The snow had vanished but I was grateful for my big jacket. Science has failed to improve on the properties of good quality duck down. Or wool and cotton, come to that. Polyester is OK for ties gravy stains wipe straight off. Maggie was wearing a smart suit with trousers and a raincoat.
Homes 4U were in a single-fronted shop on the edge of the town centre, where rents are cheaper. There was an alley alongside, so I drove down the back street and saw his silver Mondeo parked in a tiny yard with a big notice on the wall that claimed the space for D. Buxton, Manager. I left my Vauxhall blocking him in and we walked through the alley to the front entrance.
The gum-chewing girl at the front desk had more rings through her facial features than a Masai dance troupe. Her bleached hair was dragged together and held by a rubber band, like a horse's tail sprouting from the side of her head. I'd heard Maggie call it the slag's cut. She can be very uncomplimentary about her sisters.
"Police," Maggie said. "Will you please tell Mr. Buxton that we'd like a word with him?"
The girl recovered quickly, sliding her magazine under the table and reaching for the telephone. "I'll, er, see if Mr. Buxton is in," she said.
"No, love," Maggie insisted, leaning over the desk. "You'll tell him we'd like a word with him."
I examined the notices on the walls. Several desirable properties were available for rental and DSS giros were only accepted with ID.
"There's two police people here to see you, Mr. Buxton," the girl was saying.
I smiled at her. "I've never been called a police person before," I said.
"He says he'll be down in a moment."
The moment dragged into three minutes and I was beginning to eye the stairs when he arrived, full of bluff cheeriness.
"Gentlemen — I mean officers!" he blustered, taken aback by Maggie's presence. "Sorry to keep you waiting. Spend 'alf my life on the old dog and bone, these days you know how it is. So what can I do for you?
Is it a problem with one of my tenants?"
He was exactly as I'd imagined him. I must be getting better at it.
"This is DC Madison and I'm DI Priest," I said. "From Heckley CID.
We'd like a word with you, in private."
The bonhomie slipped from his face. "Go do some shopping, Samantha," he told the girl, nodding towards the door. She grabbed her coat and scuttled out like a startled rabbit.
I dropped the latch and turned the sign to closed. Samantha was crossing the road, her thin white legs spanning the gap between miniskirt and Caterpillar boots like a pair of rugby goalposts. She reminded me of Popeye's girlfriend, Olive Oyl, but I doubted if she'd ever been extra virgin.
"Where were you on Christmas Day?" I demanded, turning back to face Buxton.
"Christmas Day?"
"Mmm. Only eight days ago. Turkey for dinner, Queen on the telly, if that helps."
"I was at my parents'. Why?"
"All day?"
"No. I left home about twelve, got there about one. Had lunch, stayed for tea. Got back to Heckley about eleven. I go see them every Christmas. What's this all about?"
"We're investigating a rape. What about the night before? Where were you on Christmas Eve?"
"Christmas Eve?"
"That's what I said."
"I went round a few pubs in the town. What of it?"
"Name me them."
"I don't know their names. They're just pubs. I 'aven't lived in Heckley all that long."
"Do you know the Tap and Spile?"
"Yeah. I know the Tap."
"Did you go there?"
"What if I did?"
"Do you know the barmaid there?"
"Janet? Yeah. I know Janet."
"How well do you know her?"
He gave a little cock-eyed smile, his lips pursed. "Very well," he said. "I fink I can say I know her very well."
"She says you followed her home and raped her at knife point Did you?"
"She said that?"
"Mmm."
"Janet?"
"Mmm."
"The cow! The friggin' little cow!"
"Are you denying it?"
"Course I'm friggin denying it! And I'm not saying anuvver word until I've spoken to my brief."
"Fair enough. We want to do a formal interview with you at Heckley nick. Ring your brief and tell him to be there, soon as pos."
"You bet I'll ring 'im. I'm sick o' this. You're not gonna pin this on me." He picked up the phone and tapped a number into it. Most of our clients have at least to consult their Filofaxes.
"Sick of what?" I asked, but he didn't answer.
"Simon, please," he said into the phone after a moment. "He's what?"
His face was a picture. "Well, who else is there?" He was quiet for a while, then told the listener that he was being hauled off to the station for a formal interview. "Some bird's saying I raped her," he told them, glancing up at me. "No, I'm not under arrest."
He ummmed and said: "Right," several times, his displeasure plain to see.
When he put the phone down I said: "Simon wouldn't be Simon Mingeles, would he?" We'd crossed paths before.
"Yeah, matter of fact he would."
"And he's not available?"
"No." He bit his lip. "He, er, went off for a fortnight's skiing, yesterday."
"How disappointing for you. And me, too. It's a long time since I met Simon. As a matter of fact one of our DCIs is away skiing at the moment. I don't suppose Mr. Mingeles has gone to the Cairngorms, has he?"
"No. Klosters."
"Yes, he would, wouldn't he? Ah, well, have you thought of trying Gareth Pierce? She specialises in defending the indefensible."
He looked confused. Gareth Pierce has that effect on me, too. "Mr. Turner's coming over," he said. "But he's told me not to go wiv you unless you arrest me." "What time is he coming?" I demanded. "Free o'clock."
Whatever happened to the the sound? I blame it on drinking too much cold lager. It paralyses the tongue. "OK," I said. "You be in the station at two thirty and we'll arrest you then. If we have to come for you I'll use it to have you remanded. Understand?"
He probably understood better than I did. "Right," he said.
In the car I said: "Sorry, Maggie. I know you'd like to have taken him in, but this way the clock doesn't start until the brief arrives. We'll play them at their own game."
"It's all right," she replied. "I guessed that was it. Do you want him in custody?"
"Not bothered."
We were on the High Street, waiting for the lights to change, when I said: "Presiley… Baxendale."
"Presiley Baxendale? What about her?"
"That's who I want defending me if ever I'm up before the court."
"Why her?"
"Dunno. It's just a nice name."
"You're starved of affection," she responded. "When does Annabelle come home?"
"Today. I'd like to meet her at Leeds station, if I can get away."
"What time?"
"I'm not sure. I'll give them a ring."
She'd come home via London, and trains from there arrived at regular intervals. She could have been on any one. If I missed her it would have meant her waiting for the connection to Huddersfield and then a taxi. She could have left a message on my ansa phone but she wouldn't expect me to collect her. That was one of the million little reasons that made me love her. There were some big reasons, too.
I tried ringing Rachel, but nobody was in. They were probably having a round of golf. Ah, well, back to work. I went to see the custody sergeant and told him about the prisoner I'd invited in to be arrested.
He heaved a big sigh and closed his eyes, as if in prayer.
They must have done some further colluding, because they arrived together. Turner was older than I expected and didn't look the type to be associated with Mingeles. Maybe he was the firm's last remnant of the old school. Buxton looked happy enough with him. When we were settled in the interview room I switched the tapes on and recited the caution. It was twenty minutes past three.
"Mr. Priest," Turner began. "My client strenuously denies these charges. We suggest that if you have any evidence then you present it so we can refute it. Otherwise, you must let him go. The word of a woman with a known reputation for sleeping around who is disappointed at my client's lack of commitment towards her is hardly grounds for making such serious allegations."
So that was it. Straight out with the big guns. Maggie's chin was resting on her arms, folded across her bosom. A muscle in her cheek was twitching.
"Tell me about Christmas Eve," I said.
"What's to tell?" Buxton replied. "I took her home and we had it away. That's all. She consented to everything that took place."
"Who do we mean by she?"
"Janet, the barmaid at the Tap and Spile."
"How well did you know her?" "Only to talk to, up to then." "What did you talk about?" I invited. He took a few breaths, sorting his thoughts, wondering how much he ought to say. Turner was sitting askew, facing him, rotating a pencil in his fingers, ready to pounce should Buxton overstep the mark and give too much away.
"We'd chatted, that's all. I could tell she fancied me, but, to tell the troof, she wasn't my sort. I knew she'd been about a bit…"
"How did you know that?" I asked. "It's common knowledge. The landlord of the Tap was knocking her off, for one."
I felt Maggie flinch. "Anybody else?" "Well, no, no one I could name." Turner chipped in with: "My client already said it was common knowledge, Inspector."
"We don't accept common knowledge in any court I've ever attended, Mr.
Turner," I told him, tersely. "Let's stay with the so-called facts, however fanciful. Go on, please." Buxton said: "I bought her a couple of drinks. Like I said, I didn't fancy her, but any port in a storm, eh? I'd had a few myself and she was getting better all the time. Know what I mean? So I asked her if she wanted a lift home." "And she accepted?"
"No, not exactly. She didn't want it to look obvious. She told me where she lived and said come down in a few minutes, so I did."
"Where did she say she lived?"
"Marsden Road, at the end. There was a light outside, she said."
"What number?"
"She didn't tell me no number."
"That's a bit odd, don't you think?"
Turner jumped straight in with: "It seems perfectly sensible to me, Inspector. The street light might be more easily located than the house number."
"Perhaps," I admitted. "We'll have it checked."
I sat back and looked at Maggie. She unfolded her arms and placed her fibre-tipped pen neatly on her pad. So far she hadn't written anything. "Tell us what happened when you got there," she said.
"What's to tell? We had it away, that's all. Twice."
"Twice?"
"Yeah," he smirked.
"Before that," Maggie said. "Didn't you have a coffee?"
"No, we didn't bovver."
"So what happened? You're not telling me that you and this woman you hardly knew simply took your clothes off and got on with it, are you?
There must have been some preliminaries."
"Yeah, well, just a few. We had a bit of a snog and suddenly she said she needed a shower. I asked her if she wanted her back scrubbing and she said: "Why not?" So we went upstairs and that's where we had it the first time."
"In the shower?" I asked.
"Yeah."
"How?"
"How? How dyer fink?"
"I'm asking you. Did you have it standing up or lying down? I'm a novice about these things."
"Standing up, of course."
"Against the wall?"
"Yeah."
"Isn't that uncomfortable?"
"Uncomfortable! "Course not."
We let the image solidify in our minds for a moment before Maggie took up the questioning again.
"So where did you have it the second time?" she asked.
"On the bed."
"On it or in it?"
"On top of it."
"Wasn't that a bit… wet?"
"No. We got dry first. We dried each other, then went to the bedroom.
One thing led to anuvver and we did it again. She was lapping it up, and I was past caring what she was like. It was bloody good."
"So you dried her and she dried you," Maggie stated.
"Yeah, that's right."
"One towel each or did you share it?"
"Er, one each, I fink."
Turner stopped twiddling his pencil.
"What colour were they?" Maggie asked.
"Inspector," Turner said, ignoring Maggie. "In a moment of such high passion I think it unlikely that any man would remember the colour of the towels, don't you agree?"
I ignored him and when his words had settled out of the air Maggie repeated the question. "What colour were the towels, Darryl?"
"White," Buxton said, defiantly. "They was white."
We tried to pin him down with other details, but it was like trying to lasso the clouds. Janet, he'd claimed, had asked him to stay the night with her. When he refused she wanted to know when he would see her again, and what his phone number was. He'd made it plain that this was just a one-night stand, whereupon she'd demanded money. Darryl, as we already guessed, had 'never paid for it in his life'.
Crying "Rape!" Turner told us, was the last resort of an unscrupulous rejected woman.
We bailed him to report back in twenty-eight days but we were only posturing. As we hadn't charged him we couldn't even apply conditions.
We suggested that it might be a good idea for him to stay away from Mrs. Saunders and the Tap and Spile and Turner nodded wisely. It wasn't much to offer Janet but it was the best we could do.
We watched them leave, Turner holding the door wide for his client, ushering him away to safety.
"The boss wants you," the custody sergeant said as he closed his book.
"Since when?"
"He rang down about an hour ago."
I looked up at the clock. "Is he still here?"
"Yep."
"Right. I'm on my way."
Maggie said: "What do you want me to tell Janet, Boss?"
"The truth?" I suggested, after a few seconds' thought. "But break it gently. Tomorrow will do, Maggie. Have a think about it overnight."
The superintendent was up to his elbows in paperwork when I breezed into his office. "Just the man," he said. "What would you prefer: body armour for everyone; three police dogs; or new tyres on the pandas?"
"Decisions, decisions, decisions," I replied. "I wouldn't have your job for all the tea in Greenland."
He replaced the cap on his fountain pen. "I suppose that's why they pay me such vast amounts of money. So, how did it go?"
"Like trying to kill a pig by stuffing butter up its bum with a hot knitting needle."
"Slippery, eh?"
"Fraid so. He has us over a barrel and he knows it." I gave him the gist of the interview.
"In which case," Gilbert said, with that self-satisfied expression on his face that means he's found an easy way to break bad news, 'you should have some time on your hands."
"I wouldn't go that far. What is it?"
"Your friend Chief Superintendent Isles has been on the phone.
Apparently DCI Makinson has broken his leg while attempting a double-back flip-flop, with pike, and is now lying in Invercock-a-leekie hospital, tucking into copious supplies of grapes and chocolates sent to him by concerned colleagues. Isles wants you to take over the murder enquiry."
"Oh no!" I gasped, burying my head in my hands.
"I'm sorry, Charlie," Gilbert said, reaching across the desk and placing a sympathetic hand on my shoulder. "I didn't realise you and Makinson were so close."
"It should have been his bloody neck!" I hissed.
"Now now, Charlie. That's not a nice thing to say."
I sat back and blew my nose. "I don't need this, Gilbert," I said.
"And I definitely don't want it."
"Why not? You're my murder specialist. I'd have thought a nice little society killing like this would be a welcome change to an up-and-coming detective like you."
"I was up-and-coming when you were, Gilbert. About the same time as the Wright brothers. The trail's gone cold. We were up a gum tree with Skinner. I'd probably have come to the same conclusions as Makinson, but I like to think I'd have kept an open mind."
"And you wouldn't have gone gallivanting off on holiday in the middle of an enquiry."
"No? Well, maybe all that's changing. From now on I'm going to be a bit more like him."
"But not yet, eh?"
I scowled at him. "Can I use your phone?" Nigel was still in the office. I told him the news and asked him to organise a big meeting at City HQ for the following morning, with everybody there who'd been on the original enquiry. The first step towards becoming like Makinson was delegation.
"Great!" Nigel said. "Great! But it's a bit short notice, isn't it?"
"They've all got telephones, haven't they?" "Er, yes."
"Right, then."
Mr. Wood and I walked out of the building together At his car I said:
"Listen, Gilbert. This Darryl Buxton character might get away with this rape, but it's only a matter of time before he does something really bad. I want his prints and DNA on record. He does a lot of drinking around town I'dike to target him, if you've no objections." In theory, we can take DNA samples from anyone convicted of a reportable offence, but because of the cost we generally limit it to sex otienders, crimes of violence and maybe burglary If we could do Buxton for drink-driving we'd splash out for him Gilbert slammed the door and wound down the window What will you suggest next, Charlie?" he said "OK but make it swift and subtle. Don't forget he has some clever allies.
"Swift and subtle. I like that. Goodnight."
"Goodnight."
I was unlocking my car door as Gilbert drew alongside. "I fOrgOt to mention," he said through the Pen "Mmm."
"Makinson's leg. Apparently it's his fib ia and tibia. Just thought you'd like to know."
"I don't think it's amusing," I told him, but I couldn't help smiling as I said it.
Before driving off, I tried Annabelle's number, but she wasn't at home.
I knew that trains from London arrived at Leeds at about twenty to seven and twenty past; if I dashed straight over there I had a sporting chance of meeting her.
I missed the station turning and had to go on a city tour round the one-way system before I approached it again. This time I made it. The parking arrangements were obscure, but I eventually deduced that the first thirty minutes were free. I bought a platform ticket and ran down the steps. The 1839 had arrived, but Annabelle wasn't waiting for the Huddersfield connection. I rang her at home again, but she still wasn't there.
When my half hour was up I went out of the concourse and moved the car to a different space, to fool the attendant, if there was one.
Annabelle wasn't on the 1918, either. I rang her number and after two rings she picked up the phone.
"Ah, you're home," I said.
"Hello, Charles. This is a pleasant surprise. Yes, I came up on the ten to four from Kings Cross."
"Was it a good trip?"
"No problems. Where are you?"
"I'm, erin Leeds. Had to come, on business. I was thinking of going to the station, see if I could catch you."
The tannoy immediately burst into life, warning passengers not to leave luggage unattended and ruining my story.
"It sounds as if you are already there," Annabelle observed.
"Yes. Just arrived. Can I pop round to see you?"
"Of course you can. Have you eaten?"
"I'm OK. See you in about forty-five minutes."
I did it in thirty-eight.
As soon as I saw her any gloom that was lingering around me evaporated like desert dew. We hugged and kissed and I told her I'd missed her.
"I made you a sandwich," she said as we broke free.
"That's not what I've missed," I said.
Annabelle brought me up to date with Rachel and George. They thought I was 'very amusing' but otherwise were not quite sure what to make of me.
"That's probably the best I could expect," I said, tucking into a huge salad sandwich in home-made bread. Don't ask me how she does it.
"So," I said, when I'd finished. "How did you get on with Zorba the Greek?"
Her cheeks flushed slightly and she frowned. For a moment I thought it was from an unpleasant memory, but I quickly realised I was wrong.
"He's called Xav," she told me. "Short for Xavier Audish, and he's Iranian, not Greek."
"Oops, sorry," I said. "I didn't realise you were on such good terms.
Did he show you his… design sT I lingered over the final word.
"Yes. We spent quite a bit of time together, and with the architect.
One day we went to a fabric supplier. It was wonderful. I never imagined you could buy such exotic materials. It looks as if they might use my ideas, which is very exciting, don't you think?" Her face was animated as she spoke.
"Wonderful," I agreed. "I'm really pleased for you. Tell me about Xav. I'm a little worried that I may have a rival."
A little smile flickered across her eyes. I hoped it was mischievous, but I wasn't sure. "Well," she began, 'he's tall, and handsome…"
"Taller than me?"
"Umm, as tall as you. Well, nearly."
"Handsomer than me?"
"He's older than I thought he'd be."
"And rich?"
"He's a very charming man, Charles. He was very proper and appeared to value my opinions. If you must know, I like him. He has offered to pay me a consultancy fee and I am grateful, but that is as far as it goes."
After a silence I said: "I was only teasing you."
"I'm sorry, Charles," she said, taking my hand. "It has been a long day and I'm tired. Xav is very nice, but for all I know he has four wives and twenty children. I think you are safe."
Somehow, I didn't find her words reassuring. We played a CD and I told her about the rape and how I'd been lumbered with the murder. I try to involve her as much as possible, so she might understand when I'm late for our appointment or fall asleep over dinner.
At eleven thirty I said: "Are you sending me home to my cold and lonely house?"
She nodded. "If you don't mind, Charles. I just want to curl up in my own bed and sleep for ten hours."
"I mind like hell," I said.
"You will get over it."
As we said our good nights I put my arms around her. "I missed having you to myself over Christmas," I told her.
"Me too."
"Friday night," I said. "How about if I book a table at the Wool Exchange? And then let's spend all weekend together, just the two of us. How does that sound?"
"What about the enquiries?"
"Nigel can handle them."
She snuggled closer and said it sounded very nice.
The incident room at City HQ had been taken over by a fraud enquiry, so we held our meeting in their small lecture theatre. Nigel had rallied the original team and the room slowly filled with uniformed and plain clothes officers wondering what the fuss was about.
At dead on nine I told them the news about Makinson and introduced myself as the new officer in charge of the murder enquiry. '"What about Ged Skinner?" you are all wondering," I said. "Sadly for us, ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Skinner's alibi is as watertight as a coot's rectum. More importantly, he convinced me that he didn't do it, which leaves us with an unsolved murder and twelve wasted days." I made it pretty plain that I wasn't impressed. "I know that you have all been reassigned to other duties, and I have your reports, but I want you all to give some more thought to what you saw and heard while making your enquiries. If you have anything at all to offer please see me or DS Newley."
I told them that operations would be conducted from Heckley and dismissed them all except the ones who'd had special tasks.
"Tell me about the gun," I said to a DS who'd taken the bullet to our firearms people at Huntingdon.
"It was very interesting," he began. "According to them the bullet was a thirty-eight, fired from a revolver with seven right-handed grooves.
That made it a service issue Webley, or an Enfield, probably a relic from World War Two."
"Mmm. Anything else?"
"Yes sir. The bullet was lead, and not jacketed."
"So what can we deduce from that?"
"It was pre-war vintage. We started making them jacketed in about 1938, but they were only gradually introduced."
"Somebody must have decided that shooting Germans with un jacketed bullets wasn't very sporting."
"Probably. The doctor was shot in the side of the head, at very close range. According to the powder marks the barrel must have been in contact with his head. Analysis of the residue confirms that the bullet was pre-war, with the original powder in it."
"So now we're looking for an old soldier who kept his ammunition dry."
"Unless he got rid of it or it was stolen."
"Don't make it difficult," I sighed. People rarely report losing an illegally held gun.
The SOCO had a full catalogue of prints and fibres, but nothing to match them to. The best the only piece of information we had was that the doctor almost certainly knew his killer. There were security doors on the block of apartments where he lived, with a speaker system for visitors to ask admittance. He must have let him, or he ring There aren't too many blocks of flats like that in Heckley. I said:
"Wait a minute. Wait a minute. Where exactly did the doctor live?"
"Canalside Mews," the SOCO replied. "Number eight, top floor."
"Really!" I said, sitting back with a jolt. Darryl Buxton lived at number one, ground floor.
There were two messages on my desk when I arrived back at Heckley. The first one read:
Boss,
The towels are white. Buxton saw Janet wrapped in one when he went into the bathroom. The street lamp is right outside the house. The number is marked on the door but it would still be difficult to read after dark.
Sorry. Maggie.
The next one was slightly briefer:
Dear Inspector,
Will you please stop leaving used tea bags in your wastepaper bin.
And oblige, the Cleaners.
I screwed one up and threw it into the aforementioned bin and put the other in my drawer just as Sparky and Nigel wandered in, carrying a cardboard box each.
"More reports," Sparky explained, placing his box on the end of my desk.
"Associated property," Nigel told me.
"Why," I began, 'did nobody think it worthwhile to bring to my notice the fact that our dead doctor and our serial rapist lived in the same block of flats?"
"Do they?" Nigel answered, wide-eyed.
"We didn't know," Sparky replied, on the defensive.
"I thought Mr. Makinson kept you fully informed," I told them. "I thought he was very professional."
"Oh, we knew where the doctor lived," Nigel countered. "It was where your rapist lived that we had no idea."
I felt my cheeks pull back into my sickly grin. "Love — forty," I conceded, deciding to change the subject. "What's in here?"
Nigel flicked open the lid of his box and read from the inventory that was inside. "Not much worth talking about: contents of his pockets; his mail, diary, address book; one bullet, used; and his door keys."
I turned to Sparky. "Any photographs of the body?" I asked. "We might as well start again, from the beginning."
He spread the ten-by-eights on my desk. The doctor was laid more or less in the recovery position, with a halo of blood around his head, soaking into the pale carpet. I pulled a close-up towards me.
"He was a good looking so-and-so," I said, quietly. With a good brain, too, until someone drilled a hole through it. I pushed the pictures around, re-arranging them, absorbing their message.
"There's the SOCO's video of the flat here," Sparky said. "Do you want to watch it?"
"Umm, no, I don't think so. Did you mention the keys to the flat, Nigel?"
"Yes, they're here."
"I think I'll have a look for myself, then. Have you two seen it?"
They both shook their heads.
"OK. Well, let's not move about in a pack. I'll have a ride over there now while you two have another look through this lot. Draw up a table. You know the score: motive, opportunity, evidence; that sort of thing. Sort out a list of acquaintances for us to interview. Then maybe you can have a look at the scene later, if you think it worthwhile. We've been lumbered with this, good and proper, so let's show them how a murder enquiry should be conducted, eh?"
"Right, Boss," they replied in unison. They looked pleased.
Mews is agent-speak for up market There was no central courtyard, no alley where horse-drawn delivery carts used to clatter over the cobbles. The Canalside development was a rectangular block of a building, in newly-cleaned Yorkshire stone that had been carved and crafted when skills were cheap and the best materials could be dug straight out of the ground. It backed on to the canal, with the old lifting beam still jutting out like a witch's nose The building was preserved for posterity and earning a bob or two for the owners. That was fair enough. For once the word pretentious didn't spring to mind.
Most of the parking places were empty, apart from a couple of small but ne wish cars and a Suzuki four-wheel drive with silly coloured splashes on the sides. The front door of the flats was made of wood but free from the jemmy marks and metal plates screwed next to the lock that you always see on the council-owned blocks. To one side was the communications system, with a button for each of the eight apartments and a digital display; to the other was a bank of mail boxes. I put the appropriate key in the lock and turned it.
The central hallway reached the full height of the building. Once, bales of wool or finished cloth would have been swung and raised and lowered here. Labourers would have manhandled them, clerks in stiff collars registered them and bowler-hatted buyers cast knowledgeable eyes over them. This had been Heckley's gateway to the world Now it housed the staircase and the lift shaft. The floor was quarry-tiled and there were framed prints by a failed impressionist on the walls. In the middle of the floor was a water feature whose photograph had probably graced the cover of the brochure, with a small fountain but no fish.
The first door on the left was number one. I'd half expected it to bear a plaque saying "D. Buxton, Branch Manager, Homes 4U but it didn't. He had the good sense to realise that anonymity is sometimes preferable to advertising. It all depends on the line of work you are in. I ignored the open lift door and attacked the stairs.
The rooms must have had high ceilings, for I was puffing by the second floor. There was one flat amp;n each side of the stairwell, eight in all.
The doctor had what the agent no doubt called the penthouse. I gathered my breath as I examined his door. It told me nothing, so I went in.
It was love at first sight. The doc had furnished the place from scratch with a generous budget, whereas I'd inherited my house and its contents from my parents. His tastes were not exactly mine, but his mark, his stamp, had been on it from day one. My house is slowly evolving to something more my style. Meanwhile, it looks as if it were furnished by a committee.
I'd have gone for something more up-to-date. This was strictly art deco, which looked dated, in my opinion, and conflicted with the building as a whole, but he'd done a good job. The kitchen was custom made with neatly integrated New appliances and the carpets were off-white throughout. In his sitting room I flicked a row of switches just inside the door and several wrought iron standard lamps came on but did little to dispel the gloom. Romantic but impractical. A thin coating of aluminium powder on everything, left by the SO COs reminded me that this was a murder scene. The pool of congealed blood, defiling the centre of the carpet like a stigmata, confirmed it.
All his Christmas cards had been gathered up and left in a pile. I read through them although I'd seen a list of the senders in the reports. He'd received about five times as many as me. From patients, I told myself. Our clients rarely send us greetings cards. It was a small consolation.
The pictures on his walls were black and white prints of film stars.
Humphrey Bogart in Casablanca, squinting through wreaths of smoke.
Greta Garbo. Dorothy Lamour. Not my taste at all. I love the cinema, but not the people in it. Bogie is held up as an icon of the twentieth century. For what? About ten hours' work and an ability to talk without moving his lips while blowing smoke down his nose.
I didn't stay long. I knew before I came that there was nothing useful for me to see it was just a starting point. To find the person who killed him I first needed to know the man. I studied the view from his windows, across the town with the hills looming up like a wall across the valley, and wondered how much the flat would sell for. Probably more than I'd want to pay, unless they had to bring the price down because of its recent history. Then I remembered the neighbours and decided that it wasn't for me, after all. Who wants to live next door to someone who drives a Suzuki with red and yellow splatters on the sides?
I was on my way out when I saw it, on the work top in the kitchen.
Tucked in a corner, next to his electric kettle, was a plastic container about six inches high, like a miniature swing bing Exactly what I wanted for putting used tea bags in, I thought. I pushed the top open with a finger and saw that it contained… tea bags Great minds, and all that.
I considered stealing it, but its presence would have been recorded on the video of the crime scene, and besides, I'm supposed to be fighting that sort of thing. I'd look out for one in the shops, and one for Gilbert, too. Anything to please the cleaning ladies. After a last lingering look at the place where the doctor's life had leaked away I switched off all the lights and carefully locked the door behind me.
Outside, I emptied his mailbox and took the contents back to the station.
My mobile rang as I pulled into the station car park. "It's me, Charlie," Sparky said. "Do you want some fish and chips bringing in?"
"Ooh, yes please. What about Nigel?"
"He's here with me. "Bout fifteen minutes."
"I'll put the kettle on."
I had a quick look through the thick pile of mail I'd brought in. The only proper letter was from someone called George, probably an old college friend. It was a resume of the past year, as if they kept their friendship alive with an annual report but rarely met. There was a bank statement, the usual quota of junk, and reminders that the doctor's subscriptions to the RSPB and the British Medical Journal were due. A Christmas card from a lady called Melissa, who was still thinking about him, had been redirected from an address in Chesterfield. I dumped the junk and put a rubber band round the other stuff.
My desk was as clear as it ever gets. Nigel had left a list of people he thought we ought to interview again. I pushed everything to one end and covered the rest of it with used sheets of paper from the flip board, held down by strips of Sellotape. That's the nearest we have to table covers in CID. I fetched an extra chair out of the main office and the salt and vinegar from Sparky's bottom drawer. The kettle was just coming to the boil as they breezed in, closely followed by the familiar aroma.
We ate the fish and chips with our fingers, out of the paper. The first ones after Christmas always taste especially good. Nigel and Sparky had been to the General Hospital, to talk to the doc's former colleagues. "One bloke's a bit cagey," Sparky said. "A registrar.
That's one below a consultant, isn't it?"
Nigel confirmed that it was.
"How do you mean, cagey?" I asked.
"He wasn't as fulsome in his praise as most of the others. I got the impression he didn't like him." He screwed his paper up and put it back in the plastic bag the fish and chips came in. Nigel produced a roll of kitchen towel for him to wipe his hands on.
"That's because our dead doctor was having an affair with his wife,"
Nigel told us.
"Oh," I said. "Go on."
He wiped his own hands and took a drink of tea. "I enjoyed those. One of the ward sisters took great relish in telling me about the doc's sexual exploits. Actually, he wasn't a doc. Being a consultant made him a mister. She went all misty-eyed at the memory. She said there was a story going round that he was doing a bit for the registrar's wife, who knew all about it but turned a blind eye."
"Is this in the reports?" I asked.
"No. She thought it wasn't important and it didn't seem right to mention it so soon after his murder."
"How jolly considerate of her," I said.
When we'd finished the currant squares Nigel had brought in from the bakery over the road I reached out for the list he had compiled. "We'll talk to all these again," I said. "No doubt they have all remembered something new, or there's a little titbit they didn't like mentioning earlier." I studied the list.
"I wouldn't mind going back to the General," Sparky said. "One or two who worked with him don't come on until one."
"OK. That's you sorted. Nigel, how do you feel about going to York to see his parents?"
He nodded. "Mmm. No problem."
"Fine. This is his mail, collected from the flat. Take it over there, ask them if they want to let people know before they learn it from us.
Keep copies of anything that might be useful. And that leaves me. Now let me see…" I held the list at arm's length and studied it. "I think I'll have a word with, oh…" I gave them a big smile. '…
The girlfriend, Natasha Wilde, whoever she is."
Ill