Grief Encounters

by Stuart Pawson

  His son opened the door in the big wooden gates after I rang the bell, while I was still reading the fly posters. The Kaiser Chiefs were coming but I’d missed the Arctic Monkeys. There was razor wire along the top of the high wall, double bars on the inside of the gate, and a ferocious Alsatian that started barking as my finger barely touched the bell-push. It didn’t used to be like this, I thought, before a university education became a right and not a privilege.

  Len junior had taken over his dad’s business but didn’t live here, he told me, after I’d introduced myself and we’d shaken hands. The yard was filled with plumbing stuff that looked as if it had been reclaimed: toilet bowls in avocado and coral pink; sink pedestals and baths. This was bed-sit land, and who cared if the toilet didn’t match the bath, as long as it worked and was cheap? Stacks of second-hand roofing tiles leant against a wall and about a ton of lead pipe was awaiting disposal. The dog, thank God, was on a short chain.

  ‘Two officers spoke to him yesterday,’ Len junior told me. ‘He’s a bit upset about it.’

  ‘Were you here?’ I asked. Nobody had mentioned a son.

  ‘No. Dad rang me afterwards and told me.’

  ‘I’m afraid there’s no easy way of breaking news like that. They’d been knocking on doors all morning, looking for someone who recognised Magdalena. Did you know her?’

  ‘Of course I did. She was like a stepmum to me. I thought she was great, and she was the best thing that ever happened to Dad. How did she die?’

  ‘We’re not sure,’ I lied. ‘How long were she and your father together?’

  He thought about it for a few seconds. ‘About fifteen years, at a guess.’

  ‘So when did they break up?’

  ‘Last August. Magda walked out on him. He was heartbroken, but he wouldn’t talk about it. He was having a lot of trouble with his knees through years spent crawling about under floors, so he just handed the business over to me and said he was retired.’

  We were standing at the door to the back-to-back terrace house, with Len junior’s hand on the latch. He pressed it and pushed the door open. ‘Dad. A detective to see you,’ he announced.

  I’d been surprised at the idea of Magdalena shacking up with the local plumber, but when I saw him it made more sense. Len senior was only about five foot six tall, but his hair was tied back in a long ponytail and he was dressed entirely in denim. He held out a scrawny, work-hardened hand for me to shake and said: ‘I spoke to two officers yesterday.’

  ‘I know,’ I told him, ‘but I’m the detective inspector in charge of the investigation and wanted to talk to you myself. Can we go inside, please?’

  Compared to the outside of the house, the room was a revelation. It was dim inside, after the sunshine, but the glow of mahogany and the influence of Magdalena was everywhere. Decorative plates lined the walls, horse brasses shone from the roof beams and a porcelain carriage pulled by six prancing stallions held pride of place on a sideboard. Plumbing, it appeared, was a good line to be in. The gas fire was set low, which made a pleasant change, and the television was off, which was unique. Len had been sitting in an easy chair, with a small table pulled up in front of it. A pile of tobacco, some Rizla papers and a small pile of something else gave clues as to what he’d been doing. He swept everything up and pushed it all unceremoniously into the biscuit tin he kept his stash in.

  When he realised that I wasn’t born yesterday he said: ‘It’s for my knees. My arthritis. It’s the only thing that helps.’

  His son asked if I needed him and I shook my head. He left, pulling the door closed behind him.

  ‘And does it help?’ I asked, nodding towards the tin.

  ‘Yeah, I think it does. Anyway, it’s cheaper than beer and doesn’t rot your liver. And you don’t have to listen to the same bunch of brain-dead bigots every night while you’re enjoying it.’

  I let that sink in, then said: ‘I’m sorry about Magdalena, and how the news was broken to you. I’d like you to tell me all about her.’

  ‘What’s to tell?’ he wondered.

  ‘A lot more than you’d believe,’ I assured him. ‘Let’s start at the beginning. Where and when did you meet?’

  ‘Up at the Oak,’ he replied, naming Headingley’s most famous pub. ‘We used to chat, like you do. Pull each other’s leg. Then I did some odd jobs for her; plumbed her washing machine in; things like that. You know how it is.’ He smiled at a memory. ‘We started making plumbing jokes, said it was a mutual interest in our plumbing that brought us together. Then her landlord started cutting up rough, wanting rid of his tenants, so I invited her to move in here.’

  ‘When would that be?’

  ‘Back in 1989. It was a funny week. Princess Anne and Mark Phillips separated and we got together. Kirsty MacColl was in the top ten.’

  I remembered something from the PM report. ‘Did Magdalena have any children?’ I asked, knowing that she’d given birth at least once in her lifetime.

  ‘Yeah. She had a daughter. Angela. She came to live here too, but she was a proper little madam. Wouldn’t go to school, dodgy friends, answering back all the time. She was with us for about five years. Her dad had left some money in trust for her until she was sixteen. Day after her birthday she left. I was glad to see the back of her, but Magda was upset. I said she’d be back as soon as the money ran out, but Magda said there was an awful lot for her to get through. I asked how much but she just said more than I’d believe.’

  ‘Have you heard from her since?’

  ‘No. Not a word.’

  I wanted to tell him that I’d met Magdalena, knew her slightly, but decided not to. He might not gain any comfort from learning that I’d gazed upon her naked body in the presence of several other randy students. I said: ‘So when did you and Magda split up?’

  He looked down at the carpet, as if contemplating the answer, although I’d gamble that he knew the exact hour and date of her leaving. It was a painful memory. ‘Last year,’ he replied eventually. ‘August.’

  ‘What brought it about?’

  He shook his head, as if he still couldn’t believe that she’d done that to him. ‘I…I don’t know. She just said she had to go. It was for the best. She took most of her clothes and that’s all. Hardly any money. I couldn’t understand it. Something from her past had caught up with her, but I didn’t know what.’

  He was silent for a while, and I left him alone with his thoughts. I had dozens of questions but it’s always better if the information is volunteered. And he needed to talk. We’re not counsellors, but I’ve got a qualification in listening.

  ‘How did she die?’ he asked, turning to face me.

  I held his gaze before telling him: ‘Somebody beat her up. She…died.’

  ‘It was him, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Who?’ I asked.

  ‘Was there a post-mortem?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Were you there?’

  ‘No. A police woman attended.’ Another lie, but it might help.

  ‘But you’ve seen the reports?’

  ‘Yes, I have.’

  ‘So you’ll know about him. The Pope.’

  ‘I’ve seen photographs of the tattoo, if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘It was him killed her, wasn’t it?’

  ‘I don’t know. Who is he?’

  He stared at the tin containing his fixings and I wondered if I ought to tell him I didn’t mind if he had a smoke. Before I could get the words out he said: ‘He was Angela’s father.’

  ‘What happened to him?’ I asked.

  ‘God knows, but he was a mean bastard. How Magda became mixed up with someone like him I can’t imagine. She was the gentlest person you could imagine; he was a Neanderthal.’

  I said: ‘Some women have a talent for falling for the wrong man. Some men too, I imagine.’

  ‘Yeah,’ he replied. ‘“Love and Wisdom dine at separate tables.”’

  I recognised the quote. ‘Henneman,’ I said and he looked
at me with a hint of a smile. He was a fan. ‘So what was the tattoo about?’ I asked.

  ‘He had it done to her. Said it was a birthday present. Magda liked the idea and chose something from the tattooist’s catalogue. A flower or a lizard. Something like that. He didn’t let her see it until after they got home. Property of the Pope, it said. He told her that she belonged to him, now, and if she ever left him he’d kill her. They’d only been seeing each other for about two weeks. That was the most she ever told me about him. After that the subject was out of bounds.’

  So that was it. Magda had been murdered by the Pope. Well, perhaps not the Pope, but someone bearing that name. All we had to do was look in the telephone directory and work our way through them all. He made coffee for us both and we chatted for another half-hour. When I could see he was growing restless for a joint I got up to leave.

  At the door he said: ‘Can I ask you for a favour, Inspector?’

  I turned back to him. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Magda was funny about some things. She’d never have her photograph taken. I haven’t got a single picture of her. That drawing they showed me yesterday. It was her to a T. Just how I remember her when she was younger. Do you think it would be possible for me to have a copy?’

  ‘Oh yes, Mr Atkins,’ I replied. ‘I think we’ll be able to manage that.’

  Dave was holding court when I arrived back at the office.

  ‘…and Camilla said: “It gives me terrible indigestion, doctor,” so the doctor said: “Have you tried Andrew’s?”’

  I try not to encourage him. ‘So who did it?’ I asked in my best no-nonsense tone, after I’d hung my jacket behind the door, made myself another coffee and joined them. ‘No doubt you have it all sorted.’

  ‘Pass,’ someone said.

  ‘Negative,’ Dave added.

  ‘How did you get on with the boyfriend?’ Maggie asked.

  ‘Not bad,’ I told them. ‘He’s the last of the hippies, still living in the Age of Aquarius. The only hippy plumber in Yorkshire, but he’s a decent enough bloke. Write these dates down, Maggie.’

  Someone slid her an A4 pad and she clicked her pen.

  ‘Magdalena and Len Atkins met up in 1989,’ I began, ‘and Magda had a daughter aged…twelve, I think. Pope was the girl’s father. He must be our number one suspect.’

  Dave said: ‘So Pope and Magdalena must have been together, however briefly, back in…what? 1977 or even ’76?’

  I nodded. ‘Yeah, make it ’77.’

  ‘What next?’ Maggie asked.

  ‘I’m thinking,’ I told her. ‘OK. Magda walked out on Atkins last August. Call it 2004 – we’ll stick to whole numbers. The circumstances were odd. He said something from her past had caught up with her and she just went. So what if Pope was back in town and wanted her back?’

  ‘Do we know anything about him?’ Jeff Caton asked. ‘Is he the possessive kind?’

  I told him about the tattoo and his threats.

  ‘Yep,’ he agreed. ‘I’d call that possessive.’

  I turned to Maggie. ‘So how long was Pope out of her life?’

  ‘Um, let me see. She was with Atkins for fifteen years. She was with Pope possibly twelve years before that. So she was rid of him for anything between fifteen and twenty-seven years.’

  ‘So where might he have been for that length of time?’ I asked.

  They all adopted deep-in-thought poses, Dave with his fist against his forehead, Jeff stroking his chin. ‘Wowee, that’s a difficult one,’ somebody said.

  ‘Perhaps he’s been on missionary work in Malawi,’ Jeff suggested.

  I nodded my approval.

  ‘Or maybe he’s been with the Antarctic Survey, and they became stranded on an iceberg and have survived on a diet of penguins,’ young Brendan expounded.

  ‘Could you live that long on chocolate biscuits?’ I wondered.

  ‘No, silly me.’

  Maggie started to speak. ‘Charlie,’ she began, hesitantly, ‘I know this might sound outrageous, but please don’t laugh. When you’re dealing with people whose behaviour deviates somewhat from the norm, you sometimes have to expand the envelope. You don’t think, do you, that it’s just possible that our man may have been, so to speak, living off the hospitality of Her Majesty?’

  ‘In jail, you mean?’

  ‘Well, yes, if that’s not a dirty word.’

  ‘No,’ ‘Nah,’ ‘Never,’ came the disagreement of everybody else.

  ‘The girl’s got a point,’ I declared, holding up a restraining hand. ‘Perhaps he’s been out of circulation. So how far have you got?’

  Dave produced a list. ‘Nine Popes in Heckley, Chas. Fourteen in Leeds. Similar numbers in neighbouring towns. We haven’t checked them all against the PNC but they appear to be a remarkably law-abiding lot. Must be something to do with the name.’

  ‘Any who stand out?’

  ‘A couple, but nothing special. We’ll see them first.’

  ‘What about the prisons?’

  ‘Haven’t looked, yet. If he murdered Magdalena and he’s been inside for a long term he could be a lifer, in which case he’ll be easy enough to pick up.’

  ‘A lifer who came out to kill again,’ someone suggested.

  ‘Which is hardly unknown,’ I admitted.

  The average lifer serves about twelve years, but is only released on licence. That’s the life bit. His address would always be on a file somewhere. I had a three-egg omelette for tea, with curly oven chips and marrowfat peas. I brought my easel into the kitchen and ate the meal while studying one of the nearly finished paintings. Abstracts aren’t as easy as people think. There are no rules, no guidelines. You aren’t striving to make the picture look like something. It’s all down to personal taste.

  Kandinsky is a hard act to follow. He came to Germany from Russia and became one of the pioneers of pure abstraction. I love his paintings. He wasn’t the typical artist of the time, having trained as a lawyer and dressing accordingly in sober suit and tie. His orderly lawyer’s brain tried to put some discipline into his art, tried to lay down rules. He wrote articles about his theories in which he gave meaning to colours and related them to different musical notes. There’s a name for it, but it escaped me. You play a note, or make a sound, and some people, one in a thousand or so, see a colour. Or they say they do. Connections in their brains are cross-wired, and one stimulus produces more than one response. Kandinsky claimed he was like that, and the experts say that it’s a gift rather than a handicap.

  Me? I can’t tell one musical note from another, and they never look like colours. All I know is that I look at one of his paintings and something inside me goes: Pow! I like that. It pleases me greatly. Not all of his paintings, but some of them. And I still couldn’t think of the name for it.

  I made a few decisions about the painting as I finished my meal. After I’d loaded my plate and cutlery into the dishwasher I made the changes, altering colours, adding some black contours and hard edges here and there, and decided that it was as finished as it would ever be. The final touch was a stylised CP in the bottom corner, more as an indicator of which-way-up rather than a claim of ownership. It’s hard work, so after I’d washed my brushes I pulled a couple of cans of lager from the fridge and settled down in front of the television, watching a video of A Beautiful Mind that Dave had loaned me. Towards the end of the second can, just as I was realising that all was not as it seemed, I thought of Len Atkins and wondered if he was pulling on a joint, sharing the mellowness.

  The waitress lowered the tray containing four large gins and four small bottles of tonic until it rested on the table, and Tristan Foyle placed one of each in front of his wife Fiona and Richard and Teri Wentbridge. He thanked the waitress and cast an approving glance after her as she walked away.

  ‘How was your quail?’ he asked his wife as he poured tonic into his glass.

  ‘Delicious. How were the steaks?’

  The restaurant was famous for its steaks, an
d the other three voiced their approval. ‘And cooked just right,’ Teri Wentbridge added. ‘Neither burnt to a crisp nor still in its death throes.’

  ‘Did you know,’ Tristan asked, ‘that a chef somewhere has invented a device that cooks steaks to perfection, every time? It’s a bit like a toaster, but for steaks.’

  ‘And I suppose you have part of the action,’ Teri said.

  ‘No, I missed that one.’

  ‘Gosh, that’s unlike you, Tristan.’

  ‘This wine is rather good,’ Richard asserted, tipping his glass to show the last few drops. ‘Where did you find this one, Tristan?’

  ‘A client recommended it, last week. He’s an importer, good man to know.’

  Fiona said: ‘What does he import?’

  ‘Wine, dumbcluck,’ her husband replied with a smile. He was sitting next to her, opposite Teri, whose leg was stretched out towards him under the table, her shoe-less foot resting on his thigh, making circular movements against it. He reached under the tablecloth and stroked her ankle.

  ‘Well I didn’t know,’ Fiona protested. ‘He could have imported jellybeans for all I knew.’

  ‘No, darling, he imports wine.’ He sipped his G and T, then said: ‘So, let’s get down to business. I believe you have something to report, Richard.’

  ‘Yes, I think I have,’ Richard affirmed, sitting more upright. ‘I think I have,’ and he told them all about his encounter with Miss Gillian Birchall.

  The others listened in silence until he’d finished, when Tristan said: ‘And she’s the headmistress?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Of a fee-paying Church of England school?’

  Richard tipped his head to one side. ‘Right on.’

  ‘Wow! That could be quite a comedown, Ricko. The boy done good.’

  ‘I think so,’ Richard agreed. ‘The complacent Miss Birchall is heading for a mighty fall, no doubt about it, but I’m just not certain how to pull it off.’