Deadly Friends (23 page)

‘Yeah, well,’ I mumbled, ‘I normally do make a bit of an effort …’

‘You look fine,’ she said, ‘and I wasn’t looking forward to another night in with the cats. I’m glad you rang.’

‘How many cats do you have?’ I asked.

‘Just two. Sasha and Mustapha.’

‘They sound Persian.’

‘That’s right.’

Ah well, at least they weren’t Omar and Khayyam.

It was a good production. It must have been on that year’s national curriculum, for several school parties were present. The kids were more familiar with the story and led the laughter at the bawdy bits, which created a happy atmosphere. Cicely had a gin and tonic – I made it a large one – during the interval, and asked me how the enquiry was progressing.

‘Not very well,’ I admitted. ‘We’re nearly at a standstill with it. In fact, we’re wondering if it might have been a case of mistaken identity.’

‘You mean, they murdered the wrong man?’

‘It’s possible. How do you like working at the clinic?’ I was supposed to be asking the questions.

‘Oh, it’s all right,’ she replied.

‘Only all right?’

‘It’s fine. Conditions are good, pay is reasonable and they treat us well.’

‘Cheap cosmetic surgery, if and when the time arises?’

‘Ha! They’re not that generous.’

‘What about Dr Barraclough,’ I asked. ‘How do you get on with him?’

‘I hope you didn’t bring me out just to grill me about the clinic, Charlie,’ she admonished.

‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘Force of habit. No more shop talk. What do you think of the play?’

‘He’s not a real doctor, you know?’

‘Isn’t he? Which one’s the doctor?’

‘I mean Barraclough,’ she giggled.

‘Oh, that doctor. What is he, then?’

‘He thinks nobody knows, but we all do. He’s a doctor of divinity, or something, from one of those American universities that sells qualifications. He’s never passed any exams.’

Nigel was going to love this. ‘Well, well,’ I said. ‘It looks as if we’d better have another word with Dr B.’

It went downhill in the second half. The kids grew restless and I couldn’t understand why the friar and the nurse were taking such appalling risks just to get two spoilt brats into bed with each other. I nodded off a couple of times, towards the end.

‘It was a bit like West Side Story,’ Cicely observed as we filed towards the exit.

‘Yes, it was,’ I agreed, ‘but without the tunes,’ and
the woman in front turned to give me the look she usually reserves for when she’s cleaning up dog sick.

I offered to fetch the car but Cicely said she’d be OK. The rain had slowed to a drizzle and after years of practice she’d mastered the technique of trotting in five-inch stilettos.

‘Brrr!’ I said, spinning the engine and pushing the heater controls to maximum.

She fastened her seat belt and looked across at me. ‘Thank you for a lovely evening,’ she said. ‘I’ve enjoyed it.’

‘Shakespeare’s not to everybody’s taste,’ I replied. ‘Personally, I prefer Ayckbourn.’ I smiled at her and she smiled back. There and then, in that light, she looked stunning. In the next fifteen minutes I had to decide if I wanted to see her again. I wasn’t sure.

I didn’t stop the engine outside her house. It seemed presumptuous to do so. She opened her door and stretched one leg out on to the pavement.

‘Thanks again, Charlie,’ she said. ‘It’s been lovely.’ ‘My pleasure,’ I replied, the decision made.

‘If …’ she began.

‘Mmm?’

‘If I invite you in for a coffee … you won’t get the wrong idea, will you?’

‘You mean …’ I hesitated. ‘You mean … you’re not really inviting me in for a coffee?’

‘No!’ she protested, laughing. ‘I mean I am inviting you in for a coffee. And that’s all. Nothing else.’

‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘I’d love a coffee.’

She hung her coat on a stand in the hallway and led me into her kitchen. It wasn’t quite as de luxe as I’d expected, but not bad. Somehow, I’d gained the impression that she was well off, probably because I associated her with the no-expenses-spared surroundings of the clinic. Two bowls of cat food stood on a plastic mat on the floor, but the moggies were absent.

‘Can I leave you in charge?’ she asked, retrieving milk, sugar, mugs and all the other stuff required for the seemingly simple task of making two cups of coffee.

‘No problem,’ I replied.

‘Look, Charlie,’ she said. ‘I want to get out of these clothes and into something more comfortable. You won’t get the wrong message, will you? I dress smartly all day and like to be more relaxed when I come home.’

‘I know the feeling,’ I replied, holding my arms wide and looking down at my own clothes. ‘I promise to behave myself and not get any ideas.’

‘Good. And that’s the kettle,’ were her last words, as she tapped it before disappearing upstairs.

It was one of those kettles that lifts off its base, so you’re not dragging the flex across to the sink. I filled it right to the max mark and pushed the button.

I put the mugs on saucers and placed them on opposite sides of the table, with a vase of narcissi that I found on the windowsill as a centrepiece. Cicely had produced a box of biscuits, so I arranged a selection on a plate in a geometric pattern. Might as well demonstrate that
I was reasonably civilised. The kettle wasn’t making any noises. Cicely returned just as I realised what the problem was.

‘Switched off at the plug,’ I explained. ‘Coffee will be delayed by a few minutes.’

She was wearing a silk kimono, high at the neck, in an ivory colour and heavily emboidered. I was about to pay her a compliment, then decided not to. It might be misconstrued.

‘Do you like Lionel Ritchie?’ she asked, walking into the adjoining room, where her music lived.

‘Some,’ I answered, untruthfully, watching her go. She was still wearing her tights, which had seams up the back. I hadn’t noticed that before, and her stilettos looked even higher than I remembered them.

A rich voice flooded the room, singing a song I didn’t know. Cicely walked back in and put her arms around my neck.

‘Let’s dance,’ she said, ‘while the kettle boils.’

We danced, round in circles, in the middle of her kitchen, her face resting on my chest, my fingers caressing her neck.

The song ended. Cicely took my hand and led me into the other room. The gas fire was hissing and the wall lights were low. As we kissed, her hands fumbled between us, undoing the belt of the kimono. She wriggled it off her shoulders and it fell to the ground. It looked as if we were taking a raincheck on the coffee. I held her at arm’s length and deliberated on what I saw, taking
my time, savouring the experience. She was wearing the kind of underwear you see in the adverts near the back of the tabloids, catalogue sent under plain cover. Her bra was more uplifting than Elgar’s ‘Nimrod’, and if her briefs had been cut any higher she’d have been able to put her arms out through the leg holes.

‘Do you like me?’ she whispered, suddenly vulnerable.

I didn’t answer with words. Words can express everything, which makes them meaningless. This wasn’t what I wanted, but going now would hurt her more than if I stayed. Sometimes, I’m just a victim of circumstances. Our tongues tangled as my hands traced the silhouette of her body, following the valleys and making forays into the mountains and forests. She unpopped the top stud of my shirt. Then the next and the next: pop, pop, pop. There’s no fumbling with a Wrangler.

Button.

Zip.

She looked down, then up into my face, eyes wide with approval, and, I like to think, just a hint of apprehension.

My hands came to rest on her hips and I gently pressed downwards. We sank to the floor, our legs folding and buckling beneath us, like two disused power station chimneys, after they fire the dynamite.

In the kitchen, the kettle came to the boil and switched itself off.

It had gone. It wasn’t on the side of the sink, where I’d left it, or in the bin for the paper towels. Damn! A toilet flushed and young Caton emerged from a cubicle.

‘Lost something, Boss?’ he asked, turning a tap on and squirting monkey spunk on to his hands from the dispenser.

‘Aftershave,’ I replied. ‘It was here last night.’

‘Can’t say I’ve noticed any. What brand was it?’

‘That’s what I need to know.’

‘Why? Are you thinking of buying some?’

‘No. I want shares in the company.’

Mr Wood was at one of his meetings, giving funny handshakes to people he didn’t like while standing on one leg saying that yes, it was cold, but it would get colder before it got warmer. In other words, I was in charge. In other words, I had to stay in the office, if possible.

He started sending me to the meetings, but I misread the signals and then invented a few of my own. I think someone must have had a word with him, because he stopped sending me, which is what I’d intended all along. When all the troops were deployed I trudged up to his office to see what the postman had brought him.

I dealt with all of it except a request for a donation to the Chief Constable’s retirement present. I decided he might like to handle that one personally. When I’d finished I pushed his chair back, put my feet on the desk and pondered on what might have been.

I’d fucked it up, from beginning to end, home and away, no doubt about it. The job wasn’t the same. A few of us, old-timers, stuck together, bonded by ancient loyalties, but nobody would help you out of a jam any more. They couldn’t – one step out of line and you were down the road. My offer of retirement was still open, but what would I do, at home all day, on my own? That was the crunch. On my own.

I’d taken the membership list and the Magic Plastic catalogue up with me, hoping that I’d have a chance to look at them. I reached for the catalogue and flicked through it, wondering where I’d find the mini-bin.

And that made me think about Janet Saunders. What would I do, I wondered, if Mrs Henderson walked into the front office and said that I’d raped her? We’d been to the theatre, as arranged; she’d invited me in for a coffee, all good and proper; and I’d turned nasty and raped her at knifepoint. How could I defend myself against the allegation?

I couldn’t. But she wouldn’t, would she? Truth was, I hadn’t really wanted a date with her. I wasn’t complaining, far from it, but Cicely and what she had to offer wasn’t what I was looking for. The implication from that, of course, was that I was looking for something.

She’d be at work. I pulled the phone towards me and dialled the number for the White Rose Clinic. Magic Plastic, I noticed, did a device for catching spiders in the bath. Just what I’ve always wanted.

‘Good morning, White Rose Clinic,’ a precise voice said in my ear.

‘Good morning,’ I repeated, holding the phone with a hunched shoulder as I turned the page. ‘My name is Detective Inspector Charlie Priest, of Heckley CID. I believe you have a Mrs Cicely Henderson at the clinic.’

There was a pause, before she said: ‘This is Mrs Henderson speaking. How can I help you, Inspector.’ I could feel the smile in her voice.

‘Hello, Cicely,’ I said. ‘How are you?’

‘I’m fine. And you?’

‘Excellent. It’s amazing what a good night’s sleep can do. I just thought I’d thank you for coming to the theatre with me. It was, a very enjoyable evening.’

‘Yes, I thought so, too. Thank you for the invitation. Shakespeare has taken on a whole new meaning for me.’

‘He’s full of surprises, isn’t he? I was thinking that maybe we could go out for a meal, say, Thursday or Friday. What kind of food do you like?’

‘I thought you were busy.’

‘I can get away, if I know in advance.’

‘I’d rather not, if you don’t mind, Charlie.’

‘Oh. Some other time, then? Or just out for a drink, over the weekend?’

‘Er, no, but thanks all the same.’

‘You mean … you’d rather not see me again? Is that what you’re saying?’ I catch on fast, these days.

‘No. It was very pleasant, Charlie, and I enjoyed myself, but I’d rather leave it at that, if you don’t mind. I don’t want any involvement.’

‘Fair enough,’ I said, ‘but I might see you if I have to call in the clinic, sometime.’

‘That’s all right. We can still be friends. It’s not you, Charlie, it’s me. You were … well, you were … magnificent, believe me. I don’t want you to think otherwise. It’s just that … I’d wondered what I’d been missing, all these years. I decided that it was very nice, but not worth all the complications. Does that make sense?’

Bloody good sense, I told her; and damned sporting of her, too. We said polite goodbyes and rang off. Perfect, I thought, replacing the handset. I couldn’t have managed it better if I’d written the script. No tears, no regrets, no recriminations, no guilty consciences.

Except. Except … It would have been nice to have had a say in it.

The mini-bin was on page twenty-two and cost
£
6.99. Janet Saunders was right: you could buy a jar of coffee for that and use the jar. There was a nearly empty one on the table where Gilbert makes his brews. I jumped up and tipped the dregs into his new jar, which I had to open, and dropped the pile of drying teabags into the now-empty jar. I stuck a label on it reading: ‘used teabags’. There’s a penny on the community charge for me to make decisions like that.

I sat down again and resumed my perusing. The only
thing they didn’t make was a device for recycling useless devices, but it was only a matter of time. I turned the final page and read the ordering instructions on the back. I felt uneasy. There was a space for the agent to place his – or her – name and address. Mine had come straight from head office, so it was blank. I tossed it on to Gilbert’s shiny desk top, drummed my fingers several times, and reached for the squash club membership list.

I’d started at the end and worked forward, but couldn’t remember where I’d reached. The best thing, I decided, was to start again, at the beginning this time, and stop when I knew I’d gone far enough. Abbott, John, I read. Never heard of him. Next …

Five minutes later Gilbert’s chair was neatly in place with my feet under the desk and firmly on the floor as I thumped numbers into the phone.