Grief Encounters

by Stuart Pawson

  ‘The builder?’

  ‘Yeah. There’s nobody here ’cept us.’

  ‘Oh, right,’ I said. That explained the delay in picking up the phone. That explained why his voice was booming and echoey, as if he were speaking from inside a million-gallon water tank. The place was having a makeover. ‘I’m DI Priest, from Heckley CID, I wonder if you can help me. That phone you’re speaking into: is it the type with a built-in answerphone that has a cassette, can you tell?’

  ‘Have you rung about the phone?’ he asked.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘I thought you were coming to move it.’

  ‘Was I?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Today. We could do with it moving.’

  ‘Does it have…?’ I began, but he’d cut me off. What is it about builders? They show their arse cracks to the world like displaying baboons and think that gives them a licence to treat the rest of us like morons. I reached for the Almanac and tried to think of who I knew in the East Riding. I needed help there, and fast.

  Nobody. The best way to get a favour done in this job is to call one in. I’d trained more detectives than most people have had sore heads, but as I ran my finger down the Humberside page I couldn’t recognise anyone who’d graduated in the Charlie Priest Academy of Sleuthing. My influence was fading; things had changed.

  I rang a name that sounded vaguely familiar but he wasn’t in and the person who answered the phone had better things to do than help me. I looked at my watch: a quarter to three. I might just do it.

  I guessed it to be about seventy, seventy-five miles to Beverley, and sixty of those would be on motorway. I scrawled a note saying where I’d gone, left it on my desk under the stapling machine, and hit the road.

  The M62 suffers major gridlocks but I hit a lucky patch and settled in the fast lane, between the BMWs and white vans, until we were clear of the A1. Then it was pushing the ton all the way to North Cave. At five past four I was driving over Beverley racecourse with the Minster hovering in the distance, directly ahead, caught in the afternoon sun. Beautiful.

  I suspected that Laundry Street would be in the old part of town, within the walls, and after driving round the one-way system and asking a woman pushing a bicycle, I found it and saw the tell-tale skip and builder’s van outside 11A. It was the narrowest street in Beverley, with long terraces of period houses crowding directly over the pavement. I didn’t intend staying long so I parked alongside the skip, blocking the road.

  The front door was wide open and the air inside hung with plaster of Paris. Everything was white, like being inside a glacier, but strangely gloomy until my eyes adjusted. A wooden ladder was laid the length of the hallway and some steps leant against the wall. The floor was covered with a dustsheet that had once been white but now displayed evidence of a thousand colour schemes, every one a variation of magnolia.

  ‘Anyone here?’ I called, my voice hoarse with the dust in my throat, echoing as if in a cavern. No reply. I moved further into the gloom and called again.

  A little rotund man appeared, carrying a sheet of plasterboard. He was wearing overalls in the same colour scheme as the dustsheet, and spectacles spattered with paint and plaster, and looked harassed because the walls were built before the invention of the plumb line. ‘Have you come about the phone?’ he demanded.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘In there.’

  I went through the doorway he’d indicated, into an empty room with a bare patch on one wall where a fireplace had stood until earlier in the week. No doubt, in fifty years or so, a different tenant would try to uncover it. The telephone sat in a corner, on the floorboards.

  It was a BT Response 150, in cream plastic that had discoloured with age. A red light with Power written next to it was glowing, and a green one, called Messages, was blinking. Next to the handset cradle was a cover with a small tab indicating where to lift it. I fell to temptation and lifted the tab. There, underneath, was what I’d come for: a tiny cassette.

  I was reading instructions under the cover when somebody outside started blowing their car horn. I had the road blocked. I unplugged the phone and its power supply, bundled the cables around it and carried it out of the room.

  ‘I’ve got the phone,’ I shouted. No reply, but the car horn sounded again.

  ‘I’m going. Where are you?’ No reply again, except for another, different car horn.

  Ah well, I thought, I’ve got what I came for, and walked out into the street. I waved an apology to the first car in the queue and started my engine. As I looked in my mirror before pulling away I noticed that the second vehicle was a BT van. I’d just made it.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The journey back wasn’t so straight forward. I caught all the traffic and it was nearly seven when I parked in my spot outside the nick. Upstairs I plugged in the phone and its power supply and read the instructions under the cover. Press Play/Pause, it said, and the unit will announce how many messages you have.

  There were ten messages, but nine of them were silent, presumably made by me earlier in the day. Number ten was a real call, but barely decipherable. The tape was worn out and the quality hopeless. After several plays I’d decided it said: It’s me. I’ve something for you. When can you come? The voice was male, but any accent or other characteristic was unintelligible. He sounded as if he had a duvet wrapped around his head and a small furry animal in his mouth. I felt certain it was Magdalena’s killer doing the talking, and was therefore a step forward, but how big a step was anybody’s guess. I put the phone in the bottom drawer of my filing cabinet and went home.

  The tall stranger stepped out of the shower and pulled a towel off the rail. He dried his hair and worked his way down, rubbing his back with a sawing motion then attending to his middle regions and each leg. He brushed his teeth, making growling noises at his reflection in the mirror, then flexed his muscles in a parody of a bodybuilder working out, while trying to decide whether to eat Chinese, Indian or Italian. It had been a long day, and his shoulders ached. He rotated them one way and then the other and decided on fish and chips, in the restaurant, with a gallon of tea. Then home to a welcoming, if lonely, bed. He pulled on a pair of jeans, matched them with a blue check shirt and was looking in his sock drawer when the warbling of a mobile phone came whiffling up the stairs. He dashed down and pulled a phone from the pocket of his jacket, hung in the hallway, but the warbling continued after he pressed the button to accept the call. It was the wrong phone. He delved into the pocket again and retrieved a different one, one that he’d not used before. He looked at the caller’s number, pressed the button and put the phone to his ear. ‘Hello,’ he said.

  There was a silence and he could hear the pulse near his ear booming and whooshing, until a tiny voice said: ‘Is that you, Torl?’

  ‘Ooh, it could be,’ he replied, ‘is that you, Teri?’

  ‘Yes, it is. You don’t mind me ringing you, do you?’

  ‘Of course not. I’ve got your number here in front of me. I was wondering whether to ring it but you beat me.’ He seated himself on the bottom step and brushed his hair back with his free hand.

  ‘Were you going to ring me?’ Teri asked.

  ‘I’m not sure; I hadn’t decided. I wanted to but wasn’t sure if I ought. I’m glad, though, that you rang. It’s been two days since I saw you. Two long days.’

  ‘I know,’ she replied, ‘and I’m going away at the weekend. I wanted to see you before then.’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘The boring old south of France. I’ll tell you about it if I see you.’

  ‘When will that be?’

  ‘It’s up to you. I’m not doing anything now.’

  ‘Tonight it is then, but I need something to eat. Where can I pick you up?’

  Teri gave him directions to a block of apartments that had once been a woollen mill, down by the canal. He found a pair of clean socks, buffed his shoes with them before givin
g each a squirt of aftershave and pulling them on, and collected his second-best jacket from the wardrobe. Pity I’m not in the Jag, he thought, but never mind.

  She answered immediately he pressed her entryphone number and was there opening the door within seconds. Everything he’d remembered about her was true, but more so. If anything her impact was greater than before. She was wearing a short skirt and a bolero jacket, with a white blouse that emphasised her tan. He told her that she looked beautiful, but stumbled over the words.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, looking into his face with a smile that sent his nervous system into meltdown, ‘and you look handsome.’

  ‘Oh, one does one’s best,’ he replied with a grin, wrestling his feelings under control.

  He took her to an Italian restaurant that had a good reputation, a few miles out of town, and they had the chef’s speciality seafood pasta dish. Torl cleared his plate, explaining that he hadn’t eaten all day, while Teri barely touched hers. He resisted the temptation to ask her to pass it over to him.

  ‘So tell me about the south of France,’ he said as he topped up her wine.

  ‘Thank you. What’s to tell? It’s my husband’s idea. Some sort of reconciliation. We fly to Nice Sunday morning, then on to Cannes. I don’t want to go, but I suppose I have to.’

  ‘Most people would leap at the opportunity,’ he told her.

  ‘They don’t know my husband,’ she replied. ‘He’s a control freak. This is typical of him. He doesn’t ask, just assumes it’s all right. Sometimes he frightens me.’

  ‘He’s not violent towards you, is he?’

  ‘Not really, but it’s not far under the surface.’

  ‘Are you living together?’

  ‘No. He bought the apartment as an investment when they were first built, and I’ve moved into it. He’s living in the house.’ She could have added that he’d masterminded and financed the development of the whole mill, but didn’t.

  ‘So where’s the house?’ Torl asked.

  ‘Heckley,’ she replied, which didn’t enlighten him at all.

  They had coffee and he paid the bill. In the car she said: ‘I can’t invite you in because he might come. Sometimes he does. He gets drunk and falls asleep on the settee.’

  ‘Don’t stand for any violence,’ Torl told her. ‘Go straight to the police if he’s ever violent, or if he threatens you. It’s completely out of order.’

  ‘I feel safe when I’m with you,’ she said. ‘Can we just go somewhere quiet and talk?’

  He drove up onto the tops, to a place where the council kept a big pile of grit in a roadside lay-by for when the snows came. In daylight it looked like what it was, but after nightfall, with the lights of the valley spread out below, there was a magical feel to the place. As if specially requested, a three-quarter moon hung low in the sky. Torl yanked the handbrake on and killed the lights and engine. Teri shuffled in her seat and moved closer to him. He reached his arm across her back and squeezed, feeling the bones in her shoulder, as delicate as a sparrow’s.

  They sat like that, her head on his chest, for several minutes.

  ‘That’s called a gibbous moon,’ he said, breaking the silence.

  ‘Gibbous?’ she replied.

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘I don’t know, but that’s one. I ordered it. Send me a gibbous moon, I said, for a rather special lady.’

  He felt her chuckle to herself and she wriggled closer. He wondered about suggesting the back seat, but resisted the temptation. How long he could continue resisting, he knew not.

  ‘What did you think of the speed dating?’ Teri asked.

  ‘I thought it was wonderful,’ he replied.

  ‘So did I,’ she agreed. ‘I’d never been before, but I’m glad I went. The woman who organises it is a character, don’t you think?’

  ‘She’s certainly larger than life.’

  ‘A big lady.’

  ‘With a figure that lunched a thousand chips.’

  Teri sat up and stared at him. ‘Did you just make that up?’ she demanded.

  ‘It came to me, out of the blue,’ he told her.

  She snuggled back against him. ‘You’re clever, aren’t you? And funny, too. I wish I wasn’t going to Cannes.’

  ‘It might be for the best,’ he said, his voice a whisper.

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘I’m a married man, Teri. I have a wife in Notting Hill. I work up here through the week and dash off back to her every Friday night. I get a bit fed up with my own company and don’t like pubs all that much. I was just looking for someone to go to the theatre or cinema with, or out for a meal. That’s all. I never expected…’ He let the words trail off.

  ‘You never expected what?’ she asked, softly.

  ‘I never expected…to meet someone like you.’

  ‘I’m sorry if I’m not what you were looking for.’

  ‘You’re more than I was looking for. Far too much more. Somebody would get hurt, and I don’t want that.’

  Teri reached around him and stroked his neck. ‘If nobody knows, nobody gets hurt, do they?’ she said, her voice soft and low. Tiny electric shocks were flickering up and down the back of his head, numbing his jaw muscles. He craned his head back to signal how much he was enjoying the attention, and half closed his eyes.

  ‘Truth is, Teri,’ he began, turning to face her, ‘I’ve a confession to make.’

  She pulled her arm back and sat up. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Well, fact is, I’m a minister. I’m a minister in the Methodist church. If I had an affair with you it would be against everything I’ve ever believed in. Can you see that? I’d be the biggest hypocrite in the country. I think you’re a wonderful girl, Teri, and I’d love to see more of you, but I’m not sure it would be wise.’

  ‘Right,’ she said.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Nothing to be sorry about.’

  ‘Are you mad at me?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Honest?’

  ‘Take me home, please.’

  Torl started the engine and drove back into town. He held her hand all the way, stroking her fingers, but she hardly responded until they were approaching the canal. Her hand started to rhythmically squeeze his, gently at first, then harder until it almost hurt. He glanced across at her but she was staring straight ahead. He dragged his hand away to change gear and felt her roll from one side to the other as he turned off the main road. He looked again and saw that her head had slumped forward, chin onto her chest, and she was making noises in her throat.

  He pulled off the road and unfastened his seatbelt so he could move closer to her. Her teeth were rattling and jerky movements shook her body. Torl pulled her closer and enclosed her in his arms.

  ‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘You’re safe. It’s all right.’ Now her whole body was convulsing and she kicked her bare feet against the car’s bulkhead. He unfastened her seat belt and held her tighter, pressing his face against the top of her head, her perfume adding to the confusion of feelings that assaulted him as he tried to reassure her.

  ‘It’s all right,’ he repeated. ‘You’re safe. It’s all right.’

  Slowly she recovered, her breathing becoming more rhythmic and the convulsions ceasing, until he thought she was asleep. ‘Take big, slow breaths,’ he told her. ‘Through your mouth. Nice and slow. That’s the way.’

  She shook her head and stirred. ‘Take it easy,’ Torl said. ‘Everything’s all right. You’ve had a little blackout, that’s all.’

  ‘I’m…sorry,’ she said, allowing herself to sink into his embrace.

  ‘Nothing to be sorry about.’

  ‘Was I unconscious long?’

  ‘I’m not sure. A second or two, perhaps. Just sit quietly. You’re quite safe.’

  ‘I’m ever so sorry.’

  ‘It’s OK. You’ve nothing to apologise for.’

  ‘Oh hell. Poor you. What must you th
ink, being lumbered with me?’

  ‘It’s just one of those things,’ he replied, his arms still around her. ‘Has it happened before?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Recently?’

  ‘About six years ago. I take something called an AED for it. That’s an anti-epileptic drug. I haven’t had a seizure since then, once we’d found an AED that suited me. A couple of weeks ago the doctor suggested that I might be able to stop taking the pills, so I did. He was obviously wrong.’

  ‘There’s doctors for you,’ Torl said.

  She shrugged herself out of the embrace and dried her eyes on a tissue. ‘I must look a mess,’ she said.

  Torl reached across and took hold of her chin, turning her face towards him. The illumination of the streetlamps showed that her hair was mussed up, her mascara smeared and her lipstick smudged. ‘No,’ he said. ‘You look just as beautiful as ever.’

  ‘Uh,’ she snorted. ‘You’re a poor liar. I…I…’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘I was going to say that…well, I wanted tonight to be special. I was looking forward to seeing you so much. Now, I’ve blown it. I don’t suppose you want to be seen with someone who suffers from le petit mal.’

  ‘It doesn’t make any difference,’ he said. They sat in silence until he asked: ‘How long will you be away for?’

  ‘Just a week. We come back the following Sunday.’

  ‘If…you know…if you and your husband are not reconciled, if it doesn’t work, will I be able to see you when you come back?’

  ‘I’d like that,’ Teri replied. ‘Will you give me a ring?’

  ‘It’s a promise.’

  Torl put the car in gear and drove the rest of the way in silence. He parked outside the apartments and asked Teri how she was feeling.

  ‘I’m fine,’ she replied. ‘Just a slight headache.’

  ‘Did you ought to see a doctor?’

  ‘No, it’s not necessary.’

  ‘OK. I’ll wait until you’re inside. Which is your window?’

  ‘The end one on the top floor. Will you wait until I’m up there, please? I’ll give you a wave.’

  ‘No problem. Goodnight, Teri.’

  She leant across and kissed him on the cheek, then briefly on his lips, and opened her door. ‘Thanks for a lovely evening,’ she said, ‘until I spoilt it.’