Stuart Pawson - Deadly Friends

"That's OK, sir."

"We'll be upstairs, Monica, if you need me. This way, please, gentlemen."

He lived above the shop. We sat on easy chairs that had seen better days and he lit the gas fire. He adjusted the vertical blind on the window to admit more light and apologised for the mess. "We're in the middle of moving out," he explained.

"Going far, sir?" I asked.

"No. We've bought a house on Sweetwater Lane, not too far away."

"So you're not leaving the shop?"

"No. No. Just the opposite. Thinking of buying anotherin fact."

"Business must be good, sir."

He smiled. "Yes, I suppose it is. We just happen to be in a good location, with a decent catchment area and no big national nearer than the town centre. We're doing well."

"I'm glad to hear it," I said.

Nigel broke in with: "We're looking into the death of Dr. Clive Jordan, Mr. Weatherall. We believe you knew him."

"I wondered if that was it." He looked worried. Or sad, it's hard to tell the difference. "Yes," he continued, "I knew him, but not very well."

"How well?"

He studied his fingernails for a moment, realised he was fidgeting and placed his hands on his thighs. "We met about three years ago, at the Lord Mayor's Ball in the town hall. I heard someone say his name and introduced myself. I see his prescriptions now and again, but not very often, so I made a joke about his handwriting." He chuckled at the memory. "I remembered him from school but he was a year above me and almost certainly didn't know I existed. We both went to Heckley Grammar, and he was school captain. I'm afraid I wasn't very good at sports."

"And when did you last see him?"

"About a year after that."

"What was the occasion?"

A fingernail went to his mouth for a moment before he thrust his hands into his pockets. "That first time," he began, 'at the town hall we bumped into each other again, waiting for the ladies' coats, and walked out together. I was with my wife and he was with a girlfriend. She looked extremely young. When we reached the cars he was in a beautiful little Lotus. We were admiring it, me saying I'd always wanted one, and he said he'd probably be selling it in about a year, might I be interested? We said yes, and the following summer he rang me and I bought it. I haven't seen him since then."

Nigel glanced at me, his face sagging like a melting cake. I pursed my lips and looked up at the ceiling.

"Did you pay cash for the car, sir?" Nigel asked. The enthusiasm had gone from his voice.

"No," the pharmacist replied. "We drew up a contract and I pay him monthly. It was actually his idea said there was no point in paying exorbitant interest charges. He was terribly decent about the whole thing. And trusting. To tell the truth, I was a bit taken aback by him. If I'd been in his shoes I wouldn't have been so trusting, I can tell you."

I said: "Maybe he was a good judge of character Mr. Weatherall."

The chemist nodded and said: "Presumably I'll have to keep making the payments into his estate."

"I would imagine so."

"Ah, well."

"The trustees will probably be in touch with you."

"We did find some regular deposits in the doctor's bank account that we couldn't explain," Nigel told him. "Presumably they were from you?"

"Probably," he replied. "I transfer three hundred pounds a month to him, sometimes a bit more, if I can afford it."

"Right, well, I think that clears that up nicely," Nigel conceded. He turned to me. "Do you have any further questions, Mr. Priest?"

"No." I shook my head. "As you said, I think that clears things up, er, very nicely, thank you."

"In that case, thank you for your assistance, Mr. Weatherall."

On the stairs I casually asked him where he'd been at eight thirty on the night in question, "Just to complete our record of the interview, sir." He and his wife had been working at the new house all evening. I resisted slamming Nigel's car door but yanked the seat belt tight.

Nigel rattled numbers into his mobile phone as I watched two young girls walk by. They looked about fifteen but must have been twenty and had six kids between them: two infants in buggies, two toddlers pulled along by hand and two older ones following behind.

Nigel folded the phone and started the car engine.

"Tell me the news," I invited.

"It's a white Lotus Elan, owned by A.J.K. Weatherall of Sweetwater, Heckley. Previous owner: Dr. CD. Jordan, also of Heckley. Shit!"

"And botheration," I added. "Back to the station, please, driver, let's have an early night."

"Sorry, Boss," he said.

"Nothing to apologize for, my young friend. It had to be investigated."

I closed my eyes and dozed as we drove back, the heater blowing on to my legs and the weak winter sunshine flickering across my eyes. It was my antidote for disappointment. I pretended I was lying on a sun bed on a Caribbean beach and felt curiously content. I went to Heckley Grammar School. I was school captain, too, about fifteen years before the doctor had that honour.

"What's making you smile?" I heard Nigel say, above the whisper of the breeze in the palm trees.

"Oh, I'm just daydreaming."

"What about?"

"I was wondering what toffee-flavoured condoms are like."

On my way home I called in at Marks and Spencer's and bought two new shirts it was easier than ironing and stocked up with ready meals. The travel agent next door was still open, so I collected brochures for Italy, Kenyan safaris and, as an afterthought, cruises.

Annabelle and I needed a holiday. I'd love to have taken her to Kenya, but the memories might be too bittersweet for her. She married a missionary worker there when she was still very young, but he couldn't resist the temptations of the Happy Valley set. They made a fresh start back over here and found happiness of a sort, until he died of cancer.

A week in Florence doing the galleries, followed by a walking tour in the Dolomites, sounded just perfect, but would mean waiting until the weather was warmer. I'd leave the brochures with her on Friday, see what she thought.

Sparky interviewed the residents of Canalside Mews and came away with lots of ideas about salt-water aquariums and integrated hi-fi systems but nothing that helped in the hunt for the doctor's killer. He even talked to Darryl Buxton, but managed to keep the two cases isolated from each other. Darryl had been out at the time of the shooting, he said, with his secretary. They had, Darryl told him, "Something going, know what I mean?"

Two residents had heard a bump or a bang that could have been a gunshot, which gave us an accurate time of death. We place great importance on knowing the exact time of death. In the absence of the name of the trigger-puller, knowing the precise moment that the trigger was pulled is a small victory over ignorance. The doctor kept himself to himself, everybody said, and no strangers had been seen hanging around. It was all in the original reports and now we had it twice.

I talked to the staff at the White Rose Clinic. When I first started grammar school my father had just been made sergeant and we moved to Leeds for a while. I used to come home via the city centre and would often make a diversion through the various department stores. More and more often I found my route taking me past the perfumery counters. The ladies who sold Clinique, in their high-collared white tunics and immaculate make-up, were my favourites. I remembered all this when I first saw the White Rose's receptionist.

Her hair was pulled tightly back, but she had the features to carry it.

The eyelashes looked like two black widow spiders and her teeth out-dazzled the uniform. I pulled my stomach in and flashed my ID like there was an intruder on the premises and I had a.357 Magnum in my belt that hadn't been used for two days and I was scared of it growing rusty.