Stuart Pawson - Deadly Friends

Their logic escapes me.

Pharmacists recognise the injustice. Some of the more unscrupulous ones tear up the prescriptions and pocket the difference for themselves. Others just sell the medicine to the customer at the market price and are happy with the profit on that. Either way, it's called fraud. It is OK for the Government to rip us off, but not enterprising individuals.

But that wasn't what was happening here. A chemist could do that in the privacy of his own shop. No collusion was required with a sympathetic general practitioner. If Nigel had stumbled on something, it was much more serious.

"Fake prescriptions," I said. "Do you think we're talking fake prescriptions?"

"I'd say it's a strong possibility," Nigel replied.

"You mean," Sparky began, 'some friendly doctor makes out a few hundred prescriptions for patients who haven't been anywhere near his surgery, and the chemist claims the fees for not dispensing any drugs?"

"A very succinct summary, I'd say, David," Nigel agreed.

"And they share the proceeds," I added.

"Four hundred quid a month. That's eight hundred if they're sharing equally. How many prescriptions is that?"

"Haven't a clue," Nigel admitted. "I've considered having a word with Fraud. What do you think, Charlie?"

"Yeah, good idea," I said. "They're bound to know more about it than we do." I thought about it for a second, then decided: "No. Bugger Fraud they'll take for ever. Let's have a word with A.J.K. Weatherall ourselves and ask him what it's all about. After lunch. First of all let's have it all down on paper and tagged for the computer."

For the first time I felt optimistic. Something of the thrill of the chase was welling up inside me, like I always get when an investigation turns the corner. You gather the facts and they don't make sense, until, hopefully, a simple piece of information comes along and everything starts to fall into place. We hadn't reached that stage, yet, but things were moving.

Maggie knocked on the door and popped her head round it, which was the cue for Sparky to jump up and gather our mugs together.

"Private party or can anyone join in?" she asked.

"Have a warm seat," Sparky told her as he sidled past in the doorway.

"Don't drop the tea bags in the bin," she called after him.

"We've finished, come in, Maggie," I said.

She sat down and sniffed. "It stinks of fish and chips in here," she declared.

"It's that lot," I said, vaguely waving towards the main office.

"Good grief, where did she come from?"

I turned round and met Natasha Wilde's ample charms, captured on Kodak paper. "Present from a grateful customer," I boasted.

"Did you dot that i?"

"No I didn't! What do you think I am?"

"Hurrumph! Did you get my message? I missed you yesterday."

"I'm sorry, Maggie. I never realised you cared so much."

"I meant… You know what I mean."

"Right. About the white towels and the street light."

"Mmm."

"Doesn't help us much, does it? How is she?"

"She's a brave lady. I told her the score, how he'd play his defence.

She realises that the chances of a prosecution are slim. She was washing sheets and blankets when I went round. Said it was the tenth time. She's too scared to have little Dilly with her for the time being and says she now sleeps in Dilly's bed with the light on."

"Did you tell her that he'd done it before?"

"I said we had suspicions."

"What was her reaction?"

"She wasn't surprised. Said it was only a matter of time before he killed someone."

"If he hasn't already," I said, and told her about the doctor living in the same block of flats.

"Really?" she said, leaning forward. "And apart from that, have you found anything else to link them?"

I shook my head. "Not a sausage. I've asked all the mobiles to keep an eye out for him, and Jeff Caton's arranging for some casual observations to be done. If we can't get him for rape we might be able to clip his wings for a while."

"It's more than his wings I'd like to clip. He went out in a taxi last night."

"Damn! He's reading our minds. Give her plenty of attention, Maggie,"

I said. "Until she starts to feel more secure. Ask her if a panic button would help. That's about all we can offer."

"It's not much, is it?"

"No."

The pharmacy was in a parade of shops on the Sweetwater side of town.

Better class council houses give way to a posh estate where the roses grow up pergolas and they have tit boxes on the walls instead of satellite dishes. The sad irony is that the birds prefer nesting in the satellite dishes. It was sandwiched between a unisex hair salon and a wine store, or a barber's and an off-licence if you came from the council estate.

"Why do they call themselves unisex hairdresser's when they do both sexes?" Nigel wondered as he swung into the lay by that fronted the shops.

"Because bisexual hairdresser would have other connotations," I told him.

"Why?"

"I don't know. Do you want to go round the back while I kick the front door in, or do you want to kick it in while I cover the back?"

A woman came out of the pharmacy fiddling with her handbag.

"They're open," Nigel said.

"This job's not what it used to be," I grumbled. "Come on, let's have a walk round."

We passed the fronts of a greengrocer's and an all-purpose store that had baby clothes and model cars in the window. A poster said the local dramatic society wanted players for their next production Iolanthe and someone had lost a dog. Cars and four-wheel-drives driven by women were coming and going, buying something for tea after picking up the kids. What a life. We turned the corner into the service road that ran behind the shops.

There were the usual dumpsters and piles of empty boxes. The greengrocer had taken a delivery of Cape oranges and still had a few Christmas trees left. At the far end of the parade a butcher's van was unloading a carcass. Across the lane was a row of garages-cum-storerooms, one per shop. The door to A.J.K. Weatherall's was wide open and his car was inside.

He owned a Lotus.

"Well, well," I said. "What's that worth?"

"Six years old… Oh, about twelve or fifteen thousand, at a guess."

"And about thirty thousand new?"

"Something like that."

"Let's go talk to him."

We completed our circuit of the block. Passing the back of the butcher's I tried not to inhale and wished I had the willpower to go vegetarian. Trouble is, I like my steaks.

The grey-haired lady behind the pharmacy counter said she'd tell Mr.

Weatherall we were here. She slipped into the back room, behind a partition made of striped glass that we could be seen through, and we heard her say that two reps were asking for him.

"Mr. Weatherall won't be a moment," she told us with a smile when she returned.

I studied the goods on offer. Half of the front counter was dedicated to the prevention of pregnancy, with a variety of choice that was bewildering. Colour, shape, size and flavour had all to be considered.

I feigned shock and turned away.

Apart from the usual flu and indigestion remedies, the rest of the shop was filled with all the stuff you needed after the things on the counter failed. Perhaps abstention was the best way after all, I decided.

"Sorry to keep you waiting, gentlemen," Weatherall blustered as he came into the shop. He looked expectantly from one of us to the other, as if he ought to recognise us. He was about thirty-five, seriously thinning on top, with cherubic features and rimless spectacles.

"That's all right, sir," Nigel said, showing his ID. "I'm DS Newley from Heckley CID and this is DI Priest. Do you think we could go somewhere private for a chat? It shouldn't take more than a few minutes."

"Oh, er, right. I thought you were company representatives. Sorry about that."