Deadly Friends dcp-5

by Stuart Pawson

  Nigel tutted and looked away.

  Guns have a language all their own. You cock a single-action revolver by pulling the hammer back with your thumb. Pawls mesh into gears and rotate the chamber one sixth of a turn, bringing the next cartridge in line with the barrel. The resulting c-click has been used in a thousand westerns to terrorise goody, baddy and audience alike as the gun was pressed against someone's head.

  It's different with an automatic. You slide the mechanism back to bring the first cartridge from the clip into the breech, with aka-chink that is as familiar to armchair fans of gangster films as the smell of a smoke-filled speakeasy or the tinkling of a honky-tonk.

  A sawn-down repeater shotgun says chunk-chunk as the next round is jacked into the chamber, and you know that death or serious bleeding is coming to someone.

  But the Heckler and Koch is a disappointment. There's nothing like that with the Heckler. You put the safety to fire and you're away. The gun comes with an extending rifle stock and they usually snap it into position silently, in the privacy of the van, before moving into position. For more intimate situations a few officers have invented a little strategy that's not in the manual. They will have the stock loosely extended but not locked. At the right moment they will bark their instructions at the target and yank the stock home, hard. The resulting chuck of catches snapping into place is mundane and meaningless, but in the psychology of brinkmanship it strikes terror in the already sweaty palms of the hearer.

  Annabelle had cooked one of my favourites trout and almonds for me, followed by home-made cheesecake. We'd called at the Granada services on the M62 and I'd bought a bunch of carnations, to put me in the good books, and the JFK video, to save time collecting Sparky's copy from home. Only trouble was, I was wearing the clothes I'd been sitting and standing about in all day and was unshaven. I apologised for my appearance and told her about Rodney, which was a mistake. All her sympathy immediately transferred to him.

  "So," I said, after I'd topped up her glass with the last of the Spanish red we both like, 'how did the trip go?"

  "Very well," she replied. "I'll show you my ideas." She stood up and left the room. We'd eaten off the large refectory table in her kitchen. I cleared our crockery away and when she returned we spread the drawings out.

  "Unfortunately the fabrics have already been ordered," she said, 'so we have to work around them. Actually, it makes it easier, I suppose."

  They were architects' impressions of the interiors, and Annabelle had coloured them in. Her schemes looked good, although her skills with the pencils required polishing. "Use the edge, like this," I said, and coloured a wall on a spare drawing. "And make the end of the wall that is nearer to you a little bolder. If you're doing it quickly, for an immediate impression, use big zigzags, full of confidence. Don't be faint-hearted. Like this."

  I handed her the pencil and made her show me. We were talking about drawing, which I know about, and avoiding discussing her trip to London, which I didn't. She was grateful for the diversion, I accepted it.

  "These are very good," I told her, pointing, meaning it. "You have brilliant colour sense, and you're prepared to be adventurous. Zorba should be delighted."

  "He's called Xavier," she reminded me.

  "Sorry. So when is your next expenses-paid jaunt?"

  "I have to go to the new site, near West Midlands Airport, to meet the architects, sometime on Thursday."

  "Will you stay down there?"

  "I think so. It's called market research. If it's a morning meeting it might be easier for me to go down tomorrow night. I'll stay at the Post Chase our big rivals to see what I can learn, and consider ways of improving upon same."

  "It sounds fun," I admitted.

  "Mmm, it is. I'm enjoying myself."

  "Will you drive down?"

  "Yes, I'll have to. I can manage the West Midlands."

  "You know you've only to say the word and I'd gladly take you."

  When she smiles at me like she did I know there is nothing I wouldn't do for her. I almost wished some great catastrophe would overtake us, some suffering we could rise above that would hold us together for ever. But all I had was a lopsided grin and a few stumbling phrases.

  "I know you would, Charles," she said. "You're very kind to me. Shall we take our tea in the other room and watch the video?"

  I was a child of the Kennedy era. We believed we were poised on the brink of a new age, when war would be waged against poverty and ignorance, and not against our fellow men. "Let us begin," he told us.

  Those shots at Dallas didn't just kill a president, they blew out the dreams of a generation. I'd never known that a prosecution had been brought against factions of the mafia and their Cuban connections. New Orleans District Attorney Jim Garrison pursued his case until it almost destroyed his family, but in the end he lost the trial and saved his marriage. I'd call that success.

  Annabelle's head was on my shoulder as we watched it, my arm around her. I had cramp for the last hour, but bore it stoically. "Do you think we'll ever know the truth?" she asked, as we washed the supper dishes.

  "Not really," I replied. "Where does this go?"

  "In there, please."

  "We'll know it, but not recognise it. It's there, somewhere, along with all the other stuff."

  "Do you believe there was a conspiracy?"

  "Yes," I replied. "I'm a pathological believer in conspiracies."

  I stayed the night. We went to bed and made love, because that's what grown-ups do when they go to bed together. Afterwards, I lay awake for hours, wondering what might have been. I think Annabelle did, too. She was snuffling in her dreams when I sneaked away at about six thirty, my car engine rattling like a clarion call in the stillness of the vicarage close.

  I was close-shaved and clean-shirted when I took the morning meeting.

  The petty criminals of Heckley hadn't taken a day off while I went to the seaside, so there was plenty to talk about. After that the first team met in my office for an update on the doc's murder. I let Nigel tell Sparky and Maggie all about the Siege of Scarborough.

  "And the psychiatrist is calling in the local nick this morning to make a statement," he finished with. Sparky put a number three in the appropriate box on his chart and looked glum.

  Nigel had a report to write and the computer to update. Sparky and Maggie were investigating ways of breaking the confidentiality rules around the abortions at the clinic. Barraclough was the obvious approach, or perhaps their counsellor might be helpful. He'd told us that all the potential mothers were given counselling. We didn't want copies of all the records a nudge towards someone they'd had concerns about would do nicely.

  I rang Les Isles with the bad news and spent the rest of the morning on paperwork. Les said not to worry, it had been worth a try, which was seven orders of support away from what he'd claimed yesterday. In the afternoon I went to the regional inspectors' meeting. We're supposed to talk about trends, developments and tactics. As usual we discussed pay, tenure of office and the precarious nature of the chief inspector rank. I didn't hear a word of it. My mind was elsewhere. Before I left Annabelle's, earlier that morning, I'd written her a letter and left it propped against the electric kettle. Now she knew exactly how I felt, and what my plans were.

  I called in the office on my way home, in case there was anything brewing that I needed to know about. It could all wait. I had the place to myself, so I rang the force medical officer. He's an old pal of mine. We wished each other a happy New Year and had a long chat. He complained that he and his wife hadn't seen me for a long time and, pleasantries over, confirmed what he'd told me a few years earlier about the state of my health. I promised to go for Sunday lunch in the near future and dialled my next number.

  Our divisional chief inspector (personnel) was still at Ms desk. "No," he said, as soon as he recognised my voice.

  "You don't know the question," I argued.

  "The answer's still no."

  "So, if my questio
n was… oh… "Are there any disadvantages if I retire at the weekend?" the answer is still no?"

  "Bugger!" he exclaimed. "It's no wonder you've got to where you are.

  Happy New Year, Charlie. What can I do for you?"

  "Happy New Year, Bob. I've just rung Doc Evans and he's confirmed that I can still go on ill health, if I so desire. I've had a word with pay section and they're calculating my terms. All I want now is the go-ahead from you."

  "You're wanting out?"

  "I think so."

  "I don't blame you, Charlie. I've had enough, myself. It's a different game from when we joined. You haven't been sick, have you?"

  "No, it's the old war wound. There's still a couple of shotgun pellets floating around inside me that could cause trouble anytime. The doc tried to persuade me to go when it happened, but I didn't want to leave, then. Now I want to sort out my private life, so it might be better to jump, before I'm kicked out."

  "Are you still with the tall lady? Annabelle, was it?"

  "Yeah. Maybe if I put as much effort into this relationship as I've put into the job we might make something of it."

  "There's a lot of sense in that. You've over twenty-six and a half in, haven't you?"

  "By a couple of years," I replied.

  "OK, so you'll go on the full two-thirds, and your pension will start right away. How much leave have you left?"

  "All of it."

  "And your white card?"

  That's our record of days owed for unpaid overtime and holidays worked, except that inspectors do not recognise overtime. "I've stopped filling it in," I replied.

  "OK. So just send me your minute sheet, saying: "I hereby inform you that I wish to retire on such a date…" Give us a month, as required. Meanwhile, try to negotiate yourself some of the leave that's owed you. With two weeks leave you could be gone in a fortnight."

  "As simple as that?"

  "As simple as that."

  "It's a bit frightening, all of a sudden."

  "I know, but it'll overtake you, one day soon, if you don't take the plunge, Charlie."

  "I'll think about it. Thanks, Bob. Keep your eye on the post."

  "Invite me to the bash. See you."

  A fortnight! I could be gone in a fortnight! On full terms! I had to tell someone. I rang Annabelle, but there was no answer. I stood up, walked round the office, sat down again. Gilbert wasn't in, either. I thought about treating myself to a meal at the Bamboo Curtain, but I wasn't hungry. I strolled round the main office, reading the papers on the desks, the notices on the walls. Jeff Caton's sweater was still over his chair back. One of the others had a framed picture of his motorbike on his desk. Two cartoons torn from newspapers, brown with age, were pinned on the board, both featuring someone called Charlie.

  What was it Herbert Mathews said? "Once you leave, you're history."

  It'd be a wrench, but I could do it.

  It was drizzling outside, but it felt right. I unlocked the car and started the engine. Ideally, I'd have liked to have walked home, feeling the rain on my face. I'd have plenty of time for walking, unless I took the offer of a partnership from Eric Dobson. There were decisions to be made, discussions to be held, and fast. Two more weeks! I put the car in gear and eased out of the station yard. There was a strange feeling in my stomach, churning at my innards. I think it was fear.

  I called in M and S for a few ready meals and some fruit. There'd be more time for shopping. The girl at the till gave me an extra special smile, as if she shared my secret. I called in the travel agent's again for some more brochures to go with the ones I still hadn't shown Annabelle. California, this time, and the Seychelles.

  The ansa phone was beeping. I put the stuff in the freezer, hung up my jacket and changed my shoes. Annabelle didn't answer when I pressed her button, so I listened to the tape. It was her, message timed at 10.12 a.m.

  "Oh, er, hello, Charles," she said, rather hesitantly. "It's Annabelle. I, er, I found your note, after you left. I don't know what to say. I'm driving down to the West Midlands Airport this afternoon. There's a meeting with the architect tomorrow, at the Post Chase. I'll be staying there overnight and will probably come home after the meeting. I'll talk to you then. "Bye."

  So now she knew. We'd been cruising along quite nicely for all this time, in an eternal courtship. It's usually regarded as the happiest time of your life it was mine so why spoil it? But the human condition is not to be content with what we have. We need to consolidate, to constantly renew, to mark our territory, build a nest. Maybe Xav had done me a favour, galvanised me out of my state of happy lethargy.

  Perhaps that's what Annabelle had in mind all along? I smiled at her unexpected guile. "I bet he's a four-foot Saddam Hussein with bad breath," I said to my reflection in the bathroom mirror.

  I could make the West Midlands Airport in an hour and a half. That would make it about eight o'clock. I asked directory enquiries for the number of the Post Chase and dialled it.

  "I believe you have a Mrs. Wilberforce staying with you," I said. "She checked in sometime today."

  "Mrs. Wilberforce? Yes, that's right."

  I asked to be put through to her room, but she didn't answer the phone.

  Probably using the pool, I thought, wishing I were already there, with her.

  "Would you like me to page her, sir?" the desk clerk asked.

  "No, but I'd be grateful if you could take a message for her, leave it under her door, or whatever. Could you tell her that Mr. Priest is coming down, and will be there about eight o'clock?"

  I dressed nonchalantly smart, with a tie from the flamboyant end of my range, and hit the streets. The M1 was busy, as usual, but there were no hold-ups. I stuffed Dylan's Before the Flood live concert tape into the cassette and sang the words of every song, tapping time on the steering wheel with my fingers. We were just starting the opening number, Most Likely You Go Your Way and I'll Go Mine, for the second time as I tried to decipher the jumble of signs on the approach to the airport, peering between the sweeps of the windscreen wipers. A Mercedes glided across my bows and turned in the direction I needed.

  Nice car, I thought, pressing the eject control and swinging after it.

  It had all changed since my last visit, when I picked up Sparky and family after a fortnight at one of the Costas. Somebody was investing a lot of money around here. I eased over the speed bumps, past the raised barrier into the Post Chase car park. The Merc stopped under the canopy at the entrance; I kept going, round to where the hoi polloi left their motors. It was nearly full. These places cater for businessmen on expenses. They are chock-a-block through the week and empty at weekends. Annabelle had been lucky to get a room.

  I found a space and dashed towards the entrance, slowing to a walk as I reached the shelter of the canopy. The passenger from the Merc was having a last word with his chauffeur, probably telling him to beeswax his polo pony or rake the gravel in the wine cellar, as a flunky hovered nearby with a huge umbrella, shivering patiently in his bum-freezer jacket. I strolled to the desk and waited for some service.

  An attractive girl in a burgundy cap smiled at me and asked if she could help.

  "You have a Mrs. Wilberforce staying here," I said. "Could you please ring her room and tell her that Mr. Priest is at the desk?"

  She consulted her VDU screen and dialled a number. I turned to scrutinise the place. Market research, Annabelle had called it. They hadn't skimped on the size it was immense. Three piece suites were dotted about like atolls in the Pacific, with copses of shrubs, real or otherwise, contributing to the feeling of space. First impressions were good, and most visitors wouldn't have a chance to form any others.

  I nodded approvingly. It was an ideal place for pursuing two of my passions: sipping tea from a china service and people-watching.

  "Mrs. Wilberforce doesn't appear to be in her room sir. Would you like me to page her?"

  A silver-haired man in a silver suit came through the revolving door, adjusting his cuffs and t
aking a cursory glance around the foyer.

  Judging by the lack of raindrops on his jacket he was from the Mercedes. He was about sixty and obviously knew where he was going, in more ways than one. He struck off across the hinterland of the foyer and I noticed a discreet sign pointing towards the restaurant.

  "Shall I page her for you, sir?" the girl was repeating.

  "Pardon," I replied.

  A woman stood up. They faced each other for a moment, his arms held open. She moved into their embrace and he kissed her on both cheeks.

  She returned the kiss, but on his lips. They exchanged a word or two and he gestured towards the restaurant. The last I saw of them they were walking towards it, his hand on the small of her back, she turning to speak to him, animated and lively.

  "Sir?"

  "Er, sorry?"

  "Shall I page Mrs. Wilberforce for you?"

  "No," I said. "It doesn't matter. Thank you."

  I sat in the car for a long time. I don't remember how I got there, but I could feel the wetness striking through my clothes. Feel it as an observation, oblivious of the discomfort.

  "It's Charlie," I said, when the duty sergeant answered the phone, when I felt coherent enough to speak. "Could you do me a PNC check, please?" I gave him the number.

  "Are you all right, Boss?" he replied. "You don't sound your usual chirpy self."

  "Tired, Arthur, just tired."

  "Don't go away."

  He was back on the line in a minute or so. "You don't mess about with nonentities, do you, Chas?" he said. "It's come back as a smoke silver Mercedes 420, keeper details: Audish Trading, at a London address. Do you need chassis and engine numbers?"

  "No, that's fine thanks."

  "Anything else?"

  "No. I'll try not to bother you again. Goodnight."

  "No bother. G'night, Boss."

  So that was Xavier Audish. I didn't need telling who the woman was. We were old friends, or I thought we were.

  Apart from the Gary Glitter CD, on which they had deliberately left the price tag showing that Woolworth's had sold it at a loss, Sophie and Daniel, Sparky's kids, had also given me Nigel Kennedy's Four Seasons.