Down in the Woods

by Gary Philpott

  “Not lovers though.”

  Harrington had gone as far down that road as he was willing to go. “As I say, just someone I keep in touch with.”

  “Do you mind if Steve, my husband, and I join you tonight?”

  The mere thought of a fellow officer talking to Flighty horrified him. “Oh, we haven’t made a definite arrangement,” he lied.

  “Not too worry. By the time I get in I won’t want to cook. The Charming Prince is one of the best places around, we’ll go there anyway.”

  Shit, thought Harrington. “Well, you might bump into us, or you might not.” He was already doing the calculations. If he was meeting Flighty at eight, was there any way he could have her out of there before Mulvey had time to go home, change and drive out to the place?

  It was eight-twenty-five when Mulvey and her husband entered the dining area. She recognised the back of Harrington’s head straight away, but started to doubt her own observation skills when she saw the woman sitting opposite him. The woman was stunning.

  As they approached the table Mulvey knew her husband’s eyes would be locked in tight on the same place she was finding it difficult not to stare at. They must be implants, she thought.

  Aware of the four eyes studying her chest, Flighty lifted her head slightly and put on her, I know what you are staring at, smile.

  “Chas,” chirped Mulvey as she put her hand on his back. “Glad you could make it. This must be Vivienne.” Her hand left Harrington and extended out for a woman to woman handshake.

  “Please don’t call me that.”

  Mulvey raised an inquisitive eyebrow.

  “Only my mother calls me that. Everyone else calls me Flighty.”

  Mulvey was totally off guard. This woman was nothing like she had expected and those boobs were eye magnets. She was totally fazed by the whole situation. Her nerves took control of her mouth. “Flighty by name, flighty by nature.”

  “In more ways than one,” replied Flighty, deliberately not adding an explanation.

  Harrington stood up. “Please, join us.” He waved his hand towards the two vacant chairs at their table.

  Stephen quickly took the chair next to Harrington. DS Mulvey shot a chastising look at her husband, but his eyes were already soaking up the other woman.

  “We’ve ordered but have not had our starters yet,” said Flighty. “Help yourself to some wine, assuming you like St Emillion that is.”

  Harrington grinned. He had not briefed Flighty before the Mulveys had arrived, choosing instead to hope the couple would not turn up, but he judged she already had his temporary colleague sussed. He started to enjoy the drama that was about to be played out at the table.

  Flighty made sure the final act was the best scene of the evening. She had lured the Mulveys into ordering dessert and then announced Chas and her needed to get going. Harrington headed for the loo just before they left.

  “I am not mistaken, am I? There isn’t a plan for you two lovebirds to join us?”

  Mulvey looked confused. “Sorry, are you going somewhere?”

  “Oh, obviously not.” She rose from her seat and walked round to Stephen Mulvey. Making sure her boobs led the way and rested against him, she stooped to kiss him on both cheeks. She whispered in his right ear: “Bad luck, maybe next time.”

  Mulvey pursued it as expected. “Sorry, exactly where are you going?”

  “We’re meeting a few of my colleagues at a lap dancing club over by the airport. I am going to rev Chas up a bit by treating him to a lap dance or two. He’s always a bit slow out of the blocks, but has more stamina than most once he gets on the home straight.”

  Flighty repeated the double kiss routine with DS Mulvey. This time she whispered, “In case you are wondering, yes, they are real.”

  Mulvey faked a smile. “Well, have a good time.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want to skip dessert and join us?”

  “No thanks, we’ll give it a miss if you don’t mind.”

  “Chocolate fudge pudding is about as exciting as it gets for us nowadays,” chipped in Stephen Mulvey.

  His wife turned red but continued to spar with Flighty. “Are your colleagues’ lap-dancers then?”

  Flighty laughed. “No, if they were, I would be called Lappy or Strippy. I am a senior stewardess on long-haul flights.”

  “I guess you get around a bit then.”

  “Ooh, I do. I make a point of it. You only get one life to experience this world and all the delights it has to offer. Why don’t you come with us? I’ll treat you both to a lap dance. Ladies are usually allowed to get away with squeezes a gentleman would be slapped for. Ah Chas. Wait here and I’ll go and pay our side of the bill, and for the two bottles of wine.”

  As he said goodbye to the Mulveys, Harrington believed the night had gone well. He was leaving with a beautiful woman who had behaved like a lady and engaged in intelligent conversation all evening. He had no idea of what had just been said. If he had, it would have ruined what turned out to be the most memorable evening of his life.

  DS Mulvey was at her desk by eight-fifteen. Harrington did not turn up. She checked her emails every half-hour until she finally received one from him just before midday.

  Sorry I can’t be with you today, I’m heading down to Southampton. The rugby team captain works at the university there.

  “You could have invited me along,” barked Mulvey at her computer screen.

  Stanford’s office was modern, small, and exceptionally tidy. Two crystal glasses and a bottle of Cognac sat on his desk. A photograph of a rugby team was standing inches from the front edge.

  “This is all very intriguing Detective Sergeant Harrington, please take a seat. You managed to get parked without a permit, did you?” His hand was already lifting the bottle.

  “Just a small one for me.”

  “Of course, I wouldn’t dream of intoxicating an officer of the law. There they are; there are my boys.” He tapped the top edge of the photograph. “They were never worthy of special interest at the time. Do tell me, what’s your interest in them now?”

  “I have to say, I expected it to be easier to track down the names of a university first team.”

  “Hah,” chortled Stanford. “Our sporting masters would wipe us from the history books if they could. We got absolutely thumped every bloody week. That’s why I am so intrigued by your interest. So come on, spill the beans boy.”

  Harrington pondered on Stanford’s use of the word boy. Logic dictated that Stanford must be of similar age to Hetherington-Jones, and therefore probably a couple of years his own junior. The lecturer’s face, neck and hands suggested nothing to contradict such a deduction.

  “Is that you in the middle of the front row?” he asked.

  “Bulls eye.”

  Harrington scanned the photograph for Hetherington-Jones. “Is that Phillip Hetherington-Jones here?”

  Stanford rose from his chair and walked round to Harrington’s side of the desk.

  “That’s Studsie.”

  “Studsie?”

  “Huh, I hope you are not going to expect me to remember their real names.”

  “I was hoping you would have a list of them.”

  “Why on Earth should I? That bunch of riff-raff gave me nothing but grief. Believe me; I do not carry fond memories of any of them. This photo was still in the same cardboard box as my old university scarf when you phoned. I tell you, the scarf gives me warmer memories than that rabble. Now, what’s this all about?”

  “Why was he called Studsie?”

  “You’re the detective, you work it out.”

  “I would prefer it if you told me.”

  “He was a ladies’ man, a first class fornicator. He was also a wimp, too worried about his looks to put in a serious tackle. He caught a stud across the cheek once, didn’t even need a bloody stitch, but to hear him go on you would have thought he had lost eight pints of blood.”

  “Am I right in thinking there were other womanis
ers in the team?”

  “Not many. Look at them. Not the prettiest boys are they.”

  “But some of them regularly went looking for women, is that correct?”

  “Fellows like that do not chase women. It’s the nature of the beast. Rugby boys who seek the companionship of attractive girls are courting rejection. Six pints of lager washed down with a Chinese take-away is much less humiliating. The worst thing that can happen is that your body rejects what you have tipped into it, rather than the indignity of your body being rejected by the fairer sex. Have you never analysed why rugby players sing songs about filthy women? They’re fantasising, transporting themselves to a world of make-believe. The illusion lasts until the hangover kicks in.”

  “Studsie broke that mould though?”

  “Yes. And it is true to say that over the years the game has become more athletic. You still need some brick shithouses, but you also need lads that can move, leaving the heavier chaps trailing in their wake. It’s all in the blend nowadays.”

  “What other guys in this photo preferred chasing women to drinking booze?”

  “Let me see.” He picked the photograph up and started running his finger along each of the two rows in turn. “Well, I’ll be damned, how fascinating.”

  “What is it?”

  “These five here, on the end of the row. They are all standing together. It seems I had a team within a team.”

  “And what are their names.”

  “Not a clue.”

  “Think. This one here is Phillip Hetherington-Jones. Try to remember the name of at least one other.”

  “I have more chance of remembering the five pillars of Islam than I have of remembering the names of the fornicating five here.”

  “Prayer, charity… At least try.”

  “No. No idea whatsoever. And may I remind you that you still have not explained your interest in these chaps.”

  “Do you know anyone who might know at least one of them?”

  “No. Why don’t you ask this Hetherington-James chap?”

  “Jones, Hetherington-Jones. Do you mind if I borrow the photo?”

  “Have it, I have no use for it.”

  “Dr Stanford, will you call me if you remember any of their names?”

  “Why should I do that? Have you paid me the courtesy of letting me know the nature of your interest? No.”

  “We are investigating the disappearance of a young Indian lady who worked as a nurse at Addenbrooke’s hospital at the same time your five pillars sought to bed women there. There is probably no connection, but we need to eliminate the possibility from our enquiry.”

  “I see, quite serious then?”

  “Very serious. Therefore I would appreciate…”

  “I will call you. I can’t promise anything, but rest assured I will call you if the old grey matter comes up with anything.” He tapped a finger against his temple.

  “Thank you. Do you remember anything about it?”

  “About what?”

  “Do you remember anything about the nurse at the hospital, the one that disappeared?”

  “Ooh, now you’re asking. There is something lurking in the old grey matter, but I’m more of a logical thinker than a memory man. I can solve problems better than most of my peers can, but I would be bloody hopeless on Mastermind.”

  “It must have been big news at the time, locally that is.”

  “I do have a vague recollection, now you come to mention it. Indian lass, you say?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Yes, it was in my final year, I was in digs out by the College of Arts and Technology. No doubt it calls itself a university now. That’s right; a young nurse had one of the two attic rooms. Neil told me she used to be a bit worried when she travelled home from the nightshift. She was kidnapped, wasn’t she?”

  “No, Dr Stanford, she just disappeared. There was no evidence of a crime whatsoever.”

  “Ah, well, you seem to know more than I do.”

  “Who was Neil?”

  “Old Neil, he had the room across the hallway to mine. Good oarsman by all accounts.”

  “He didn’t play rugby then?”

  “No. Probably would have done better than most of the wimps in my team though.”

  “Do you know if any of the guys in the team associated with this nurse?”

  “The Indian lass?”

  “No, the one who lived up in the attic room.”

  “No. Well, if they did, I knew nothing of it.”

  “Okay. Maybe it’s best you concentrate your efforts on trying to remember the names of the five fornicators, your team within a team. Or maybe you know someone that would remember their names.”

  “I’ll do my best. I am not promising anything mind. Is that it? Is my interrogation over and done with?”

  Harrington laughed. “Until I return with the pliers, it is.”

  “You’ll be ripping my toenails off next time, will you?”

  “Maybe I will, if you don’t improve that memory of yours.”

  “You never know, something might leap out of the dark one night. Now, please don’t insult my hospitality by not touching your drink.”

  Harrington picked up the glass and took a sip. For the next fifteen minutes he listened to Stanford complaining about having to survive on a minimal budget while other faculties creamed off the lion’s share of any additional money gained by the marketing department.

  When he returned to it, his car was not clamped, but an official reprimand was placed under the left wiper. He looked up to see a short man in a navy-blue uniform approaching him.

  Harrington flashed his warrant card.

  “Sorry sir. We get a lot of students trying to park where they shouldn’t.”

  “It’s a shame universities have to put up with bloody students and visitors, isn’t it?”

  “We just don’t have the space.”

  “Only joking, what should I do with this?” Harrington held up the reprimand.

  “Bin it sir. I doubt if we’ll be taking you to court. Incidentally, what was your business here?”

  “I’m hunting down a serial killer. You don’t know where I might find one, do you?”

  The security guard laughed. “There are a few shifty looking professors that work late some nights.”

  “Take care then.” Harrington opened his car door and climbed inside.

  Chapter 8

  Dressed in the best clothes she had and with all their available cash in a small handbag that Anton had bought her on Monday, Anna arrived at the doctor’s surgery. Her estimation of the journey time had not been quite right; it was ten-past-eight. She had been hoping to be there just before the hour.

  The downstairs of the building was in total darkness. A dim light illuminated the first floor window where the reception was. She half expected the door to be locked, but it opened without undue resistance. After carefully shutting it, as if she was scared of waking someone, she set off up the shadowy stairs.

  This time the door to the reception was closed. All she could hear was silence. A floor board creaked under her feet as she turned the handle. Anna opened the door just wide enough to see inside. She had not got it wrong; she could see a man sitting in a chair, his eyes staring at her, but his face saying nothing. She opened the door a little wider and squeezed inside. Another man and a woman came into view. All three were in their mid to late forties. All had dark complexions, suggesting they were not natives of England.

  The reception desk stood unoccupied, its computer covered in a made to measure plastic cover. Everybody watched as Anna sat down, but no one spoke.

  The wait was a long one. All through it, Anna was trying not to cough, but her gurgling trachea insisted she did so on numerous occasions. Finally at eight thirty-five, a young fair skinned woman came sheepishly out of the consulting room door clutching a green sheet of paper. The woman kept her head bowed and turned towards the wall as she made her way out.

  “Next,” a ma
n’s voice shouted from behind the door.

  The two men turned their heads in the direction of the woman sitting close to the consulting room. She got up, went inside, and closed the door.

  Five minutes later she was out again, tucking her green slip of paper into her handbag as she went. Within another ten minutes the two men had been seen and dispatched. Anna suddenly felt alone and nervous, she had no idea how much this was going to cost. She wished Anton could have been there.

  “Next.”

  Anna walked in and closed the door. The doctor appeared to be just the wrong side of fifty. He was sitting behind a desk with a stethoscope around his neck.

  “Take a seat,” he gestured to a chair positioned to one side of his desk. “What can I do for you?”

  Anna sat down and put her hand just below her neck. “I have a bad chest.”

  “Am I right in thinking I have not seen you before?”

  “Yes,” she replied nervously.

  He tilted his head forward and grinned. “I will take that yes to mean that I am right.”

  Confusion filled Anna’s face.

  “It’s fifty pounds for a consultancy. After the first half-hour, it’s ten pounds for every five minutes thereafter. Cash only. Are you comfortable with that?”

  “Yes.” Anna opened her new handbag and counted out five ten-pound notes before pulling them out. She then counted them again as she passed them over.

  The doctor dropped the money in a drawer to his left. “Okay, let’s have a look at you.”

  Anna stood to take her denim jacket off. After carefully hanging it over the back of the chair, she sat down again.

  “I will need you to take your top off.”

  Anna started to unbutton her black cotton shirt. As she undid the last button she hoped to hear the doctor say that was enough, but he didn’t. She moved her eyes to engage his. He was just sitting, looking, and waiting.

  Feeling extremely uncomfortable and vulnerable, she slipped her shirt over her shoulders, off her arms and onto the back of the chair over her jacket.

  The doctor stood up and put the stethoscope into his ears. Anna stood and the examination started. She relaxed a little as it followed the pattern of others she had had, two deep breaths in and out as he listened to her chest from different points.