients who complied with their rigorous screening procedure, perform abortions. They didn’t advertise this service, and relied on word of mouth to attract custom.

Once again, discretion was the name of the game. There’d been no hate mail, no letter bombs, no noisy protestors outside the gates. The anti-abortion lobby is fanatical and violent, but they didn’t know the White Rose Clinic existed.

Ged Skinner was our man, no doubt about it.

I went upstairs and had five minutes with Les Isles, the superintendent in overall charge of the case. He was happy to wait another couple of days to see if Skinner surfaced. If he didn’t we’d have a rethink. I was ten minutes late when I read the name of the Tap and Spile’s landlord above the door and strolled in.

I’d been in the Tap before. I’ve been in most pubs at least once. The style was nineteen thirties Odeon: all big open rooms, dark wood and half-tiled walls. A drinking palace, nothing more. Back in the fifties they’d tried ballroom dancing, and the mirrored globe still hung in the middle of the ceiling. Pool tables and a jukebox were an impoverished attempt at attracting a newer,
younger, clientele. They had the money, these days, and were happy to pay two quid for a bottle of cheap foreign lager and not bother with a glass. Hopefully, it would be a long time before I came in again. I spotted Sparky in a corner contemplating a glass of orange juice and made a drinking gesture as I headed to the bar. He shook his head.

The place was nearly deserted. I ordered a glass of orange juice and soda and told the landlord who I was. ‘We’d like a word,’ I said, pointing to where I’d be sitting. He vanished for a few moments and returned with a female sumo wrestler who looked as if she’d been dragged out of hibernation. She stayed behind the bar and he came to join us.

‘This is DC Sparkington,’ I said, and launched straight into it. ‘We’re looking for a man who is known to be a customer of yours. He’s about five-six, five-seven, late twenties and a snappy dresser. Three piece suits and a tie. Close cropped hair. He comes in on Thursdays and Fridays and stands at the bar, but we don’t think he’s been in since before Christmas. Does he ring a bell?’

The landlord nodded. His shirt sleeves were rolled up and his forearms were black with tattoos. ‘Yeah. I fink I know who you mean,’ he said. ‘’Asn’t been in for a while, though.’

‘He was in on Christmas Eve,’ I said.

‘Might ’ave been,’ he admitted. ‘Can’t be sure. It was ’eaving in ’ere.’

‘Do you have a name for him?’ Sparky asked.

‘Nah. I chatted to ’im, like, now and again, if you know what I mean. You ’ave to, in this job. Never asked ’is name.’

‘He’s called Darryl,’ I said.

He stroked his stubble with nicotine-stained fingers. ‘Yeah, now you mention it, I did ’ear someone call ’im Darryl. What’s ’e done?’

‘Nothing, we hope. You know what we say: just want him to help us with our enquiries. So what can you tell us about Darryl? What did you find out when you had these little chats?’

He tapped the table with the edge of a beer mat, rotating it in his fingers, gathering his thoughts. How much did he ought to tell us? ‘’E was a good bloke,’ he announced, when he was ready. ‘I liked ’im. He ’adn’t lived in ’Eckley long, ’e was finding ’is feet, if you know what I mean.’

‘Any idea where he came from?’ I asked.

‘Nah. Never asked.’

‘Or his second name?’

‘Nah, sorry.’

‘Did he come in a car?’

‘Good question. I fink ’e did, sometimes, but now and again ’e’d ring for a taxi, if ’e’d ’ad a skinful, if you know what I mean.’

I turned to Dave. ‘You know what he means by a skinful, don’t you?’

‘I’ve heard of it,’ he said.

‘’E ’as some funny tastes in booze,’ the landlord declared. ‘Funny? In what way?’

‘’E kept asking if we ’ad any Benedictine. Said there was nowt like it with a drop of ’ot water for keeping t’cold out.’

‘I’ll remember that,’ Sparky said. ‘Anything else?’

‘Nah, I don’t fink so.’ He studied for a few seconds, his brow furrowed with concentration until enlightenment brightened his face. ‘Yeah, there is one fing. I know what ’e does for a living. ’E’s an estate agent. ’E said that if I ’eard of anyone who wanted an ’ouse, or a mortgage, to let ’im know. ’E was their man, ’e reckoned.’

‘An estate agent. That’s useful,’ I said, draining my glass and placing it carefully smack in the middle of its mat. It was time to move up a gear. ‘According to our information,’ I told him, ‘on Christmas Eve he was chatting up one of your barmaids. Know anything about that?’

The frown returned briefly, but he’d evidently decided to play ball with us. In the balance of things keeping in with the police might be more profitable than Darryl’s friendship. ‘Yeah, that’d be Jan—Janet,’ he replied. ‘’E asked me where she lived; said ’e might walk ’er ’ome, if you know what I mean.’

‘So what did you tell him?’ Sparky asked.

‘’Ow d’you mean?’

‘Did you tell him where she lived?’

‘No. Well, yeah. I don’t know the number. It’s the
end ’ouse on Marsden Road, near the light, ’bout five minutes walk from ’ere.’

‘And you told him that?’

‘Yeah, I might ’ave done,’ he admitted.

Sparky was about to speak again but I raised a finger to silence him. ‘Has Janet been in lately?’ I asked.

‘No, not since that night.’ He pondered on this, then said: ‘’Ere, they ’aven’t run off together, ’ave they?’

‘Not that we know of,’ I told him. ‘Now we know where she lives we might call on her. Sorry, Dave,’ I added. ‘What were you about to say?’

Sparky is as tall as me but about four stones heavier. He’s probably my closest friend, and I’d hate him for an enemy. He’s an archetypal Yorkshireman, with an attitude. He planted his elbows on the rickety table and leant forward, towards the landlord. ‘You told Darryl where Janet lived,’ he stated.

The landlord nodded. ‘Yeah, I fink I did.’

‘What else did you tell him?’

‘Nowt.’

‘Nothing? Are you sure?’

‘Yeah, ’course I’m sure.’

Sparky sat upright again. ‘Have you ever been to Janet’s house,’ he asked.

The landlord cast a furtive glance at Godzilla behind the bar. She was engrossed in that morning’s tabloid. ‘Er, yeah, a couple o’ times,’ he confessed in a hushed voice.