Grief Encounters (32 page)

‘Somehow, dearest, I can’t imagine you going on the bus, even if one ever came this way.’

‘Ah! I’d slit my wrists first. She should be here by now.’

The sun was shining again and the combination of hot weather and the recent downpours had caused the plantlife to shoot up over the last few days. The Wentbridges employed a gardener for a few hours every week, but Richard insisted on cutting the grass himself because he was the proud owner of a Hayter Heritage ride-on lawn tractor and didn’t see why he should employ a gardener to have all the fun. He kissed his wife goodbye and went through the inside door into the garage, where he tossed his shirt onto the bonnet of the Mazda and climbed aboard the mower. The engine started first turn of the key and he steered carefully out onto the drive and round the side of the house, towards nearly half an acre of waiting grass. Fiona had pulled onto the drive as he exited the garage and she gave him a wave. A flock of small birds flew away as he turned down the side of the orchard to make the first cut.

Their taxi deposited the two women on Duncan Street, as close to the pedestrianised area in the centre of Leeds as was practical. They turned up their noses at the fashions on offer in the Corn Exchange but had a giggle over some of the gear in the S&M and Goth shops. Fiona held a leather bustier adorned with studs and zips in front of herself and Teri nodded approvingly. Then it was to the overpriced designer ware in the Victorian Quarter.

They lunched at Anthony’s and rested themselves over coffee in preparation for the serious shopping. A cursory glance around House of Fraser set the credit cards vibrating before they plunged into Harvey Nichols and their version of heaven. The liveried doorman pulled the door open with a smile and in Switzerland the Coutts Bank von Ernst cleared the decks in anticipation of some serious trading. 

Richard Wentbridge parked the mower in its corner of the garage and retrieved his shirt. In the kitchen he took two bottles of his favourite Czech lager from the fridge and poured them into a pint glass. He showered, changed into freshly laundered chinos and polo shirt, and carried what remained of the lager upstairs to the computer room.

Ten minutes later he was feeling despondent but not defeated. The stock market was depressed and his various other business interests were suffering from the general fall-off in spending, while his outgoings were multiplying like rabbits. They weren’t there yet, but another couple of months like this one and he could be having cash-flow problems. He’d have to off-load something, and that would be like selling the family silver. He thought about Teri, loose in Leeds with a credit card, and hoped she wasn’t being silly.

A little pile of CDs at the back of the desk, behind the monitor, caught his eye, and he reached for them. There were three of them, in plastic
see-through
envelopes, and written in marker pen on the top envelope was the message
Ibiza 2003, Disk 1
. The second one was
Ibiza 2003, Disk 2
and the last one was, predictably,
Ibiza 2003, Disk 3
.

The trouble was, Disk 3 was missing. The envelope was empty. Richard Wentbridge had never been to Ibiza. He’d never had a desire to go to Ibiza and never intended going there. It was probably the last place on earth that he wanted to go, and watching three disks-worth of somebody’s holiday photographs taken in Ibiza was about as appealing to him as spending a month living in one of the dumpsters at the back of the hospital amputation ward.

He’d assumed that nobody else would pick them up and want to watch them. That’s why he’d chosen Ibiza as a suitable label for the disks. The disks that contained the images of bruised and beaten, ravaged and raped children that he’d uploaded onto his next door neighbour’s hard drive. A freezing cold hand with metal fingers clutched at his bowels and he desperately needed the toilet.

He ran through the entire expedition, over and over again, but always came up with the same answer: he couldn’t remember removing Disk 3 from Zed Boogey’s D drive. He could remember inserting it, hitting the right buttons and glancing briefly at the image of a Chinese-looking girl being held down by two men, but not removing it. He’d left it there; of that he was certain.

He’d done the same thing with his own computer hundreds of times. Almost every time he logged on a message came up saying
Non-system disk error. Replace and strike any key when ready
, because there was still a disk in one of the drives. He mentally cursed himself for not being aware of the risk, but he also gained some comfort from it. Maybe Zed Boogey did the same thing. Perhaps he wouldn’t look twice at the renegade disk. Perhaps…

It was all conjecture. He would deny any knowledge, if challenged, and nobody could prove otherwise. Meanwhile, he’d just have to wait and see. He took another lager from the fridge and gazed through the window across the newly mown lawn. This was his domain, and nobody would ever take it from him.

The taxi dropped Fiona and Teri off at the Wentbridges’ riverside apartment and they struggled the last few yards laden down with bags bearing the familiar logo, chattering and giggling like jackdaws in a farmyard. Teri held a bag between her teeth as she typed in the number for the security door and Fiona leant against the wall, making gurgling noises. Teri had bought two silk tops, three pairs of shoes and had replenished her make-up drawer. Fiona was taking home a suit by Gaultier, a black lace teddy for a special occasion and five blouses. In the flat they dropped the bags and slipped off their shoes, still giggling. Teri slopped gin and tonic into tumblers and passed one to her friend.

‘Oh, that’s better,’ Fiona gasped after taking a long draught.

‘Definitely,’ Teri agreed, licking her lips. ‘There’s nothing like a good stiff one after a hard day’s shopping,’ and they both spilt their drinks as they laughed.

‘You didn’t buy much,’ Fiona stated when she had recovered. ‘I thought you were going to make him pay for his transgressions.’

‘You mean losing a million when he was with
you
?’ She spat the word out to exaggerate her displeasure, as if pretending that being with her friend was her only objection. ‘I haven’t finished with him, yet. He’ll be sorry.’

‘Poor Richard. He really was unlucky, you know. Don’t be too hard on him.’

‘We’ll see.’ Teri reached for the gin bottle and recharged their drinks. They were in the kitchen, Teri leaning back against the work surface, Fiona sitting on an art deco stool from the breakfast bar.

‘Thank you,’ Fiona said, and placed her glass on the bar. ‘So how are things with Mr Wonderful,’ she asked. ‘We haven’t mentioned him, yet.’

‘Who could you possibly mean?’ Teri wondered, but her eyes lit up and Fiona was transfixed by them.

‘Torl, of course!’ Fiona blurted out. ‘Don’t go all coy on me. I want to know everything about him, starting with what he’s like in bed.’

‘I don’t know. I haven’t seen him since Monday, and we haven’t, you know, done it, yet. He’s nice. I like him. He’s a bit weird; you’re never quite sure if he’s listening to what you say or far away on another planet, but he’s interesting, and funny.’

‘Tristan’s still convinced he’s a fraud.’

‘Well he’s wrong.’

‘And he’s boss of this big company?’

‘Oh, yes, he’s that all right.’

‘So why haven’t you shagged him?’

Teri pulled another stool from under the breakfast bar and placed it close against Fiona’s, but pointing the other way. She sat on it, facing Fiona, and took one of her hands in hers.

‘Didn’t I tell you?’ she said. ‘He’s religious. Some sort of minister. Methodist, I think he told me. Apparently, if we went to bed with each other it would be a sin.’

‘Of course it’s a sin,’ Fiona stated. ‘That’s what makes it so much fun.’

‘I’m working on him. I think it will only take a little push.’

‘Then give him a push, for God’s sake. I’m starting to worry about you.’

‘There’s nothing to worry about. All is under control. He’s there for the taking. Money first, then sex. It will be his reward.’

‘He hasn’t, you know, converted you, has he?’

Teri reached out with her free hand and placed it behind Fiona’s neck, lifting her tresses and letting them fall through her fingers. Fiona saw the look in those big brown eyes and moved closer, her hand on Teri’s knee. 

‘Oh, no, my darling,’ Teri said as she pulled Fiona’s face towards hers. ‘He hasn’t converted me. You’re the only person who ever converted me to anything.’

We had a prisoner in the cells. 6 a.m. Thursday morning I strode into the nick and checked the night log and it said we had one prisoner in the cells. Prisoners are a bind. We try to avoid them at all costs. They have to be fed, dressed, watched over, taken to court and generally pandered to when we could be out doing more important things, like, well, catching more prisoners.

We were in early because I wanted a little talk with Frederick Raw, and he had a record of violence as long as Heckley High Street, so it had to be done properly. It’s amazing how many ex-shotgun licensees just happen to have an unregistered one lying around. The mess room was crowded with uniforms wearing body armour, carrying weapons, sipping coffee. Upstairs in CID, Dave was waiting, and one or two others.

He said: ‘Morning, Charlie. There’s a prisoner in the cells.’ 

‘Mmm, I saw the log. Anybody we know?’

‘The Happy Fryer.’

‘Who?’

‘The Happy Fryer. He’s the proprietor of that fish and chip shop near the bus station. There was a domestic there last night and he assaulted his wife.’

‘Right.’

‘It wasn’t a serious assault.’

‘Wasn’t it?’

‘No. She was only lightly battered.’

‘Have you finished?’

‘Yes, boss.’

‘Let’s go, then.’

Unfortunately, Mr Raw didn’t have a telephone. If he’d been available that way I might have rung him and invited him to come out, but he wasn’t. It could have led to a stand-off, but that’s preferable to sending officers into a dangerous situation. That option wasn’t available, so we did it the gung-ho way.

I stood on the corner and watched as they sprung the door and poured in. The sun was already high and the sky was streaked with jet trails and smudged with mackerel clouds. Two minutes later they led Raw out and took him to the nick. Dave and I gave his house the once-over but it didn’t feature in our enquiries and there was nothing in it to interest us. He lived alone, read the racing papers, lived on a diet more suitable for
Rattus rattus
and never cleaned his bath. 

The street had woken up when we went outside again, and little groups of men in baggy pants and sandals stood around, watching. ‘C’mon,’ I said. ‘You can buy me a bacon sandwich.’

The Happy Fryer had gone home so we gave his cell to Raw. We also gave him breakfast, a paper jumpsuit and a solicitor.

I kept it general at first, finding out about his background, where he spent his time, who his acquaintances were, that sort of stuff. Anything to keep him talking. He had a job, keeping the forecourt clean at the supermarket filling station, and his leisure time revolved around the bookmakers and the local Labour Club. He spent the evening of Saturday, 6
^th
August in the club because that’s where he spent every Saturday night and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d missed. Dave was sitting in on the interview and he excused himself. A few minutes later he returned and passed me a note. It said that the Labour Club was about halfway between Raw’s home and Shibden Park, where Magdalena was found. I already knew that he lived about a mile and a quarter from the park.

‘Do you have a car?’ I asked, and he said he didn’t.

‘Can you drive?’

‘No.’

‘When were you last in Leeds?’ That confused him for a while, but after a long deliberation he decided that he’d last visited the city when he’d served a brief stint on remand in HMP Armley, back in 1988.

‘And you haven’t been back?’

‘No, never.’

‘Is that never to Leeds or never to Armley jail?’

‘Both.’

Then we showed him the torque. He put his head in his hands and leant on the table. After a while I said: ‘You obviously recognise it.’

‘Yeah,’ he nodded. ‘So that’s what it’s about, is it?’

‘Yes, Fred. This is what it’s about. Do you deny taking this necklace to a pawnbrokers in Halifax and pledging it for ten pounds?’

‘No. I mean, that’s right.’

‘So where did you get it?’

‘Stole it, I suppose.’

‘Where from?’

‘From…you know, from her body.’

‘Would you like to tell us all about it? Start when you left the club. No, start before that. Why do you go to that particular drinking establishment?’

‘Because I’m banned from all the town centre places. Pub Watch has me listed. And they have a snooker table, big screen TV for Sky Sport and the beer’s decent.’

OK, I’m convinced, I thought. ‘So what time did you leave?’ 

‘About half ten. I was skint, and I’d had enough.’

‘Go on.’

‘It was a nice night, so I had a walk down to the park. I like it there. It’s quiet, and you can see the stars. When we were kids we loved astronomy. Dan Dare and all that. Then I studied it a bit, when I was inside. You can’t see the stars nowadays, because of all the streetlights. Kids don’t know what they’re missing. Sometimes I sleep down there. I lie on my back and watch for shooting stars. Anywhere’s better than that pigsty I live in, surrounded by chapatti eaters and towel-heads.’

‘Go on.’

‘This car came, driving over the grass. It was pitch black but it stopped and I thought I saw the driver take something out of the boot and leave it. It was heavy, whatever it was, and he struggled with it. I imagined he was dumping rubbish. When he drove away I went over for a look. It was a body. I could hardly see her, but I felt for her neck to see if there was a pulse. There wasn’t, and this necklace thing came away in my hand. I knew I would be a suspect, and I panicked. I took the necklace because it was all separate pieces and I thought it might fall apart, with my prints on some of the bits. That’s all I did. Steal the necklace. I didn’t kill nobody.’