Grief Encounters

by Stuart Pawson

  ‘It would be most welcome.’

  She vanished backstage and I turned to Roy. ‘How’s the Zafira?’ I asked. ‘I was tempted by one myself.’

  ‘It’s OK,’ he replied. ‘I like it, though it’s only the sixteen hundred. They were doing a special deal on them.’

  Veronica reappeared in the doorway. ‘It’s plenty powerful enough,’ she stated. ‘We bought it when we learnt Graham would be going to Leeds. You know what young people are like. We expected to be carrying his stuff back and forth every term, and we wanted something reliable so we could go and see him, now and again. The Astra couldn’t have coped, could it, Roy?’

  ‘No, it…’

  ‘It just didn’t have the boot space. Mind you, we’ve had the Zafira loaded up like Billy Hardcastle’s removal van a few times.’ The kettle made switching off noises and she vanished again.

  The lemon cake was fine – I could have managed another slice – but she assumed I took milk in my tea and was generous with it. When we were settled I said: ‘So how’s the house hunting going?’

  ‘We’ve given up,’ Roy said.

  ‘It’s temporarily on hold,’ she corrected him. ‘It’s a sellers’ market at the moment and they’re asking ridiculous prices. You should have seen some of the places we looked at. I could tell you stories about them, Charlie, that would make your hair curl. Isn’t that right, Roy?’

  ‘Yes, but…’

  ‘Rachmanism. That’s what it is. Sheer Rachmanism. That place where Graham stays isn’t fit for animals. The student accommodation wasn’t too bad, but he’s had to move out for this year. He’s not used to living like that.’

  I’d had a long conversation with Graham, and had learnt that he was shacked up with his girlfriend in a house with three other girls, and thought he’d found heaven. What he’d shown his parents I couldn’t imagine. I stole a glance at the clock over the fireplace and decided I was falling behind schedule.

  ‘You were in Leeds on the weekend of 6 August,’ I said. ‘Did you stay up there?’

  ‘We did,’ said Roy.

  ‘In a very nice bed and breakfast in Alwoodley,’ Veronica added. ‘We’ve stayed there before, a few times. Almost part of the family. It’s a very nice area and they don’t mind dogs.’

  ‘You take it with you?’

  ‘Yes, but she stays in the car most of the time. She’s no trouble.’

  ‘I understand you went to a pub with Graham on the Saturday night.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Roy confirmed.

  ‘The Hairy Melon, or something,’ Veronica said. ‘It was dreadful. Not our scene at all.’

  ‘Hairy Lemon,’ Roy corrected her. ‘It’s called the Hairy Lemon.’

  ‘I don’t think it is, but Graham wanted to see this young girl singer. He said she’ll be big, one day. Can’t remember her name. She was all right, I suppose, if you like that sort of thing. Black, of course.’

  ‘She wasn’t black,’ her husband protested.

  ‘She was dark skinned, and they like to be called black, don’t they, Charlie?’

  ‘I…really don’t know. Tell me about the woman you sat with. The one you think you recognised from the drawing.’

  ‘She was nice, very friendly,’ Roy said.

  ‘A bit too friendly, if you ask me,’ Veronica added. ‘I think she’d had a drop too much to drink, but she was good company, and spoke intelligently. It’s her in the paper, I’m certain of it.’

  ‘What sort of a mood was she in?’

  ‘Quite cheerful,’ Roy thought.

  ‘Cheerful, yes,’ his wife reckoned, ‘but she was more than that. She seemed slightly excited, almost high. It didn’t occur to me at the time but now I’m wondering if she was on drugs.’

  ‘That never occurred to me,’ Roy said.

  ‘You were sitting alongside her, I was facing her. You couldn’t see her face like I could.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you asked her name?’

  ‘No, sorry.’

  ‘What did you talk about?’

  ‘The singer,’ Roy said. ‘We were both reminded of Billie Holliday.’

  ‘I asked her about her hair,’ Veronica told us. ‘What shampoo she used, how many times she brushed it, things like that. And about the necklace she was wearing.’

  I’d picked up my cup, but put it down again. ‘What necklace?’ I demanded.

  ‘The one she was wearing. It was an ethnic thing, all silver and semi-precious stones. Quite big, hanging down to her bosom, almost.’

  Magdalena most certainly hadn’t been wearing a necklace, ethnic or otherwise, when she was found. ‘Can you describe it?’ I asked.

  She did her best until I pulled an A4 pad from my briefcase and started a drawing from what she told me. Centrepiece was a matchstick figure of a flute player, flanked by two crescent moons inset with amber stones. These were surrounded by pieces the size of coins, with green stones on them. The metal plates were held together with chain links and the whole thing hung from a leather thong. Slowly, we built up a picture of what could have been an Aztec or Mayan ceremonial badge of office.

  ‘Do you think it was genuine?’ I wondered as we gazed at the finished drawing.

  ‘No. I asked. She said she used to have a friend who made them.’

  I put it in my briefcase and pulled out my notebook. ‘Now I’ve got to ask you all the normal policeman questions,’ I said. ‘Some of them might sound impolite, but my boss will be asking me them, and he won’t accept my word that you are a nice couple and definitely not murderers. Do you mind?’

  Him: ‘No.’

  Her: ‘You’ve got your job to do, Charlie, and we expect you to do it well. We’re all worried about the soaring murder rate, these days. If losing some of our civil liberties is the price we have to pay to make things safer, then so be it, I say.’

  ‘Good. Thank you for being so understanding. What time did you leave the pub?’

  ‘About ten o’clock.’

  ‘Just before, actually. Nearly five to ten.’

  ‘Thank you. Was the woman – she was called Magdalena – was she still in the pub?’

  ‘No, she’d left about twenty-five minutes earlier. That would be about half past nine. She heard the singer’s first show, then said she had to go. We said good night, thanked her for her company, and that was that. Are you allowed to tell us how she died?’

  ‘She was beaten up.’

  ‘The poor woman. Does this mean we were the last people to see her alive? Apart from her killer, of course.’

  ‘In an investigation like this,’ I told them, ‘we try to retrace the victim’s last movements. We didn’t know she’d been in the Hairy Lemon, so you’ve opened up several new lines of enquiry for us. But yes, you were the last people we know about who saw her.’ And the necklace, I thought. What happened to that?

  ‘Actually…’ Mrs Mellor began, ‘actually, we did see her again, didn’t we, Roy?’

  ‘Did we?’ He looked puzzled.

  ‘Yes. As we drove back to the bed and breakfast in Alwoodley. She was walking along the pavement. I said: “Look, she’s there, we could’ve given her a lift,” but you said it wasn’t her.’

  ‘I didn’t recognise her.’

  ‘Well it was her, I’m certain of it.’

  I said: ‘And she was walking towards Alwoodley?’

  ‘That’s right. I’m sure it was the same woman. I saw her hair.’

  ‘But you didn’t see where she went?’

  ‘No, sorry.’

  ‘Was anyone with her?’

  ‘Not that I noticed.’

  ‘Were there many people about?’

  ‘Not many. All in the pubs, I imagine.’

  ‘But you didn’t notice if she was being followed?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Which side of the road was she on?’

  ‘The right.’

  ‘OK,’ I said. ‘That’s very useful. What did you do next?’

  ‘Went back to the
bed and breakfast,’ Roy said. ‘Went straight to bed. We’d had a long day and wanted an early start.’

  ‘Well, not quite,’ Veronica stated. ‘Don’t forget the dog, Roy. You took her for her walk, like you always do. Heaven knows where you went. I fell instantly into the sleep of the just and never heard you come to bed.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Sunday evening I retraced the journey I’d taken with Gillian Birchall, stopping briefly outside the Flour Mill, where Richard Wentbridge and his wife, Teri, lived, and then near the Home Farm, home of Fiona and Tristan Foyle. The downstairs lights were on inside the Flour Mill, and Foyle’s Range Rover was on the drive of the Home Farm. I sat in the car, hiding behind my shades, for about half an hour near each place, but nobody came or went.

  I thought about Miss Birchall, workaholic with hardly any social life, and wondered what she was doing. Teaching was my alternative career choice when I graduated from art school, but I decided to become a cop. It sounded better when you introduced yourself at parties. Charlie Priest, I’m a cop was a better bird-puller than I teach art at the comprehensive. That’s what I thought; it just hadn’t worked out right. We probably earned about the same although she was a few years younger than me, and whoever heard of the art master becoming the head?

  Then there was Gwen. She’d be back from Canada, editing her photos, treasuring her memories, wanting to share them with someone. When she was on the train, up in the observation car, did she look up at the rocky peaks catching the morning sun and think: Look at that; it’s beautiful; Charlie would like that?

  I thought about one or two others, and I thought about the Mellors’ Zafira, wondering if I ought to have a SOCO go over it with a microscope, looking for traces of poor Magdalena. I spun the engine and drove home.

  This time, he rang her. ‘It’s Torl,’ he said. ‘Can you speak?’

  ‘Torl! Hi. How are you?’

  ‘I’m fine. How was Cannes?’

  ‘Oh, so-so. The weather was lovely so we did some sunbathing, and the boat was fun. I’m glad you rang; I’ve really missed you.’

  ‘When did you arrive back?’

  ‘About lunchtime. We flew up to Leeds/Bradford.’

  ‘That’s the way to do it. So are you all reconciled, now?’

  ‘No, not a bit. He lost a fortune on the tables and I wasn’t even with him. Where are you?’

  ‘On the motorway, at the services, on my way back to Heckley. Did just the two of you go?’

  ‘No, we were with friends: Tristan and Fiona. You’d like Fiona. She’s beautiful. It’s Tristan’s boat.’

  ‘One beautiful woman’s enough for me,’ he said. ‘What’s your husband called?’

  ‘He’s called Richard.’

  ‘I hate him.’

  He heard her involuntary giggle, carried through the air by electromagnetic vibrations. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because he’s got you, that’s why.’

  ‘No he hasn’t, Torl. He has his friends and I have mine. It didn’t work out between us.’

  ‘Does that mean I can see you again?’

  ‘If you want to. I wouldn’t be surprised if you didn’t.’

  ‘Of course I want to see you. How are you feeling?’

  ‘Fine. I just have to keep taking the medication.’

  ‘Are you free tomorrow night?’

  ‘I’m free every night, except if I go out with a girlfriend.’

  ‘Tomorrow then. Are we eating?’

  ‘We don’t have to, but I expect you’ll be hungry.’

  ‘I certainly will. Do you like Chinese food?’

  ‘I love it.’

  ‘Great. Shall I pick you up at eight?’

  ‘Yes, please. I’d like that. I’m really looking forward to seeing you again.’

  ‘Me too, Teri, me too.’ He didn’t dare tell her just how much he was looking forward to seeing her again, or why.

  Monday morning I rang our student liaison officer for Leeds University and asked if the students were back. ‘Today,’ she confirmed. ‘Semester one starts today.’

  ‘But nobody’s been in to see you?’

  ‘Sorry, Mr Priest. No one at all.’

  We’d been lucky in that while they were on holiday – travelling the world or working to offset their student loans – we’d been able to identify the local people who comprised the real community. But the students had been filtering back for a couple of weeks, and the weekend had seen the final big influx. The landlords rubbed their hands and the shopkeepers renewed their orders for brown rice, Pot Noodles and ketchup. They were back in business. The locals hadn’t been much use in our attempts to find Magdalena’s associates and I hadn’t much hope of the students helping us, but we had to try. For a start, she’d been living in Beverley for a year, so there was no point in talking to students starting their second years – young Graham Mellor being an exception to this, of course. I had a team over there with instructions to sound out the folk music scene, but apart from developing a taste for brown ale and an aversion to Pete Seeger it was a waste of time. We didn’t have much luck in the Hairy Lemon, either.

  We printed off hundreds of leaflets with Magdalena’s picture on them, under the caption: Did you know this woman? and distributed them willy-nilly, but waiting for volunteers to walk into the station and confess to knowing her was like waiting for contact from aliens, and about as likely. I found a number in my diary and picked up the phone.

  ‘It’s Charlie Priest again,’ I said when the boss of the asset recovery agency answered it. ‘I need some more help. Can I come over to see you?’

  ‘Anytime, Charlie,’ he replied.

  ‘Cheers. Give me some directions and I’ll be straight over.’

  ‘Honest, you’ll love it,’ Torl told her. ‘Just put it in your mouth; it won’t bite.’

  ‘I can’t,’ Teri protested. ‘It’s too big.’ She picked up her fork and tried to spear the offending morsel, but it slipped away.

  They were in the Bamboo Garden Chinese restaurant, two bowls of the chef’s special wanton soup before them, at Torl’s recommendation. ‘You have to be brave,’ he said, ‘and just go for it. Cutting them in half spoils the effect. Use your chopsticks, like this…’ He picked up one of the pastry parcels between his chopsticks and popped it whole into his mouth. ‘Mmm, delicious,’ he told her, after chewing and swallowing. ‘Now you do it.’

  Teri picked one up and moved it tentatively towards her parted lips. Torl watched as she opened her mouth wider to accommodate it. Their eyes met and held each other’s as her lips closed around the morsel and she chewed upon it, slowly and rhythmically, all the time holding his gaze.

  ‘You’re right, that was lovely,’ she pronounced after taking a sip of sparkling water. ‘What’s inside them?’

  ‘Prawn meat, I think.’

  ‘Mmm, they’re nice. I’m glad you made me have it. Sometimes, it’s good to be forced into something you didn’t expect to like, don’t you think?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ Torl replied, dabbing his lips with his napkin, his eyes still on hers. ‘I couldn’t agree more.’

  They shared an aromatic crispy duck with pancakes and finished with toffee banana and coffee. Teri told him about her trip, and about her husband’s losses at roulette, without disclosing the actual sum. She made it sound like the final straw that wrecked their marriage.

  ‘Can he afford it?’ Torl asked.

  ‘He’s got the money, but it’s tied up. Don’t ask me how. He’ll have to sell something. An investment, I mean. Not the house or anything like that.’

  ‘Where is the house?’

  ‘At Hunter’s Valley. Do you know where that is?’

  Torl shook his head. ‘No.’

  ‘It’s nice there. Our next-door neighbour is a rap artist, called Zed Boogey. Have you heard of him?’

  Torl chuckled and shook his head again. ‘Zed Boogey? No, he’s a new one on me.’

  ‘He’s quite famous. He’s just had a string of hits.
I like some of it but Richard says it’s jungle music. We water his plants for him when he’s on tour.’

  ‘Wait a minute,’ Torl said. ‘He has this bad-ass gangsta rap image but he grows pot plants in his conservatory. Is that what they are: pot plants?’

  ‘No! They’re avocados and lemon trees. And castor oil plants. Things like that. They don’t need much attention. I go in every two or three days when he’s not there, which is most of the time. He’s gone off today, to a gig in Germany. He’s ever so sweet, not at all like you’d imagine.’

  Torl looked at his watch and signalled a waiter for the bill. ‘Do you mind if we go?’ he asked Teri. ‘I need to call in the office for my briefcase. I’m going to see someone in the morning and it will save me half an hour.’

  Teri looked crestfallen. ‘Oh, does that mean you’re taking me home? I thought we might spend some time together.’

  ‘No, I’m not taking you home, unless you want to go home. We’ll collect my briefcase and then go for a drink somewhere, or a ride up to the tops and you can show me how much you’ve missed me. How does that sound?’

  It sounded fine, and he paid the bill. In the car she said: ‘So are you seeing someone to give them a load of money?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘What sort of business are they in?’

  ‘I’m not sure until I read their application. They’re after what we call angel money.’

  ‘Angel money? What’s that?’

  ‘It’s a theatrical term. People who give money to theatres so they can put on plays are called angels. It’s a high-risk investment and there’s a good chance they’ll lose it all. We use it for small businesses who want some start-up capital. Most businesses that fail do so because they’re under-funded. We try to help them in those critical first two years.’

  ‘So how much will you give them?’

  ‘It depends on the business and how many jobs they might create. Usually about £50,000 is enough to ease them through a crisis.’

  ‘Wow!’ she said, softly, and then sat silently for a while. Eventually she said: ‘Torl…’

  ‘Yes, my dear.’

  ‘Did I tell you that I once owned a string a beauty parlours?’

  ‘Yes, you did mention it. You said that you had ten, and sold them when you married. I was surprised. I wouldn’t have taken you for a ruthless tycoon.’