Deadly Friends (21 page)

I took Martin upstairs and introduced him to the technical support wizards. They found one of the portable tape recorders we used before the new interview suites had them built in, and showed him how to drive it. I dithered over a video camera, then decided to go for it. They gave Martin a crash course on that, too. We carried the lot down to the Bridewell and I left him practising. I told him to make sure the batteries were charged, the tapes were blank and the lights worked. If all went well, I’d buy him a fruit machine. He nodded enthusiastically and went to fetch a table and some chairs.

Maggie was in when I arrived back at Heckley. ‘How did it go?’ I asked.

‘Like drawing teeth,’ she sighed. ‘Slow and painful. Patient confidentiality, all that crap. I don’t know who they think they are.’

‘Did you tell them that our investigation overrides any duties of confidentiality they may have towards their patients?’

‘Till I was blue in the face.’

‘So how have you left it?’

‘I had a long discussion with the counsellor who talks to all the young women who go in for abortions. She said most of them know exactly why they are there and are not interested in counselling. A few sad ones seize the opportunity but usually decide to go ahead. Not many back out. She said that she has had one or two disturbing cases, possibly unbalanced, and nothing they did would surprise her. One involved an irate boyfriend. Trouble is, she wouldn’t name names. I had a word with Barraclough and suggested that if she told him they might then be able to come to some arrangement where he could pass the information on to us, whereby she wouldn’t have contravened the etiquette of her profession.’

‘Mmm, maybe. I’d rather you leant on them. Tell them that we are not interested in their consciences or the sexual transgressions of their clientele. We’re trying to catch a killer. Make that a serial killer. Say we have reason to believe that one of them is next on his list. That should focus their attention.’

‘Ha!’ she laughed. ‘Some serial killer. He’s only done one, so far.’

‘That’s the best time to catch them, Maggie. That’s the best time to catch them.’ I decided to change the
subject. ‘Have you,’ I asked, ‘ever heard of a company called Magic Plastic?’

‘Magic Plastic?’

‘Mmm.’

‘No. What have they done?’

‘They haven’t done anything. I want to know where they are. They produce a catalogue of a hundred and one things for the home that you never thought you needed, and employ door-to-door salesmen. I’d appreciate it if you could track them down and tell them to send me a catalogue, soon as possible.’

‘Right, no problem. Is this police work?’

‘Maggie!’ I exclaimed. ‘Of course it’s police work. When did I ever do anything else?’

If you sit still too long in this job everybody learns that you are at your desk and rings you. By five o’clock my right ear was numb and my brain was reeling, so I trudged upstairs for a decent cup of tea with Gilbert. The atmosphere is always more relaxing in his office. I refused to answer questions about crime but told him that I was on the verge of solving the great teabag disposal problem. He wasn’t impressed.

We were on the way out, walking past the front desk, when a voice shouted: ‘Mr Priest!’ I turned to see the desk sergeant coming out of the office. ‘Packet for you,’ he said, reaching under the counter. He handed me the self-addressed envelope I’d left at the squash club.

‘Thanks,’ I said, taking it from him.

‘A big green Sheila brought it in,’ he told me. ‘Said it
was special delivery, for you and you alone. Wish you’d tell me how you do it.’

‘That’s the problem with Australian women,’ I replied, winking at him. ‘They keep coming back.’

I drove out of town on the old Oldfield road, quiet now, since the coming of the motorway. There is a transport cafe, famous for its wholesome meals and warm atmosphere, where all the truckers stopped on their journey over the Pennines. It has had to contract, grass over the lorry park, and change the menu, but it has, thankfully, survived. Nowadays they make a decent living from a handful of drivers who remember where they are and hordes of senior citizens who know where to find a tasty bargain. And now me. One time, I was a regular at all the cheap eateries. I’d have to start finding my way around them again. No more sneaking away at lunchtime for trout in almonds at Annabelle’s. I’d miss that. I ordered lasagne, with salad, and sat facing the telly, to give me something mindless to think about.

A man in a jacket the colour of a ruptured gall bladder was reading from a sheet of paper. ‘For five points, Dorothy,’ he whispered intimately, as if asking for her dying testament, ‘can you tell me the name of … the first man to run the mile in four minutes?’

‘Roger Bannister!’ she screeched, as the camera panned to an open-mouthed matron clutching her hands to her head. The whole world was ganging up on me. I moved to the chair at the opposite side of the table, my back to the telly.

The lasagne was not bad, for lasagne. I followed it with rhubarb crumble and a refill of tea. Today, I’d eaten well. Annabelle would be proud of me. No, she wouldn’t. There I go again, I thought.

When I reached home I took the envelope in with me. A list of a couple of thousand names and addresses is my idea of bedtime reading. The mailman had left an avalanche of correspondence spilling halfway along my hall. I gathered them up and took them into the kitchen to look at while the kettle boiled. One from the bank was put to one side for future reference and I binned missives from the AA, Damart and Reader’s Digest. A note from my window cleaner said I was three payments behind. I put fifteen quid in an envelope and took it round to my neighbour’s. The final piece of mail was from the Playhouse, containing two tickets for Romeo and Juliet. It was hard to believe, but Annabelle had never seen a stage performance of it. The repertory theatre in equatorial Africa prefers Shakespeare’s more violent offerings. They were for Monday evening, and I’d wanted it to be a surprise. I placed them back in their envelope and stood it behind the clock.

There was a programme about the mating habits of termites on Channel 4, so I watched that until I remembered the list from the squash club. She’d used half a roll of Sellotape on the envelope, but I eventually made it to the contents.

I have a lot of sympathy with the Chinese. I usually read the front page of a newspaper first, then the back
page, then work through it from back to front, like they are supposed to do. I’m sure it’s more natural. I’m equally convinced that we drive on the wrong side of the road in Britain, and the Continentals and most of the rest of the world have it right, but I rarely put that one into practice. The list was on the type of computer paper with sprocket holes down the edges, in a continuous concertina of folded pages, about a hundred, although I didn’t count them. I started at the last name – Younghusband, William Defoe, ‘Carrickfergus’, Cotswold Manor Garth, Heckley – and slowly started to work my way upwards on the long journey towards Abbott, John, 143 Sheepscab Street.

I studied them methodically, unhurried. I’d read each name and dredge my memory for a spark of recognition. One or two sounded familiar, but the addresses were wrong. A couple were policemen I knew. Then I’d read the address and try to visualise where the member lived. I studied them all, but I was mainly interested in the women. If I didn’t find anything we’d have to put them in the computer and let that search through them.

Two hours later my eyes were burning. I’d be reading names, flicking through them, and realise that nothing was registering. I’d go back a few places and try again. I thought of playing some music, but when I glanced through my collection I found nothing that wouldn’t have been a distraction. Just reading the labels reminded me of Annabelle. After a great deal of dithering I marked
the place I’d reached in the list and rang her number. The ansaphone came on. I put the receiver down, had a think about it and dialled again.

‘It’s me,’ I said. ‘Hello. Last night … I may have said things that I didn’t mean … I’m not sure if I said them or just thought them … anyway, I take them back. I was upset. The last five years have been the happiest of my life, and I’m grateful to you for that. You’re a big girl, and you must do what is best for yourself.’ I wanted to say a lot more, but ansaphone tapes are not very long. I finished with: ‘I hope it works out for you. Don’t write or anything … It’s not necessary … But you know where I am, if you need me. Oh, and I meant what I said in the note. Every word. Goodbye, love.’

I’d made another mug of tea and was arranging the sheets on my lap to recommence the search when the doorbell rang. I looked at the clock – it said just after ten. I refolded the pages with my pen marking the appropriate place, about halfway through, and went to answer it.

Maggie was standing there, pale and grim, her coat buttoned up around her throat. ‘I’d like a word, Boss,’ she said.

‘Come in,’ I invited, holding the door wide.

She walked through into the lounge and sat down, leaning over to see what the printout was about.

‘Heckley Squash Club,’ I told her. ‘Membership list. Dr Jordan was friendly with a girl there, called Sue
or Sheila or something. I was looking through them for inspiration. So, what’s happened? Is something wrong?’

‘I’m … not sure,’ she replied.

‘Are you taking your coat off?’

She shook her head.

‘Cup of tea? The kettle’s just boiled.’

‘No. I don’t want a tea.’

‘Right. In that case, you’d better tell me why you’re here. Sadly, I’ll assume it’s not a social visit.’

The fingers of her right hand screwed up the belt of her coat and smoothed it out again. I’ve known Maggie a long time. We have a good working relationship but there’s something above that between us. She’s listened to my problems and chided or encouraged me, as required. I’ve leant on her. They say that there’s no such thing as a platonic friendship between a man and a woman, but I’m not sure I agree.

‘No,’ she said. ‘It’s not a social visit.’

‘So what sort of a visit is it?’

‘What you just said, a moment ago …’

‘What?’

‘You said: “Sadly I’ll assume it’s not a social visit.”’

I shrugged. ‘So?’

‘It’s flirting. You do it all the time, Charlie. I don’t think you know you’re doing it.’

I was puzzled. ‘I’m not flirting with you, Maggie,’ I told her. ‘I’m being pleasant, or at least I thought I was. If I’ve got it wrong … if you have a problem with it,
I’ll change. I’ll be an arrogant bastard like most of the others. Is that what you’d prefer?’

‘No.’

‘Well I’m not in the mood for a lecture on political correctness, Maggie, from you or anyone else. I treat everybody the same, and you know it. I respect our differences, and work round them, but as long as we’re all pulling together I don’t give a toss about them.’

She unbuckled her belt and unfastened the top buttons of her coat. ‘I know,’ she sighed. ‘It’s just that …’

‘Just that what?’

‘This morning. You went to see Janet Saunders.’

So that was it. ‘Oh,’ I said.

‘She rang me. You scared her, Charlie. Have you any idea what she went through?’

‘I like to think I have.’

‘No, you haven’t. I thought she was pulling round, learning to trust us, but now …’

‘Maggie,’ I said. ‘It was ten o’clock in the morning. You weren’t available. No one else was. I played it by the book, and for God’s sake, her daughter was there.’

‘You commented on her looks.’

‘Yes,’ I admitted. ‘And I meant it. It was an observation, not a come-on. The last time I went to the cinema I made a similar remark about John Travolta’s smile, but I’ve no desire to hop into bed with him. It was a crass thing to say, under the circumstances. I realised that, as soon as the words came out, and I apologised.’

‘She said you went up into the bathroom and tried the shower, where Buxton says it happened.’

My elbows were on the chair arms, my fingertips pressed against their opposites in front of my face. I drummed them together in a rhythm that Dave Brubeck never mastered. ‘What are you trying to say, Maggie?’ I whispered. ‘What are you implying?’

‘I don’t know, Charlie.’

‘If you’re suggesting that I went round there in the hope of having sex with Mrs Saunders, I want you to leave, now. Make a formal complaint, if you want, but leave.’

‘I tried to tell her that you’d have a good reason for what you did, Charlie. I said you were a person who cared, like nobody else I know, but you frightened her. I told her that if she wanted to make a complaint about you, that I couldn’t handle it. There was a procedure … It’d have to be someone higher up the ladder. But I assured her she was wrong, she’d misunderstood. I offered to have a quiet word with you, and she agreed.’

‘So that’s what this is: a quiet word?’

‘It looks as if I’ve made a balls of it.’

I shook my head. ‘No, you haven’t. I’m grateful for you coming, and I’m sorry if I upset Mrs Saunders – that was the last thing I wanted. But I’ve a job to do. If she’s like this after I visit her, how will she be on the stand, with Buxton’s brief implying that she’s every kind of slag under the sun?’

‘Do you think it will come to that? Go to court?’

I looked across at her. ‘Trust me, Maggie,’ I said. ‘Trust me.’

‘OK,’ she replied. ‘That’s good enough for me.’

I walked her to her car. Her husband, Tony, was sitting in the driver’s seat. She’d brought backup. ‘Hello, Tone,’ I said.

‘Hi, Charlie. All sorted out?’

‘I think so.’

I waved them away and slinked back inside, shivering with cold. I closed the door and leant against it. Not you, Maggie, I thought. Don’t you desert me, too.

I told Nigel to have the first team assembled in my office for when I returned from seeing Mr Wood. I declined a coffee with the super on the grounds that I was busy and might have something for him later, and as soon as he was updated on the Heckley crime wave – actually, it’s more of a strong tide – I dashed back downstairs.

Sparky was extolling the merits of his Ford Escort to Nigel, who’s been dreaming about something sleek and sporty for as long as I’ve known him. Maggie was sitting apart from them, sipping coffee and looking at a back number of the Police Review.

‘It’s an old man’s car,’ I declared, taking my jacket off and hanging it behind the door.

‘Just what I said,’ Nigel agreed.

‘Some old men are very discriminating,’ Sparky argued.

‘Never mind that,’ I said. ‘Pin back your ears and listen. This morning I propose to arrest Darryl Buxton and interview him on tape and video. I think we can break his story about having it away in the shower.’

‘Yes!’ Maggie exclaimed, thumping the magazine on the table and knocking over her polystyrene coffee cup. A river of khaki liquid shot across my desk and vanished under a pile of papers.

We all jumped up and started pulling tissues and hankies from the recesses of our clothing. Nigel dashed out and came back with a roll of paper towelling. No damage was done and when everything was dry we resumed our seats.

‘Sorry, Boss,’ Maggie said. ‘Put it down to excitement.’

‘I suppose it’s better than drinking the stuff,’ I replied ‘Now listen. This is what’s happening. Dave and myself will arrest Buxton and take him to City HQ. We will interview him there.’

Maggie opened her mouth to object, her eyes wide with disappointment, or indignation. I turned to her. ‘It’s not how you think,’ I told her. ‘I know you’ve been in on this case from the beginning, and that you were present at the initial interview, but I believe it will be more productive if Dave and myself conduct this one.’ She didn’t look convinced. ‘Darryl Buxton is a misogynist,’ I explained. ‘He hates women because,
deep down, he’s scared of them. When it’s one-to-one, and he’s had a few drinks, it all comes to the surface and he can bully them, but in other circumstances he’s lost. You would intimidate him, Maggie, in a situation where he couldn’t fight back, so I’d prefer it to be an all-male affair.’

Sparky turned to her. ‘You are a very intimidating lady, Maggie,’ he confirmed. ‘I’ve often remarked on how intimidating you are. Isn’t that so, Nigel?’

‘Often, David,’ Nigel agreed, adding: ‘Nice intimidating, though.’

‘That’s enough,’ I told them. ‘I want to play it
all-the
-lads-together, Maggie. Get him talking, trying to impress us. Appeal to his machismo. Dave and me are the best two to pull it off.’

She gave me a nod of understanding and I left it at that.

‘So what’s changed?’ Nigel asked. ‘What do we know today that we didn’t know last week?’

I drummed my fingers on the desk. ‘Don’t ask,’ I said. ‘If it works, Dave will tell you all about what a superb piece of detective work it was. If it doesn’t, it will be consigned to the U-bend of CID history, and Buggerlugs here will be sworn to silence under threat of me telling you all about the time he went to interview a window dresser who turned out to be …’

‘All right! All right!’ Dave interrupted. ‘I get the message.’

‘In that case,’ I said, ‘let’s go. If you need us, we’ll be
at City HQ.’ I pulled the package from Wetherton lab out of my bottom drawer and unhooked my jacket.

As we drove into Heckley High Street Sparky said: ‘You’d better tell me all about it.’

‘Right,’ I replied, wondering how to begin. We were in my car. I filtered into the right-hand lane at the traffic lights and said: ‘Did you do the homework I set, last night?’

‘No,’ he answered. ‘The wife said: “Tell that pervert Priest to get his vicarious kicks through someone else,” or something like that.’

‘Oh. You weren’t supposed to tell her it was my idea.’

‘Sorry. You didn’t make that clear.’

‘So now I’m in your Shirley’s bad books?’

‘No, not any more.’

‘How’s that?’

‘Well, thinking about it must have put her in the mood. This morning she said: “Tell Charlie thanks.”’

‘Great. Anytime.’

‘So what’s it all about?’

I stopped at a pelican crossing as an elderly couple hobbled across, the odds against them dying that day reduced to single figures until they were safely on the pavement at the other side. I moved off again and began to tell him about my own adventures in the shower.

We were parked in the back street behind Homes 4U by the time I finished my story. Buxton’s Mondeo
was in its usual spot. Sparky grinned and nodded his approval. ‘Sounds good to me,’ he confirmed.

‘In that case,’ I said, ‘let’s get on with it.’

We walked through the alley into the front street and entered the shop. A girl of about sixteen was behind the counter, reading something on her lap and chewing gum at the same time. One of the brighter ones. She looked up at us and smiled without interrupting the chewing motion. Her hair was straight and black, reaching down to her shoulders; her lipstick was white and her eyelashes wouldn’t have looked out of place on a pole, poking from a chimney. I’d seen her before – she did Puff the Magic Dragon at the Isle of Wight.

We both showed her our IDs. ‘We’re police, love,’ I said, quietly. ‘Is Mr Buxton upstairs?’

‘Er, D-Darryl?’ she stuttered. ‘Y-yes, he’s in. Sh-shall I ring him, tell him you’re here?’

I put my hand over the phone. ‘No, not yet. How long have you worked here?’

‘J-just since Wednesday. Three days.’

‘How long have you known Darryl?’

‘The same. W-we were in a pub, me and some mates. He started chatting to us, and said he was looking for a secretary. I was unemployed …’ She shrugged her shoulders to finish off the story.

No previous experience required, I thought. Sparky raised the flap in the counter and walked through. He lifted a PVC coat from a hook on the wall and held it open for her. She glanced from me to him and back
to me, like a rabbit choosing between a ferret and the shotguns. ‘Go home, love,’ I told her. ‘There is no job.’

She put her arms into the sleeves and Sparky hitched the coat over her shoulders, pulling the top together across her throat like a concerned parent might. She was about the same age as Sophie, his daughter. As she came to my side of the counter I saw that the coat matched her miniskirt and knee boots. I held the door open and gave her a weak smile as she passed through. She didn’t return it. I closed the door, dropped the latch, slid the top and bottom bolts across and turned the sign to closed.

Upstairs, we found Darryl in his executive chair, smoking a cigar and reading What Car?

‘Hello, Darryl,’ I said, walking into his office. ‘Just pricing up a Ferrari Testosterone, eh?’

‘What the fuck do you want?’ he blustered, pushing the magazine into his drawer in a gesture straight from his childhood. Guilt and disapproval were still dogging him.

‘We want you, down at City HQ, for a taped interview.’

‘I can’t leave the shop, just like that. How did you get up here? Where’s Jemima?’

‘We sent her home,’ Sparky told him.

‘Sent her home? You’ve no right to …’

‘Darryl Buxton,’ I began, ‘I am arresting you for the rape of Janet Saunders you do not have to say anything however it may harm your defence if you do not mention
when questioned something which you later rely on in court anything you do say may be given in evidence get your coat.’

I glanced across at Sparky for approval.

‘Word perfect,’ he confirmed, producing a pair of handcuffs.

‘Oh, I don’t think they’re necessary,’ I said. ‘Darryl usually cooperates with us. No need to be so heavy, is there, Darryl?’

‘I want to ring my brief,’ he said.

‘Good idea. Might save a few minutes. Tell him that this time you’ll be at City HQ. He’ll know where it is.’

We locked the back door of Homes 4U’s Heckley branch and in less than twenty minutes we were showing Buxton into my makeshift interview room. Martin, the young PC, came and sat with him while we went to the canteen and waited for Mr Turner to come from Manchester. This time he drove straight over.

‘First of all,’ I began, when we were all assembled, ‘I’d like to apologise for the surroundings.’ I waved a hand at the walls and the high ceiling, my words ricocheting like bullets off the tiles. ‘We came here because the interview rooms at Heckley are being decorated, but unfortunately there’s been a burst and the rooms upstairs are out of use. Would you believe, all the pipes are lead? You’d think in a police station, of all places, the pipes would be made of copper, wouldn’t you?’

Nobody agreed. Nobody laughed.

‘So,’ I continued, ‘I’ll ask Martin here to start the
tapes rolling and we’ll begin.’ Martin switched on the big Grundig twin-cassette recorder that sat on the desk and adjusted the video camera on its tripod. ‘Martin is our chief grip, today,’ I explained.

‘Best boy,’ Sparky suggested.

Martin smiled and nodded to me.

‘Right, let’s go,’ I said. I read out the time and date and asked everybody to introduce themselves. ‘We are here,’ I continued, the formalities over, ‘to record a substantive interview with Darryl Buxton, formerly known as Burton, concerning the alleged sexual assault on Mrs Janet Saunders on Christmas Eve last …’

‘An allegation that will be vigorously denied,’ Mr Turner interjected.

‘Quite,’ I said. ‘We are in a situation where allegations have been made and denied. One way or another I would like us to lay this one to rest; this morning, if possible. It is not fair to either party for it to drag on. In the absence of independent witnesses we have to study the evidence, which so far consists of statements by the two adversaries, and decide whether it is worthwhile making a submission to the CPS. I would therefore like to clarify Mr Buxton’s statement made on January 2nd and give him the opportunity to add to it or explain in any other way the events of that night. Does this make sense?’

Turner and Buxton nodded.

‘Gentlemen!’ I chided, raising my hands. ‘For the tape, please.’

‘Yes, Inspector,’ Turner agreed, drowning Buxton’s mumbled assent.

‘In that case, Darryl, would you tell us again what happened that night, starting in the Tap and Spile, just before it closed at midnight.’

‘I’ve told you once,’ he complained.

‘I know,’ I replied, with forced patience. ‘But this time it’s for real. You’ve had time to go over what happened, to perhaps remember things which had slipped your memory before. You were in an unpleasant situation, under stress, accused of rape. Maybe you weren’t thinking too clearly. Let’s hear it again, eh? For a start, how well did you know Mrs Saunders?’

‘Janet? You mean Janet?’

‘That’s right. How well did you know her?’

His hair looked newly cropped and his face was fat and puffy, with glowing cheeks. A face like a slapped arse, to use Sparky’s expression. ‘Depends what you mean,’ he replied.

‘Had you ever been out with her before?’

‘No.’

‘But you’d spoken to her?’

‘Yeah, course I ’ad.’

‘You were on nodding acquaintance?’

‘A bit more than that.’

‘You knew her name?’

‘Just her first one.’

‘Did she know yours?’

‘Yeah, I fink so. Yeah, she did. I remember her calling me Darryl.’

‘Did you buy her a drink on Christmas Eve?’

‘Yeah, a couple, free, maybe.’

‘So you were standing at the bar, talking to her when she had the opportunity, and you bought her two or three drinks.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Wasn’t it a bit too crowded to have a conversation?’

‘Yeah. We didn’t do much talking, if you know what I mean.’

‘These drinks you bought her. What were they?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘You don’t know?’

‘No.’

‘I’d have thought a man of the world like you would have remembered what she drank.’

‘Well you’re wrong. I’d say: “Have one yourself,” and she’d give me my change and say: “Fanks, Darryl,” I don’t know what she had. Maybe she just kept the money.’ He’d scored a point, and swelled in his chair, his arrogance slowly returning, inflating him like a hot air balloon.

‘So what happened next?’

‘They closed at midnight. Janet didn’t ’elp much with the clearing up and left nearly straight away. I said I’d walk her ’ome, but she said that people would talk. She asked me to give her five minutes and follow her.’

‘Were you surprised?’

‘Yeah, I was, a bit.’

‘Did she give you her address?’

‘Yeah.’

‘What is it?’

‘What’s what?’

‘Her address.’

‘Oh, no, she just described it. The first ’ouse on Marsden Road, wiv the street light outside.’

‘And you followed her?’

‘Yeah, just like she said to.’

‘Go on,’ I invited.

‘Well, I got there and we messed about a bit and …’ ‘Not so fast,’ I interrupted. ‘How did you get in?’

‘She left the door open for me.’

‘OK. Go on.’

‘Like I said, we messed about a bit and she said she needed a shower. I asked her if she’d like her back scrubbing and she said … something like … “You scrub my back and I’ll scrub yours.”’ He grinned with satisfaction. He’d used an epigram, so it must be true, as any politician will confirm.

‘And then?’ I prompted.

He didn’t need much. No doubt he’d realised that all this would go on his court documents – his depositions – and if he did find himself in jail on remand they’d be useful currency with his cellmates.

‘We went upstairs and she turned the shower on. I took all my clothes off, and then I ’elped her take all hers off. We got in the shower …’

‘Was it warm enough?’ Sparky asked.

‘No,’ Buxton remembered, after some thought. ‘It took a bit to warm up. I was behind her, holding her, like, while we waited. She was getting really turned on.’

‘Like the shower,’ I said.

‘Yeah,’ he grinned.

‘Sorry. Go on.’

‘We got in and snogged a bit. I had to slow her down. She wanted it, there and then, no messing. I soaped her, all over, then got her to do it to me.’