Maggie went off to the White Rose; Sparky and Nigel rang the wife of the registrar, ex-lover of the late doctor, and made an appointment to see her while hubby was at work; and I settled down with the reports.
Mr. Wood's conclusion, after our meeting, was that we should pursue all the alibis until the Pope himself was a more likely suspect. I decided that some lateral thinking was called for and made another list. Melissa, the mysterious sender of Christmas cards was on it, followed by Mr. Farrier, husband of the receptionist at the White Rose. It wouldn't hurt to have a word with George, his chum from college. To prove my impartiality I added Mrs. Henderson. Maybe Dr.
Jordan hadn't chatted her up first, and maybe she thought he should have done. Lastly I wrote "Malpractice'. That was a gaping hole in our investigation that needed looking into, pronto. I drew a line through "Mrs. Henderson' and a thick box around "Malpractice'.
The SOCO had made a video of the murder scene. I collected it from the associated property store and watched it in the CID office. It showed general views of the doctor's kitchen, where he'd been found, followed by close-ups of everything in sight. The doc died with his eyes open, a look of terror and surprise carved on his features. The camera zoomed in close and moved slowly over his chin, nose and sightless eyes, like a helicopter tour of Mount Rushmore. His shirt was undone and he was in his stocking feet.
We were taken on a journey across his carpet, the shiny toe caps of the SOCO's shoes bobbing into the bottom of the picture like two bald headed men on a see-saw at the other side of a wall. The camera panned over his kitchen cupboards and along the work top In a corner I saw the plastic bin that I'd thought about stealing, between the electric kettle and a box of muesli. The doctor's tie was draped over a chair back, given an extra turn to prevent it sliding to the floor, and his shoes were just inside the door.
The office was quiet. Everyone was out. I switched off the video and reached for the telephone.
"Pay section?" I asked, when someone answered. "Oh, good. This is DI Priest, at Heckley CID. I was wondering if you could work out for me what terms I could expect if I took early retirement?"
Maggie returned as I was finishing the video and we watched the last few minutes together.
"Learn anything?" she asked as I ejected the cassette and returned it to its envelope.
"Mmm. He knew his killer, as we suspected. The doc's shoes were just inside the door, so when his visitor rang he must have opened the front entrance for him and let him come up to the apartment, not gone to meet him downstairs."
"Sounds sensible."
"And he was male."
"How do you work that out?"
"It's a guess, but the doc's tie was hanging over a chair. If his visitor was female I think he'd have whipped it back on, and his shoes.
Did you see Barraclough?"
"Yes. He's a charmer, isn't he?" She opened her notebook and slid it across my desk. "That's the party who made the complaint Rodney Allen.
His mother, Mrs. Joan Allen, was a fit and active sixty-year-old who liked to have a good time. She was booked in to the General for an hysterectomy. The operation was done succesfully, as they say, by Mr.
Jordan, but the patient died. She had an aortic aneurism later that day, right out of the blue. According to the rules there had to be a post mortem, and this found that her condition could not have been anticipated by the pre-operative investigations. However, her son, Rodney, has learning difficulties. He's forty, by the way. Mrs. Allen had been comfortably off and he was left everything, in trust. The trustees, who are a firm of solicitors in Scarborough and a retired GP in Heckley, decided to sue the hospital and Mr. Jordan for malpractice and negligence."
"For a fee, no doubt," I said.
"No doubt. But the inquest brought in a verdict of natural causes and the case was dropped. I've had a word with the retired GP. He was a friend of the family, before they moved to Scarborough. He says he was opposed to the action but outvoted. Rodney, he told me, was deeply disturbed by the thought of his mother's body being cut open, and dwelt on it for months."
"And he probably still blames the hospital," I said. "We need a word with him, soon as possible. Nigel was checking with the GMC. We'll make sure the official version tallies, then we'd better see what Rodders has to say. Thanks, Maggie, that's a good day's work."
"There was one other thing," she began.
I sat back, inviting her to continue.
"I think you have a fan."
"A fan?"
"Yes," she said. "One Cicely Henderson, receptionist at the White Rose. I was supposed to be asking the questions, but she wanted to know all about you. She's an attractive lady."
"I had noticed," I admitted, 'but she's not my type. What did you tell her?"
"That you were a very nice man single but you had a girlfriend who you were besotted by. Did I do right?"
"As always, Maggie. Did you ask her about her colleague, Mrs.
Farrier?"
"Yes, we went over it again, but she didn't come up with anything new."
"Do you think she's jealous of her?"
"Cicely jealous of Mrs. Farrier?"
"Mmm."
"No. She told me that she was off men. She left her husband eight years ago and since then has found all the companionship she needs in her cats. However… I think meeting you may have stirred the ashes of some long-forgotten fires."
"Gosh, how odd," I said.
"Just what I thought," she replied, stifling a smile.
I lunched at the cafe in town and went walkabout. There was one avenue that I could follow without too much effort and no charge to the budget. When the squash craze started a few of us from the office tried it, but we had to book a court weeks in advance and quickly lost interest. I found it too claustrophobic. The boom faded and has now settled down to a healthy core of enthusiasts. Heckley Squash Club had financial difficulties, was taken over, converted a couple of courts for other activities and is now doing quite nicely. Several of the wooden tops work-out there. I wandered in and asked to see the manager.
I recognised him, when he came, as a foot baller with one of the local teams who never quite made the grade. I could sympathise with him. I had trials with Halifax Town and turned out for the second team when I was at art college. We lost, seven-one. I was the goalkeeper. They didn't invite me back.
I introduced myself as a policeman, not a foot baller and asked what had happened to him.
"Knee problems," he said. "Cartilage, then ligaments. You name it, my knees have had it. There came a time when enough was enough, but fortunately I was a qualified sports administrator by then. When this job came up I applied for it and stopped kidding myself about soccer."
We were talking across the front counter. He invited me to take a chair at his side and lifted the flap to let me through. Two young men came and asked for a squash ball.
"Giving up football must have been hard for you," I said, when they'd gone. Shouts of encouragement came echoing from within the building and the air smelled of sweat and chlorine. That was enough to put me off.
"I had plenty of time to think about it, get used to the idea. Now, I enjoy myself. Life's good. When Bill Shankly said that football was far more important than life and death he was talking out of the back of his head."
"I've always thought it was a pretty stupid thing to say. I'm investigating the death of Dr. Clive Jordan. He was murdered just before Christmas you probably read about it in the papers."
"Never read a paper, but I saw it on the telly. He was a member here, you know."
"Yes," I said. "Hence my visit."
"Obviously," he replied. "Sorry about that. What can we tell you?"
"First of all, why did he stop coming? Apparently he was a keen player, then, quite abruptly, he wasn't. Any reason for that?"
He nodded. "That's easy. Same problems as me — damaged knee ligaments.
He knew I'd been through it and we talked a lot. There're two methods of treatment: rest or surgery. I was a professional, my livelihood depended on my legs, so I went for the knife. For an amateur, just playing for amusement and to keep fit, there was only one sensible option. He packed in, thinking that maybe one day time would heal it and he'd be able to play again. Work was taking up a lot of his time, and he was courting a bird off the telly she's in Mrs. Dale's Diary, you know so there was no real choice open to him."
"Right," I said. "That clears up one little mystery. What can you tell me about the man himself. Did he have any particular friends in the club?"
"Not really," he said, after giving it some thought. He was tall and angular, his shoulders bulging through too much work with the weights.
He wore streamlined leggings with a stripe down the side and a Heckley General heart research T-shirt. "He usually played with a crony from the hospital. Not always the same one, rarely with any of the other members. Squash is a bit like that, if you don't enter the competitions."
"And he never did?"
"No. His working hours wouldn't let him. He was popular enough, though. He'd have a drink in the bar and chat away to anyone. People liked him. I certainly did. I thought he was a smashing bloke. Have you any ideas who killed him?"
I shook my head and said: "We are following certain lines of enquiry," enunciating the words to make it plain that this was a euphemism for not having a clue.
"I'll tell you what the doc was like," the manager began, a smile of affection on his face as he recalled some anecdote. "He did enter one competition. We were standing here, me and him, talking about our knees, would you believe, and this girl was pacing up and down, just there," he pointed into the foyer, 'with her kit on, waiting for her partner to arrive. The doc started to chat to her. At the time there was a mixed doubles competition on, strictly for couples husbands and wives or boyfriends and girlfriends. It was light-hearted, just to try and get partners interested, make it more a family thing, if you follow me."
"Sounds an admirable idea," I said.
"It was, wasn't it? Well, apparently, this girl and her boyfriend were due to play in the first round. The other couple were already on the court, having a knock-up, waiting for them. She was starting to get a bit upset. We were looking at the sheet with the draw on it and the doc noticed that the boyfriend was called… would it be Davey? Was the doc's middle name David?"
"Yes, it was," I told him.
"Right, that was it, Davey. She'd entered them as… I can't remember her name. It might have been Sue, or Sandra. Anyway, she'd put them down as Sue… Smith, or whatever, and Davey. Just Davey. "I'm called David," the doctor said. "I could pretend to be your boyfriend.
Come on, let's give them a game." And they did. And they won. Blow me if they didn't win the next round, too. She was over the moon about it. That's the kind of bloke he was."
"It sounds Mills amp; Boon," I said. "Did she fall hopelessly in love with him? Did he seduce her?"
"No, I don't think so. They had a laugh about it afterwards and went their separate ways, as far as I know. She was a bit, you know, plain. Not really his type."
"But was he her type?"
"I suppose so. We all dream, don't we? But she seemed a sensible kid.
I think her feet were on the ground."
"Is she still a member?"
"I'm not sure, and I can't check if I don't remember her name. I don't think she comes any more. I haven't seen her for ages."
"When did all this happen?" I asked.
"Oh, about two years ago."
"And when would you say she stopped coming?"
"I couldn't tell you. I don't see some people for months, even though they play every week. It all depends on what time they book the court for."
"But she could have stopped playing round about the same time as the doctor did?" I suggested.
"Probably," he replied, nodding. "About then, at a guess. Do you think that's significant?"
"No," I admitted.
Three women in leotards and leg warmers walked past us, eyes righting as they said hello to the manager in loud voices. I watched them retreat, several layers of even louder lycra clenched tightly between their buttocks.
"Aerobics," he explained.
"Are they comfortable?" I asked, wincing.
"They like to look the part."
"I'm interested in this girl," I told him, pulling myself back to the job. "How can we find her name? Will it still be on the computer if her membership has lapsed?" I nodded towards the terminal that sat on the counter.
"Oh, nobody ever comes off the computer," he replied, 'but we're talking about over two thousand entries."
"To me, that's nearly as good as a fingerprint. You think she was called Sue or Sandra?"
"Something like that Sue, Sandra, Sally but I'm just guessing. I only saw her about three times."
"Can't we just ask it to find all the females beginning with S?"
"Er, you might be able to, but I can't."
"Me neither. We must have headed too many footballs."
"And I'm not even sure about the S. My assistant can do it, when she takes over." He looked at the clock on the wall behind him. "She should be here in about an hour."
"Do you mind if she runs a full membership list off for me?" I asked.
"No problem. I'll give you a ring when it's ready. And I've just remembered who the doc and this girl played in the first round of the mixed doubles. He's one of our stalwarts. I'll ask if he or his wife can remember her name they probably had a drink together, afterwards."
"That'd be a big help," I said.
I did my reports back at the office, and had a discussion with Luke, our civilian computer expert, about rehashing our standard interview documents, targeting them more specifically at this offence. Nigel and Dave came back, looking dejected.
The registrar's wife admitted that she'd had an affair with Dr. Jordan, which went back several years. It started as just a fling, she told them, which developed into a habit. Her marriage was sound, but her husband was not very adventurous in bed. It was imperative that he didn't find out.
"As he did know about it," Sparky said, 'he must have had his reasons for keeping quiet."
"Perhaps he was waiting his opportunity for revenge,"
Nigel suggested, adding, 'she's a bit older than I expected. I'd have thought the doc could have found someone nearer his own age."
"Experience, Nigel," I said. "There's no substitute."
"I'll take your word for it."
"Maybe her husband was having it away with someone, himself," I suggested, 'and was happy for her to have her little games with the doctor. Grateful, even."
"That's what I'd wondered," Sparky claimed. "Or maybe he just couldn't keep up with her, and was grateful for someone to help him out. It can't be easy, married to someone like that."
"Corf I wouldn't mind giving it a try," Nigel enthused.
"Sounds like penal servitude to me," I said. "Look into it. See what the word is among the nursing staff. What about their alibis?"
"Engraved in stone," Nigel told me. "We've talked to everybody at the party. They started arriving shortly after seven and stayed until the early hours."
"So neither of them pulled the trigger."
"No way."
I altered the number on the chart next to their names to three foolproof.
Chief Superintendent Isles sent a message via his secretary apologising for not being able to attend my little presentation that morning and wondering if I could give him a quick run-through of the case so far in his office, first thing tomorrow? I said: "Yes," naturally, and before I went home I asked Luke to redraw the charts in a more portable format.
I had an hour's snooze in an easy chair, catching up on the radio news, and dined on chicken tikka makhani. That's choice pieces of chicken breast, marinated in a ga ram masala, coriander and fenugreek sauce and served with turmeric rice. It only took six minutes in the microwave.
I followed it with tinned grapefruit and a pot of Earl Grey.
Sparky had loaned me the video of Oliver Stone's JFK. I swivelled the chair round so my feet would reach the settee and settled down, the teapot within easy reach of my right hand. The phone rang in the middle of the newsreel sequence of the assassination, as we saw the fatal shot to Kennedy's head, the secret serviceman diving on to the cavernous trunk of the Cadillac and Mrs. Kennedy trying to climb out of the back. History captured on film, as it happened, and telling us less about the President's killers than we know about King Harold's. I found the stop button on the remote control and picked up the phone.
It was Annabelle. "Hello, Charles, I'm home," she said.
"You should have told me when you were coming," I told her, sinking back into my chair. "I could have met you at the station."
"I'm sure you have much better things to do. Have you eaten?"
"No, I wouldn't have anything better to do, and yes, I'm afraid I have eaten."
"Never mind. What did you have?"
"Frozen curry."
"Sounds delicious," she laughed.
"It was OK," I told her. "I was just settling down to watch a video.
Sparky lent me JFK. It's about a District Attorney from New Orleans, Jim Garrison, who took out a prosecution against some gangsters over the Kennedy assassination."
"I've heard of it. It's on my list of "must sees"."
"Do you want me to save it for another time?"
"That would be nice," she said. "I was going to invite you round for a meal. We could watch it afterwards."
"Great. When?"
"Tomorrow?"
"Super. That's something for me to look forward to. How did your trip go?"
"Very well, Charles. I'll tell you all about it when I see you."
We said our goodbyes and I put the phone down a happier man than when I picked it up. I rewound the tape and tried to pick up the threads of The Bill. It wasn't too difficult.
Les Isles nodded approvingly when he saw my fancy computer-generated diagram. "It's nice to see that my older officers are embracing the new technology," he said, grinning.
"It was on the flip-chart until late yesterday," I confessed.
"Don't disillusion me, Charlie. What does it tell us?"
I went through the list of characters, starting with Ged Skinner and making a diversion to tell him about Darryl Buxton and the rape. He listened, nodding and sucking his teeth.
"What's happening with this one?" he asked, tapping Rodney Allen's name with the tip of his pen.
"The malpractice allegation," I said. "DS Newley's contacting Scarborough CID this morning. If he's available we'll dash over to interview him."
"Is that where he lives?"
"Mmm, but he originates from Heckley. Apparently he's a bachelor, not very bright, lived with his mother, hence the grief when she died."
"It sounds better all the time," Les declared. Middle-aged men living with their parents always attract suspicion, even if their only crime is to be unlucky in love.
"It does, doesn't it?" I agreed.
"And then there's this lot." He pointed to the box marked "Abortions'.
"God knows what we can do about them. Keep working at all these alibis, Charlie, but cross your fingers that Rodney doesn't have one.
It's him, I can feel it in my water."
We'd all said that about Ged Skinner, but I didn't remind him.
Nigel was in the office, typing a report. I clicked the switch on the kettle and asked him what was happening.
"Waiting for Scarborough to ring me back," he replied. "I've faxed the details to them. Sparky and Maggie are paying a return visit to the White Rose Clinic, encouraging the nursing staff to gossip about their medical director."
"Dr. Barraclough," I sighed, for no reason other than to give a name to the title. In this job, we deal with individuals, not positions.
"What did Mr. Isles have to say?" Nigel asked.
"He's happy enough. Thinks it's Rodders what did it. Carry on as we are, no extra staff."
"Great' "It won't be great if we don't arrest someone soon and it goes to review. Then it'll be: "What have you been playing at for all this time?"
I brewed myself a mug of tea, paused with the tea bag dripping off the spoon as I looked for somewhere to put it, said: "Oh, sod it," and dropped it in the bin.
Nigel was on the phone when I turned round, looking as if the lottery unclaimed prizes crew had finally tracked him down. "Scarborough CID," he hissed at me, briefly covering the mouthpiece as he listened. "One moment," he told them. He moved the instrument away from his face and said:
"They sent a DC round and he's now in hospital. Rodders laid about him with what he thinks was a double-barrelled shotgun and he's barricaded himself in. Fancy a trip to Scarborough?"
"You bet!" I told him.
"We're on our way over," he told them. "It'll take us about two hours.
You'd better give me some directions."
We needed a breakthrough and this looked like it. You have a murder on your conscience, there's a knock at the door and when you answer it a detective flashes his ID at you and asks your name. You panic. The more I thought about it, the better it looked. I drove while Nigel phoned City HQ to get a message to Mr. Isles. No harm in letting him know that his hunch was paying off.
It's a fast road to Scarborough, on a Tuesday in winter. As soon as the days lengthen and the sun comes out for more than an hour it clogs with caravans and a procession of coaches and asthmatic family cars that have seen more polish than petrol. But not today. Driving can be a pleasure on empty roads, even when the temperature is hovering just above zero and sleet is in the air. Going to catch a murderer adds a sense of purpose to the journey.
A Scarborough panda was waiting for us in a lay by on the outskirts of town. I pulled in behind him and Nigel dashed out to introduce himself. They led us to a little estate of bungalows, ideal for retired couples, on the north side.
"Birr! It's freezing," Nigel had complained as he got back in. His coat was spotted with raindrops.
It was circus time on the estate. The street was cordoned off but everyone was out to watch the excitement, wearing big anoraks and woollen hats against the weather. I expected the ice-cream man to pull round the corner anytime, jingle blaring, desperate for a sale. The wind was coming straight off the North Sea, and tasted of salt. I pulled my down jacket on and we went looking for whoever was in charge.
'"
"DI Charlie Priest, from Heckley," I told the uniformed inspector, when we found him, 'and this is DS Nigel Newley." I explained our involvement, and why we wanted to talk to the man barricaded in the house, namely Rodney Allen. He was grateful for the information. Up to then, he'd been struggling to know what it was all about.
"How's the DC who was assaulted?" I asked.
"Not too bad, Charlie," he replied. "It's just a scalp wound."
"But Rodney hit him with a shotgun?"
"That was the first story, but since then the DC has changed his mind.
He thinks it might have been a length of pipe, wrapped in a plastic bag."
"What, to look like a gun?" Nigel asked.
"Possibly. The DC can't be sure, but now he says it didn't feel like a shotgun."
We all smiled. "Is he an expert on how it feels to be bashed on the bonce with various tubular devices?" I wondered.
"I think I know what he means, with the emphasis on the think, but we can't take chances."
"Of course not," I said. "Have you seen Rodney?"
"Oh, yes, he keeps appearing at the window, brandishing what could be a gun, or a piece of pipe in a bag. There's a phone in there, but he won't answer it."
"So what's happening?"
"Nothing until we get some reinforcements. I've sent for a negotiator, too. Up to now we've just concentrated on housing him. Soon as I've a few more bodies I want the street clearing and some form of communications setting up. In the light of what you've told us I'd say we need the TFU, as well."
"What do the neighbours say about him?"
"That he's a bit simple. Lived with his mother until she died, now he's alone. He's a voluntary patient at North Bay House that's a psychiatric hospital on the edge of town. We've sent someone there to find out if he has a doctor or anyone who can come and talk to him."
"Do you mind if I ring him?" I asked.
"Be my guest." He dictated the number and in a few seconds I was listening to the ringing tone, but he didn't answer.
I turned to Nigel. "Fancy a burger?"
"We passed a place down the road," he replied.
"Mind if we leave you at it?" I asked the local man. "You know where we'll be."
We lingered over the burgers. I rang Annabelle to tell her where I was in case I was delayed, although I was determined not to be, but she wasn't answering, either. We had a couple of hours at the scene of the siege and briefly saw Rodney at a window, brandishing his weapon, whatever it was. A superintendent took charge of proceedings and used a loud-hailer to no avail. I tried on the mobile again, with similar lack of success. Rodney was deaf to our efforts. Unsmiling policemen from the tactical firearms unit, in baseball caps with cheque red bands around them, took up positions in gardens and windows. They brandished their Heckler and Koch MP5s as if they were the latest fashion accessories. We had another cup pa at the burger house, which was rapidly becoming the siege canteen, and went for a last look at Rodney's neat little bungalow, with its pocket handkerchief lawn and plastic window boxes.
"Ah, there you are," the superintendent said, when he saw us. "This is Dr… he stumbled over a name with too many syllables it sounded like 'ram in a woolly jumper' to me, '… who is Allen's pychiatrist at North Bay House."
I shook hands with a plump grey-haired lady who wore a fur coat over pantaloons. "How do you do, Doctor," I said, wondering if the fur was fake, deciding it wasn't. We sat in her car and I told her what I understood about the post mortem on Rodney's mother, about the malpractice charges and Dr. Jordan's subsequent murder.
When I'd finished Nigel asked: "What exactly are Rodney's problems, Doctor?"
She chose her words carefully. "Exactly is not an expression we recognise in psychiatry," she replied. "Rodney came to us for the first time after the death of his mother. He had a morbid fascination for her, possibly brought on by dwelling on the details of the post mortem. He suffers from anxiety, panic attacks and depression. There may be incipient schizophrenia. He has not been sectioned and we do not regard him as violent in any way. He comes to us on a voluntary basis, usually as an out-patient, at the recommendation of his GP. Most of the time he gets by in the community, which is as much as we can hope for, these days. We take him in if we can, when things are getting too much, but generally speaking we don't have room for him and he is quite capable of existing by his own resources."
"Would you say he was capable of shooting the doctor?" I asked. No point in beating about the cabbage patch.
"No more than you or I, Inspector," she replied, which wasn't very helpful but made a lot of sense.
Nigel said: "Has he sufficient nous to travel to Heckley by public transport?"
"Oh, yes. He has certain difficulties, what you might call being slow, but can function normally in society. He's sick, not stupid."
She started her car engine and set the blower on maximum to clear the condensation. The lenses in her spectacles were thick enough to start a forest fire on an overcast day. It was dark outside, and flakes of sleet slid down the windows. A floodlight illuminated the outside of the bungalow.
"When did you last see Rodney?" I asked.
"New Year's Day," she replied, without hesitation.
"You were open New Year's day?" I queried.
"We're not a corner shop, Inspector," she admonished. "We are there for the benefit of our patients. Holiday times can be particularly stressful for them."
"And the rest of us," I sighed.
"Actually," she said, 'we do not have out-patients at holiday times, but sometimes we have vacancies and can take certain vulnerable cases in for a few days. We felt Rodney fell into that category."
Why did Nigel shuffle uncomfortably in his seat? Why did I suddenly wish I was somewhere else, like having a prostate biopsy?
"He was with you for a few days?" I said.
"Yes. Some of our regulars went home to their families for Christmas, which meant we had some spare beds. There are many temptations and pressures for someone like Rodney at Christmas, so we felt it desirable to keep him with us."
"Temptations like alcohol?" Nigel wondered.
"Alcohol and loneliness are a potent combination," she replied.
"So how long was he with you?" I asked.
"Ten days."
I couldn't do the sums. "The doctor was killed on the twenty-third," I told her, 'at eight thirty in the evening. Was Rodney Allen an in-patient at North Bay at that time?"
"He came in during the afternoon of the twenty-second, Inspector," she replied. "The following evening the day before Christmas Eve we had our party. Rodney earned everybody's displeasure by hogging the karaoke machine. If that is when the doctor was murdered then I can assure you it wasn't Rodney who pulled the trigger. I'm afraid you've had a wasted journey."
I told the superintendent that Rodney had been given an alibi and thanked him for his cooperation. Before the enormity of my words registered in his brain we were in the car and driving away. As we pulled on to the main road an ARV and a van load of the heavy mob sped in the opposite direction. When they'd vanished from my rear-view mirror I slapped my thigh and declared: "Well, that's nicely cocked-up their overtime budget!"
Nigel laughed. "I'm just grateful that you were with me," he said. "It goes on your record, not mine."
"Think positive," I said. "It's another suspect we can draw a line through eliminate from enquiries, as they say. And it's probably the best bit of excitement they've had since the candy floss stall was condemned by the health inspector. We're asking all the right questions — it's just a pity that we're asking them in the wrong order."
As we headed inland the sleet turned to rain. There was no moon and the night was blacker than the bottom of a gipsy's chip pan. I was surprised how much commuter traffic was heading east, towards the coast, a pre-dinner sherry and the little woman. Nigel fiddled with the radio and found a country music station. A cracked voice was wailing: "I left you tied to the hitching rail and my best friend rode you awayee…"
"Do you think that's meant to be a metaphor?" he asked, pressing the off button.
"What's a metaphor?" I mumbled, squinting against the glare of headlights. I was thinking about Rodney, and North Bay House. Did his trustees pay his bills when he was admitted? It sounded to me as if they had a few vacancies over Christmas, so they rounded up their regular reserves to fill them. I'm paid to have a suspicious mind.
"Why," I wondered aloud, 'did Mrs. Allen have her operation in Heckley when she'd already moved to Scarborough?"
"Waiting lists," Nigel explained. "She'd probably been on the General's waiting list for about two years."
"Of course. Thank you."
This side of York, heading towards the A1, I swung into a lay by and hit the brakes. "I'd better ring Annabelle, I'm running late," I explained, reaching into the back for the telephone, in the pocket of my down jacket. I pressed the last number recall button and held the phone to my ear.
"WHAT YOU WANT?" a voice boomed at me. A male voice, close to hysteria. "Why not you leave me alone?"
I jerked back in my seat and stared at the instrument. "It's him!" I hissed. "It's him!" The last number I'd dialled hadn't been Annabelle, it had been Rodney!