Grief Encounters

by Stuart Pawson

  Swainby had already noticed where the number eight female was sitting, all alone at a little table. She was about half his age and as unprepossessing as he was, but he didn’t hold that against her.

  ‘Hello,’ he began, pulling the chair out from under the table and lowering himself onto it. ‘I’m called Colin, and you are…’ he leant forward to read the name on her badge.

  ‘Davina,’ she replied, ‘but everybody calls me Vina.’

  I bet, he thought. ‘I’ve never done this before,’ he began. ‘I only came in for a quiet drink, but madam collared me in the bar and here I am. I’d have practised some chat-up lines if I’d known.’

  ‘You’ll soon get the hang of it. I found it a bit scary the first time I came. What do you do for a living?’

  Policemen are supposed to have an ability to hold someone in conversation and learn everything about them without giving away anything about themselves. He’d established that she was a regular, which was no surprise, but now she had taken the initiative. He decided to have some fun.

  ‘I’m a slaughterhouse manager,’ he replied. ‘What do you do?’

  ‘I’m a supervisor at a care home.’

  ‘That sounds interesting. Does it pay well?’

  ‘Not really, but we do meet some interesting people. Last year Mollie Turnbridge came to open our new day room.’

  ‘Really!’ The slaughterhouse manager had gone in one ear and out the other without meeting any intervening brain, and he’d never heard of Mollie Turnbridge. ‘And what about speed dating? Do you meet any interesting people here?’

  After Davina it was two sisters who only came for a laugh, they said. He thought it was an expensive laugh but eventually concluded that one of them was married to a thicko and was looking for a way out. He said he was a refuse collector and they lost interest in him. The bell rang and he gratefully moved on.

  This time the woman was sensible and more circumspect in her conversation. She was a widow and, like him, had never been speed dating before. Swainby said he was a paint salesman, and he thought that perhaps at the end of the evening he might be tempted to tick her number on his speeding ticket. Long experience had taught him never to admit to being a cop. He gave a rare smile and realised that he was enjoying himself more than he’d done for a long time, away from the job.

  After her it was two more desperate Dollies, and he became an inspector of council litter bins and chief pilot for a company that supplied wing-walkers for air shows and charity events. They were unimpressed. The bell rang and he looked round for number fourteen. This time, he thought, he’d be a consultant brain surgeon. After that there would be number fifteen, then one to seven to get through before he could go home for a decent drink. It had been an interesting experience, but he should have followed his instincts and fled when he had the chance.

  Fourteen was sitting in a corner, with her back to the room. He edged round the table, checking the number on her badge, and twisted the chair opposite her so he could sit down. When he was comfortable he said: ‘Hello, I’m called Colin,’ and looked into her face for the first time. The ceiling fell in on him.

  ‘Hello Colin,’ she said, with a smile that jolted his chest like a defibrillator. ‘I’m called Teri. How are you?’ She was small and dark, with short hair and the biggest eyes he’d ever seen. Her dress was brown and clingy, and never had a brown dress looked so perfect.

  ‘Um, I’m fine, just fine. I, um…’ he dried up, like a bad actor in a village play.

  ‘You what?’ Teri encouraged.

  ‘Oh, I’m not sure. It’s just that…’

  ‘Just that what?’

  What the heck, he thought. Let’s cut the bullshit for once. ‘It’s just that I didn’t expect to meet anyone so attractive. I can’t imagine what you’re doing here. I thought it was only for ugly old so-and-sos like me.’

  ‘You’re not ugly or old,’ she protested, tipping her head to one side and gazing intently into his eyes. Her lips were full and reminded him of strawberries. ‘You’re distinguished, and interesting. I’d say you’ve had an exciting life. It’s written in your face.’

  ‘I suppose you could say that,’ he agreed.

  ‘So what do you do for a living?’

  ‘I’m a cop,’ he confessed without hesitation. ‘A policeman. Detective chief superintendent, responsible for criminal investigations. I chase murderers.’

  It was his best line, and this time it was true.

  For once the bell came too soon. After Teri, fifteen came and went without making any impact on him and the others went by in a blur. When the bell rang for the final time he said a hasty goodnight to the ex-model and dancer with the Fifth Generation who reminded him of Marge Simpson and looked round for Teri, but she’d left earlier, when the male numbers ran out.

  Madam gave a little farewell talk, told them to hand in their speeding tickets and wished everybody a safe journey home. As he passed her at the door she asked if he’d enjoyed himself.

  ‘Surprisingly, yes,’ he replied.

  ‘So have you marked your ticket?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so.’

  ‘What,’ madam demanded. ‘Nobody at all you’d like to meet again?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Go on, be a devil. You never know, it might be your lucky night.’

  ‘Oh, if you insist,’ he said, pulling the ticket from his top pocket. She handed him a pen and he studied the numbers. The likeable widow had been number eleven, he remembered. The pen hovered, then drew a firm, deliberate tick in the box. Next to number fourteen. Just so there could be no confusion he wrote ‘Teri’ against it, in brackets. Madam gave him a conspiratorial smile and placed the ticket in an envelope with all the others.

  ‘And you reckon that’s how it all started?’ I asked.

  ‘It must be,’ the ex-DCS replied.

  I was lounging in an easy chair, a glass of his lager in my hand. He was on the settee with a Laphroaig big enough to anaesthetise a buffalo. I couldn’t see why he was so certain, but I left it for the time being. I said: ‘And what happened next?’

  ‘The organiser woman emailed me the next day to say three women wanted to meet me again, and one of them was number fourteen, Teri. Number eleven, the widow woman, wasn’t amongst them. I was amazed, Charlie, amazed. First of all, that there were three of them, but mainly because Teri had put me down. She’s a stunner, Charlie, a stunner. One of those women you see every once in a while who takes your breath away. She had this glow to her, and her eyes…’ He stopped, drowning in her eyes, then said: ‘How does it go: there’s no fool like an old fool. Is that it?’

  ‘That’s it, boss,’ I said. ‘But what’s wrong with making a fool of yourself now and again? I do it all the time. Presumably you emailed her to make contact.’

  ‘No. I did nothing. I dismissed the other two because I couldn’t remember who they were and most of the women there were no-hopers. They probably ticked every box. As for Teri…I thought she was just being kind, or had made a mistake. She’s probably about thirty years younger than me, and, well, it’s a big gap. I have no illusions about young women finding me attractive. I thought warm thoughts about her and tried to forget we’d ever met.’

  I still didn’t understand. It didn’t make sense. I said: ‘So how do you make a connection between her and the stuff on your computer?’

  He took a long sip of the Isle of Islay’s finest export, then told me: ‘Three weeks later I found an email from her waiting for me. Gave me a phone number. Said she was separated from her husband and had been trying for a reconciliation, but it wasn’t working. She told me what time to ring and said she’d like to meet me again. Said I was…’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Said I was a rock, and she wanted some stability in her life. Not what I’d hoped for, Charlie, but I’d settle for it. I rang her and we met for lunch.’

  ‘Was she everything you remembered?’

  ‘And more. As well as bein
g gorgeous she was funny and intelligent. We talked about everything. I got the impression that she and her husband are quite rich. She’s travelled a lot, spent holidays on yachts off Cannes and places like that. Best I could do was boast about murder cases, most of which I’d had nothing to do with. I probably stole some of your thunder, there, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Be my guest,’ I said. ‘So did she have access to your computer?’

  ‘I don’t know, I’m a novice with them,’ he admitted. ‘We once looked up some theatre times on it, but that’s about all. Could she have learnt anything from that?’

  ‘I wouldn’t have thought so. She obviously knew your email address.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘What about somebody breaking into the house and using your computer?’ Keep it simple; that’s my motto. ‘Have there been any signs of that?’

  ‘No. I went over that with vice. I’ve a burglar alarm and decent locks everywhere. Nobody’s been in.’

  ‘OK, so it’s back to the computer. Did she ever send you any attachments?’

  ‘Just the once. No, twice.’

  ‘Did you open them?’

  ‘She said they were photographs of her. What do you think?’

  ‘Do you have a copy?’

  ‘No. I never ran one off, and vice have the disk now. And the computer. They’ve promised to search for viruses, but haven’t come back to me. I’m not holding my breath. They’ve screwed the most unpopular DCS in the division, so it’s grins and handshakes all round.’

  ‘I’ll have a word with someone,’ I told him. ‘See what she could possibly have done. Is there anything else I should know?’

  ‘Don’t go to vice,’ he insisted. ‘I don’t want that lot gloating over me any more.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I have my own experts, but I’m still not convinced it was her. How do you know it wasn’t some disgruntled bobby you’ve sent down the river taking his revenge on you? I hate to be the one to tell you this, but you’ve never shied from making enemies.’

  ‘I hear what you’re saying, but I’m still convinced she’s behind it. Let’s be honest: she didn’t go out with me for my good looks or my sparkling banter, did she? So why did she go out with me, eh? Did somebody put her up to it? My private email address is known only to the family, and Teri, of course, and since the problem came to light she’s vanished from my life. The mobile number she gave me is no longer recognised. We didn’t fall out, or anything, she just didn’t turn up one evening.’

  ‘No blackmail threats?’

  ‘No, not yet.’

  ‘But you think there might be?’

  ‘I think that was the intention, originally, or perhaps somebody was out to discredit me. Like you said, I have enemies, inside and outside the force. We’re cops, Charlie, and like to think we can read people. All the time I was with her there was something false about her, as if she were acting a part. I didn’t mind – I was acting one myself.’

  ‘It was an acceptable risk.’

  ‘Highly acceptable.’

  ‘OK, let’s say she’s the one. Anything else?’

  There wasn’t, so we shook hands and I thanked him for the lager. My legs had stiffened up and I was still nearly three miles from home. I wondered if buses ran on Sundays, but it was unlikely, so I pointed myself in the right direction and strode out.

  Wayne Rodway and Joseph Clark coshed the deliveryman outside a busy supermarket, in broad daylight, and there were no eyewitnesses that were worthy of the title. Plenty of people watched the action unfold, nobody could describe the villains or thought they might recognise them again. The consensus was that they were of average height and build, wore jeans, dark tops and stocking masks. A blind woman, walking with a white stick, had blundered into the action and been pushed to the ground.

  ‘It’s slipping away, Chas,’ Jeff Caton admitted, Monday morning. ‘They’re going to walk if forensics don’t come up with something to link them to the cars.’

  ‘And they’d be crowing like bantam cocks if they had found anything. What’s your next move?’

  ‘Apart from slashing my wrists? I’ll have them in again, create some smoke and fog. I’d say Rodway was the instigator, and Clark is the weak link. We might be able to turn him against Rodway.’

  ‘It’s worth a try. What about the blind lady? Is she OK?’

  ‘Yeah, she’s as hard as nails. I’ve sent Serena to have a chat with her, make her feel we care.’

  ‘Which, of course, we do.’

  ‘Of course we do.’

  Dave lumbered across to join us, steaming mug attached to his hand. ‘Hi, Pancho,’ I said. ‘Where are we with the Popes?’

  ‘Maggie’s gone to see the last local one. Then we make the next tack.’

  ‘I haven’t got another tack to make,’ I confessed.

  ‘Well you’d better think of one.’

  I sauntered over to my little office in the corner and opened the window. There was the usual pile of papers in the In basket: mainly policy documents; minutes of meetings and notification of amendments to various sub clauses and paragraphs. All really, really interesting stuff. I riffled through it, ticked against my name on the distribution lists and dumped the lot in my Out basket.

  One sheet of paper was left, sitting there like orphan Annie. It was a message note, timed at Saturday morning and addressed to me. We’d circulated every division of every force, asking them to look at their Popes, and Greater Manchester J division had come up trumps. George Pope was fifty-eight years old, had done time for ABH and supplying a class C drug, and, much to our delight, had lived in Australia for several years, returning to England in 2001. I rang my opposite number in Stockport and he agreed to invite Pope in for a chat.

  He rang me back within minutes, saying that our man would see me at home. I told Dave to drop what he was doing and we drove over the tops into bandit country.

  We went in Dave’s car because he has satellite navigation, and you need all the help you can get, over there. On the way I said: ‘Do you mind if I ring Danny sometime for some information about computers?’ Danny is his son, and my tame expert on such matters.

  ‘Help yourself, and don’t let him charge you.’

  ‘Isn’t he at college?’

  ‘In August?’

  ‘Of course not.’ I looked at my watch. It was nearly eleven. ‘Will he still be in bed?’

  ‘Probably. Give him a wakeup call.’

  I dialled him on his mobile, thinking that he probably kept it under his pillow, and he answered within seconds. ‘It’s your uncle Charlie,’ I said. ‘I want to tap into your extensive brain power and draw upon your inestimable knowledge of computers.’

  ‘Hi Charlie,’ he replied. ‘No problem, but it’ll cost you.’

  ‘Normal rates?’

  ‘Minimum wage.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘I’m eighteen now, so it’s gone up.’

  ‘Fair enough.’

  ‘One hour minimum charge.’

  ‘Right,’ I told him. ‘But there is one thing.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘If this is a strictly business relationship you call me Mr Priest, not Charlie.’

  ‘OK, Mr Priest, what do you want to know?’

  ‘There’s this policeman,’ I began, ‘who’s in trouble because some, er, rude images have been found on his computer…’

  ‘Paedophilia?’ Danny wondered.

  ‘Um, yes, paedophilia. He says they were planted and he knows nothing about them.’

  ‘Well he would, wouldn’t he?’

  ‘Perhaps, but let’s suppose that he was telling the truth. Could an outsider download images like that onto his computer?’ Download is about as technical as I get.

  ‘Is it you?’ he asked.

  ‘No, it’s not me. Can it be done?’

  ‘It’s possible, if you know what you’re doing. Presumably the sender would want to stay anonymous.’

  ‘I imagine so.’

/>   ‘In that case they’d have to use a public IP address.’

  ‘You mean like an internet café?’

  ‘No, like AOL or Virgin or Freeserve.’

  ‘I see. Go on.’

  ‘Then you’d send him an email with an attachment that’s important or interesting enough for him to open. The attachment contains a Trojan horse virus which starts working as soon as the attachment is opened. It uploads the dirty pictures onto your friend’s hard disk and hides them somewhere really obscure, amongst his files. You then send him another email to uninstall the Trojan. The Trojan vanishes but the uploaded files stay.’

  ‘What if the cop’s computer has virus protection?’ I ventured, as if I’d understood everything I’d heard.

  ‘It wouldn’t recognise the Trojan, first shot, and you’d be in and out before it registered. It would be as good as impossible to detect.’

  I said: ‘So he could be telling the truth.’

  ‘Yep, he could be.’

  ‘Thanks, Danny. I’ll mention you in despatches.’

  ‘So is it you?’

  ‘No! It’s not!’

  ‘I’ll believe you.’

  ‘Thanks for your help.’

  ‘You’re welcome, Charlie. I’ll send you a bill.’

  ‘He’s a bright lad,’ I told Dave as I slipped the phone back into my jacket pocket.

  ‘He gets it from me. We’re here. What’s the number?’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The reason Pope wanted to see us at home and not at his local nick was because he was decorating. The house was in the middle of a long row, with a small garden at the front and plastic window units that were out of character with the Victorian terrace.

  He wiped his hands on a J-cloth and led us through the front room with its bare walls, dustsheeted furniture and smell of paint. In the kitchen he asked if we’d like a coffee, but we declined.

  I let Dave do the talking. Gradually we learnt that Pope had emigrated to Australia back in the Eighties and had returned to England four years ago. He was suffering from heart problems, he said, and couldn’t afford the medical bills over there.