Grief Encounters (34 page)

‘Who are…?’

‘My next door neighbours. Teri comes in and waters my plants. That’s all.’ 

I picked up my cup and drained it. ‘Thanks for coming in, Mr Boogey,’ I said. ‘What you’ve told us is very interesting. We’ll be looking into it.’

‘Do you want those covering letters?’ he asked.

The answer was
no
, but I didn’t want to sound complacent, so I said: ‘Yes please, if you could drop them in here or the police station I’d be very grateful. And your CCTV tape.’

‘What about the CD?’

‘You haven’t destroyed it?’

‘No.’ He looked towards the solicitor, who opened a drawer in his desk and produced the offending disk.

I thought about it for a few seconds, then said: ‘Well let’s do it now, shall we?’

Torl parked outside the theatre and collected the tickets he’d ordered. They were good seats, four rows from the front and fairly central. He had a coffee in Burger King and used the facilities there, swishing water around his mouth and grimacing at himself in the mirror. When it was time he drove to the riverside development where he’d arranged to pick up Teri and tapped her number into the security keypad. ‘Your carriage awaits you, mademoiselle,’ he said, when her
hello
came crackling from the little box.

A minute later she came out, wearing a powder blue suit consisting of a skirt bordering on the illegal and a jacket held at the front with a single button. She wasn’t wearing a blouse under it, just a gold chain with a crucifix, and high heeled sandals. Torl stood there, transfixed, and she noted the effect she had on him, exaggerating her walk as she approached the car.

I’m in trouble, he was thinking, feeling he’d reached the point of no return – had gone under twice and was going down again. Then: what the heck, it’s life and life only. He opened the door for her, saying: ‘You look sensational. I’m not sure if the HADS are ready for you.’

She slipped into the passenger seat, holding back her smile, and said: ‘To the theatre, please, James.’ Torl pulled his seatbelt across and twisted in his seat to look at her. She said: ‘You wanted someone to go to the theatre with, so here I am.’

He leant across and kissed her lightly on the cheek. He didn’t recognise her perfume. It was distilled from the pheromones of a billion butterflies, brought in from the hills of Araby by Nubian slaves who were promptly sacrificed lest they divulge its secrets. He blinked and waited for his heartbeat to settle.

The HADS – Heckley Amateur Dramatic Society – were known by rival companies as the HADN’TS, and tonight they justified the unkindness. They hadn’t much talent, hadn’t learnt their lines and hadn’t rehearsed enough. But they had enthusiasm by the sackful. The stunned silence of the audience gradually changed to sniggers of amusement, then open derisory laughter, followed by outright enjoyment of the actors’ discomfort. The cast, troopers to the end, eventually realised where things were going and started playing it for laughs. They weren’t given a standing ovation at the final curtain, but nobody asked for their money back.

As they filed towards the exit Teri said she needed to use the ladies’. There, she had a pee, replenished her perfume and made a phone call. In the car she said: ‘That was fun. I enjoyed it.’

‘Not what I was hoping to impress you with,’ Torl said, ‘but it was the first night, so we’ll give them the benefit of the doubt. Drink, somewhere?’

‘I could fix you one at the apartment, if you like.’

Bits of his body told him that, yes, he would like it and he ran the tip of his tongue along his upper lip. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Your place it is,’ and he coughed to clear the hoarseness in his voice.

‘Easy on the gin in mine, please,’ he was saying, fifteen minutes later. He was standing in the kitchen, watching Teri fix the drinks after briefly admiring the German appliances and the bold décor. He’d read that some of these apartments went for a million pounds, and this one was the penthouse. They carried their drinks into the lounge and seated themselves on the settee. Teri crossed her legs and Torl took a long sip of his G and T, then found a safe place for his glass, to leave his hands free.

‘This is rather magnificent,’ he told her, casting his eyes around the room. ‘You have excellent taste, but I already knew that.’

‘I’ll show you around, later,’ she said.

‘I’d like that,’ he confirmed, trying to hide his enthusiasm for a guided tour.

‘I might lose it,’ she said, ‘if Richard plays awkward. That’s why I need an income. I’ve been looking at a few places and seen one or two that have possibilities.’

‘In the beauty business?’ he asked.

‘Yes, it’s all I know, but there’s plenty of money to be made at the top of the range. That’s where I’d aim to be, but it costs money to break into it.’

‘It usually all boils down to money,’ Torl replied.

‘That’s where you come in,’ she said, reaching an arm out towards him. ‘My Mr Santa Claus. Do you think you’ll be able to help me?’

The doorbell rang before Torl could gather his senses to form an answer. Teri looked startled for the second or two it took for the chimes to die away, then said: ‘I’ve been a bit naughty, Torl.’

‘In what way?’

‘Well, Tristan said he’d like to meet you. He likes to look after me, a bit, to make sure nobody takes advantage of me, so I’ve invited him over. Do you mind?’ 

Torl minded like Joan of Arc minded being burnt at the stake. He minded being deprived of the sole company of this woman and he minded having his credentials questioned. He didn’t know which he minded most, but he minded all right, he minded like hell.

‘No,’ he said. ‘Of course not. Wheel him in.’

Teri went to answer the door and Torl pulled himself more upright on the low settee. She returned in seconds followed by three people, one of whom Torl recognised.

Teri said: ‘This is Tristan, this is Fiona and this is Richard.’ Turning to them she said: ‘And he’s Torl, sometimes known as David Storey.’

Torl looked up at them towering over him, looking aggressive. He was a shade taller than the two men but they held the high ground and had him outnumbered. The woman was interesting. This would be Teri’s friend, he thought. She was the opposite of Teri: tall, fair and elegant; where Teri was petite, dark and gamine. But just as beautiful. Every bit as beautiful.

‘We’ve met before,’ he said to the one called Richard. So Teri had been at the speed dating with her husband, all those weeks ago.

‘So we have,’ he replied.

‘Tell us about this company of yours,’ Tristan invited. ‘This quango. What’s it called? Local Industry Development Initiative, or LINDI for short? Is that it?’ 

‘That’s it,’ Torl replied. On the edge of his vision he could see a chair that might be useful, and some iron candlesticks that would make a decent weapon, if things went the way they were looking.

‘You might be interested to learn that I’ve been doing some investigating,’ Tristan was saying. ‘I visited the premises where Teri says you took her and they’ve never heard of David Storey. So I’ve asked around. I have my contacts. There’s no such quango as LINDI, giving large grants to small businesses. There are regional development agencies, but none of them has a David Storey working for them and none is based in Heckley. So who are you and what do you want?’

‘You’re getting things out of proportion,’ Torl replied. ‘I’m from out of town and I met a beautiful woman at the speed dating. That’s all there is to it.’

Tristan turned to Teri. ‘Sorry, Teri,’ he said, ‘but he’s a complete fraud. He’s been leading you on.’

‘And that beautiful woman happens to be my wife,’ Richard said.

Torl looked up at him and saw that he was now holding a baseball bat. ‘So what are you going to do?’ he asked.

The two men took a step towards him. ‘We’re going to give you a good hiding and chuck you in the canal,’ Tristan told him.

‘I don’t think you’d be wise to try that,’ Torl warned. 

‘Why not?’ Richard asked, raising the baseball bat.

‘Yeah, why not?’ Tristan added.

‘Because then you’d be in more trouble than you’re already in.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Richard wanted to know, lowering the bat slightly.

‘Who are you?’ Tristan demanded. ‘Just who the fuck are you?’

Torl reached into his inside jacket pocket and produced a leather wallet that he flicked open with practised ease. ‘My name’s Priest,’ he told them, ‘as in Roman Catholic. Detective Inspector Priest of Heckley CID, and you four are under arrest.’

I pulled my mobile from my pocket and asked for assistance up in the apartment. I’d had a car shadowing me during my assignations with Teri in case she accused me of impropriety at a later date. The four of them stood there, looking
shell-shocked
, each wondering how to salvage something from the situation. Richard carefully stood the baseball bat in a corner.

Fiona broke the silence. ‘Jesus Christ,’ she said, ‘I need a drink,’ and headed for the kitchen.

That broke the ice and Tristan took up the challenge. ‘What do you mean,
under arrest
?’ he demanded. ‘What are we charged with?’

I said: ‘You’re not charged with anything, yet,’ and gave them the caution.

‘So what’s the offence?’

‘How about conspiracy to commit blackmail, for a start,’ I replied.

‘We’ve never blackmailed anybody.’

‘You tell me then. Why did you download obscene images onto the computer of Ted Goss, one of the most decent MPs in the business, causing him to commit suicide? Why did you do the same to ruin the career of Colin Swainby, a fine policeman? Why did those two break into Zed Boogey’s house and leave a disk of obscene images in his computer? We’ve got you on the conspiracy, so if it wasn’t blackmail, what was it?’

Tristan looked at Richard, a horrified expression on his face. ‘You broke into next door…’ he began.

His wife had returned, a tumbler of clear liquid in her hand. I’d have gambled it wasn’t water. ‘You idiot!’ she shouted at Wentbridge. ‘You fucking stupid idiot.’

Teri spun to face her. ‘If you hadn’t made him lose a million pounds he wouldn’t have had to do it,’ she shrieked.

I sat there, looking from one to the other as the relationship crumbled, feeling like an umpire at Wimbledon, developing a crick in my neck.

‘Shut up! Shut up!’ Wentbridge shouted, and grabbed his wife before she tore out somebody’s eyes. We were saved by the doorbell.

‘I’d answer that,’ I said, ‘or in ten seconds they’ll batter it down.’

People have a perception of psychopaths as nutters who go about raping, stabbing and strangling. Some do, of course, but it could be argued that your average rapist, strangler and stabbist just happens to be a psychopath. The majority of psychos, or sociopaths as they are sometimes called, have learnt to live normal lives and have no more desire than the average man to go about raping, strangling and stabbing.

They just don’t care about people. They’re all around us, in all walks of life, fitting in because they have learnt how to. Millions of them. There’s one in every office, several in every factory. The police force probably has as many psychos in its ranks as any other occupation.

Your friendly neighbourhood psycho is the one who laughs most when you get done for willy waggling in the park, even though he was at your barbecue the night before, enjoying your wine and admiring your block paving. He’s the one who sniggers at the old woman with the wooden leg who sleeps in the dumpsters, or who is cheered up for the day if he sees a dog flattened by a car. Most of the time, he’s a regular guy.

But he’s an island. John Donne got it wrong. The psycho lives in his own world, immune to the feelings of his fellow men and women. He gets by. He’s happy. He’s often successful. There are advantages in being an island, but there are advantages in numbers, also. Sometimes psychos drift together and join up, like patches of scum on a river. Usually it’s just two, and if they have evil intentions the world soon knows about them. I’d just arrested four.

I wanted them isolated from each other, so we took Teri to Heckley and shared the others between Halifax and Huddersfield. I drove home and went to bed, and slept like a puppy until my six o’clock call. I skipped Gilbert’s morning meeting and held an intensive briefing with my team. When we were through I sent Dave and Brendan to talk to Fiona, and Maggie and Dave Rose to interview the two men. That left Teri for me.

‘They’re falling apart, turning in on each other,’ I told the troops. ‘All we have to do is encourage them. Fiona is the weakest link, and we’ve got the least on her. If she realises that, it might encourage her to spill the swill on the others.’

‘Hint that she might be dealt with leniently if she cooperates?’ Dave suggested.

‘Yes, but subtly,’ I said. ‘Let her think of it herself.’

‘Maybe I should let Brendan do the talking.’

‘That sounds a good idea.’

‘I’ll say one thing, Chas,’ Dave said.

‘What’s that?’

‘You’re mixing with a good-looking bunch of women, these days.’

Teri was as good-looking as they come, and a night in the cells hadn’t diminished her. She’d washed her face and, unmade up and dishevelled, she still looked beautiful. Vulnerability was her trump card, her golden share, and she played it well. I said: ‘Hello, Teri. Did you manage to get any sleep?’

‘No,’ she replied.

‘Would you like another coffee?’

‘No.’

The duty solicitor was sitting alongside her and we were taping the interview, so I went through the preamble. When I’d finished I said: ‘Do you know why you’re here?’

She nodded and I asked her to speak, for the tape.

‘It’s because of the game,’ she replied.

‘The game? What game?’

‘It was Tristan’s idea. He thought of it,’ and she told me all about the games people play.

Teri described the rape she’d suffered as a child, and blamed that for her attitude towards men. She’d obviously decided that it would be the main plank of her defence, reinforced by her little-girl-lost act. Maybe she’d even throw in a faked epileptic fit when she appeared in court, I thought. She seemed not to realise that she’d told me – or Torl – all about it, and went through the rape in more graphic detail than before. Or perhaps she was simply rehearsing, or wanted it on tape. I didn’t know.