Grief Encounters (22 page)

‘So where’s the house?’ Torl asked.

‘Heckley,’ she replied, which didn’t enlighten him at all.

They had coffee and he paid the bill. In the car she said: ‘I can’t invite you in because he might come. Sometimes he does. He gets drunk and falls asleep on the settee.’

‘Don’t stand for any violence,’ Torl told her. ‘Go straight to the police if he’s ever violent, or if he threatens you. It’s completely out of order.’

‘I feel safe when I’m with you,’ she said. ‘Can we just go somewhere quiet and talk?’

He drove up onto the tops, to a place where the council kept a big pile of grit in a roadside lay-by for when the snows came. In daylight it looked like what it was, but after nightfall, with the lights of the valley spread out below, there was a magical feel to the place. As if specially requested, a three-quarter moon hung low in the sky. Torl yanked the handbrake on and killed the lights and engine. Teri shuffled in her seat and moved closer to him. He reached his arm across her back and squeezed, feeling the bones in her shoulder, as delicate as a sparrow’s.

They sat like that, her head on his chest, for several minutes.

‘That’s called a gibbous moon,’ he said, breaking the silence.

‘Gibbous?’ she replied.

‘Mmm.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘I don’t know, but that’s one. I ordered it. Send me a gibbous moon, I said, for a rather special lady.’

He felt her chuckle to herself and she wriggled closer. He wondered about suggesting the back seat, but resisted the temptation. How long he could continue resisting, he knew not.

‘What did you think of the speed dating?’ Teri asked.

‘I thought it was wonderful,’ he replied.

‘So did I,’ she agreed. ‘I’d never been before, but I’m glad I went. The woman who organises it is a character, don’t you think?’

‘She’s certainly larger than life.’

‘A big lady.’

‘With a figure that lunched a thousand chips.’

Teri sat up and stared at him. ‘Did you just make that up?’ she demanded.

‘It came to me, out of the blue,’ he told her.

She snuggled back against him. ‘You’re clever, aren’t you? And funny, too. I wish I wasn’t going to Cannes.’

‘It might be for the best,’ he said, his voice a whisper.

‘Why do you say that?’

‘I’m a married man, Teri. I have a wife in Notting Hill. I work up here through the week and dash off back to her every Friday night. I get a bit fed up with my own company and don’t like pubs all that much. I was just looking for someone to go to the theatre or cinema with, or out for a meal. That’s all. I never expected…’ He let the words trail off.

‘You never expected what?’ she asked, softly.

‘I never expected…to meet someone like you.’

‘I’m sorry if I’m not what you were looking for.’

‘You’re more than I was looking for. Far too much more. Somebody would get hurt, and I don’t want that.’

Teri reached around him and stroked his neck. ‘If nobody knows, nobody gets hurt, do they?’ she said, her voice soft and low. Tiny electric shocks were flickering up and down the back of his head, numbing his jaw muscles. He craned his head back to signal how much he was enjoying the attention, and half closed his eyes.

‘Truth is, Teri,’ he began, turning to face her, ‘I’ve a confession to make.’

She pulled her arm back and sat up. ‘What’s that?’

‘Well, fact is, I’m a minister. I’m a minister in the Methodist church. If I had an affair with you it would be against everything I’ve ever believed in. Can you see that? I’d be the biggest hypocrite in the country. I think you’re a wonderful girl, Teri, and I’d love to see more of you, but I’m not sure it would be wise.’

‘Right,’ she said.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Nothing to be sorry about.’

‘Are you mad at me?’

‘No.’

‘Honest?’

‘Take me home, please.’

Torl started the engine and drove back into town. He held her hand all the way, stroking her fingers, but she hardly responded until they were approaching the canal. Her hand started to rhythmically squeeze his, gently at first, then harder until it almost hurt. He glanced across at her but she was staring straight ahead. He dragged his hand away to change gear and felt her roll from one side to the other as he turned off the main road. He looked again and saw that her head had slumped forward, chin onto her chest, and she was making noises in her throat.

He pulled off the road and unfastened his seatbelt so he could move closer to her. Her teeth were rattling and jerky movements shook her body. Torl pulled her closer and enclosed her in his arms.

‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘You’re safe. It’s all right.’ Now her whole body was convulsing and she kicked her bare feet against the car’s bulkhead. He unfastened her seat belt and held her tighter, pressing his face against the top of her head, her perfume adding to the confusion of feelings that assaulted him as he tried to reassure her.

‘It’s all right,’ he repeated. ‘You’re safe. It’s all right.’

Slowly she recovered, her breathing becoming more rhythmic and the convulsions ceasing, until he thought she was asleep. ‘Take big, slow breaths,’ he told her. ‘Through your mouth. Nice and slow. That’s the way.’

She shook her head and stirred. ‘Take it easy,’ Torl said. ‘Everything’s all right. You’ve had a little blackout, that’s all.’

‘I’m…sorry,’ she said, allowing herself to sink into his embrace.

‘Nothing to be sorry about.’

‘Was I unconscious long?’

‘I’m not sure. A second or two, perhaps. Just sit quietly. You’re quite safe.’

‘I’m ever so sorry.’

‘It’s OK. You’ve nothing to apologise for.’

‘Oh hell. Poor you. What must you think, being lumbered with me?’

‘It’s just one of those things,’ he replied, his arms still around her. ‘Has it happened before?’

‘Yes.’

‘Recently?’

‘About six years ago. I take something called an AED for it. That’s an anti-epileptic drug. I haven’t had a seizure since then, once we’d found an AED that suited me. A couple of weeks ago the doctor suggested that I might be able to stop taking the pills, so I did. He was obviously wrong.’

‘There’s doctors for you,’ Torl said.

She shrugged herself out of the embrace and dried her eyes on a tissue. ‘I must look a mess,’ she said.

Torl reached across and took hold of her chin, turning her face towards him. The illumination of the streetlamps showed that her hair was mussed up, her mascara smeared and her lipstick smudged. ‘No,’ he said. ‘You look just as beautiful as ever.’

‘Uh,’ she snorted. ‘You’re a poor liar. I…I…’

‘You what?’

‘I was going to say that…well, I wanted tonight to be special. I was looking forward to seeing you so much. Now, I’ve blown it. I don’t suppose you want to be seen with someone who suffers from
le petit mal
.’

‘It doesn’t make any difference,’ he said. They sat in silence until he asked: ‘How long will you be away for?’

‘Just a week. We come back the following Sunday.’

‘If…you know…if you and your husband are not reconciled, if it doesn’t work, will I be able to see you when you come back?’

‘I’d like that,’ Teri replied. ‘Will you give me a ring?’

‘It’s a promise.’

Torl put the car in gear and drove the rest of the way in silence. He parked outside the apartments and asked Teri how she was feeling.

‘I’m fine,’ she replied. ‘Just a slight headache.’

‘Did you ought to see a doctor?’

‘No, it’s not necessary.’

‘OK. I’ll wait until you’re inside. Which is your window?’

‘The end one on the top floor. Will you wait until I’m up there, please? I’ll give you a wave.’

‘No problem. Goodnight, Teri.’

She leant across and kissed him on the cheek, then briefly on his lips, and opened her door. ‘Thanks for a lovely evening,’ she said, ‘until I spoilt it.’

‘You didn’t spoil a thing,’ he assured her. As she turned to shut the car door he called after her: ‘Don’t forget to take your pills,’ and immediately realised the ambiguity of what he’d said.

Teri ducked to look inside at him, her face perfectly composed, and replied: ‘No, I won’t forget,’ and slammed the door.

Two minutes later she opened the curtains and waved. Torl flashed his headlights and drove home. Upstairs, Teri stripped off all her clothes and lingered under the shower, enjoying the pulsing of the jets of water against her skin. She dried herself and pulled an upholstered buffet out from under her dressing table. Lulu Guiness cosmetics were her current favourites. She selected face cream and body cream from amongst the selection of lotions and spent fifteen minutes pampering herself by applying copious amounts of the unguents to her already-flawless skin, all the time going over the evening’s conversations in her mind and wondering what Torl would be like in bed. She rubbed the surplus cream into her hands and opened the drawer of her dressing table. From it she selected a silk pyjama top, then felt further back, behind the night- and underwear, until she found what she wanted. She withdrew her hand, holding a plastic sex toy that Richard had bought her two Christmases ago. Pressing the button resulted in a violent buzz and vibration, indicating that the batteries were in order.

Lying on the bed, propped up by all the pillows, she dialled a number on her mobile phone. Richard answered almost immediately.

‘You’re home early,’ she said.

‘I know. Where are you?’

‘I’m in bed.’

‘Yes, but where?’

‘The flat, cheeky. Where do you think?’

‘Just checking. Is he with you?’

‘No! It was our first date.’

‘So how did it go?’

‘All right. He took me to that tacky Italian we tried a few weeks ago. It hasn’t improved.’

‘So has he offered to give you one of his grants to enable you to open another beauty business?’

‘No, we didn’t discuss it. Softly, softly, catchee monkee.’

‘That’s the spirit. Are you coming home?’

‘No, I’ll stay at the flat tonight.’

‘Do you want me to come round?’

‘No, I’m all right, thank you.’

‘Won’t you be lonely?’ Richard asked her.

‘No,’ Teri replied. ‘I’ve got Freddie to keep me company.’

‘Freddie? Who’s Freddie?’

She held the vibrator against the phone and gave it a short burst on
maximum
. ‘Freddie,’ she repeated. ‘My little friend. You bought him for me.’

‘Oh, him. Now I’m jealous. Jealous of five quid’s worth of plastic and wire, assembled in Taiwan. So how did you leave it with Torl? Was he eager to see you again?’

‘No, just the opposite. I’ll tell you about it in the morning, but he wasn’t going to ask. I had to resort to feminine guile; to plan B.’

‘And what exactly was plan B?’

‘To arouse his protective instincts. I just happened to have a slight seizure.’

‘You’re kidding! And did he fall for it?’

‘Oh yes, he fell for it. Like a lamb to the slaughter.’

We had a big meeting Friday afternoon and I did a lot of writing on the whiteboard. I was having trouble compartmentalising the separate cases, so it helped clear my head. Magdalena was beaten to death and Peter Ennis was the main suspect, but we didn’t have a case until we eliminated all the other possibilities. There was always the chance that a total stranger had murdered her.

We knew who’d killed Ted Goss, though. He’d done the deed himself, but who’d driven him to it? He’d been flattered by the attentions of the woman we knew as Teri, the same woman who had insinuated herself into the affections of the bombastic Colin Swainby, and obscene images were found on both their computers. Were they guilty of downloading them, or was she in some way responsible?

And then there was Miss Gillian Birchall and Richard Wentbridge. Had he really wined and dined her, at considerable expense, just to have her prosecuted for driving over the limit? It seemed unfeasible.

I’d sent the troops home and was sitting sprawled in a plastic chair, my feet on another, looking at the board. I was enjoying the quiet, thinking about the cases, separating one from the other. Magdalena was a straightforward murder. Man kills woman, sex or money, QED. But the others were baffling. The victims were people of stature in the community, namely an MP, a headmistress and a police superintendent. The two men were linked via Teri, and Miss Birchall to Swainby through the speed dating. We didn’t know how Ted Goss met Teri. There’s this new crime, called happy slapping, where you beat somebody up and video the whole thing on your mobile phone, for later enjoyment. It usually involves down-and-outs and drunken youths of either sex, but was this some sort of high-class happy slapping? Or even anarchy? Did we have an anarchist cell in Heckley, working to destroy the credibility of our movers and shakers?

It had been a good exercise. I’d sorted things out in my head. I’d been juggling too many balls, but now I realised that there were only two. Then the door flew open and Brendan burst into the room and into my reverie, waving a sheet of paper like Chamberlain after the Munich conference.

‘Boss,’ he said, his face red because he’d run down the stairs. ‘I’m glad I caught you. Two messages waiting for me when I went upstairs. That Range Rover you asked me about. A man called Tristan Foyle took one into Heckley Motors on Monday the fifth, damaged in exactly the right place at the back. Cost him
£
350 to put right. He lives at Home Farm, Biddle, which is on the Penistone Road, and his wife is called Fiona, maiden name Jones.’

‘Well done,’ I said. ‘We’ll have him checked out, but Monday will do.’

‘I haven’t finished,’ Brendan went on. ‘You remember that I forgot to ask about Richard Wentbridge’s wife?’

‘Mmm.’

‘Well, I thought I’d do the job properly. Somerset House got back to me while I was down here.’

He handed me another message sheet. Someone had written on it: Teri Wentbridge, DOB 3rd March 1977, married Richard Wentbridge 1st March 1998, actual given name Angela, maiden name Ennis

‘She’s really called Angela Ennis,’ he explained. ‘This woman called Teri is Ennis’s daughter,’ and the balls I was juggling came tumbling down around my ears.