Deadly Friends (8 page)

After breakfast and a shower I rang the number that Pete Drago had given me for Herbert Mathews, and Mrs Mathews answered. After the introductions
and explanations I asked: ‘Do you think he’ll be well enough to talk to me?’

‘Oh, he’ll be delighted,’ she said. ‘What he’s missing most of all is shop talk. He’s been a bit better over Christmas, but he’s still in bed at the moment. We had a late night, last night. When would you like to come?’

‘This afternoon, about two?’ I asked, tentatively.

They’d moved house, after Herbert’s retirement, to the bungalow in the country. Now they lived halfway between Burnley and Keighley, on the edge of Bronte country. The little brick cottage stood in a quarter of an acre and would have had long views if it hadn’t been for the neighbours’ cypress trees. I’d have chainsawed the lot the first time they went on holiday.

When I saw Herbert he reminded me of my father. He’d made an effort, bless him, and wore a shirt and tie, with a fawn cardigan over them. But there was no disguising the sunken cheeks and the claw-like hand he extended, or the plastic pipe that ran across his face, bleeding oxygen under his nose to enrich the air, because his lungs were down to twenty-five per cent. I’d seen it all before. The muscles of my jaw tightened as I shook his hand, and hardly any sound came out as I tried to say hello. I sank into an easy chair opposite his shrunken figure and Mrs Mathews went to put the kettle on.

I said: ‘Welcome to Yorkshire, Herbert. Was it a lifetime’s ambition to live this side of the border?’

‘Property prices are lower,’ he retaliated. ‘And now
I know why. Coming here gave me this.’ He tapped his chest, trying to smile and cough at the same time.

‘I’d have thought all this fresh air would be good for you.’ ‘You would, wouldn’t you? But it’s too late for that, even if it were so simple.’

We chatted about the weather and the job for a while and his wife brought the tea. I told him that Pete Drago sent his regards. He wasn’t impressed.

‘How long have you to go, Charlie?’ he asked.

‘Couple of years. A bit less.’

‘Are you married?’

‘No.’

‘I never rated Drago,’ he said. ‘Thought he was a waster. But now I’m prepared to admit I might have been wrong. He knew what he wanted from life and he went for it. Didn’t care who he hurt. I don’t agree with that, but I wish I’d been a bit more like him. If there’s anything you want to do, Charlie, do it now. Don’t put it off or wait for it to happen.’ He reached out and put a hand over his wife’s and I raised the teacup to my lips, to hide behind.

‘And another thing,’ he went on. ‘Choose your friends carefully. How many from the job do you think have visited me since I finished? Go on, have a guess.’

‘Not many, I don’t suppose.’

‘None. Not one.’

He became agitated and started to cough. Mrs Mathews passed him a handkerchief and told him not to upset himself.

When he’d recovered I said, lamely: ‘It’s a bit out of the way, up here.’

‘We haven’t always lived up here, Charlie. Believe me, once you leave, you’re history. Nobody wants to know you.’

I had another cup and enjoyed a piece of Christmas cake with Lancashire cheese. It was nearly as good as Wensleydale. When we’d finished I said: ‘Down to business, Herbert. What can you tell me about a character called Darryl Burton, or Buxton?’

His eyes widened and his body stiffened. ‘Darryl Burton,’ he repeated. ‘Darryl Burton. Don’t tell me you’ve managed to pin something on him?’

‘No, I’m afraid not. But with your help I’m hoping to.’ ‘What’s he done?’

I related the story of the Christmas Eve attack and told him what we knew about the mysterious Darryl.

‘It’s Burton all right,’ he asserted. ‘He’s changed his name. It’s him, as sure as God made little green apples.’

‘Drago said he’d done something similar a few years ago. Is there anything else we ought to know?’

‘Five times,’ he said. ‘He’s done it five times, that we know of. Yours makes it six.’

‘Five times!’ I gasped. ‘Are you telling me he’s been accused of rape five times?’

Herbert’s breathing became laboured and his wife looked concerned. ‘Do you mind if he has a little rest,’ she said. His panting was shallow and rapid, hardly
giving each fresh charge of oxygen time to get past his Adam’s apple.

‘Of course not,’ I replied. ‘Tell you what, I’ll have a little walk round your garden, if you don’t mind. It looks as if one of you has green fingers.’

Herbert cleared his throat with a noise like a Sammy Ledgard bus changing gear on Blue Bank. I was glad to get out of there, into the fresh air. I’d had enough of sickness. I recognised the signs: the bottles of pills on the sideboard; the get-well cards with ready-written messages to save the sender the trouble; the bucket hiding behind the settee, where it could be grabbed in an emergency.

Nature was reclaiming the garden, too. Herbert was a vegetables man, and orderly rows of sprouts, turnips, broccoli and onions were long past their best, overgrown and straggly, losing the battle against the local competition. I found a colander in the kitchen and filled it with sprouts and a few other things.

‘Oh, you shouldn’t have bothered,’ Mrs Mathews told me, obviously pleased.

‘It’s no bother, and there’s nothing like home-grown. How is he?’

‘He’s all right now. He just has these bad spells. They don’t last long. Would you like some sprouts for yourself? It’s a shame to waste them.’

‘I can’t stand them,’ I confided. ‘I’d like to ask Herbert a few more questions, but I can always come back, if you’d prefer it.’

‘No,’ she assured me. ‘He’s all right for a while. Talking to you is the best tonic he’s had in a long time.’

I went through into the sitting room and asked Herbert to tell me all about it.

Darryl Burton, as he was then, had stood in the dock accused of rape on three occasions. Each time the victim had been interrogated by Burton’s barrister and reduced to hysterical weeping as he harangued her in ways that would have had the police hauled before the Council for Civil Liberties. She had led his client on, he accused her. She had been with many men before. He’d puffed and pouted, pleaded and pointed, spittle flying from his lips as he turned victim into villain and guilt into innocence. She had admitted that she liked a good time and regarded herself as ‘fun loving’. She knew what to expect. And the judge went along with it and directed the jury to acquit.

On one other occasion the CPS had refused to prosecute, and the first victim, sixteen years old, had withdrawn the charges. How many women had failed to report an attack was anybody’s guess, but it was almost certainly the hidden portion of the iceberg.

‘Do you know this barrister’s name?’ I asked.

‘No, sorry,’ Herbert told me, shaking his head.

‘What about the instructing solicitor?’

Herbert pressed his knuckles against his lips. ‘Sorry,’ he said, after a while. ‘I can’t remember. My memory’s going. It was a fancy foreign name. He was from
Manchester – they said he’d never lost an important case.’

‘I know the type,’ I said. It’s the instructing solicitor who loads the gun and dumdums the bullets. The barrister just pulls the trigger in court. ‘What about Burton’s juvenile record. Did he have one?’

‘Mmm. He was a classic. We should have predicted how he’d turn out, except that there’s thousands like him who mend their ways. He was cautioned for burglary when he was fifteen and should have been cautioned again for another, but he refused to be. We had no evidence so we had to NFA it. Later, he was suspected of an aggravated burglary and indecent assault, but we couldn’t make it stick.’

NFA. No further action, but we still count it as a clear-up. Accepting a caution is an admission of guilt, but if the culprit refuses to accept it the ball bounces straight back at us. We have to put up or shut up. And even if he is cautioned, when he reaches the age of eighteen his slate is wiped clean and he can start again. Then we have to rely on the memory of men like Herbert, but strictly off the record, of course.

Rapists who ply their trade indoors usually started on a life of crime as burglars. They break into empty houses at first, but as their skills and bravado increase they turn to houses with sleeping occupants, preferably lone females or single mothers. The adrenalin level is high and one thing leads to another, or maybe the victim wakes, and suddenly there’s an escalation in the
offence. That’s what Herbert meant when he called Darryl a classic.

Muggers, who rely on speed and opportunity rather than stealth and cunning, are different. They evolve into the rapists who drag their victims into the bushes or a handy back alley. Both types are just as dangerous. The next step on the ladder of infamy is murder, and Darryl was pulling his way up the rungs.

‘You’ve been a big help, Herbert,’ I said, standing up. ‘I’m glad I called.’ I placed my cup and saucer on the table and picked up my coat.

‘Glad to be useful, for once. I was wondering where he’d gone. There was a bit of a local campaign against him after the last acquittal. Someone did some posters with his name on them and stuck them on lampposts all around the town, and the local paper was threatening to expose him. It was enough to drive him away from Burnley, but it looks as if he washed up in Heckley. Sorry about that. Do you think you’ll get him?’

‘Thanks a lot. We’ll get him, sooner or later. Let’s just hope it’s sooner.’

I shook his bony hand and thanked Mrs Mathews for the tea. ‘I’ll show you out,’ she said.

I’d turned to leave when Herbert said: ‘Charlie.’

‘Mmm.’

‘Don’t ring Padiham Road, will you?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Don’t ring them, to tell them to visit me.’

He’d read my mind. ‘Why not?’ I asked.

‘I don’t want them coming to see me. Not now. It’s too late.’

‘If you say so.’

‘I do.’

‘What about me. Do you want to know how we get on?’

‘You can come anytime.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Good luck with it.’

‘And you, Herbert. And you.’

As Mrs Mathews opened the door from the room for me I turned back to him again. ‘This solicitor from Manchester,’ I said.

Herbert looked at me.

‘I’ve met his type before. And beat them. And I’ll move heaven and earth to beat this one, too.’

January 2
^nd
was the day I’d promised Maggie we’d bring Darryl in. It was also the day Annabelle was coming home. I didn’t know if I was up to such excitement, but I’d do my best. I thought I’d slept in when I looked at the curtains and saw how bright it was outside, but when I opened them there was a thin dusting of snow over everything. That meant traffic chaos in the town so I set off early. I welcomed the troops back, gave a stirring address about fighting crime in the last years of the millennium and sent them out into the bleak streets.

All except Maggie. I said: ‘Come and sit down.’ When she was comfortable I said: ‘On second thoughts, do you fancy a bacon sandwich?’

She looked down at her figure and pulled a face. ‘I’d rather not, Boss. I’ve been overdoing them, lately.’

‘Fancy watching me eat one, then?’

‘Oh, go on then.’

We repaired to the canteen and I told her about my journey to see Herbert Mathews. Maggie listened, her face a mask of disbelief.

‘Six times!’ she exclaimed when I’d finished. ‘He’s done it six times?’

‘Six that we know of.’

‘Oh, Charlie, we’ve got to stop him. He’ll kill someone, one day.’

‘That’s what we’re being paid for, Maggie. Question is, how do we do it?’

‘Do we know who the other girls are?’

‘Herbert gave me a list of names. Go over there, first chance you have, and see what you can find from the court histories and their intelligence files. Try the Crime Information System with both his names. Have a word with Herbert – he’ll be pleased to see you. Look at anything else you can think of. When we hit Darryl for real I want it to be with everything we have.’

‘Right. But what are we doing about him meanwhile?’

I popped the last corner of sandwich into my mouth and washed it down with a swig of tea. Our
canteen bacon sandwiches are the best in the Western hemisphere. Rumour has it that a sheep station near Alice Springs does better ones, but it’s unconfirmed. When I’d replaced my mug on the formica table, dead equidistant between the yellow squiggles, I said: ‘Let’s go ruin his day.’

The snow had vanished but I was grateful for my big jacket. Science has failed to improve on the properties of good quality duck down. Or wool and cotton, come to that. Polyester is OK for ties – gravy stains wipe straight off. Maggie was wearing a smart suit with trousers and a raincoat.

Homes 4U were in a single-fronted shop on the edge of the town centre, where rents are cheaper. There was an alley alongside, so I drove down the back street and saw his silver Mondeo parked in a tiny yard with a big notice on the wall that claimed the space for D. Buxton, Manager. I left my Vauxhall blocking him in and we walked through the alley to the front entrance.

The gum-chewing girl at the front desk had more rings through her facial features than a Masai dance
troupe. Her bleached hair was dragged together and held by a rubber band, like a horse’s tail sprouting from the side of her head. I’d heard Maggie call it the slag’s cut. She can be very uncomplimentary about her sisters.

‘Police,’ Maggie said. ‘Will you please tell Mr Buxton that we’d like a word with him?’

The girl recovered quickly, sliding her magazine under the table and reaching for the telephone. ‘I’ll, er, see if Mr Buxton is in,’ she said.

‘No, love,’ Maggie insisted, leaning over the desk. ‘You’ll tell him we’d like a word with him.’

I examined the notices on the walls. Several desirable properties were available for rental and DSS giros were only accepted with ID.

‘There’s two police people here to see you, Mr Buxton,’ the girl was saying.

I smiled at her. ‘I’ve never been called a police person before,’ I said.

‘He says he’ll be down in a moment.’

The moment dragged into three minutes and I was beginning to eye the stairs when he arrived, full of bluff cheeriness.

‘Gentlemen – I mean officers!’ he blustered, taken aback by Maggie’s presence. ‘Sorry to keep you waiting. Spend ’alf my life on the old dog and bone, these days – you know how it is. So what can I do for you? Is it a problem with one of my tenants?’

He was exactly as I’d imagined him. I must be getting
better at it. ‘This is DC Madison and I’m DI Priest,’ I said. ‘From Heckley CID. We’d like a word with you, in private.’

The bonhomie slipped from his face. ‘Go do some shopping, Samantha,’ he told the girl, nodding towards the door. She grabbed her coat and scuttled out like a startled rabbit.

I dropped the latch and turned the sign to closed. Samantha was crossing the road, her thin white legs spanning the gap between miniskirt and Caterpillar boots like a pair of rugby goalposts. She reminded me of Popeye’s girlfriend, Olive Oyl, but I doubted if she’d ever been extra virgin.

‘Where were you on Christmas Day?’ I demanded, turning back to face Buxton.

‘Christmas Day?’

‘Mmm. Only eight days ago. Turkey for dinner, Queen on the telly, if that helps.’

‘I was at my parents’. Why?’

‘All day?’

‘No. I left home about twelve, got there about one. Had lunch, stayed for tea. Got back to Heckley about eleven. I go see them every Christmas. What’s this all about?’

‘We’re investigating a rape. What about the night before? Where were you on Christmas Eve?’

‘Christmas Eve?’

‘That’s what I said.’

‘I went round a few pubs in the town. What of it?’

‘Name me them.’

‘I don’t know their names. They’re just pubs. I ’aven’t lived in Heckley all that long.’

‘Do you know the Tap and Spile?’

‘Yeah. I know the Tap.’

‘Did you go there?’

‘What if I did?’

‘Do you know the barmaid there?’

‘Janet? Yeah. I know Janet.’

‘How well do you know her?’

He gave a little cock-eyed smile, his lips pursed. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘I fink I can say I know her very well.’

‘She says you followed her home and raped her at knifepoint. Did you?’

‘She said that?’

‘Mmm.’

‘Janet?’

‘Mmm.’

‘The cow! The friggin’ little cow!’

‘Are you denying it?’

‘Course I’m friggin denying it! And I’m not saying anuvver word until I’ve spoken to my brief.’

‘Fair enough. We want to do a formal interview with you at Heckley nick. Ring your brief and tell him to be there, soon as pos.’

‘You bet I’ll ring ’im. I’m sick o’ this. You’re not gonna pin this on me.’ He picked up the phone and tapped a number into it. Most of our clients have at least to consult their Filofaxes.

‘Sick of what?’ I asked, but he didn’t answer.

‘Simon, please,’ he said into the phone after a moment. ‘He’s what?’ His face was a picture. ‘Well, who else is there?’ He was quiet for a while, then told the listener that he was being hauled off to the station for a formal interview. ‘Some bird’s saying I raped her,’ he told them, glancing up at me. ‘No, I’m not under arrest.’

He ummmed and said: ‘Right,’ several times, his displeasure plain to see.

When he put the phone down I said: ‘Simon wouldn’t be Simon Mingeles, would he?’ We’d crossed paths before.

‘Yeah, matter of fact he would.’

‘And he’s not available?’

‘No.’ He bit his lip. ‘He, er, went off for a fortnight’s skiing, yesterday.’

‘How disappointing for you. And me, too. It’s a long time since I met Simon. As a matter of fact one of our DCIs is away skiing at the moment. I don’t suppose Mr Mingeles has gone to the Cairngorms, has he?’

‘No. Klosters.’

‘Yes, he would, wouldn’t he? Ah, well, have you thought of trying Gareth Pierce? She specialises in defending the indefensible.’

He looked confused. Gareth Pierce has that effect on me, too. ‘Mr Turner’s coming over,’ he said. ‘But he’s told me not to go wiv you unless you arrest me.’

‘What time is he coming?’ I demanded.

‘Free o’clock.’

Whatever happened to the th sound? I blame it on drinking too much cold lager. It paralyses the tongue. ‘OK,’ I said. ‘You be in the station at two thirty and we’ll arrest you then. If we have to come for you I’ll use it to have you remanded. Understand?’

He probably understood better than I did. ‘Right,’ he said.

In the car I said: ‘Sorry, Maggie. I know you’d like to have taken him in, but this way the clock doesn’t start until the brief arrives. We’ll play them at their own game.’

‘It’s all right,’ she replied. ‘I guessed that was it. Do you want him in custody?’

‘Not bothered.’

We were on the High Street, waiting for the lights to change, when I said: ‘Presiley … Baxendale.’

‘Presiley Baxendale? What about her?’

‘That’s who I want defending me if ever I’m up before the court.’

‘Why her?’

‘Dunno. It’s just a nice name.’

‘You’re starved of affection,’ she responded. ‘When does Annabelle come home?’

‘Today. I’d like to meet her at Leeds station, if I can get away.’

‘What time?’

‘I’m not sure. I’ll give them a ring.’

She’d come home via London, and trains from there
arrived at regular intervals. She could have been on any one. If I missed her it would have meant her waiting for the connection to Huddersfield and then a taxi. She could have left a message on my ansaphone, but she wouldn’t expect me to collect her. That was one of the million little reasons that made me love her. There were some big reasons, too.

I tried ringing Rachel, but nobody was in. They were probably having a round of golf. Ah, well, back to work. I went to see the custody sergeant and told him about the prisoner I’d invited in to be arrested. He heaved a big sigh and closed his eyes, as if in prayer.

They must have done some further colluding, because they arrived together. Turner was older than I expected and didn’t look the type to be associated with Mingeles. Maybe he was the firm’s last remnant of the old school. Buxton looked happy enough with him. When we were settled in the interview room I switched the tapes on and recited the caution. It was twenty minutes past three.

‘Mr Priest,’ Turner began. ‘My client strenuously denies these charges. We suggest that if you have any evidence then you present it so we can refute it. Otherwise, you must let him go. The word of a woman with a known reputation for sleeping around who is disappointed at my client’s lack of commitment towards her is hardly grounds for making such serious allegations.’

So that was it. Straight out with the big guns. Maggie’s chin was resting on her arms, folded across
her bosom. A muscle in her cheek was twitching.

‘Tell me about Christmas Eve,’ I said.

‘What’s to tell?’ Buxton replied. ‘I took her home and we had it away. That’s all. She consented to everything that took place.’

‘Who do we mean by she?’

‘Janet, the barmaid at the Tap and Spile.’

‘How well did you know her?’

‘Only to talk to, up to then.’

‘What did you talk about?’ I invited.

He took a few breaths, sorting his thoughts, wondering how much he ought to say. Turner was sitting askew, facing him, rotating a pencil in his fingers, ready to pounce should Buxton overstep the mark and give too much away.

‘We’d chatted, that’s all. I could tell she fancied me, but, to tell the troof, she wasn’t my sort. I knew she’d been about a bit …’

‘How did you know that?’ I asked.

‘It’s common knowledge. The landlord of the Tap was knocking her off, for one.’

I felt Maggie flinch. ‘Anybody else?’

‘Well, no, no one I could name.’

Turner chipped in with: ‘My client already said it was common knowledge, Inspector.’

‘We don’t accept common knowledge in any court I’ve ever attended, Mr Turner,’ I told him, tersely. ‘Let’s stay with the so-called facts, however fanciful. Go on, please.’

Buxton said: ‘I bought her a couple of drinks. Like I said, I didn’t fancy her, but any port in a storm, eh? I’d had a few myself and she was getting better all the time. Know what I mean? So I asked her if she wanted a lift home.’

‘And she accepted?’

‘No, not exactly. She didn’t want it to look obvious. She told me where she lived and said come down in a few minutes, so I did.’

‘Where did she say she lived?’

‘Marsden Road, at the end. There was a light outside, she said.’

‘What number?’

‘She didn’t tell me no number.’

‘That’s a bit odd, don’t you think?’

Turner jumped straight in with: ‘It seems perfectly. sensible to me, Inspector. The street light might be more easily located than the house number.’

‘Perhaps,’ I admitted. ‘We’ll have it checked.’

I sat back and looked at Maggie. She unfolded her arms and placed her fibre-tipped pen neatly on her pad. So far she hadn’t written anything. ‘Tell us what happened when you got there,’ she said.

‘What’s to tell? We had it away, that’s all. Twice.’ ‘Twice?’

‘Yeah,’ he smirked.

‘Before that,’ Maggie said. ‘Didn’t you have a coffee?’ ‘No, we didn’t bovver.’

‘So what happened? You’re not telling me that you
and this woman you hardly knew simply took your clothes off and got on with it, are you? There must have been some preliminaries.’

‘Yeah, well, just a few. We had a bit of a snog and suddenly she said she needed a shower. I asked her if she wanted her back scrubbing and she said: “Why not?” So we went upstairs and that’s where we had it the first time.’

‘In the shower?’ I asked.

‘Yeah.’

‘How?’

‘How? How d’yer fink?’

‘I’m asking you. Did you have it standing up or lying down? I’m a novice about these things.’

‘Standing up, of course.’

‘Against the wall?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Isn’t that uncomfortable?’

‘Uncomfortable! ’Course not.’

We let the image solidify in our minds for a moment before Maggie took up the questioning again.

‘So where did you have it the second time?’ she asked. ‘On the bed.’

‘On it or in it?’

‘On top of it.’

‘Wasn’t that a bit … wet?’

‘No. We got dry first. We dried each other, then went to the bedroom. One thing led to anuvver and we did it again. She was lapping it up, and I was past
caring what she was like. It was bloody good.’

‘So you dried her and she dried you,’ Maggie stated. ‘Yeah, that’s right.’

‘One towel each or did you share it?’

‘Er, one each, I fink.’

Turner stopped twiddling his pencil.

‘What colour were they?’ Maggie asked.

‘Inspector,’ Turner said, ignoring Maggie. ‘In a moment of such high passion I think it unlikely that any man would remember the colour of the towels, don’t you agree?’

I ignored him and when his words had settled out of the air Maggie repeated the question. ‘What colour were the towels, Darryl?’

‘White,’ Buxton said, defiantly. ‘They was white.’

We tried to pin him down with other details, but it was like trying to lasso the clouds. Janet, he’d claimed, had asked him to stay the night with her. When he refused she wanted to know when he would see her again, and what his phone number was. He’d made it plain that this was just a one-night stand, whereupon she’d demanded money. Darryl, as we already guessed, had ‘never paid for it in his life’.

Crying ‘Rape!’ Turner told us, was the last resort of an unscrupulous rejected woman.

We bailed him to report back in twenty-eight days but we were only posturing. As we hadn’t charged him we couldn’t even apply conditions. We suggested that it might be a good idea for him to stay away from Mrs
Saunders and the Tap and Spile and Turner nodded wisely. It wasn’t much to offer Janet but it was the best we could do.

We watched them leave, Turner holding the door wide for his client, ushering him away to safety.

‘The boss wants you,’ the custody sergeant said as he closed his book.

‘Since when?’

‘He rang down about an hour ago.’

I looked up at the clock. ‘Is he still here?’

‘Yep.’

‘Right. I’m on my way.’

Maggie said: ‘What do you want me to tell Janet, Boss?’

‘The truth?’ I suggested, after a few seconds’ thought. ‘But break it gently. Tomorrow will do, Maggie. Have a think about it overnight.’

The superintendent was up to his elbows in paperwork when I breezed into his office. ‘Just the man,’ he said. ‘What would you prefer: body armour for everyone; three police dogs; or new tyres on the pandas?’