Grief Encounters

by Stuart Pawson

  They were amateurs, or thick. Professionals would have done the deed in the highly recognisable Subaru and had the innocuous Ford waiting nearby for their ultimate getaway. But because of its superior performance and reputation as a rally car the ringleader no doubt had romantic notions about outrunning any pursuers, but not many cars can outpace a 170mph Eurocopter or jump roadblocks.

  Jeff told the cars ringing the Subaru to stand by.

  ‘It’s howling down with rain,’ came the reply. ‘I’m having to use my wipers, which gives the game away, somewhat. Otherwise I can’t see out of the windows.’

  ‘Blimey, we have a cloudburst,’ someone added.

  ‘It’ll be the same for them,’ Jeff said.

  ‘Headlights approaching from behind. Coming past. It’s a Ford Escort. Dark blue, must be them.’

  ‘You’re in control,’ Jeff told the sergeant on the scene. ‘Repeat: you’re in control.’

  ‘Understood.’

  There was a silence as we imagined the Ford pulling in behind the parked Subaru, then: ‘Roadblocks go for it. Moving in. Go! Go! Go!’

  ‘Jesus! It’s a monsoon.’

  ‘They’re legging it.’

  ‘Which way?’

  ‘Through the gardens.’

  ‘Towards you.’

  ‘We’ve lost them.’

  ‘No we haven’t.’

  Garbled messages came through, interspersed with bursts of static as the thunderstorm passed over, followed by a long silence. We waited.

  Nearly ten minutes later a voice said: ‘Two suspects arrested; bringing them in,’ and we breathed again.

  Saturday morning we caught up with the Popes who had been unavailable through the week. I went to see one in Marsden who kept koi carp, or living jewels, as he called them. Fish should be silver and slick, I thought, not bedecked like the flag of an African republic, but he obviously disagreed. The sky was clear as I drove up there, and the moors steamed like smouldering leaves.

  The would-be robbers were called Wayne Rodway and Joseph Clark, both aged twenty-two, and early Sunday morning we had to let them go. After a chase through several gardens they’d been arrested in the house of Clark’s ex-wife, sitting watching Ready Steady Cook on TV with their hair plastered to their heads and pools of water forming around their feet. They’d been there for at least an hour, they claimed, and the ex-wife’s flaxen locks nodded in confirmation.

  We needed forensic evidence to put them in either of the cars, but the Subaru’s doors had been left wide open and the downpour had done a decent job of sluicing out the interior. They’d worn cotton gloves, which they’d thrown off as they fled, but the masks weren’t found. They must have discarded them earlier. All the money was retrieved, which was little consolation. After thirty-six hours it was muck or nettles. Jeff had to either charge them or let them go. It was no big deal. They were released on police bail but we knew where to find them and we’d be keeping an eye on their movements.

  I made myself a chicken sandwich and flask of coffee and went for a walk up Signal Hill. It’s about three miles to the top but I followed the canal for a while to lengthen the walk. The fishermen were out in force, their poles impossibly long as they screwed extra sections on to them, reaching out across the water to where they hoped the fish were waiting. Some nodded a hello, most were too absorbed to notice me. Mr Wood is a fisherman, but he prefers to go for salmon or trout, not what are known as coarse fish. There’s a pecking order amongst anglers as with everything else. A heron flapped over, wings like barn doors, looking down in dismay at the crowded towpath. He’d probably go hungry today, I thought.

  Sonia and I had jogged to the top of Signal Hill many times, when she was recovering from injury. There’s a big flat rock there where she would sit cross-legged waiting for me, grinning like an urchin as I came puffing up the track. I ate my sandwiches sitting where we used to sit, facing the sun. She was in South Africa, which is more or less due south of Britain, so there’s little time difference. She could have been sitting facing the same sun.

  I took a circuitous route back, adding another mile or so to the walk, but as I dropped into town I realised I wasn’t very far from where ex-Detective Chief Superintendent ‘Bulldog’ Swainby lived. I wasn’t dressed for a social call but I decided to risk it.

  He was in the garden, attacking a patch of grass with an electric mower. It was a detached bungalow, quite small, with overcrowded borders and a weeping cherry tree that desperately needed pruning. A For Sale sign stood near the gate, leaning outwards.

  He turned the corner with the mower without glancing up at me. At the next pass I shouted: ‘Afternoon, boss. Keeping on top of it?’

  The sun was low and behind me. He looked puzzled, then shielded his eyes for a better look. Dressed in casual clothes he looked more natural, not as ugly as when wearing a suit and tie. The mower whined to a standstill and he said: ‘Charlie Priest. What do you want? Come to gloat?’

  ‘Nobody’s gloating,’ I replied. ‘Least of all me.’

  ‘Aren’t you? You haven’t heard the rumours, then.’

  ‘I’ve heard them. That’s all they are, aren’t they? Rumours.’

  ‘There’s no smoke without fire, they say.’

  ‘They say all sorts, Mr Swainby,’ I told him, ‘but most of it’s bollocks. They say the early bird catches the worm, but there again, it’s the second mouse that gets the cheese.’

  ‘Mud sticks, Charlie. You’d best not be seen with me.’

  I said: ‘Are we going to stand here swapping parables all night, or are you going to invite me in for a cuppa? It’s been a long, tiring walk.’

  He pulled the cable from the mower and started to coil it round his arm, like my mother did with the washing line. ‘You’d better come in then,’ he replied. ‘I think I’ve earned myself a drink.’

  He took me round the back to show me the extent of the garden. The bungalow was built when people still wanted gardens, but Mr Swainby wasn’t a gardener and it showed. Like me, he belonged to the hack it down twice a year school of agriculture. He had a compost heap the size of Snowdon and another, smaller, patch of grass, but the rest was given over to fruit growing: apple trees; raspberry canes and rhubarb. Short of paving the lot, it was his attempt to make it easy to maintain. He should have known that it’s an impossibility.

  We went inside, into a tiny kitchen overloaded with all the stuff of modern living: microwave; knives for carving everything; a tower of pans; racks of implements and two days’ crockery in a washing-up production line. The evidence told me that there wasn’t a Mrs Swainby.

  ‘Are you on your own?’ I ventured, adding: ‘Like me,’ as a softener.

  ‘Wife walked out on me eleven years ago,’ he replied. ‘The job.’

  ‘It’s a lot to answer for.’

  He found two mugs and made us coffee and we took them into his front room, where several Sunday heavies were scattered about. ‘Find yourself a seat,’ he told me.

  I moved the business section of one of the papers to one side and sat down. It was open at the share prices page. If he’d lived as modestly as it appeared he’d be worth a few bob, not to mention his pension. ‘Are you thinking of moving?’ I asked.

  ‘Thinking about it,’ he replied. ‘There’s nothing to keep me in Heckley. I’ve been through all the options: Portugal; France; somewhere here but on the coast. I’ve a daughter in Plymouth, married a sailor. Might move nearer to them. It’d be good to see more of the grandkids.’ He was quiet for a few moments, then went on, almost absentmindedly: ‘I don’t know if they’d mind. The kids are grown up, now.’

  Another long silence, his eyes staring out of the window then flicking uneasily around the room as if looking for a subject to discuss, but finding nothing. I kept quiet, letting him decide if he wanted to talk. He scratched his arm; I took a sip of coffee. Swainby had spent almost his entire working life in a position of authority, working with some of the most recalcitrant characters you could fin
d. The criminals he met weren’t too obliging, either. He’d ruled his domain like an emperor, but overnight it had been snatched away from him, and it must have hurt. His warrant card would have been confiscated and he’d have been given ten minutes to pick up his personal belongings. We didn’t strip disgraced officers of their insignia in front of the gathered ranks, but it was almost as bad. He’d have been escorted from the premises while his staff watched in disbelief, some of them shocked, others laughing up their sleeves.

  ‘I don’t think they’d mind,’ he reiterated.

  ‘Have you told your daughter that you’ve retired?’ I asked.

  ‘No.’

  A glass-fronted drinks cabinet stood in a corner of the room, and I could see a bottle of Laphroaig inside, forward of the other bottles. On top was a photo of Swainby as a young man, proud as a turkey, taken when he’d graduated from police college. It was the only piece of memorabilia in the room.

  ‘So what are they saying about me?’ he asked.

  ‘That they found obscene images on your computer,’ I replied.

  ‘Well that bit’s true,’ he admitted. ‘Paedophilia, not simple pornography. The images were there, all right. They showed me them. Insisted that I look. I was horrified. Sickened. I’ve seen some sights in my time, Charlie, as you have, but how anybody can do that…’ He let the words hang there, no doubt reliving the moment when he had to admit to the vice squad officers that they were there, on his computer.

  ‘But you didn’t download them.’

  ‘No. Never. I can’t even say that I had a look for professional reasons, or just curiosity, or stumbled on the site accidentally. I’d never been anywhere near it.’

  ‘Was the computer new when you bought it?’

  ‘Yes. The vice people asked me that. Brand new.’

  ‘And nobody else had access to it?’

  ‘No. There’s just me.’

  ‘So how do you think they got there?’

  ‘I haven’t a clue. Can you download things like that onto somebody else’s computer?’

  ‘No idea, but I wouldn’t have thought so.’

  I’m not proud of being computer illiterate. I’ve never understood people who claimed to be hopeless at mathematics, as if it were a badge of honour. It wasn’t much different from being unable to read or write. But here I was, left far behind by the new technology, baffled by the basics.

  ‘At the meeting,’ I began, ‘when you told us you were leaving, you said something about being foolish. What did you mean?’

  He looked at me and some of the old aggression was back in his demeanour.

  ‘You don’t miss much, do you, Charlie?’ he growled.

  I shrugged my shoulders. ‘Tell me it’s none of my business…’

  ‘No, you’re right,’ he said. ‘Maybe I should have kept my own counsel.’ He remembered the coffee he was holding, took a sip and decided it was too cold. ‘Want another?’ he asked, nodding towards the empty mug I was holding.

  I shook my head.

  ‘Something stronger?’

  ‘No, not for me, thanks.’

  ‘It’s a bit early for me, too. So where was I? Oh yes, being foolish. Last February, it was. I’d been to a meeting of the so-called Community Forum, answering charges that the force was being heavy-handed in dealing with the youths who gather in the mall car park after closing. You know the sort of thing, Charlie: well-meaning people who believe that if you offer the kids the hand of friendship they’ll cease behaving like feral animals and become responsible citizens. Little do they know that if you offer the hand of friendship to some of them they’ll break your fingers and steal your rings. I came out with the usual but they gave me a pretty rough ride. I needed a drink afterwards and called in the Poste Chase. It’s only half a mile away, and quiet in the cocktail bar. I don’t like noisy places, and when it’s busy some plonker always collars me and starts grumbling about traffic-calming along their street.’

  ‘I know the feeling,’ I told him.

  ‘I bet you do. So I was just savouring my drink, starting to unwind, when this woman spoke to me…’

  ‘Are you here for the speed dating?’

  Detective Chief Superintendent Colin Swainby – ‘Bulldog’ to his staff – lowered his single malt and turned towards the woman who was addressing him. She was about five-foot two, whichever way you took the measurement, with bouffant peroxide hair that you could have rubbed down a fence with. Gold hung from her like Christmas decorations and her perfume was applied by a spray gun.

  ‘I’m sorry…’ he said.

  ‘The speed dating, love. Are you here for the speed dating?’

  He shook his head and glowered at her. ‘I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Encounters Speed Dating. Tonight is our evening for more mature clientele, better known as sugar daddy night. Isn’t that why you’re here?’

  ‘Sorry love, not my scene.’

  She gave him a smile like a white shark approaching a meal and moved closer. He leant backwards to escape her perfume, blinking to clear his eyes. ‘I’d say it was meant for you,’ she told him, looking up into his face. ‘Good-looking fellow, smartly dressed, drinking alone. Don’t tell me you wouldn’t like to meet someone to share the good times with. Perhaps even create some good times of your own. Why don’t you give us a try, eh?’

  Human nature was something she knew about. She was lying like a cheap watch about his looks, but she hit the spot with the drinking alone comment. Since his wife left him Superintendent Swainby had immersed himself in his work, leaving as few opportunities as possible for the paralysing loneliness he felt whenever he was forced to spend time away from it. Evenings he drifted through in an alcoholic haze, Sundays were as welcome as dental appointments, holidays were ignored.

  ‘I’m afraid I’m not much wiser,’ he confessed.

  ‘You’ve never heard of speed dating?’

  ‘No. Should I have?’

  ‘Never seen our Encounters adverts?’

  ‘’Fraid not.’

  ‘OK. So let’s educate you. Speed dating is a simple way of meeting like-minded people of the opposite sex, designed for anybody who is too busy or too shy to frequent the normal meeting places, like pubs, discos, gyms, yoga classes, what-have-you. In that room’ – she pointed to a door – ‘are fifteen attractive ladies just waiting to meet eligible gentlemen like yourself. If you come in you’ll be given a number. I explain what happens and then you sit down at the table with your opposite number. You have three minutes to chat to her. After that time I ring a bell and you move on to the next table and the next person. And so on. You tick off on your speeding ticket the number of any person you would like to meet again. At the end of the evening you hand your ticket in and I then match up all the clients who have ticked each other. I let you know and from then on it’s up to you. Want me to give you a number?’

  ‘And presumably this will cost me,’ Swainby stated.

  ‘Of course. It’s £24.99. Cheap at half the price, as we say. You don’t have to meet anybody again if you don’t want. It’s not heavy. We have regular clients who come along just for a chat and a fun evening out.’

  You mean ugly sods like me, he thought, who couldn’t pull in a Thai brothel. ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t think I’ll bother.’

  ‘OK. Special introductory offer. Twelve pounds only to you, but don’t let on to the others.’

  ‘It’s still no thanks.’

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘My name?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He almost had to think about it. He hadn’t been addressed by his first name since his wife left him. ‘Um, Colin.’

  ‘Right, Colin. First of all, I think speed dating is meant for you. I really mean that. Secondly, we’re a bit short of men, tonight. Women throw themselves into it, but men take a little persuading, which is a win-win situation for the men. How about if I let you in for free, this time, to help make up the numbers? I can affor
d to do that because I just know you’ll want to come back again, but next time it’ll be full price. What do you say to that, Colin?’

  His natural cynicism was yelling ‘No!’ to him, but something inside was telling him that it might be an interesting experience, and his daughter was constantly nagging him to make more effort to meet people. ‘Well, that sounds very generous,’ he replied.

  The woman detected the uncertainty in his reply and latched onto it. ‘So pick up your drink, Colin, and come with me.’ She took him by the elbow and steered him towards the door, and Detective Chief Superintendent Colin ‘Bulldog’ Swainby, holder of the Queen’s Police Medal, one-time scourge of the IRA, felt himself being propelled towards the Encounters speed dating sugar daddies meeting. It would change his life, but not in any way he could have predicted.

  His number was eight, but there were fifteen women of assorted appearance and age. Good odds, he thought, as he slowly warmed to his plight. The men were a mixed bunch. The first one who acknowledged him as he was led to the bar was elderly but fit looking, with a complexion that owed more to Clinique than natural weathering. Swainby could imagine him on a cruise liner, employed to dance with the wallflowers. Another, sporting stubble, jeans and a leather jacket, could have been a barrister or an unemployed bricklayer. These days, he thought, it was hard to place a person. He finished his whisky and ordered a half of lager.

  The hostess and sole-trader manageress of Encounters rang a little bell and gave a welcoming speech, explaining the rules as she had done earlier and apologising for the shortage of male members. ‘But,’ she hastily added, ‘the quality is as high as ever, ladies, so let’s see you all enjoying yourselves.’ She rang the bell again and the business of the evening began.