Deadly Friends dcp-5

by Stuart Pawson

  Not brilliant, I'm afraid. Only been here three weeks. I was at Chester before that."

  "Right. Well, I'd be very grateful if you could make a few enquiries on my behalf with your intelligence officer or any other local men."

  "I'll see what we can do, Mr. Priest."

  "Good. Thanks. We are about to have a talk with a character called Darryl Buxton, about an alleged rape on Christmas Eve. He has no form, but we think he may have come from Burnley. If I give you his description do you think you could see if he's known to anyone, please?"

  "You mean, informally?"

  I winked at Maggie. "Yes, informally. Just between ourselves."

  He told me that I wouldn't be able to use it and I said yes, I was aware that I wouldn't be able to use it and he eventually said he would, so I gave him the description Computers are good for storing information, but there are some things you just daren't put on them. I wanted to know if there was anything like that for Darryl Buxton. All's fair in love and law.

  "What was all that about?" Maggie asked as I replaced the handset.

  "What's Burnley got to do with it?"

  "It's a long story," I replied, settling back in the chair "It all started in the First World War."

  The East Lancashire Regiment was in the thick of it In 1914 they recruited locally: men from one town, or one street, enlisting together to form what were known as Pals Battalions. Brother trained and fought side by side with brother, father with son. They escaped the drudgery of mill or coal mine to take the King's shilling and fight to make the world a better place. They yelled blood-curdling war-cries as they stabbed bags of straw with their bayonets and imagined they were killing Germans. The only difference, they were assured, was that the real thing would be running away from them. Nobody told them that their enemy was probably a blond-haired Adonis who'd grown up in the fields and mountains of Bavaria, not stooped over loom or shovel breathing foul air for twelve hours per day.

  Nobody told them about machine guns.

  Nobody told them about the Military Police who followed behind and shot anyone who turned to run, even though their comrades were falling around them like over-ripe plums in the first autumn gale.

  And nobody ever mentioned the firing squads that were waiting for the frightened or the feeble or the ones who simply saw more suffering than anyone could bear.

  When it was over, when the politicians saw the opportunity to save face, when Satan himself was sickened by the carnage, those that remained limped their way back towards the Channel, towards home. They left behind their friends, their sight, their youth and, some of them, their sanity.

  For the East Lanes, a ragged remnant of their former selves, luck changed. They regrouped and billeted at Fecamp, in Normandy. Centuries before, the Benedictine monks who lived there had devised the medicinal brew of grape and herbs that now bears their name. It was offered to the soldiers of the East Lanes to soothe the pain, and, being fifty per cent proof, it worked. They asked for more. To men who were still young enough to remember every pint of weak beer they'd had, it had a kick like a field gun.

  They brought the pestle-shaped bottles home with them, to stand on the sideboard alongside the shell cases, the uniformed photograph and the framed message from the King. And they brought a taste for the contents with them, too.

  Like the gene for brown eyes, or cystic fibrosis, or the belief in God, it passed down the generations. Eighty years later a handful of pubs and clubs around Burnley still do a thriving trade in Benedictine, serving it to the great-great grandchildren of that ragtaggle army that left its dreams 'hanging on the old barbed wire'.

  Sparky had joined us. "You know some stuff," he said, when I'd finished.

  "It doesn't win quizzes," I admitted.

  "So you reckon he comes from Burnley," Maggie said.

  "I'd bet on it."

  She was picking at her fingernails, absent-mindedly removing imaginary dirt from under them with her thumbnail, a faraway expression on her face. "It'd be nice if they could come up with something," she said.

  She wanted Darryl behind bars.

  "Day after tomorrow," I told her. "We'll have a word with him then.

  Put it in your new diary."

  Sparky was pulling his coat on. "I'll get down to the squat, Boss," he said. "See if they need any help."

  "OK. I'll probably be here if you want me, but try not to." I didn't envy them, having to cope with all the residents, plus children and animals. It'd be a pantomime.

  "What are you doing tonight?" he asked.

  "Not sure. Haven't thought about it."

  "In that case, come round. See the New Year in with us."

  "Aren't you going out?"

  "No. Sophie's going to a party, so Daniel would be left on his own.

  We'll stay in with him."

  "Right, thanks. I'll come round late on, if that's OK?"

  "See you then. I might have to tear myself away to fetch Sophie. The joys of fatherhood," he added, making a face.

  A copy of the Sun was lying on Jeff Caton' sdesk, with the headline '5,000 New Cops'. I picked it up and read the story.

  It didn't take long. The streets were about to be reclaimed for the people. The PM's new initiative would meet the muggers and vandals and drug pushers head-on, make them realise that they had no future in the New Society. Suddenly, we had Society again. They made it sound as if our towns and villages would be flooded with policemen. You'd be able to walk your dog at two in the morning, safe in the knowledge that a friendly bobby would be standing on every street corner.

  I pulled out my calculator and typed 5,000 into it. Divide by forty-three forces, except that the Met would get the lion's share, then by the seventeen divisions in East Pennine and the number of stations in Heckley. We cover twenty-four hours per day, seven days per week, but each officer only works five eight-hour shifts. I tapped the appropriate keys. Then there's holidays, training courses and sick leave. I hit the equals button and watched as minute electrical forces shuffled molecules into new locations, spelling out a number. It said that at any given time the citizens of Heckley would have the benefit of an extra 0.49 of a policeman on duty. Allowing for meal breaks, paperwork and time in court, it worked out as the equivalent of a rooky wolf cub. Halle-flipping-lujah.

  I did a report for Makinson and caught up with the burglaries. Lunch was a mug of tea. The doctor in Wandsworth was on his rounds, I was told, but I'd catch him about ten to four. Sparky rang to say that they'd found nothing of interest at the squat and Nigel told me that Skinner's brother-in-law had been traced. He'd be having a word with him shortly.

  It had never looked good, and then it all fell to pieces. Nigel came in with the till receipts and they sounded just like the one a Traffic officer from Cambridgeshire described to me. The doctor in Wandsworth verified that he had been contacted by Dr. Jordan, and Skinner had collected his prescriptions from him like a good little boy. Jim and Mary were stalwarts of the local church and supported Skinner's story, and finally, we didn't have a weapon.

  "Let him go," Superintendent Wood said.

  "Let him go," Chief Superintendent Isles concurred.

  "You can go," I told Skinner. The only bright spot was the thought of the look on Makinson's sunburnt face when he learned the news, and I wondered how I could wangle being there at the time.

  I hung around in the office until I knew the Bamboo Curtain would be open and had my favourite, duck in plum sauce, for tea, washed down with a pint of lager. There was no reason why I shouldn't have a little celebration of my own. The place was almost empty, so early in the evening, and the proprietor came and shared a pot of Chinese tea with me, on the house. Later, it would be rowdy with drunks, but the staff would serve them with patience and courtesy, their contempt suppressed by ten thousand years of oppression.

  There were no messages on my ansa phone but the postman had made a delivery. The various financial organisations that knew my address were suggesting that now was the time
to reorganise my lifestyle and the house insurance was due. I binned most of it and had a shower.

  I had no clean shirts. Well, no decent ones. I don't wear designer clothes and automatically reject anything with the label on the outside. If they want me to advertise their wares they should pay me, or at least bring their prices down. All jeans are made from the same material on the same machines to the same measurements. Only the labels vary, with perhaps an odd row of decorative stitching. I buy mine in the market at half price. I pulled on a pair that had that washed-once look, when the colour is at its brightest.

  There is one exception to my aversion to style. Wrangler do a shirt that has a row of mother-of-pearl press-studs down the front instead of buttons, and the first time I saw one I thought that one day all shirts would be like that. Harold Wilson was at Number Ten at the time, but Scott McKenzie was at number one. I found a faded example in the recesses of the wardrobe and put it on. I was only going toSparky's;I'ddo.

  Once upon a time I thought I was trendy, at art school, when I was competing with the other young blokes, like a stag at rutting time. I had an Afghan coat. I gave it to the Oxfam shop, and a couple of years ago I'm sure I saw it on telly, when Kabul fell. What goes around comes around.

  I made a mug of tea and relaxed for a while to a Dire Straits CD, hoping Annabelle would call me. It was ten o'clock when the phone rang, as I was opening my front door, leather jacket half on, half off.

  "Priest!" I snapped into it, with faked authority.

  "Hi, Charlie. Pete Drago. How are you?"

  "Hiya, Dragon," I replied. "This is a pleasant surprise. I'm fine, how are you?"

  "I'm OK, thanks. Counting the days, of course, like you, I suppose."

  Time flies, don't remind me."

  "It doesn't seem like fifteen years since I rescued you from that big nympho when we were at the Academy."

  "Your memory's playing tricks. It was me rescued you."

  "No it wasn't. I was knocking her off for the rest of the course."

  "So were most of the others."

  "Then everyone was happy. I wonder what happened to her?"

  "I married her. So where are you, these days?"

  "Ha ha! Good one. I'm at Penrith, back in uniform."

  "Penrith? What took you there?"

  "It was either move up here and go back into uniform or have my buttons cut off in front of the massed troops of the division. It's not too bad."

  "I get the message. It sounds as if you haven't changed much."

  "It was a long time ago. Listen, I rang Padiham Road for a chat with a couple of old pals and they said you'd been after me."

  "That's right. We have a suspected rapist called Darryl Buxton who may have originated in Burnley. There's nothing on the PNC for him, so I was hoping for some local knowledge."

  "That's what I was told. When I heard the name the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end, except that it's not quite right. The bloke I'm thinking of is called Darryl Burton."

  "Burton?" I repeated. "No, this is definitely Buxton. What did your man do?"

  "He raped a sixteen-year-old schoolgirl, eight years ago. Invited two of them to his flat one bank holiday Monday and plied them with cheap wine. One of them passed out and he raped the other. He pleaded not guilty and just before the trial the girl's parents withdrew the charges. It had been made plain to them that he intended destroying her credibility in court. I think she knew what it was all about."

  "It sounds like our man. What does he look like?"

  The description could have been read from Maggie's report. "Yuppy meets football hooligan' was his final assessment.

  "It's him," I said. "He's moved away from Burnley and changed his name."

  "If it is the same bloke he's a nasty piece of work. He was only about twenty, but he worked as a heavy a repo man — for a firm of bailiffs, or something."

  "This one works for an estate agency called Homes 4U. He's a branch manager."

  "That's them! Homes 4U. Estate agency is putting it a bit high, I'd say. They're not above calling round to slow payers with the baseball bats."

  "Great. You've been a big help, Pete. We're bringing him in after the New Year, so it'll be good to have some background on him."

  "I haven't finished yet," he said. "I left a few months later, but I've a feeling that he pulled something similar after I'd gone. The man to talk to is called Herbert Mathews. He was our collator but he retired on ill health about a year ago. I'll give you his address. If it breathed in Burnley, Herbert knew about it."

  We chatted for a while, agreeing that we ought to get together, knowing we wouldn't. We'd said our farewells when a thought struck him.

  "Charlie!" he shouted as I was replacing the phone.

  "Yeah."

  "I just thought of something. I believe you told Padiham Road that this rape was on Christmas Eve?"

  "That's right."

  "Well, the one I investigated was on a bank holiday Monday." "So?"

  "So you know what tonight is? Maybe there's a pattern."

  "Shit!"

  "Quite."

  "Happy New Year."

  "Thanks. And you."

  Chapter Four

  We rang off and I sat thinking for a while. Sparky's wife Shirley, answered when I dialled their number.

  "Hi, Shirl," I said. "Would you be terribly disappointed if I didn't come round? I'm falling asleep and don't think I'll be very good company."

  "I'll be a teeny bit disappointed," she replied, 'but my teenage daughter will be devastated."

  "Sophie? I thought she was at a party."

  "She just rang to say it was boring, so Dave's gone to fetch her. At least, that was her excuse. She'll be upset when you're not here."

  "I doubt it," I said.

  "Charlie," Shirley began, 'don't tell me you haven't noticed that your goddaughter has an almighty crush on "Er, no, can't say I have."

  "Well she has."

  "Oh heck. What do we do about it?"

  "Nothing. We're hoping she'll see the light. Are you sure you can't come round?"

  I wanted to. These days invitations are rarer than apprenticeships at the Job Centre. I nearly made a joke about having me for a son-in-law, but decided not to. It was a delicate subject. "Listen, Shirley," I said. "Don't tell Sparky Dave but something's cropped up. I'm going to the nick for an hour, see if I can help, that's all."

  "Oh, right. So what shall I say when they come in?"

  "Tell Sophie that I'm curled up in front of the fire with a mug of cocoa and the latest Jeffrey Archer. That should do it."

  "Aversion therapy."

  "Precisely."

  "Charlie?"

  "Mmm."

  "Thanks, love. And be careful."

  The town centre was crowded with groups of young people, singing and swaying, spilling into the road as they toured the pubs. Some wore funny hats or strands of streamers round their necks. Nobody wore a coat. They breed 'em tough, these days. The wind had swung again, away from the Pole, but it was still thinner than orphanage custard.

  Fortunately, alcohol is a good antidote. Tests have shown that vast quantities of it slopping around in the stomach are equivalent to wearing two vests and a jumper.

  I eased the car through the crowd, towards the Tap and Spile. The sexes were still segregated, but the time for mass pairing-off was rapidly approaching. A group of giggling girls sharing hardly enough clothes for one staggered into the road. I stopped and waved them across, and the one who got the blouse blew me a kiss. A party of young men in T-shirts shouted at them. Love was in the air, empathy was running high, but it could all change at the drop of a lager bottle or a misunderstood come-on. It was just a matter of time.

  Darryl's silver Mondeo wasn't in the Tap's car park. If he had any sense he'd have used a taxi, tonight of all nights. I eased out into the street again and worked my way round most of the town-centre pubs, without finding him. Uniform branch were out in force, but I didn't speak with them.


  Once I was clear of the throng I hot-wheeled it to the fancy canal-side development where Darryl lived. It had started life as a wool warehouse, a century and a half ago, when buildings were made to last but there was still something in the budget for ornamentation. It escaped the vandals in the town hall by the thickness of a small bundle of tenners and was now a highly desirable block of up market apartments, complete with security gates and private moorings. Most of the parking spots were occupied, but not by Darryl's car. I noticed that some of his neighbours were doing a lot better than he was.

  I telephoned the nick and asked for all cars to look out for him. If anyone radioed in with a contact, tell them, I said, to check if he was with a woman. If he was, they had to ruin his chances. I can be a heartless so-and-so. If Charlie's not getting it, nobody gets it.

  I drove back to the Tap. The streets were quieter, with everybody inside the pubs, pouring the last desperate drinks down their throats, as if prohibition came in on the chime of midnight. A minibus of women pulled out, leaving a big parking space for me.

  I'd forgotten how crowded pubs could be. Did I once enjoy this? I couldn't believe I ever had. It was shoulder to shoulder, with a pall of smoke hugging the ceiling. At my height I was getting a super dose I looked around and started to fight my way to one of the anterooms that branched off the main saloon, in search of a drink, or some air.

  The landlord was behind the main bar, serving drinks to the four-deep throng like a robot. An order would be shouted at him or one of his staff and a tenner passed across. Pints were pulled and a handful of coins given back. Then on to the next customer. Nobody checked their change. The sumo wrestler was dressed in red, her hair piled impossibly high. She looked as if she should have been standing at the far end of a bowling alley.

  It was marginally quieter in the far room, except for the constant procession to the toilets. I yelled an order for a pint of lager over someone's head. He turned indignantly, found himself staring at my chest and decided to wait. The barman passed me a can.