The DCI David Fyfe Mysteries

by William Paul

  Father Donald Byrne was dead all right. There could be no doubt about that. Adamson had crushed his skull with a handy boulder. Now his secret was safe again.

  He broke into a run again, prodded by the image of the twitching body and the sickening sound of breaking bone. It had been a stupid thing to do. It confirmed a murder that would otherwise have been reasonably explained as accident or suicide. That had been his idea and it had all worked like a dream up to that point. The gentlest shove had been enough to pitch Byrne over. There had been no suspicious marks on the body apart from those caused by the fall. And then Adamson had to panic and smash his head in. No doubt then. No more twitching. Instead there was a gloriously satisfying stillness and a silence that was almost sexual in its brief intensity. He had experienced the same feeling at the moment of his first killing, when he had stabbed the old guy with the scarred face. The sensation, gone in an instant, had been more enjoyable than spending the money he was paid for the job.

  ‘Stupid, stupid, stupid,’ he muttered to himself as he ran past the car they had arrived in. The street was empty. A black and white cat stood on a window sill. It arched its back and bared its teeth as he passed.

  ‘Stupid, stupid, stupid.’

  Now there would be a murder hunt, stories in the newspapers and on television. He would undoubtedly be questioned because of his recent contact with Byrne. That would be no problem. He would stonewall them. He could manage that. He had had years of practice in prison.

  Adamson moved at a brisk trot along the pavement. He had reached a busier part of the city. Other people occupied the pavements. Cars passed, sweeping their lights over him, elongating and squashing his shadow. He slowed right down to a walk and regained control over his breathing.

  It wasn’t so bad, he reasoned. The police would have come to question him anyway as a matter of course whatever the manner of Byrne’s death. It was an obvious routine for them. In fact, that it was so clearly a murder probably worked in his favour. What would be his motive? Why should he be suspected? Why should he kill such a generous benefactor? It would make no sense to anyone unaware of the full story.

  He ran through the streets when there was no one around to see him and walked when there was. He found himself standing outside the entrance door to the tenement. A tremendous sense of relief flooded through him. He had made it back. He was safe again. He could lock himself in.

  31

  Sylvia entered the room and stopped dead when she saw Fyfe. She had her coat over her shoulders like a cloak and Greenmantle rose in a surprisingly swift movement to relieve her of it. He disappeared through the door. She just stood there with her keys in one hand and a carton of low fat milk in the other. She was wearing high heels, black stockings and a simple black wrap-around dress with plain gold jewellery. Her hair was shorter and bleached even blonder. She seemed to be thinner than he remembered, even more attractive.

  ‘Long time no see,’ Fyfe said, standing up.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she asked, suddenly agitated. She frowned and stepped forward to kiss him on the cheek. He felt her breasts press against his chest.

  ‘David dropped in while he was passing,’ Greenmantle said. ‘He can’t make it to the big occasion tomorrow night. Shame really. It’s going to be quite a thrash.’

  Greenmantle was buckling his thick overcoat and arranging a scarf at his neck. He pulled on a pair of gloves like a Regency dandy, ensuring that every finger was properly accommodated. Fyfe expected him to produce a top hat and silver-topped cane.

  ‘You’re not going, Graeme?’ Sylvia said. ‘I’ve got milk for the coffee now.’

  ‘I’ll leave you and David to talk over old times.’ He looked directly at Fyfe and his shoulders heaved with a deep sigh. ‘It’s only fair since you won’t get the chance tomorrow. Good to meet you, David.’

  He raised one gloved hand in a curiously old-fashioned gesture, spun on his heel and was gone. Sylvia followed him to the front door. Fyfe listened to the murmur of their voices but tried not to overhear. He sat down again beside the fire and watched his reflection in the window. Sylvia joined him. Her reflection was hidden by the washing jug when she sat in the chair opposite with her knees pressed together and her hands clasped in her lap.

  ‘It wasn’t me that made him rush away, I hope?’ Fyfe said.

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I have this effect on people.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘So what do we do now?’

  ‘We do what old friends do.’

  ‘What — now? In front of the fire?’

  Sylvia put her head back and laughed. The gold chain glittered and flashed at her throat. Her white skin glowed with the red cast of the fire. Fyfe drank some whisky. It was smooth and strong. It fuelled his imagination and had him pulling Sylvia down to the carpet where they tangled and rolled and made love in marvellously fluid motion. ‘Your Lord Graeme won’t like it,’ he thought of saying. ‘Lord Graeme isn’t getting it,’ he thought she would reply, sticking her tongue deep into his mouth to shut him up. A delicious feeling of satisfaction washed over him. They would lie together, her head on his chest.

  Sylvia switched on music by reaching sideways from her chair. Violins swelled and an orchestra began to play. The speakers hung from the four corners of the ceiling like security cameras.

  ‘You’re a bastard, David. Do you know that?’

  ‘I’ve heard it said.’

  ‘You’re a bastard. You should have married me. You should never have gone back to your wife. You don’t hear from me for a year. Then the first thing you do is come round here intending to jump into bed with me.’

  ‘Hang on a minute. I just came to visit.’

  ‘Don’t lie, David. I know the way your mind works.’

  ‘Okay, I admit it. How about a quick shag for old times’ sake?’

  Sylvia shook her head and grinned. ‘Welcome back,’ she said.

  ‘Same to you. Have you missed me?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What’s it all about then, Sylvia?’ he asked simply. ‘Why are you marrying him?’

  Sylvia closed her eyes slowly and deliberately, shook her head, and opened them again. She stood up and came over to kiss his cheek and lay her head on his shoulder. When she spoke she was deadly serious.

  ‘I want to tell you something I can’t tell anyone else,’ she said. ‘I wouldn’t be able to trust anyone else.’

  ‘Just as well I came round, then.’

  ‘I want to tell you why I’m marrying Graeme.’

  ‘Go on, then. Tell me.’

  ‘It’s because he’s a homosexual.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘He’s gay. A raving poofter. A shirtlifter. He’s not one of the blatant ones and it’s not common knowledge even among his close friends, but he’s as queer as they come.’

  Fyfe frowned and blinked as though sand had been thrown in his eyes.

  ‘I’ve known since I devilled for him and never really bothered. He was a good friend, the better for knowing he wouldn’t try to slip his hand up my skirt. Now there is a purge on the judiciary to get rid of gays and he’s afraid he will lose his job.’

  ‘No one can sack a judge.’

  ‘But they can humiliate and shame him into resigning.’

  ‘He could always come out, announce himself publicly as the first openly homosexual judge. They wouldn’t dare touch him then.’

  ‘He can’t do that. The shame would kill him. It would destroy his family. He’s old-fashioned, you see. Doesn’t think there is any reason to be glad to be gay. He likens it to having a drink problem.’

  ‘From that point of view, I can understand it.’

  ‘I thought you might.’

  ‘So why do you have to marry him?’

  ‘Respectability. Graeme reckons the crunch is coming within the next six months. He believes at least one of his former friends has enough of a grudge against him to do the dirty. If he is engag
ed to me they would be laughed at if they accused him of being gay.’

  ‘Do you have to sleep with him?’

  ‘Of course not. He’s not interested. He’s gay, remember.’

  ‘Do you have to marry him?’

  ‘That’s another thing.’ She put her forehead on his chest and took a long, deep breath. ‘I won’t be marrying him. We’ll just be engaged for a short time. There will never be a wedding.’

  ‘That’s all right, then.’

  ‘Yes. You see, he’s got cancer. It’s terminal. He might last eighteen months if he’s lucky. Bladder cancer.’

  ‘Fuck’s sake. Poor Graeme doesn’t have much going for him, does he?’

  Fyfe tried to absorb the shock of the information about Greenmantle, tried to put it in some kind of perspective. But he couldn’t really concentrate. Sylvia backed away from him. He watched her legs, imagined them tightening round his waist, her breasts hanging loose, her hands gripping him. Sweat began to gather on his face. He rolled the whisky glass between the palms of his hand.

  ‘How could I refuse him when he asked me to become involved in this little scam?’ Sylvia said with unchallengeable reasonableness. ‘It will protect his name, save his family from ignominy. Really, it’s not that much to ask.’

  ‘You always were a romantic, Sylvia. Tough but tender. I hope it doesn’t rebound on you.’

  ‘It won’t.’

  ‘As long as you’re sure. You won’t inherit his money, then?’

  ‘We have agreed on a suitable allocation in his will.’

  ‘Great legal minds think alike.’

  ‘Do you approve, then?’

  ‘It’s not up to me to approve.’

  ‘Yes, it is. I’m asking for your approval.’

  ‘Okay, I approve. I can think of worse things to do in aspiring for sainthood.’

  ‘You always were very liberal in your outlook.’

  ‘He knows, doesn’t he? About you and me?’ Fyfe said.

  ‘Of course. But what I told him was that our affair had never ended, that you and I were still sleeping together once a month.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Wishful thinking?’

  ‘What? Only once a month?’

  Sylvia laughed again and sat on the arm of Fyfe’s chair. She kissed the top of his head. ‘I asked Graeme if I could tell you about our secret plan. I needed to tell someone as a kind of… I don’t know…a kind of insurance. He said I could.’

  ‘Very trusting of him. And then he goes and leaves the two of us alone. He probably thinks we’re hard at it by now.’

  ‘So why aren’t we? It’s that time of month again.’

  Fyfe twisted his head round until he could look Sylvia straight in the eye. She was running her index finger gently over her bottom lip. She made no protest when he reached up to slide his hand under the cross-over front of her dress but she shied away, leaving his hand touching only air. Then she moved round to stand in front of him. With a barely noticeable shake of her hips the dress fell open and slipped off her shoulders. She was wearing a skimpy bra and French knickers under a suspender belt and stockings.

  ‘It may be a long time but I haven’t forgotten your little kinks,’ Sylvia said.

  Her skin glowed sumptuously red in the all-enveloping firelight. The orchestral music began to race towards a climax. She was still as beautiful and desirable as ever, Fyfe thought. Maybe he should have married her when he had the chance. Too late now.

  Sylvia forced one leg down either side of Fyfe in the too-cramped space of the chair. She smothered him with her body and he tasted the salty warmth of her flesh, automatically letting his hands come together in the small of her back and pulling her on.

  ‘For old times’ sake,’ he said and then he could say no more because her tongue was down his throat.

  32

  Sandy Jones moved to a different doorway to hide from the old woman who was watching him from the corner of her ground-floor window. The curtain twitched every ten seconds to reveal a wrinkled witch-like face. ‘Nosy old bitch,’ he muttered as he pressed himself back into the gap to hide, instantly forgetting her when the van stopped beside him. He had phoned for Billy after following Adamson through the streets back to the flat. Now after a ten-minute delay he climbed into the seductive warmth on the passenger side and grinned stupidly at his brother. His attempt at being cool ended in a tremendous sneeze that almost bounced his head off the dashboard.

  ‘Well?’ Billy demanded impatiently. ‘What happened?’

  ‘You’ll never guess.’

  Sandy had stopped shivering despite his damp clothes, warmed by the sight of the dead man at the foot of the crags. A new respect for his quarry had filled him when he came across the body in the grass; a track suit with a bloody thumbprint for a head. Adamson had killed the priest then. He had shoved him over the edge and run down to finish him off. This guy Adamson was premier league stuff, not the part-timer Gus Barrie had told them about. Imagine killing a priest? Sandy admired the spread of blood and the crush of bone. He took a professional interest in the murder weapon. There was an element of jealousy in his voice as he told Billy the full story. Imagine killing a priest?

  Sandy had almost delayed too long at the body. When he looked up he just caught a glimpse of Adamson turning the corner round the palace wall in the distance. He was not heading back to the car but for another exit from the park. Sandy ran after him, panting loudly, managing to keep him in view, catching up as he slowed to a walk because other people were about in the streets. It was obvious where he was going and simple to stay on his trail. He had done their job for them by disposing of his priestly protector. He was alone now. Poor bastard had made himself vulnerable. Finally, they could move in and finish the job.

  ‘Okay, let’s do it,’ Billy said. ‘Gus is waiting to speak to Mr Adamson.’

  33

  Angela Simpson applied a thick layer of cherry red lipstick and blew a big kiss at her reflection in the mirror. She fluffed out her bleached blonde hair and sprayed perfume into her cleavage. She stood up and half-turned to check that her stocking seams were straight and to see the curve as she smoothed the tight-fitting short skirt over her buttocks.

  ‘Not bad, old girl,’ she told herself, patting appreciatively. ‘Not bad at all considering.’

  One last look in the mirror, pushing her face right up against the glass so that not even the slightest wrinkle or blemish could escape the scrutiny. There were tiny lines around her eyes and, even worse, around her mouth, noticeable despite the masking foundation powder. She dabbed at them delicately with her fingertips as if they could be wiped away. Then she stood back and sighed, smoothing her dress over her hips, and swayed from side to side on her stilettos in a deliberately exaggerated gesture.

  ‘Not bad considering,’ she said. ‘From a distance anyway. It comes to us all in time.’

  She had been preoccupied by the ageing process recently, searching for and finding new cracks in her face every day as the great watershed of her fortieth birthday approached. That it happened to everybody was little consolation to a woman who relied on her good looks to maintain her standard of living. She was well aware that if she faded too much her husband Terry would dump her without a second thought for something younger and more pleasing to the touch and sight. It was, after all, how she had insinuated herself into his household four years before, shoving out the previous ageing occupant to take prime position on the sun lounger at the poolside. It was a dog-eat-dog world among the chunky jewellery, expatriate society on the Costa del Sol and she was one mean bitch well practised in the art of self-preservation. Angela bared her teeth at the mirror and rubbed off the pinkish colouring from the lipstick with her little finger.

  There was a knock at the door and Terry looked into the bedroom. He was over sixty with hair dyed jet black but sideburns down past his ear lobes left a statesman-like grey. Small eyes and a pointed chin completed the badger impression. His floral print shirt was op
en to the waist and his belly bulged over the waistband of his trousers like jelly about to spill over the edge of a mould.

  ‘Ready yet, love?’ he said. ‘The gang’s all here and waiting.’

  ‘Coming.’

  ‘Where have I heard that before?’

  ‘When have I told the truth about it before,’ she said softly so that he wouldn’t be able to hear.

  He moved out of sight leaving the door open. Angela walked across the room, looking back over her shoulder to see her bottom in the mirror. Four different husbands in less than ten years left her sometimes confused over what her name was, but at least it meant she always had money in her bank account and clothes on her back. Having been widowed once and divorced twice showed that she had a healthy instinct for survival that was admired among the superannuated criminals and elderly playboys who sat around under the Spanish sun like cold-blooded lizards basking on a rock. Terry was one of the former species, an ex-accountant living on the proceeds of ambitious embezzlement that had surprisingly come off. She didn’t love him, didn’t even like him very much, but in return for a steady income all she was expected to do was look ornamental and be good in bed, or at least make all the running, twice a week. Hardly an onerous work schedule and she used sex the way other people used credit cards. But the cracks were starting to appear and that meant the interest rates were rising too high. She suspected the next divorce might not be too far away and then she would have to start all over again in her hunt for an alternative means of support.

  It was a frustrating experience being so powerless, and feeling what vestiges of power she did have wane dramatically as she grew older. Femininity was a lifelong curse. She had managed to put together a little money in a personal bank account but not nearly enough to live on in the style to which she had become addicted. Her divorce settlements had helped swell the balance but the bastards had not accumulated their cash just to squander it needlessly on getting rid of an unwanted woman. They all had pocket calculators that did magic sums. She was reasonably sure the accountant in Terry would be able to arrange it so that she did not get a penny. His other two wives had not done well by him, discovering he was prepared to lose more in legal fees than they were seeking in the first place.