We took him to the charge office, read him his rights under PACE and showed him the menu. Our natty paper suits do not come in a full range of sizes, and the one that fitted his shoulders was rather long for him. The crutch was level with his knees and the legs were concertinaed around his ankles. All part of the dehumanising process, of course, but sometimes it doesn't bother me a bit. As soon as he was settled in we left.
As we walked out of the headquarters Sparky thumped me on the upper arm and said: "Well done, Squire! Bloody brilliant."
I rubbed my arm. "You don't know your own strength," I complained. As we'd missed the Saturday morning remand court we'd have to keep Buxton until he could appear before a magistrate on Monday, and not 'tomorrow', as I'd told him during the interview. It would give him another twenty-four hours to reflect on his misspent youth. I drove us both back to Heckley nick.
"I'll sort out the remand file in the morning, if you don't mind,"
Sparky said as he unbuckled his seat belt. "I promised to take Daniel to the match, if we got done early enough."
"I've nothing on," I told him. "I'll pop upstairs and do it myself. It won't take long."
"Come on, then. We'll both do it."
"What about the match?"
"We've plenty of time. Why don't you come with us? I could ring Shirley, arrange for an extra place for dinner."
I considered his offer for two milliseconds, nodded and said: "Mmm, thanks, that'll be nice. Let's go upstairs and sign Mr. Buxton's card for him, then."
There was a big white envelope on my desk, where I couldn't miss it.
Inside I found a resealable plastic bag containing a catalogue for Magic Plastics 'filled with all those essential things you've been waiting for someone to invent." I put it where I wouldn't forget it and turned my mind back to Darryl Buxton.
You can work fast when the office is empty and free from distractions.
Dave typed and I dictated. The Crown Prosecution Service are interested in two main areas: evidence and public interest. The former didn't look too convincing in print, so we laid it on thick about the risk to the female population.
"That should do it," Sparky said, tapping in the final full stop. Now it was up to the CPS prosecutor.
I asked him to ring Maggie before we left, so she could inform Mrs.
Saunders of the latest developments, and then we drove in convoy to Dave's house.
As we arrived, I was surprised to see young Sophie with a team scarf around her neck. She'd changed her mind and decided to come along at the very last moment. Thanks, Sophie, I thought.
We won, four-nil, and celebrated with pints of shandy in the pub outside the ground. Dinner had been postponed until after the match, and Shirley had put in an extra Yorkshire pudding for me. Whisper it softly, but her puddings are better than my mum's were.
Dave washed, I dried and Shirley put them away. "Are you taking Annabelle anywhere tonight?" Shirley asked.
"Er, no," I replied, passing a dish back to Dave with a terse, 'rejected."
He examined it and gave it another scrub. "Tell yo what," he said, 'why don't we all go to the Eagle tomorrow, for lunch? We'll get in if I give them a ring."
"That's a good idea," Shirley agreed. "Will you and Annabelle be able to make it?"
"No," I mumbled. "We'veer something on."
"Oh, what a pity," she said. "Are you going anywhere special?"
"Yes."
There was an uncomfortable silence. I started on the cutlery as Sparky emptied the bowl and reached for the first pan.
"The kids ought to be doing this," Shirley said.
"We're too soft with them," Sparky concurred.
"Leave them alone," I protested. As their uncle-by-proxy, it's my role to defend them.
"Now I know why Dave's hands are always so soft," I told her.
"No, his head's just as soft," she responded. "Annabelle loaned Sophie some books," she went on. "I'll find them, so you can return them, otherwise they'll be forgotten."
"It doesn't matter," I replied.
"Oops, how did that escape," Sparky said, finding a plate in the bottom of the bowl and passing it to me.
"Of course it matters," Shirley continued. "They look expensive. And tell Annabelle: "Thank you," when you see her. As well as having a crush on you, I think poor Sophie has one on Annabelle, too. I'm not sure which I disapprove of more."
One fib you can get away with. Any more and you start to build a house of cards. That's how we catch crooks.
"I won't be seeing her," I replied. Before they could comment I went on: "Truth is, Annabelle and I have finished. We're not together any more." I carefully dried the Denby plate I was holding and offered it to Shirley. She didn't attempt to take it.
Dave's hands stopped swishing about in the sink. "Sorry, Chas," he mumbled. "I didn't know."
"Finished?" Shirley repeated, eyes wide. "Finished? You and Annabelle?"
"Yep," I managed to say, biting my lip.
"Oh, Charlie," Shirley began. "I'm so sorry. I thought… I thought you and Annabelle were… I don't know, you just seemed so right together. You must be devastated."
"I'll get over it," I said, gently placing the plate on the work surface before I dropped it. More lies.
Shirley put her hand on my arm. "I'm sorry, love," she said. "I…
I'm sorry. Are you sure it's, you know, final?"
"Yep," I said.
"Oh, I am sorry. Well, you know where to come if you want to talk about it."
Sunday I dedicated to housework. My parents had lived in this house, but I'd be in big trouble if they could see it now. Decorating it myself was out of the question. I'd ask around, see if I could find anyone who did a good job, cheap. I vandalised all the cobwebs, consigned various books and ornaments to a box destined for Help the Aged and gave the place a thorough hoovering. It was a big improvement. I found several items that belonged to Annabelle: a bottle of Mitsouko; her hiking socks; toothbrush; that sort of thing. I dropped them in a carrier bag and went out to the dustbin, then changed my mind and stuffed it to the back of a cupboard.
Later, I showered and had a can of lager. The Magic Plastic catalogue was on the coffee table, with the squash club membership list, alongside my favourite chair. I made a mug of tea, found my place near the middle of the list, and resumed plodding through the names.
My finger was on Davis, James Ashley, when I realised that my brain hadn't registered a thing for God knows how long. I folded the pages, put them to one side and went to bed. I never looked at the Magic Plastic catalogue.
I'd run out of shirts again. Ever since Mrs. Tait returned from her daughter's I'd been struggling to re-establish my routine for taking them round to her for ironing. I found the denim Wrangler with the mother-of-pearl studs and pulled that on. No doubt Mr. Wood would make his usual comment about me looking like Jesse James, so I wriggled into the tightest pair of jeans I could find, just to irk him. I can be a real mean hombre, at times. One day, I promised myself, I'd buy a pair of snakeskin boots with high heels and silver buckles. As I was leaving home I saw the theatre tickets behind the clock and put them in my inside pocket. Nigel might have a use for them.
The good news that Monday morning was that Darryl Buxton appeared before a stipendiary magistrate, charged with rape. It's an indictable offence, which means it has to be dealt with by the crown court the appearance in front of the mags is just to set the wheels in motion.
Mr. Turner asked for bail but wasted his time. Darryl was remanded in custody and the trial bounced straight to the higher court. Round one to us.
Maggie followed me into my office and told me that she'd seen Mrs.
Saunders over the weekend and put her straight.
"Fair enough," I said. "And now you can tell her that Buxton is in custody and start preparing her to give evidence. It'll be a worrying few months for her. Do you think she's up to it?"
"Would it matter much if she cracked up on the stand?" Maggie asked, by way of an answer.
"No, I don't suppose it would. But I don't send my witnesses out with the intention that they'll go to pieces. I'm quite content for them to answer questions in a controlled manner."
Maggie looked contrite. "Sorry, Boss," she replied. "I think maybe I'm cracking up myself, lately."
"It's overwork, Maggie," I said, adding: "That catalogue came from Magic Plastic, by the way. Thanks for that."
"Oh, good. What do you want it for?"
I pulled a face and sighed. "I don't know," I admitted. "Something's gnawing away inside my head, but I can't put my finger on it."
"The good old intuition."
"I don't believe in intuition."
"You say you don't."
"Maybe. After you've seen Mrs. Saunders I'd like you to go through the list of Darryl's other victims. Interview them all, see who might take the stand."
"Great," she replied.
"I want you to mother this one, Maggie," I continued. "Fax the other divisions; ask them about unsolved rapes and murders, particularly indoor ones and any that have produced DNA samples. Tell them we have a possible candidate. If he's as much as wagged his willy in Stanley Park I want him for it."
"Super," she replied, beaming.
"And tomorrow," I told her, with my wicked est smile, 'you can come back on the doctor's case."
Nigel was jumping round the office like a squirrel in a wheel. One second he was on the computer, then the phone, and next he'd be maniacally thumbing through the telephone directory.
"Not yet," he hissed at me, covering the mouthpiece, when I asked him what he was on with.
At half past five, just as I was planning to leave, he burst into my office with a "Ta Da!" and a two-fisted salute. "Barraclough!" he announced. "I've got him!"
I placed the cap on my pen, closed the pad I was using, pushed it away and leaned back against the wall. "What's he done?" I asked.
"I'll tell you what he hasn't done," Nigel declared. "He hasn't passed any medical exams. He's a fraud."
"Really!" I exclaimed, dropping my chair on to all four legs. "You mean… he's posing as a doctor?"
"Well, not quite. I've just been talking to wait for it the San Bernadino Faculty of Transcendental Philosophy and Tantric Learning, in California."
"It had to be," I interjected.
"Right. And that's where his doctorate is from. I've run up a heck of a phone bill, by the way."
"Don't worry, we'll deduct it from your salary. Maybe that's what he does at the clinic, this transcendental stuff. He doesn't practise medicine, does he?"
"He's called the medical director. He flunked his first year medical exams at Leeds University and dropped out. It'd be interesting to know what he put on his CV and application form, don't you think? Maybe Dr. Jordan rumbled him."
"And was killed for his trouble? It's worth knowing Nigel, well done, but I'm not sure if it's a good enough motive. And don't forget he has a cast-iron alibi. Let him know you know, and use it to prise information about the abortions out of him. That's our best avenue, I think."
"I'm sure you're right, but I can't wait to see his face."
None of the pubs do meals so early in the evening, so I went to the cafe over the road and had tomato soup, gammon and pineapple, blackberry crumble with custard and a pot of tea. I took my time over it, preferring watching real people go about their mundane activities to watching second-rate television at home. I was about to ask for a refill when the old gimmer at the next table lit his pipe, so I decided to leave. As I reached inside my jacket for my wallet I found the tickets for Romeo and Juliet.
I walked back into the station yard, where my car was, and stood there, indecisive, wondering what to do. I'd already been accused once of approaching a witness with a view to obtaining sexual favours; would I be tempting fate?
The performance started in fifty minutes. Sod 'em all, I thought, and marched back into the nick.
Her number was in my book and she answered her phone almost straight away. "Is that Mrs. Henderson?" I asked.
"Yes, it is. Who's speaking?"
"Hello, Cicely. It's Detective Inspector Charlie Priest, from Heckley CID. Do you remember me? I met you at the clinic' "Hello, Inspector," she replied, warmly. "Of course I remember you.
How can I help?"
"It's Charlie," I told her. "Please, call me Charlie. Actually, it's not business, it's a personal call…"
I told her that I'd been left with these tickets for Romeo and Juliet and forgotten all about them until just now and I was still in my working clothes because I hadn't had time to go home and change and hoped she wouldn't get the wrong impression but I'd intended giving her a ring when this whole thing was over and I realised it was very short notice and if she'd prefer to go with a friend she could have the tickets but it was a shame to waste them because it was a good production and…
She said she'd love to accompany me, and could be ready in twenty minutes.
I found the emergency razor and toothbrush in my bottom drawer and made a hasty toilet in the office loos. Somebody had been there before me and left a bottle of aftershave, so I used it liberally, including large dollops in my shoes, like Jon Voight in Midnight Cowboy. I tipped myself a wink in the mirror and left.
Cicely looked good. Fantastic, in fact. Not my type, with her heavy make-up, tight-back hair and impossible heels, but I'd have looked twice. Any man would. I imagined her doing the flamenco by the light of a campfire, stomping her sturdy legs, arms aloft, as she danced passionate tales of old Iberia.
It was drizzling, so I dropped her off at the Playhouse entrance and went to park the car. I dashed into the foyer as they gave the two-minute warning and brushed my wet hair out of my eyes. "You look stunning," I told her. She'd taken her coat off and was wearing a blue suit, with a black polo-necked blouse and black tights. Her hair wasn't black all the way to the roots, but nature sometimes needs a little help.
"You don't look bad yourself," she replied, with a smile that I took to have a trace of disapproval in it. I imagined she liked her men in suits.
"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 apalling 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 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 un popped 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 knife point 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 tea bags into the now-empty jar. I stuck a label on it reading: 'used tea bags 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.
"Heckley Squash Club," said a male voice.
"It's DI Charlie Priest," I told him. "I got the membership list.
Thank you. This girl that the doctor played the mixed doubles with I don't suppose you've remembered her name?"
"Oh, hello, Mr. Priest. No, sorry. I've tried to remember, but my mind's a blank."
"Never mind. You also told me that they played the first round of the mixed doubles competition with one of your regular members and his wife. Have you asked them if they can remember her name?"
"No, sorry," he replied. "Paul and Tricia, we're talking about. They go away for Christmas, every year. Have a place in Spain. I'd forgotten. They're back now, I'm told, so I'll ask Paul when I see him. He'll be in tomorrow, probably."
"Don't bother. Just tell me his second name and I'll ring him."
"It's Duffy. Paul Duffy."
I found him on the list and rang his number. I was rewarded with a long buzzing noise his phone had been cut off. I rang the control room on the internal and asked them to do a person check on Paul Duffy. He was on our files, with a conviction for receiving, dated 1987, and was currently banned from driving for being OPL. Tricia Duffy had been cautioned for perjury, again in 1987. The loving wife sticking up for her bent hubby. I decided that the personal approach was called for.
"You're in charge," I told the sergeant at the front desk. "Give me a ring if you need me."
"Where are you going?"
"Door to door."
"It's hissing down outside," he replied.
"Oh. Can I borrow a coat, then?"
He found a waterproof jacket for me and handed it across the counter. I ran to the car with it over my head.
It was a smart house, built from local stone on a hillside. The drive was steep and the gates were closed, so I had to park on the road. I pulled the coat on and slogged up the drive, feet squelching. Mrs.
Duffy answered the door.
She was average height and comfortably plump. She wore a lilac jogging suit adorned with sequins, and several gold chains, worn on top to remind her of what she'd achieved every time she looked in a mirror.
Nouveau riche or market trader; I wasn't sure which. She had the best tan I'd seen in ages. I showed her my ID and she tilted her head back as she inspected it, looking through the bottoms of her spectacles, where the tint was lighter. It said Police on the breast of the waterproof I was wearing, just to confirm my origins.
"Is Mr. Duffy in?" I asked, after introducing myself.
The man himself appeared almost immediately, as if he'd been waiting.
Maybe they saw me approach.
"I'm Duffy," he said. "How can I help you?" He was big and bronzed, with a huge gut and a respectable handlebar moustache.
"I'd like to ask you a few questions," I replied, 'about Heckley Squash Club. Do you think I could come in?"
"Of course. Come in, Inspector," he gushed. And why not? He'd nothing to worry about. He'd been out of the country for a month, hadn't he? "Let's have you out of this stinking weather. Bloody rotten climate. Take your coat off."
"Your phone doesn't work," I explained as Tricia Duffy took the dripping coat from me. A large bag of Ping golf clubs stood in the hallway.
"Bloody thing's cut off!" he exclaimed. "I don't know what this country's coming to. We've been to our place in Portugal for a month and that's what you find when you come home. Going to the dogs, we are. Saturday at the airport every face you saw was one of our Commonwealth cousins. Why do we let them in, eh? Bloody taking over, that's what they're doing. I'm telling you, Inspector, as soon as I sort out a few things I'm moving over there, for good. You can keep this place. Have a seat."
And then you'll be an immigrant, too, just like them, I thought.
They hadn't heard about the doctor's murder, and were suitably saddened. "How well did you know him?" I asked.
Duffy shrugged. "Reasonably well, I'd say, but just to have a drink and a laugh, in the bar. He was a good sort. Everybody liked him." He considered this last remark, then added: "Well, somebody didn't."
"Any thoughts who?"
"No. No idea." He pondered for a few seconds. "I know it's the done thing to say kind words about somebody after they've died," he continued, 'but I'm not bullshitting when I say that the doc was one of the nicest people I've ever met. Not that I knew him all that well, of course, but I always thought of him as a gentleman. A good old old-fashioned gentleman."
"You're not the first to tell us that. If you don't mind me saying," I went on, 'you look rather, er, large for a squash player."
He laughed and patted his belly. "They can't get round me. But you're right. I only do it for some exercise. Golfs my game."
"And you, Mrs. Duffy?"
He answered for her. "Golfs her game, too. Isn't it, darling? She's the ladies' captain next year."
"Really. Well done. And how did you find the doctor, Mrs. Duffy?"
She smiled at the memory of him. "He was dishy," she said. "I only met him twice, but he could have taken my pulse, anytime."
"I'll tell you what he was like," Duffy informed us, emphasising his point with a raised hand. "This was bloody typical of the man. When we played him and that girl. You remember, don't you, Trish?"
"I'll say. I completely went to pieces."
"This girl," Duffy explained. "Her partner didn't show up. She was upset. The doc started chatting to her, ended up partnering her, against us. He'd no need to do that, had he? Bloody beat us, too."
"That's what I've come to ask you about," I admitted. "The manager told me about it. I don't suppose you remember the girl's name, do you?"
They both looked blank. She shook her head. He said: "No. Sorry.
Ought to do, but it won't come."
"It was… just… an ordinary name," she said.
"Did you have a drink with them in the bar, afterwards?"
"Yes, we did."
"And how did he and the girl get on?"
"Very chatty," Mrs. Duffy replied. "Very chatty. But when I was alone with her we went to the ladies' — I said: "You've done all right there," and she said he wasn't her type. I expected her to be over the moon, I would have been, but her feet were well and truly on the ground."
"Would you have said that she was his type?"
"No, not at all. She was a plain Jane, and he was going out with her off the telly. Do you know about her?"
"Yes, I've talked to her." I suppressed the smile that the memory generated. "I assume the doc and the girl would have to meet again to play in the next round?" I said.
"That's right," Mr. Duffy confirmed. "They swapped phone numbers, and he told her what times he was most likely to be available. It was awkward for him, being a doctor and on call."
"I know the feeling," I said.
"We went to watch them," he went on. "Bugger me if they didn't win again. Got knocked out in the semi-final, though. She was thrilled to bits, I remember. Got a little trophy. I think that meant more to her than going out with the doctor would have done." He turned to his wife. "You missed that, didn't you, darling?"
"Yes," she confirmed. "I had one of my heads."
I nodded sympathetically. It must be terrible to have heads. "But you still can't remember the girl's name?"
They couldn't.
"OK," I said, 'in that case, we'll have a little identity parade." They looked worried. I'd taken the membership list with me. I unfolded it on the arm of the easy chair and pulled my notebook from my inside pocket. "I'm going to write four names down," I explained, 'from the list of members. If you recognise her name amongst them, I want you to point to it. Understand?"
I found three women's names and added them to the one I was interested in. "Just point, if you think you see her name," I told Duffy.
"That's her," he said, without hesitation, placing a fingertip on the second name down. "At least, it was something like that."
"Thanks. Now you, Mrs. Duffy."
I moved across to her and a wave of perfume hit the back of my throat like a karate chop. I swallowed and blinked away the tears.
"That's her," she said, touching the page with the tip of a nail extension that gave me a pain in my teeth. Writing on blackboards would have been hell for her.
"Are you sure?" I asked. She'd picked the same name as her spouse.
"Yes, definitely. That's her. Susan Crabtree."