Stuart Pawson - Deadly Friends

A refrigerated van had drawn up at the end of Ged Skinner's street and a figure answering to his description had leaped down from it, carrying a sports bag, and entered the squat.

"I'll be with you in about twenty minutes," I said.

I was pulling my coat on when the phone rang again.

"Priest."

"It's Maggie, Boss. I didn't want to ring you last night, but I went for a look-round with Janet Saunders and we found Darryl."

"Brilliant! Well done."

"He's called Darryl Buxton, but we've nothing on him."

"Great. Look, Maggie, I'm sorry to cut you off in your finest hour, but I'm on my way to lift the bloke we think did the doctor. You stay with it today, see what else you can find, and I'll have a word with you later. OK?"

"Will do. Good luck."

"Cheers."

The unseasonable weather was changing; the sky clearing and the breeze swinging to the North. I pulled my down-filled jacket out of the closet and swapped the contents of my pockets round. Once I wore it up mountains, but now it was just another winter coat. Outside, the field fares were stuffing themselves with my cotoneaster berries, as if they knew something we didn't.

A panda car was parked two streets away from the squat, with Sparky's Escort behind it. I pulled in behind them and spoke to the crew of the panda.

"Let's get on with it," I said.

One of them lifted a radio. "Mr. Priest is here. Ready when you are."

"OK," came the reply. "Let's go go go!"

We didn't make a fuss. Just drove to the front and back of the house and marched into the yard. I hammered on the door.

Sparky nodded at my jacket. "Expecting bad weather?"

I nodded and sniffed. "Smell that breeze," I said. "That's ice, straight from the Arctic'

He looked up at the sky and sniffed audibly. "And polar bear shit," he confirmed.

A bleary-eyed woman in a pink candlewick housecoat came to the door. It was only seven a.m. but she'd no doubt still be wearing it at noon. She had a ring through her nose and on her throat was the biggest ripe blackhead I've ever seen. I could hardly take my eyes off it. The nearest she got to soap was on TV five evenings per week.

"Police," I said. "We believe Ged Skinner is here. Could you find him, please."

"I'll, ergo look," she mumbled, and tried to close the door. I put my arm out to hold it open and went in. Sparky and a City DC followed me.

"Ged!" the woman shouted. "It's the police, for you!"

We were standing in a dismal passage with brown walls and lino on the floor. A pram and a bike took up most of the room and several kid's toys lay around. Doors opened and inquisitive faces, mainly children's, poked round them. A little girl appeared, wearing a short vest and no knickers. She stared up at us, fingers in her mouth.

Sparky spoke to her. He's good with kids and I'm grateful.

Skinner came bouncing down the stairs wearing a T-shirt with the Nike logo on the front and shell suit bottoms with don't-I-look-stupid stripes under one knee. He was about five foot nine, with longish hair and a little wisp of a beard. His complexion looked as if it came with extra mozzarella. "What's up?" he asked.

"Ged Skinner?"

"Yeah. What of it?"

"We'd like a word with you, somewhere more private. How about coming out to the car?"

"What's it about?"

"We'll tell you there."

"I'm having my breakfast," he protested. "I've just come in."

"We won't keep you long," I said. Fifteen years was the time I had in mind. The passage was filling with people of assorted ages and states of dress.

"E's only just come in," a spotty youth in what looked like a Dodgers nightshirt confirmed. I didn't know they did nightshirts.

"Look," I told Skinner. "We need to talk to you. It can either be here or down at the station, the choice is yours."

"I'm not going anywhere 'less you tell me what it's about."

The woman with the blackhead had adopted a protective stance alongside him. "Why don't you leave us alone?" she ranted. "We 'aven't done nothing."

I was waiting for the next line: "Why aren't you out catching murderers," but she said: "Aven't you anything better to do?"

"Are you coming out to the car?" I demanded.

"I'm not going nowhere unless you tell me what it's about."

"OK, have it your way. Ged Skinner, I am arresting you on suspicion of being involved in the death of Dr. Clive Jordan. You do not have to say anything but it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned, something that you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you understand? Good, let's go."

The spectators were stunned into silence, except for the little girl who started to cry. "The doctor?" Skinner said, shaken. "You think it was me what did the doctor?"

"Take him in," I told Sparky, 'and let's have this place searched."

"Let's see your warrant," Skinner insisted.

"I'm all the warrant we need," I told him. "Let's go."

"Hang on," Skinner protested. "I haven't got any shoes on."

I looked down and saw his bare feet for the first time. "For God's sake, someone fetch his shoes," I yelled.

"Where do you want him taking, guy," the City DC asked.

"Heckley. We're still allowed to make our own tea there."

While Skinner was being processed I had a toasted tea cake in the canteen then ran upstairs to see if anything was happening in the office that I needed to know about. Maggie was hanging her coat up.

"Did you get him?" she asked.

"Bet your ass," I replied with a wink and a jerk of the head. "But we had to arrest him. We'll let him settle in, have a word with the duty solicitor, then I'll put the thumbscrews on him."

It had worked out well. The evidence was a bit weak, all circumstantial, and the custody sergeant might have thrown it out, so I'd normally have done an initial interview and hoped something would have come from that. We'd arrested him because he wouldn't cooperate, and that meant that I could now authorise a property search.

"Have you time to hear about Darryl?"

"You may not believe it, Maggie," I told her, 'but Darryl is my number one priority. I'm just Makinson's running dog in this murder case.

Fire away what have you got?"

She tucked her blouse into her skirt and sat down opposite me. Her hair was wet, several strands clinging to her forehead. "We went looking for him last night," she began. "Janet and me, that is. Found him in a town-centre pub. The Huntsman. It was fifties night you'd have been at home. Darryl was leaning on the bar, chatting to anyone who came to be served. Got the impression that was his technique. It was early, about eight thirty. Looked like we'd have a long wait and Janet was upset, so I phoned for a taxi and sent her home. Hope that's all right?"

"No problem. Go on."

"Darryl stayed until chucking-out time. He drove home alone and I followed him to a flat in that posh new block near the canal. The address matched the one on record for the owner of the Mondeo he was driving. He's called Darryl Buxton and he's clean, I'm afraid. All the other details are on your desk."

"Brilliant, Maggie. We'll make a detective of you yet. Looks as if you'd better take an afternoon off when things settle down you heard what Mr. Wood said about overtime."

"That's OK. There's more. This morning I followed him to his place of employment. He works in the town centre, for someone called Homes 4U.

That's number 4, capital U. Snappy, eh?"

"Speaks volumes about their clientele," I said. — "Quite. They're some sort of estate agents, special ising in cheap rentals, DHSS work, that sort of stuff. They're big around Manchester and are just expanding to this side of the Pennines. I rang them up and had a girl-to-girl chat with their receptionist. She sounded a bit dim.