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 to welling 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 ball on "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."
"And then?"
"And then we did it. She wouldn't wait any longer. She was desperate for it, I'm not kidding."
"Standing up in the shower?"
"Yeah."
"Isn't that dangerous? I'd have thought you'd fall over."
"Nah, course not. You lean on the wall, don't you."
"What, both of you?"
"Christ, 'aven't you ever 'ad it against a wall? She leans on the wall wiv 'er legs open and you do it to her; it's no different."
"A good old knee trembler!" I declared.
"Yeah, a knee trembler. In the shower. You got it."
I pursed my lips and thought about things. After a moment I said:
"Let's get this clear. I've led a sheltered life and it's all new to me. You're standing in the shower, both of you, covered in soap. You take her by the shoulders and gently lean her on the wall and… hey presto, you're away. Is that it?"
"Yeah, more or less."
"Didn't she protest?"
"Protest!" he echoed. "What about? She was begging for it. I leaned her on the wall and she couldn't wait for it inside her. She didn't do no protesting."
I worried about the double negative, but decided his meaning was clear.
"None at all?" I asked.
"None," he assured us, adding, "She was desperate for it."
"Did it take long?" I wondered.
"No," he admitted, grinning modestly. "We was boaf a bit too eager."
"So was she disappointed?"
"Nah, not a bit. But I like to give satisfaction, if you know what I mean. Well, we all do, don't we? We got dried and I took her in the bedroom and we did it again, on the bed. This time I waited for her.
She lapped it up, I'm telling you."
"Sounds fun," I said, nodding appreciatively. I turned to Sparky, who'd pushed his chair back from the table. "What do you think?"
He leaned forward. "A fair f- f- f-, a fairer very fair, I'd say," he replied.
I allowed myself a little laugh. "Have you ever had it in the shower?"
I asked him.
"No," he replied. "I'm strictly under the blankets, with the lights off."
"Do you talk to your wife while you're doing it?"
"It'd be difficult. We have separate bedrooms."
This time Darryl joined in with my laugh, and even Mr. Turner allowed himself a little smile.
"Well," I said, "I reckon that just about concludes it. We'll let you have a copy of the tape and video, Mr. Turner, and a transcript. Can you think of anything else, Dave?"
"The tattoo," he replied. "Don't forget the tattoo."
"God, the tattoo!" I exclaimed, bashing a palm against my head. "It'd completely slipped my mind." I opened my notebook and thumbed the pages, first in one direction, then the other. "Here we are," I said, flattening the pages. "Do you, Darryl, have a large tattoo on your back?"
Turner looked at him and raised a hand before Darryl could answer. "I think I'd like to consult my client in private," he said.
I nodded my approval, "No problem," and slid my chair back.
"I ain't got no fuckin' tattoo," Darryl blurted out. "Tattoos is for fuckin' weirdos."
"Maybe we should have a talk," Turner said.
"It's OK, Mr. Turner," Darryl assured him. "I ain't got no tattoos."
I turned to Turner. "Nasty case," I said, grimacing. "Another rape.
We have to ask, I'm sure you understand. The chap who did it the woman said he had this big tattoo on his back. Apparently she had mirrors on her ceiling, and he didn't realise." I consulted my notebook.
"According to her, it was a mural of someone called… Bart Simpson, riding a Harley Davidson motorbike. Does that mean anything to you, Darryl?"
"Bart fuckin' Simpson," he scoffed. "Get real."
"Should I know who he is?"
"He's a cartoon character, Boss," Sparky informed us.
"Right. And you don't have a likeness of him reproduced anywhere on your torso, Darryl?"
"No."
"Fair enough, but to eliminate you from enquiries I have to confirm it.
Unfortunately your word is not enough. With Mr. Turner's approval, would you be good enough to remove your shirt?"
Turner shrugged, Darryl stood up and slipped his jacket off. He unfastened his tie and started unbuttoning his shirt, determined to prove his innocence of this one. His stumpy fingers had problems with his cuffs, but in a few moments the shirt was draped over the back of his chair. He turned round and flexed his muscles.
"Let's have you on film," I said, looking at Martin. Darryl held the pose as Martin checked the viewfinder. He nodded at me and I said:
"That's fine, thank you."
Darryl relaxed and turned back to us, rotating his shoulders as he reached for his shirt, obviously pleased with his performance. He was well built, but turning to fat. His shoulders were overdeveloped and the muscles on his neck could have buttressed a small cathedral. His shape reminded me of one or two Olympic athletes who fell foul of the drug testing procedures.
"Just a moment, please," I said as he lifted his shirt from the chair.
He paused as I got to my feet and let the shirt fall from his fingers.
I approached him, flapping my hands like a novice curate addressing his flock.
"This… sex in the shower thing," I said. "I'm still a bit baffled as to how you did it." I stepped past him and gestured to the wall of the cell we were using. "Just… stand here a moment, please, if you don't mind." He moved to where I'd indicated, looking uneasy. Turner's chair scraped on the floor but he made no objection.
I moved forward until I was standing almost toe-to-toe with Buxton.
"Let's just say," I suggested, 'that you are her and I'm you." He looked wary, his cockiness rapidly evaporating, but didn't protest. I raised my hands and held them palms towards him, but not quite touching. Touching is deemed an assault. "Now… you said… that you leaned her back against the wall…" I shuffled forward until I could smell last night's beer on his breath and see the wrinkles of skin through the stubble on top of his head. I inched my palms towards him and he leaned backwards against the ancient glazed tiles of the Bridewell.
"Whaa!" he exclaimed, jerking upright.
"What's the matter?"
"It's fucking freezing!"
"Just lean back again," I insisted.
He tried again, flinched and stepped forward.
"OK," I told him. "That'll be enough. It looks as if I'll never know how to do it against a wall." I passed him his shirt and sat down. We watched him refasten the buttons and stuff the flaps into his trousers.
When he was back in his seat I said: "You're a big lad. You obviously work out."
"Yeah," he agreed. "Now and again."
"At a gym?"
"Yeah."
"Which one?"
"It's in Manchester."
"I see. We had a gym in Heckley, once. A good one. Unfortunately the proprietor killed someone." I paused, studying his face, then added:
"I put him away for life."
Turner shuffled and said: "Is any of this relevant, Inspector? I've other places to be and I'd be grateful if we could bring this interview to a conclusion. My client has fully and satisfactorily replied to your questions and I suggest that there is therefore no case to answer to."
"He was on steroids," I continued. "He killed two people in a fit of 'roid rage. Are you taking steroids, Darryl?"
His mouth was set in an expression of hate, his head lowered, eyes fixed on mine. "No," he said.
"Not ever? You've never been offered any at the gym?"
"No."
"You've never done any… stacking, I believe it's called?"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Pity," I told him. "Nowadays it can be used in mitigation. I don't know if it makes any difference, but it gives the defence something to pontificate about. We're not letting you go, Darryl. I want you charged with the rape of Janet Saunders and in front of a magistrate tomorrow morning. We'll be opposing bail."
"This is preposterous," Mr. Turner protested. "On what grounds can you do this? My client has made it clear what happened. At the previous interview he told you that Mrs. Saunders became hostile when he tried to leave and demanded money. She has a reputation in her locality for being a woman of some sexual experience."
"Some sexual experience!" I gasped. "And what about his reputation?"
"If my client has any sort of reputation it is inadmissible as evidence."
"But hers isn't?"
"No."
"Does that strike you as fair?"
"It's the law. Fairness doesn't enter into it."
"Mrs. Saunders says Buxton raped her, at knife point "And he says she consented. I suggest you release my client and pass the file to the CPS for their consideration. I can safely say that they will not entertain it. The words "wasting time" might appear somewhere on their response."
I was in my shirt sleeves, my jacket draped over the back of the chair.
I half turned and retrieved the Wetherton package from a pocket.
"This," I said, unwrapping the contents and holding it towards Buxton, 'is a digital thermometer. You switch it on… here, and press this end against whatever it is you want to know the temperature of, like this." I held the probe end against the palm of my hand and offered the instrument so his solicitor could read the liquid crystal display.
"Could you please tell us what that says, Mr. Turner?" I asked.
"No," he said. "I don't wish to take part in this charade."
"Read that, DC Sparkington," I said.
"Thirty-six point… something," he replied.
"That's degrees centigrade," I told them, 'which is blood heat, near enough. That's how you check the thermometer. I am now going to take a reading from the wall where Darryl leaned a few minutes ago. Would all those present like to come and check this?"
Sparky stood and moved round the table but Turner and Buxton remained glued to their seats. I nodded to Martin to join us. I pressed the probe against the tiles and waited for the numbers to settle.
"What does it say?" I asked.
"Twenty-one degrees," Martin informed us.
"Yep, twenty-one," Sparky confirmed.
We resumed our places. "You used to be a bailiff, a repo man, I believe," I said to Darryl. He didn't answer.
"You have to be able to handle yourself in a job like that," I continued. "Fancy yourself as a tough guy, do you?"
He glowered at me, his top lip distorted and his forehead shiny with sweat, but stayed silent.
"Perhaps you just don't like the cold," I suggested.
"You're a hothouse plant. I'm not. There's nothing I like better than to be out on the moors on a frosty morning with the wind whistling round my ears and the air like champagne." I did an exaggerated breathe-in and exhaled with a sigh. "Yesterday morning… I visited Mrs. Saunders' home. I went upstairs to the bathroom, where you claim intercourse took place. I removed my shirt and stood in the bath, right where you say you did. I leaned back against the wall. Your actual words, a few seconds ago, were: "It's fucking freezing." You were dead right. Her bathroom wall was fucking freezing. It was cold enough to freeze the balls off a… pawnbroker's sign. I couldn't lean on it for two seconds. So, I took out my faithful friend here." I tapped the thermometer. "And measured the temperature. It was eighteen degrees, a full three degrees centigrade lower than the wall in this room. Your story is a pack of lies, Buxton. Sex in the shower is one of your pathetic fantasies. In the North of England, in winter, in an unheated bathroom, it's strictly for masochists."
"Inspector," his brief, Turner, began, raising a conciliatory hand.
"All this is rather far-fetched. What happens in the clinical conditions of this interview room cannot be compared with the high passions that were running that night. The cocktail of lust and alcohol that both parties were under the influence of would surely overcome any chilliness of the tiles in her bathroom, don't you agree?"
"Mrs. Saunders doesn't drink," I said. "But your client was no doubt under the influence of alcohol, and probably anabolic steroids, too. A simple drugs test will show that. Meanwhile, we'll let a jury decide about the anaesthetising effects of "high passion", as you called it. I want him in court, and when he is, we'll play it clever, like you usually do. For a start, there'll be women on the jury. We'll make sure that there's an overnight adjournment between them hearing our evidence and retiring. And do you know what they'll do, every one of them, when they are at home or in the hotel? They'll all stand in their showers, stark naked, and lean on the wall. Just like you will, tonight, Mr. Turner. And that's when they'll make their decisions." I leaned back, flicking my notebook closed.
Sparky said: "And then there's all the other women you've attacked.
We'll call them, just for indentification purposes, of course. "Is this the man you knew as Darryl Burton?" "And when did you last see him?" That sort of thing."
"You can't do that!" Turner protested. "It's inadmissible."
"We'll get round it," I told him. "When they learn that your client is probably going away for a long time one or two might be willing for CPS to re-start their cases. Young Samantha Teague might press charges.
The phrase I'm wanting to hear from the judge's lips is the one about being put away until no longer a danger to women." I turned to Sparky.
"How old do you reckon that is, Dave? About seventy?"
"God, older than that, I hope," he replied. "Charlie Chaplin put their Oona in the family way when he was about ninety."
"A long time, anyway."
"You can say that again."
"Anything else?" I asked.
Sparky shook his head.
"Mr. Turner?"
"Not at the moment, except to confirm that we will be strenuously denying these charges and protesting about the way the evidence of this morning was obtained."
"Buxton?"
He glared at me, one corner of his mouth pulling in uncontrolled twitches towards his ear. "I'll get you, you bastard!" he hissed.
Turner slapped a hand on his arm to silence him.
"We'll take that as a negative," I said. "Interview terminated at… twelve forty-seven p.m."