Grief Encounters

by Stuart Pawson

  ‘You didn’t spoil a thing,’ he assured her. As she turned to shut the car door he called after her: ‘Don’t forget to take your pills,’ and immediately realised the ambiguity of what he’d said.

  Teri ducked to look inside at him, her face perfectly composed, and replied: ‘No, I won’t forget,’ and slammed the door.

  Two minutes later she opened the curtains and waved. Torl flashed his headlights and drove home. Upstairs, Teri stripped off all her clothes and lingered under the shower, enjoying the pulsing of the jets of water against her skin. She dried herself and pulled an upholstered buffet out from under her dressing table. Lulu Guiness cosmetics were her current favourites. She selected face cream and body cream from amongst the selection of lotions and spent fifteen minutes pampering herself by applying copious amounts of the unguents to her already-flawless skin, all the time going over the evening’s conversations in her mind and wondering what Torl would be like in bed. She rubbed the surplus cream into her hands and opened the drawer of her dressing table. From it she selected a silk pyjama top, then felt further back, behind the night-and underwear, until she found what she wanted. She withdrew her hand, holding a plastic sex toy that Richard had bought her two Christmases ago. Pressing the button resulted in a violent buzz and vibration, indicating that the batteries were in order.

  Lying on the bed, propped up by all the pillows, she dialled a number on her mobile phone. Richard answered almost immediately.

  ‘You’re home early,’ she said.

  ‘I know. Where are you?’

  ‘I’m in bed.’

  ‘Yes, but where?’

  ‘The flat, cheeky. Where do you think?’

  ‘Just checking. Is he with you?’

  ‘No! It was our first date.’

  ‘So how did it go?’

  ‘All right. He took me to that tacky Italian we tried a few weeks ago. It hasn’t improved.’

  ‘So has he offered to give you one of his grants to enable you to open another beauty business?’

  ‘No, we didn’t discuss it. Softly, softly, catchee monkee.’

  ‘That’s the spirit. Are you coming home?’

  ‘No, I’ll stay at the flat tonight.’

  ‘Do you want me to come round?’

  ‘No, I’m all right, thank you.’

  ‘Won’t you be lonely?’ Richard asked her.

  ‘No,’ Teri replied. ‘I’ve got Freddie to keep me company.’

  ‘Freddie? Who’s Freddie?’

  She held the vibrator against the phone and gave it a short burst on maximum. ‘Freddie,’ she repeated. ‘My little friend. You bought him for me.’

  ‘Oh, him. Now I’m jealous. Jealous of five quid’s worth of plastic and wire, assembled in Taiwan. So how did you leave it with Torl? Was he eager to see you again?’

  ‘No, just the opposite. I’ll tell you about it in the morning, but he wasn’t going to ask. I had to resort to feminine guile; to plan B.’

  ‘And what exactly was plan B?’

  ‘To arouse his protective instincts. I just happened to have a slight seizure.’

  ‘You’re kidding! And did he fall for it?’

  ‘Oh yes, he fell for it. Like a lamb to the slaughter.’

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  We had a big meeting Friday afternoon and I did a lot of writing on the whiteboard. I was having trouble compartmentalising the separate cases, so it helped clear my head. Magdalena was beaten to death and Peter Ennis was the main suspect, but we didn’t have a case until we eliminated all the other possibilities. There was always the chance that a total stranger had murdered her.

  We knew who’d killed Ted Goss, though. He’d done the deed himself, but who’d driven him to it? He’d been flattered by the attentions of the woman we knew as Teri, the same woman who had insinuated herself into the affections of the bombastic Colin Swainby, and obscene images were found on both their computers. Were they guilty of downloading them, or was she in some way responsible?

  And then there was Miss Gillian Birchall and Richard Wentbridge. Had he really wined and dined her, at considerable expense, just to have her prosecuted for driving over the limit? It seemed unfeasible.

  I’d sent the troops home and was sitting sprawled in a plastic chair, my feet on another, looking at the board. I was enjoying the quiet, thinking about the cases, separating one from the other. Magdalena was a straightforward murder. Man kills woman, sex or money, QED. But the others were baffling. The victims were people of stature in the community, namely an MP, a headmistress and a police superintendent. The two men were linked via Teri, and Miss Birchall to Swainby through the speed dating. We didn’t know how Ted Goss met Teri. There’s this new crime, called happy slapping, where you beat somebody up and video the whole thing on your mobile phone, for later enjoyment. It usually involves down-and-outs and drunken youths of either sex, but was this some sort of high-class happy slapping? Or even anarchy? Did we have an anarchist cell in Heckley, working to destroy the credibility of our movers and shakers?

  It had been a good exercise. I’d sorted things out in my head. I’d been juggling too many balls, but now I realised that there were only two. Then the door flew open and Brendan burst into the room and into my reverie, waving a sheet of paper like Chamberlain after the Munich conference.

  ‘Boss,’ he said, his face red because he’d run down the stairs. ‘I’m glad I caught you. Two messages waiting for me when I went upstairs. That Range Rover you asked me about. A man called Tristan Foyle took one into Heckley Motors on Monday the fifth, damaged in exactly the right place at the back. Cost him £350 to put right. He lives at Home Farm, Biddle, which is on the Penistone Road, and his wife is called Fiona, maiden name Jones.’

  ‘Well done,’ I said. ‘We’ll have him checked out, but Monday will do.’

  ‘I haven’t finished,’ Brendan went on. ‘You remember that I forgot to ask about Richard Wentbridge’s wife?’

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘Well, I thought I’d do the job properly. Somerset House got back to me while I was down here.’

  He handed me another message sheet. Someone had written on it: Teri Wentbridge, DOB 3rd March 1977, married Richard Wentbridge 1st March 1998, actual given name Angela, maiden name Ennis

  ‘She’s really called Angela Ennis,’ he explained. ‘This woman called Teri is Ennis’s daughter,’ and the balls I was juggling came tumbling down around my ears.

  Maggie had asked me if I believed in coincidences. They could happen, I suppose. Of all the billions of events that occur every day, some are bound to be duplicated, but I doubted if this was one of them. She had to be someone’s daughter. Trouble was, I couldn’t see if it had any relevance. Saturday morning I put my walking boots in the car and didn’t dally at the office after completing my diary and logbook. I headed towards Ilkley Moor and did a short walk that took me past some of the cup-and-ring and swastika stones that litter the moor. It was a warm day, and walkers were out in force, but I didn’t mind. It’s the tradition in Yorkshire to speak to everyone you pass while out walking, so it was a succession of ‘How do’ and ‘Good afternoon’ with like-minded people all the way round the circuit. I do my thinking when up on the moors, and managed to fit some in between the interruptions. Principal subject was the bank raid money, and how I’d invest it. I came up with a few ideas. After a late lunch at Dick Hudson’s I changed out of my boots and headed into Leeds.

  JKL Mackintosh looked confused when he opened the door, until I explained who I was and told him that I’d interviewed him several weeks ago over the death of Magdalena. He invited me in and asked if I’d like a drink of any sort. I declined.

  ‘Are you any nearer finding Magda’s killer?’ he asked.

  ‘We have someone in custody,’ I told him, ‘but we haven’t completed our case against him, yet.’

  ‘So how can I help you, Inspector?’

  The pictures above his fireplace were the same landscapes and I wondered how much they were worth
. A bob or two, for sure. In the middle was a figure I didn’t remember. It was a primitive red clay woman with pronounced breasts that reminded me of Henry Moore’s early works. I asked about it and he told me it was a Nigerian fertility figure, the genuine article.

  ‘There’s a period in Magdalena’s life that is blank to us,’ I said. ‘We have no trace of her between about 1980 and ’88. Was she still posing for life classes in that time, do you know?’

  He thought about it, long and hard. The secret of being deceitful is to only lie when it’s critical. Tell the truth at all other times, otherwise you might be caught out on something irrelevant. Mackintosh either knew the rule or he had nothing to hide. ‘Um, yes,’ he said. ‘She was still with us then.’

  ‘Did you know her during that time?’

  ‘I suppose I must have done, yes.’

  ‘Did you know she had a daughter?’

  ‘No. I had no knowledge of her personal life.’

  ‘Was Australia ever mentioned in your conversations with her?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say I had conversations with her, but no.’

  ‘Or a man called Ennis?’

  ‘No, I’m afraid not.’

  I wasn’t bothered. I sat there and looked at his collection of works, at the primitive figurines, the watercolours and the modern sculptures. ‘You have eclectic tastes,’ I said.

  ‘I know,’ he replied. ‘It’s not exactly a collection, more a few pieces from various periods. I had a clear-out a few years ago, when my contents premium went through the roof, and just kept a few diverse pieces for myself. They’re my favourites.’

  ‘No conceptual art,’ I said.

  He laughed, his face turning pink, and the laughter turned into a fit of coughing, reminding me that he was an old man. As he struggled for breath the scar tissue on his neck showed livid white against his flushed skin. He apologised as he wiped his mouth on a coloured handkerchief and said: ‘Conceptual art is an oxymoron.’

  ‘I thought you were a fan,’ I said. ‘Wasn’t Leeds in the forefront of the movement, back then? I seem to recollect a couple of students who hit the big time with some outrageous pieces. Didn’t you write an article for the press defending them?’

  ‘My darkest hour,’ he confessed. ‘They were good students, with some original ideas, and I tried to protect them from a savaging by the tabloids.’

  ‘What happened to them?’

  ‘They faded into obscurity, as did their so-called works.’

  ‘Well,’ I said, ‘the money they made out of it will have softened the blow.’

  He was silent for a while, as if his mind had wandered off, then he shook himself back into the present and said: ‘Yes, I suppose it would.’

  I drove home trying to remember the names of the two artists who’s flame had burnt brightly and briefly, dividing the world into violently opposed camps. One, the man, had produced a sculpture made from bakelite telephones glued together. About a hundred of them. He called it the Tower of Babel, something like that. The woman’s contribution was a barrel containing, allegedly, a million pounds, buried somewhere on Woodhouse playing fields. The point was that it changed our perception of the fields, added value to the view even though it was invisible. There were other pieces, too, usually of a sordid, sexually explicit nature, involving urinals, condoms and dead fish. I’d looked, listened to the arguments, and decided to stick with oil paints.

  Sunday morning I rang Miss Gillian Birchall from the nick and told her that I’d like her to come over to Heckley and see if she could identify the block of apartments where she’d dropped Richard off. She was in the middle of revising the syllabus to fit in with new directives from the latest Secretary of State for Education, and glad of the interruption. I offered to pick her up but she insisted on driving over in her newly repaired Honda.

  ‘Bring the glass and coffee mug with Richard’s prints on them,’ I told her.

  We met in the car park and she suggested we go in her car, to which I readily agreed, although I nearly slipped a disc threading myself into the passenger seat. She was wearing camouflage cargo pants and a Rupert Bear T-shirt, and her hair was cut like Princess Diana’s used to be. I hadn’t noticed that when I saw her in the cells.

  ‘Wow, this is sleek,’ I said, pulling the seat belt across my shoulder and looking for the place where it fitted. ‘How fast will it go?’

  ‘My one indulgence,’ she admitted. ‘I enjoy owning a decent car.’

  I knew the feeling. Single, with a reasonable disposable income and nothing to spend it on. My pleasures come cheap, and I don’t even mind what sort of car I drive, as long as it starts on cold mornings. I could’ve blown my money on paintings, I supposed, but, short of spending millions, I preferred my own.

  ‘Left out of the gate,’ I said, ‘through the middle of town.’ I gave her directions through the deserted town centre and took her south, towards Hunter’s Valley. She drove smoothly, but stayed legal because it’s nerve-wracking to have a police inspector in the passenger seat. When we were clear of town she sped up, snicking the Honda through the gears like a rally driver. As we approached I said: ‘Slow down. Take this left turn, then the first right. That’s it. Your friend Richard – Richard Wentbridge – lives in a mansion called the Flour Mill towards the end of the development.’

  ‘Wowee,’ she said, quietly, as she glanced sideways and saw glimpses through the trees of the houses at the end of their long drives. ‘These are some mansions.’ We were in football manager territory. New money, but modest with it.

  ‘They probably send their kids to your school,’ I ventured, but she didn’t rise to the bait.

  She glanced nervously at me, saying: ‘He might recognise my car.’

  ‘He won’t,’ I assured her. ‘It’s on the right, past the big tree. Slow down.’

  The gates were closed and there were no vehicles on the driveway. The house was well back from the road but the few windows we could see were all firmly shut. Not so with the next door neighbour. He was wearing check trousers and unloading golf clubs from the back of a Porsche Cayenne 4x4, but the most noticeable feature about him was that he was black.

  ‘IC3,’ I said as we cruised past him. ‘Definition of a cool Yorkshireman: one who wears his flat cap back-to-front. I wonder what the good people of Hunter’s Valley think of having him for a neighbour?’

  ‘It’s…’ Gillian began, her voice touched with excitement. ‘Don’t you recognise him?’

  ‘No, should I?’

  ‘He’s a pop star. He was on children’s TV for years, then graduated to being a DJ and rap artist. The kids think he’s wonderful. Zed Boogey, that’s his name. Zed Boogey.’

  ‘Zed Boogey,’ I repeated. ‘Never heard of him.’ In my book, rap was the musical equivalent of conceptual art. Back in the Sixties Dylan wrote two rap songs and completely exhausted the genre he had created. ‘Well now you know where Richard lives,’ I said. ‘He’s the only Richard with an RX8 within miles and miles. We presume he’s your birthday date.’

  ‘Don’t remind me,’ she replied.

  ‘Keep going,’ I told her. ‘Follow the road round until it rejoins the main road. Then turn right and I’ll show you where Tristan Foyle lives. We think he’s the owner of the Range Rover you dented. How much did it cost to repair this one?’

  ‘Just over £900.’

  ‘It cost him £350.’

  ‘Uh!’

  Foyle lived out of town, on the Penistone Road, in the home-farm house of what had once been a big estate until death duties caused it to be broken up. I directed Gillian down a narrow lane with passing places, between fields of newly cut corn, to a hamlet of about ten upmarket houses, built to raise cash for the old landowners and ease them out of genteel poverty. Home Farm, Foyle’s house, stood slightly separated from them, with a five-acre paddock behind. I told her to park across the gateway and we looked down his drive at the triple garage and stable block, which hadn’t seen a horse since the invention of the Ch
elsea tractor. Again, the gates were closed and there were no vehicles in sight.

  ‘And here we have the home of Tristan Foyle,’ I said. ‘Range Rover driver.’

  ‘It doesn’t look as if he’s in, either,’ she observed.

  ‘No,’ I agreed. ‘Back into town, please, then follow the brown signs for the canal basin and see if you can find the block where you dropped Richard off. It’ll look completely different in daylight.’

  It did look different, but the second block we looked at was confidently pronounced the one where she’d dropped Richard off. ‘I turned round here,’ she said, pulling into a cobbled lay-by. ‘I couldn’t make it in one because of that lamppost, so I had to reverse. This is the place. Definitely.’

  ‘Right,’ I said. ‘Now take me back to the station, please.’

  ‘Will you be able to prosecute what’s-his-name, Foyle?’ she asked.

  ‘No. He’d say he braked for a cat or a fox, and didn’t realise you’d hit him.’

  ‘Great! And what about Richard Wentbridge? Do I have a defence against the drink-driving charge?’

  ‘To be honest, Gillian, I don’t know. There may be a defence of mitigating circumstances, but it’s not straightforward.’

  ‘So what’s the point of this morning?’ She obviously had better things to do than swan around with a tired old cop who didn’t have better things to do.

  ‘Putting it bluntly,’ I told her, ‘Wentbridge got you drunk. Then, in a separate incident, you had an accident with Foyle. If we can link Wentbridge and Foyle we may be able to show that there was a conspiracy.’

  ‘Why would they want to conspire against me?’

  ‘I don’t know. Do you?’

  ‘No. So can you link them?’

  I looked at her. A wisp of hair had fallen across her eye, and I couldn’t understand why it wasn’t irritating her. I said: ‘I’m working on it. Let’s leave it at that.’

  The private charter Lear 55 had them in Nice in two hours, and not many minutes later Richard, Fiona and Teri were nibbling a salade Niçoise outside a restaurant on the Promenade des Anglais while Tristan went off to look for their motor yacht. He owned a quarter share of the sixty-foot long Amelia Rose but rarely used it. He’d investigated buying outright, then considered chartering as and when necessary, but had settled on a compromise when a business associate invited him to join a syndicate. When none of them was using the yacht a management company let it for them at €4,000 per day, which just about covered the mooring fees.