Grief Encounters

by Stuart Pawson

  ‘The Happy Fryer. He’s the proprietor of that fish and chip shop near the bus station. There was a domestic there last night and he assaulted his wife.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘It wasn’t a serious assault.’

  ‘Wasn’t it?’

  ‘No. She was only lightly battered.’

  ‘Have you finished?’

  ‘Yes, boss.’

  ‘Let’s go, then.’

  Unfortunately, Mr Raw didn’t have a telephone. If he’d been available that way I might have rung him and invited him to come out, but he wasn’t. It could have led to a stand-off, but that’s preferable to sending officers into a dangerous situation. That option wasn’t available, so we did it the gung-ho way.

  I stood on the corner and watched as they sprung the door and poured in. The sun was already high and the sky was streaked with jet trails and smudged with mackerel clouds. Two minutes later they led Raw out and took him to the nick. Dave and I gave his house the once-over but it didn’t feature in our enquiries and there was nothing in it to interest us. He lived alone, read the racing papers, lived on a diet more suitable for Rattus rattus and never cleaned his bath.

  The street had woken up when we went outside again, and little groups of men in baggy pants and sandals stood around, watching. ‘C’mon,’ I said. ‘You can buy me a bacon sandwich.’

  The Happy Fryer had gone home so we gave his cell to Raw. We also gave him breakfast, a paper jumpsuit and a solicitor.

  I kept it general at first, finding out about his background, where he spent his time, who his acquaintances were, that sort of stuff. Anything to keep him talking. He had a job, keeping the forecourt clean at the supermarket filling station, and his leisure time revolved around the bookmakers and the local Labour Club. He spent the evening of Saturday, 6 August in the club because that’s where he spent every Saturday night and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d missed. Dave was sitting in on the interview and he excused himself. A few minutes later he returned and passed me a note. It said that the Labour Club was about halfway between Raw’s home and Shibden Park, where Magdalena was found. I already knew that he lived about a mile and a quarter from the park.

  ‘Do you have a car?’ I asked, and he said he didn’t.

  ‘Can you drive?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘When were you last in Leeds?’ That confused him for a while, but after a long deliberation he decided that he’d last visited the city when he’d served a brief stint on remand in HMP Armley, back in 1988.

  ‘And you haven’t been back?’

  ‘No, never.’

  ‘Is that never to Leeds or never to Armley jail?’

  ‘Both.’

  Then we showed him the torque. He put his head in his hands and leant on the table. After a while I said: ‘You obviously recognise it.’

  ‘Yeah,’ he nodded. ‘So that’s what it’s about, is it?’

  ‘Yes, Fred. This is what it’s about. Do you deny taking this necklace to a pawnbrokers in Halifax and pledging it for ten pounds?’

  ‘No. I mean, that’s right.’

  ‘So where did you get it?’

  ‘Stole it, I suppose.’

  ‘Where from?’

  ‘From…you know, from her body.’

  ‘Would you like to tell us all about it? Start when you left the club. No, start before that. Why do you go to that particular drinking establishment?’

  ‘Because I’m banned from all the town centre places. Pub Watch has me listed. And they have a snooker table, big screen TV for Sky Sport and the beer’s decent.’

  OK, I’m convinced, I thought. ‘So what time did you leave?’

  ‘About half ten. I was skint, and I’d had enough.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘It was a nice night, so I had a walk down to the park. I like it there. It’s quiet, and you can see the stars. When we were kids we loved astronomy. Dan Dare and all that. Then I studied it a bit, when I was inside. You can’t see the stars nowadays, because of all the streetlights. Kids don’t know what they’re missing. Sometimes I sleep down there. I lie on my back and watch for shooting stars. Anywhere’s better than that pigsty I live in, surrounded by chapatti eaters and towel-heads.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘This car came, driving over the grass. It was pitch black but it stopped and I thought I saw the driver take something out of the boot and leave it. It was heavy, whatever it was, and he struggled with it. I imagined he was dumping rubbish. When he drove away I went over for a look. It was a body. I could hardly see her, but I felt for her neck to see if there was a pulse. There wasn’t, and this necklace thing came away in my hand. I knew I would be a suspect, and I panicked. I took the necklace because it was all separate pieces and I thought it might fall apart, with my prints on some of the bits. That’s all I did. Steal the necklace. I didn’t kill nobody.’

  We broke for coffee and I went upstairs and kicked my chair across the office.

  Dave said: ‘I can’t see an astronomy-loving Dan Dare fan turning into a murderer, can you, squire?’

  ‘More to the point,’ I said, ‘how did he get Magdalena’s body from Leeds to Halifax in the allotted time schedule, without a car? This’ll make the ACC’s day; I promised him a result.’

  ‘Let him go?’

  ‘No, not yet. I’ll talk to him some more; you get down to his house and look for car keys. Tomorrow we’ll check out his alibi and we’ll keep a watch on him.’ Raw wasn’t registered as a car owner, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t one in a lock-up somewhere that he saved for special occasions.

  Dave said: ‘Fine. Fancy a pint tonight?’

  ‘Um, no,’ I said. ‘Thanks all the same but I’ve a few things to do.’

  Waiting for a phone call was the main thing I had to do, but I waited in vain. I didn’t waste my time, though. I took a big sheet of drawing paper and divided it into columns and horizontal lines. At the head of each column I wrote the name of a suspect. Everybody who had been embraced by the investigation got a column all to themselves, with the end one reserved for a Mr Anybody. He was the favourite. Down the left-hand column I wrote the type of evidence, starting with things that would be admissible in court, like alibi, motive, opportunity, and whether they had a ponytail.

  After that it was the more subjective stuff, and I started to flounder. I’ve met a few murderers and they’re difficult to classify, but some fit the template. I didn’t want to put does he look like a killer? or are his eyes close together? so I settled for temperament. Then it was strong enough – Magdalena was a big lady – followed by local knowledge, transport and location. I remembered Mrs Dolan’s contribution and added voice recognition.

  After that, working horizontally, I gave everybody marks out of ten for each question, awarding a five if it was irrelevant or unknown. I made a banana sandwich and a coffee and waited for the phone to ring, but it remained dormant, like Vesuvius, threatening to erupt any time but just sitting there quietly.

  Last job was to add up the columns and give everybody a total score. When I’d done that we had a clear winner. I drew a circle around his name and went to bed.

  The Valley of Desolation at Bolton Abbey is a bit of a misnomer. The Victorians may have thought it was inhabited by demons, only to be approached with trepidation and a full explorer’s outfit, but on a warm summer’s afternoon it’s as pleasant a walk as you could wish for, and one of my favourite places. I’d soon left the picnickers behind and was enjoying the gloom cast by the trees as I headed upwards, past the waterfall, which was reduced to a trickle by the drought. Then you burst out onto Barden Fell and a different landscape. It’s grouse-shooting land up there, part of the Duke of Devonshire’s back yard, but the guns had fallen silent and the chief life form was an occasional lesser hairy-legged walker. The last time I’d been up there I met a girl in a downpour, and gave her a lift home. I smiled at the memory and wondered what she was doing now.

  I ate my sandwich on th
e Rocking Stone and did my thinking. I knew who killed Magdalena, of that I was certain. Proving it was a different matter. We didn’t have a witness, we’d no forensics, and I couldn’t be sure of finding any. It would have to be a confession, I thought, but that would have to be carefully managed. Shock and surprise, with a subtle touch of misinformation might do it. I wondered about being wired when I talked to him, but decided against it. Then it was over Lord’s Seat and down to the river again to complete the circuit.

  Torl, also known as David Storey, was watching a video about cheetahs on the Masai Mara when the phone rang, and he knew without looking who it was.

  ‘Hello Teri,’ he said. ‘How are you?’

  After a silence she said: ‘How did you know it was me?’ in her little-girl-lost voice.

  ‘I didn’t,’ he replied, ‘but I willed it to be you. I wanted it to be you more than anything else, and it was you.’ The cheetah was stalking a newly born wildebeest. He turned the volume down but stayed watching the picture.

  ‘Did you really?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve missed you.’

  ‘And I’ve missed you, too. When did you get back?’

  ‘About an hour ago. I like to drive back while it’s still daylight. So how are you?’ The cheetah sprang from its cover and the ten-minute-old wildebeest started running for its life.

  ‘I’m fine. Richard’s being awkward, but I won’t bore you with that. Will I ever see you again?’

  ‘I hope so. When are you available?’

  ‘Uh. I’m always available. Will tomorrow – Monday – be all right?’

  ‘Of course it will. Monday suits me fine. It’s a depressing day and you’ll brighten it up for me, plus, of course, it’s only twenty-four hours away. Any thoughts about where we might go?’

  ‘Not really. I like the cinema, or the theatre if there’s anything good showing.’

  ‘I’ll have a word with them, see what I can arrange, and give you a ring on your mobile tomorrow afternoon.’ The cheetah sank its teeth into the other animal’s throat and the chase was over.

  They said their goodbyes like star-crossed lovers and broke the connection. Torl retrieved the Gazette from the recycle bin and thumbed through it, looking for the entertainments page, and drew a circle round an advert for The Caucasian Chalk Circle, performed by the Heckley Amateur Dramatic Society, known as the HADS.

  That night he dreamt he was in the middle of a tug-of-war between an elf and next door’s cat. Every time the elf looked like winning the cat found some extra strength and pulled him back into the middle. At four o’clock he made some tea and read a book until it was time to go to work.

  Gilbert was back behind his desk on Monday morning, looking ridiculously healthy. Sitting on a riverbank for eight hours squinting at a stick poking up out of the water, every muscle poised to react instantly to the slightest flicker, brain engaged in nothing more demanding than outwitting a fish, must have therapeutic qualities. Regular flushing of the system with large quantities of Guinness is probably helpful, too. I brought him up to date on the job, told him about Gareth and waited for his comments.

  ‘What about the Magdalena case?’ he asked.

  ‘Ah!’ I replied, holding up one finger. ‘I’m glad you mentioned that. Give me this morning, Gilbert, then I might have something for you to offer the ACC.’

  We’d given Freddy Raw the seven a.m. call, chosen after consultation with the country’s most eminent – and expensive – psychiatrists as being the time of day when the average villain’s metabolism is at its most inert. I had a theory – this one came free – that ten o’clock on a Monday morning was a pretty torpid part of the circadian cycle, too. Now was the time to put it to the test. I unhooked my jacket from behind the door and was pulling it closed behind me when my phone started ringing. I walked backwards into the office, hung my jacket up and continued in the same manner back to my desk.

  ‘DI Priest,’ I said.

  ‘Good morning, Inspector,’ replied a voice that I didn’t recognise. ‘This is Edward Shires of Shires and Oxley. We have met before.’

  ‘I remember you, Mr Shires.’ He was a partner in a firm of solicitors and accountants in the High Street, established by his father many years previously. They didn’t do criminal work, so I wasn’t sure what he wanted. ‘How can I help you?’

  ‘Can I put a hypothetical case to you, Inspector? That is, if you have the time. I realise I’m intruding.’

  I said: ‘I was on my way out, but go on, if it won’t take too long.’

  ‘Thank you. I’ve just had a phone call from one of my clients. One of my more affluent clients who has a certain standing in the public’s eye. He was working at his computer over the weekend and he found a CD disk in one of the drives. Apparently people send him disks. I won’t go into why, at the moment, if you don’t mind. He couldn’t find the box for the disk so he had a quick look at it. It was filled with pornographic images of children being abused. My client was quite upset by it. He’s not sure where it came from but thinks he could pin it down to five or six possibles.’

  ‘Is he reporting it so we can pursue them?’ I asked.

  ‘Um, at this juncture I’m not sure. His first priority is to keep his name in the clear. As I said, he’s in the public’s eye and he’s scared stiff of being associated with anything like this. Mud sticks, as you know. I was hoping we could have an off-the-record talk about it.’

  I said: ‘You know the rules about off-the-record talks, Mr Shires. We can’t use it to conceal any criminal activity. Where is the disk now?’

  ‘Shall we say he’s destroyed it?’

  ‘Best thing to do with it. As your client came forward voluntarily with this information, without any duress or the inducement of self-interest, I can’t see there being a problem in him retaining his anonymity. Also,’ I said, ‘and I’d prefer this not to go any further, we’ve had a couple of what may be similar cases. I’d be most interested in having a talk with your client, Mr Shires, as soon as possible.’

  ‘Off the record?’

  ‘You know the rules, but as off-the-record as I can make it.’

  ‘That’s all I expected, Mr Priest. When are you available?’

  ‘Today. I’d like to see him today.’

  ‘He’s here with me. One moment, please.’ The line was silent for a while, then: ‘My client says he has to be somewhere this afternoon, but this morning’s fine. He suggests you visit him at home, if your other appointment can wait.’

  ‘Where’s home?’

  ‘Hunter’s Valley.’

  A bell started ringing in my head. I said: ‘No, sorry. It’ll have to be your office or here at the nick.’

  Another consultation, then Shires came back. ‘Here, then Inspector, shall we say in twenty minutes?’

  ‘That’s fine,’ I said. ‘Can you tell me what your client is called?’

  ‘Yes. He’s Zed Boogey, the rap artist.’

  Now why wasn’t I surprised?

  The change of plan meant that I’d have nothing to show Gilbert or the ACC, but that was too bad. Sometimes, you have to go where destiny takes you. I like visiting solicitors’ premises when it’s not my name on the file. They have attractive receptionists and decent biscuits. I said: ‘Black, no sugar, please,’ and she showed me into the boss’s office.

  Mr Boogey was wearing lightweight linen trousers with leather slip-on shoes and a short-sleeved Craghoppers shirt. His handshake was gentle and his smile genuine. He looked less like a rap artist than I did.

  ‘It’s all image,’ he said, after I’d put that point to him. ‘It’s amazing what a few fake dreadlocks can do.’

  Shires coughed and thanked me for coming. ‘Mr Priest appreciates your desire to be kept out of any publicity,’ he said to Zed Boogey. ‘I’m sure you can be frank and open with him.’

  Boogey looked at me, saying: ‘You caught that serial killer, didn’t you? The one who fell off the bridge. Wow! That must make you feel good.’

&
nbsp; ‘There were a couple of others involved in the investigation,’ I told him.

  ‘So did he fall or was he pushed? That’s what everybody was asking.’

  ‘He fell. Tell me about the disk, please.’

  ‘I’ll believe you; thousands wouldn’t. OK. I’ve been away in Germany for a few days. I had a gig in Dusseldorf – I’m big in Dusseldorf, would you believe? – and a pro-am golf tournament in Bremen. I got back in the early hours of last Wednesday. Since then I’ve been in London, working on a new album, so I’ve had no opportunity to use my computer. Until yesterday. I switched it on and it came up with this error message. There was a disk in the D drive. I hadn’t a clue what it was so I had a look and it had all these photos on it. They were horrible. I was nearly sick, only looked at a few. Then I spent all the rest of the day wondering what to do. I decided that whoever sent it to me needed catching, so here I am.’

  ‘You think somebody sent it to you?’

  ‘They must have done, mustn’t they?’

  The receptionist came in with my coffee and I thanked her. When she’d gone I said: ‘And you put it in your machine? Don’t you remember receiving it?’

  ‘Mr Priest,’ Boogey began, leaning forward. ‘I do a show on Trafford Radio twice a week, where we showcase local talent between the other stuff. It’s mainly hip-hop and R&B, and some funk. Every week I receive about five or six demo disks from kids who think they’re the next Mistajam. It must have been one of them sent it, either accidentally or on purpose. I’ve a heap of covering letters, if you want them.’

  I couldn’t help smiling. ‘But you don’t have a filing system?’

  ‘Actually, I do. I take it seriously. I’m treading on these kids’ dreams, but this one must have slipped through.’

  I said: ‘You were on children’s TV, weren’t you? How did you become a rap artist?’

  ‘I trained as a classical actor,’ he replied. ‘RADA, the whole works. My dream was to play Othello, but the best I did was a banana in Jelly and Co. It was a living, and I enjoyed working with the kids, but there’s an age limit. I couldn’t dance and I couldn’t sing, I was too small to play a cop and not many TV villains are black, these days. The rapping started as a bit of a laugh and took off. I’d found my role in life.’