Deadly Friends dcp-5

by Stuart Pawson

  "According to her, it was a mural of someone called… Bart Simpson, riding a Harley Davidson motorbike. Does that mean anything to you, Darryl?"

  "Bart fuckin' Simpson," he scoffed. "Get real."

  "Should I know who he is?"

  "He's a cartoon character, Boss," Sparky informed us.

  "Right. And you don't have a likeness of him reproduced anywhere on your torso, Darryl?"

  "No."

  "Fair enough, but to eliminate you from enquiries I have to confirm it.

  Unfortunately your word is not enough. With Mr. Turner's approval, would you be good enough to remove your shirt?"

  Turner shrugged, Darryl stood up and slipped his jacket off. He unfastened his tie and started unbuttoning his shirt, determined to prove his innocence of this one. His stumpy fingers had problems with his cuffs, but in a few moments the shirt was draped over the back of his chair. He turned round and flexed his muscles.

  "Let's have you on film," I said, looking at Martin. Darryl held the pose as Martin checked the viewfinder. He nodded at me and I said:

  "That's fine, thank you."

  Darryl relaxed and turned back to us, rotating his shoulders as he reached for his shirt, obviously pleased with his performance. He was well built, but turning to fat. His shoulders were overdeveloped and the muscles on his neck could have buttressed a small cathedral. His shape reminded me of one or two Olympic athletes who fell foul of the drug testing procedures.

  "Just a moment, please," I said as he lifted his shirt from the chair.

  He paused as I got to my feet and let the shirt fall from his fingers.

  I approached him, flapping my hands like a novice curate addressing his flock.

  "This… sex in the shower thing," I said. "I'm still a bit baffled as to how you did it." I stepped past him and gestured to the wall of the cell we were using. "Just… stand here a moment, please, if you don't mind." He moved to where I'd indicated, looking uneasy. Turner's chair scraped on the floor but he made no objection.

  I moved forward until I was standing almost toe-to-toe with Buxton.

  "Let's just say," I suggested, 'that you are her and I'm you." He looked wary, his cockiness rapidly evaporating, but didn't protest. I raised my hands and held them palms towards him, but not quite touching. Touching is deemed an assault. "Now… you said… that you leaned her back against the wall…" I shuffled forward until I could smell last night's beer on his breath and see the wrinkles of skin through the stubble on top of his head. I inched my palms towards him and he leaned backwards against the ancient glazed tiles of the Bridewell.

  "Whaa!" he exclaimed, jerking upright.

  "What's the matter?"

  "It's fucking freezing!"

  "Just lean back again," I insisted.

  He tried again, flinched and stepped forward.

  "OK," I told him. "That'll be enough. It looks as if I'll never know how to do it against a wall." I passed him his shirt and sat down. We watched him refasten the buttons and stuff the flaps into his trousers.

  When he was back in his seat I said: "You're a big lad. You obviously work out."

  "Yeah," he agreed. "Now and again."

  "At a gym?"

  "Yeah."

  "Which one?"

  "It's in Manchester."

  "I see. We had a gym in Heckley, once. A good one. Unfortunately the proprietor killed someone." I paused, studying his face, then added:

  "I put him away for life."

  Turner shuffled and said: "Is any of this relevant, Inspector? I've other places to be and I'd be grateful if we could bring this interview to a conclusion. My client has fully and satisfactorily replied to your questions and I suggest that there is therefore no case to answer to."

  "He was on steroids," I continued. "He killed two people in a fit of 'roid rage. Are you taking steroids, Darryl?"

  His mouth was set in an expression of hate, his head lowered, eyes fixed on mine. "No," he said.

  "Not ever? You've never been offered any at the gym?"

  "No."

  "You've never done any… stacking, I believe it's called?"

  "I don't know what you're talking about."

  "Pity," I told him. "Nowadays it can be used in mitigation. I don't know if it makes any difference, but it gives the defence something to pontificate about. We're not letting you go, Darryl. I want you charged with the rape of Janet Saunders and in front of a magistrate tomorrow morning. We'll be opposing bail."

  "This is preposterous," Mr. Turner protested. "On what grounds can you do this? My client has made it clear what happened. At the previous interview he told you that Mrs. Saunders became hostile when he tried to leave and demanded money. She has a reputation in her locality for being a woman of some sexual experience."

  "Some sexual experience!" I gasped. "And what about his reputation?"

  "If my client has any sort of reputation it is inadmissible as evidence."

  "But hers isn't?"

  "No."

  "Does that strike you as fair?"

  "It's the law. Fairness doesn't enter into it."

  "Mrs. Saunders says Buxton raped her, at knife point "And he says she consented. I suggest you release my client and pass the file to the CPS for their consideration. I can safely say that they will not entertain it. The words "wasting time" might appear somewhere on their response."

  I was in my shirt sleeves, my jacket draped over the back of the chair.

  I half turned and retrieved the Wetherton package from a pocket.

  "This," I said, unwrapping the contents and holding it towards Buxton, 'is a digital thermometer. You switch it on… here, and press this end against whatever it is you want to know the temperature of, like this." I held the probe end against the palm of my hand and offered the instrument so his solicitor could read the liquid crystal display.

  "Could you please tell us what that says, Mr. Turner?" I asked.

  "No," he said. "I don't wish to take part in this charade."

  "Read that, DC Sparkington," I said.

  "Thirty-six point… something," he replied.

  "That's degrees centigrade," I told them, 'which is blood heat, near enough. That's how you check the thermometer. I am now going to take a reading from the wall where Darryl leaned a few minutes ago. Would all those present like to come and check this?"

  Sparky stood and moved round the table but Turner and Buxton remained glued to their seats. I nodded to Martin to join us. I pressed the probe against the tiles and waited for the numbers to settle.

  "What does it say?" I asked.

  "Twenty-one degrees," Martin informed us.

  "Yep, twenty-one," Sparky confirmed.

  We resumed our places. "You used to be a bailiff, a repo man, I believe," I said to Darryl. He didn't answer.

  "You have to be able to handle yourself in a job like that," I continued. "Fancy yourself as a tough guy, do you?"

  He glowered at me, his top lip distorted and his forehead shiny with sweat, but stayed silent.

  "Perhaps you just don't like the cold," I suggested.

  "You're a hothouse plant. I'm not. There's nothing I like better than to be out on the moors on a frosty morning with the wind whistling round my ears and the air like champagne." I did an exaggerated breathe-in and exhaled with a sigh. "Yesterday morning… I visited Mrs. Saunders' home. I went upstairs to the bathroom, where you claim intercourse took place. I removed my shirt and stood in the bath, right where you say you did. I leaned back against the wall. Your actual words, a few seconds ago, were: "It's fucking freezing." You were dead right. Her bathroom wall was fucking freezing. It was cold enough to freeze the balls off a… pawnbroker's sign. I couldn't lean on it for two seconds. So, I took out my faithful friend here." I tapped the thermometer. "And measured the temperature. It was eighteen degrees, a full three degrees centigrade lower than the wall in this room. Your story is a pack of lies, Buxton. Sex in the shower is one of your pathetic fantasies. In the North of England, in winter
, in an unheated bathroom, it's strictly for masochists."

  "Inspector," his brief, Turner, began, raising a conciliatory hand.

  "All this is rather far-fetched. What happens in the clinical conditions of this interview room cannot be compared with the high passions that were running that night. The cocktail of lust and alcohol that both parties were under the influence of would surely overcome any chilliness of the tiles in her bathroom, don't you agree?"

  "Mrs. Saunders doesn't drink," I said. "But your client was no doubt under the influence of alcohol, and probably anabolic steroids, too. A simple drugs test will show that. Meanwhile, we'll let a jury decide about the anaesthetising effects of "high passion", as you called it. I want him in court, and when he is, we'll play it clever, like you usually do. For a start, there'll be women on the jury. We'll make sure that there's an overnight adjournment between them hearing our evidence and retiring. And do you know what they'll do, every one of them, when they are at home or in the hotel? They'll all stand in their showers, stark naked, and lean on the wall. Just like you will, tonight, Mr. Turner. And that's when they'll make their decisions." I leaned back, flicking my notebook closed.

  Sparky said: "And then there's all the other women you've attacked.

  We'll call them, just for indentification purposes, of course. "Is this the man you knew as Darryl Burton?" "And when did you last see him?" That sort of thing."

  "You can't do that!" Turner protested. "It's inadmissible."

  "We'll get round it," I told him. "When they learn that your client is probably going away for a long time one or two might be willing for CPS to re-start their cases. Young Samantha Teague might press charges.

  The phrase I'm wanting to hear from the judge's lips is the one about being put away until no longer a danger to women." I turned to Sparky.

  "How old do you reckon that is, Dave? About seventy?"

  "God, older than that, I hope," he replied. "Charlie Chaplin put their Oona in the family way when he was about ninety."

  "A long time, anyway."

  "You can say that again."

  "Anything else?" I asked.

  Sparky shook his head.

  "Mr. Turner?"

  "Not at the moment, except to confirm that we will be strenuously denying these charges and protesting about the way the evidence of this morning was obtained."

  "Buxton?"

  He glared at me, one corner of his mouth pulling in uncontrolled twitches towards his ear. "I'll get you, you bastard!" he hissed.

  Turner slapped a hand on his arm to silence him.

  "We'll take that as a negative," I said. "Interview terminated at… twelve forty-seven p.m."

  Chapter Thirteen

  We took him to the charge office, read him his rights under PACE and showed him the menu. Our natty paper suits do not come in a full range of sizes, and the one that fitted his shoulders was rather long for him. The crutch was level with his knees and the legs were concertinaed around his ankles. All part of the dehumanising process, of course, but sometimes it doesn't bother me a bit. As soon as he was settled in we left.

  As we walked out of the headquarters Sparky thumped me on the upper arm and said: "Well done, Squire! Bloody brilliant."

  I rubbed my arm. "You don't know your own strength," I complained. As we'd missed the Saturday morning remand court we'd have to keep Buxton until he could appear before a magistrate on Monday, and not 'tomorrow', as I'd told him during the interview. It would give him another twenty-four hours to reflect on his misspent youth. I drove us both back to Heckley nick.

  "I'll sort out the remand file in the morning, if you don't mind,"

  Sparky said as he unbuckled his seat belt. "I promised to take Daniel to the match, if we got done early enough."

  "I've nothing on," I told him. "I'll pop upstairs and do it myself. It won't take long."

  "Come on, then. We'll both do it."

  "What about the match?"

  "We've plenty of time. Why don't you come with us? I could ring Shirley, arrange for an extra place for dinner."

  I considered his offer for two milliseconds, nodded and said: "Mmm, thanks, that'll be nice. Let's go upstairs and sign Mr. Buxton's card for him, then."

  There was a big white envelope on my desk, where I couldn't miss it.

  Inside I found a resealable plastic bag containing a catalogue for Magic Plastics 'filled with all those essential things you've been waiting for someone to invent." I put it where I wouldn't forget it and turned my mind back to Darryl Buxton.

  You can work fast when the office is empty and free from distractions.

  Dave typed and I dictated. The Crown Prosecution Service are interested in two main areas: evidence and public interest. The former didn't look too convincing in print, so we laid it on thick about the risk to the female population.

  "That should do it," Sparky said, tapping in the final full stop. Now it was up to the CPS prosecutor.

  I asked him to ring Maggie before we left, so she could inform Mrs.

  Saunders of the latest developments, and then we drove in convoy to Dave's house.

  As we arrived, I was surprised to see young Sophie with a team scarf around her neck. She'd changed her mind and decided to come along at the very last moment. Thanks, Sophie, I thought.

  We won, four-nil, and celebrated with pints of shandy in the pub outside the ground. Dinner had been postponed until after the match, and Shirley had put in an extra Yorkshire pudding for me. Whisper it softly, but her puddings are better than my mum's were.

  Dave washed, I dried and Shirley put them away. "Are you taking Annabelle anywhere tonight?" Shirley asked.

  "Er, no," I replied, passing a dish back to Dave with a terse, 'rejected."

  He examined it and gave it another scrub. "Tell yo what," he said, 'why don't we all go to the Eagle tomorrow, for lunch? We'll get in if I give them a ring."

  "That's a good idea," Shirley agreed. "Will you and Annabelle be able to make it?"

  "No," I mumbled. "We'veer something on."

  "Oh, what a pity," she said. "Are you going anywhere special?"

  "Yes."

  There was an uncomfortable silence. I started on the cutlery as Sparky emptied the bowl and reached for the first pan.

  "The kids ought to be doing this," Shirley said.

  "We're too soft with them," Sparky concurred.

  "Leave them alone," I protested. As their uncle-by-proxy, it's my role to defend them.

  "Now I know why Dave's hands are always so soft," I told her.

  "No, his head's just as soft," she responded. "Annabelle loaned Sophie some books," she went on. "I'll find them, so you can return them, otherwise they'll be forgotten."

  "It doesn't matter," I replied.

  "Oops, how did that escape," Sparky said, finding a plate in the bottom of the bowl and passing it to me.

  "Of course it matters," Shirley continued. "They look expensive. And tell Annabelle: "Thank you," when you see her. As well as having a crush on you, I think poor Sophie has one on Annabelle, too. I'm not sure which I disapprove of more."

  One fib you can get away with. Any more and you start to build a house of cards. That's how we catch crooks.

  "I won't be seeing her," I replied. Before they could comment I went on: "Truth is, Annabelle and I have finished. We're not together any more." I carefully dried the Denby plate I was holding and offered it to Shirley. She didn't attempt to take it.

  Dave's hands stopped swishing about in the sink. "Sorry, Chas," he mumbled. "I didn't know."

  "Finished?" Shirley repeated, eyes wide. "Finished? You and Annabelle?"

  "Yep," I managed to say, biting my lip.

  "Oh, Charlie," Shirley began. "I'm so sorry. I thought… I thought you and Annabelle were… I don't know, you just seemed so right together. You must be devastated."

  "I'll get over it," I said, gently placing the plate on the work surface before I dropped it. More lies.

  Shirley put her hand o
n my arm. "I'm sorry, love," she said. "I…

  I'm sorry. Are you sure it's, you know, final?"

  "Yep," I said.

  "Oh, I am sorry. Well, you know where to come if you want to talk about it."

  Sunday I dedicated to housework. My parents had lived in this house, but I'd be in big trouble if they could see it now. Decorating it myself was out of the question. I'd ask around, see if I could find anyone who did a good job, cheap. I vandalised all the cobwebs, consigned various books and ornaments to a box destined for Help the Aged and gave the place a thorough hoovering. It was a big improvement. I found several items that belonged to Annabelle: a bottle of Mitsouko; her hiking socks; toothbrush; that sort of thing. I dropped them in a carrier bag and went out to the dustbin, then changed my mind and stuffed it to the back of a cupboard.

  Later, I showered and had a can of lager. The Magic Plastic catalogue was on the coffee table, with the squash club membership list, alongside my favourite chair. I made a mug of tea, found my place near the middle of the list, and resumed plodding through the names.

  My finger was on Davis, James Ashley, when I realised that my brain hadn't registered a thing for God knows how long. I folded the pages, put them to one side and went to bed. I never looked at the Magic Plastic catalogue.

  I'd run out of shirts again. Ever since Mrs. Tait returned from her daughter's I'd been struggling to re-establish my routine for taking them round to her for ironing. I found the denim Wrangler with the mother-of-pearl studs and pulled that on. No doubt Mr. Wood would make his usual comment about me looking like Jesse James, so I wriggled into the tightest pair of jeans I could find, just to irk him. I can be a real mean hombre, at times. One day, I promised myself, I'd buy a pair of snakeskin boots with high heels and silver buckles. As I was leaving home I saw the theatre tickets behind the clock and put them in my inside pocket. Nigel might have a use for them.

  The good news that Monday morning was that Darryl Buxton appeared before a stipendiary magistrate, charged with rape. It's an indictable offence, which means it has to be dealt with by the crown court the appearance in front of the mags is just to set the wheels in motion.