Stuart Pawson - Deadly Friends

"It was the start of the long wet season," she began, 'so the acacia trees were in blossom. The church was made of breeze blocks and flattened oil drums, with a piano that had several keys missing. After the service we had a picnic, everybody invited. People came from miles around half of Africa must have been there and the Samburu danced for us. It was wonderful."

I could picture it, through her eyes. She'd shown me her photographs and books and the images were as vivid to me as if I'd been there myself: the flat-topped fever thorn trees, the cattle, swirling dust and pogo-stick dancing of the Samburu, close cousins of the Masai. She was happy when she reminisced, and that usually made me happy, too.

But tonight it was different. Tonight, as I listened to her reminisce, her voice far away, on another continent, with another man, the ache in my stomach felt as if something was trying to suck my entrails from me, and I knew it wasn't the halibut.

"Am I invited in?" I asked as we drew up outside the Old Vicarage.

"Of course, silly. Besides, we're home a little earlier than expected."

"Mmm, that's true."

We spread the drawings of the restaurant on the refectory table in her kitchen. The paper wasn't substantial enough for watercolours, so I suggested she purchase coloured pencils from the art shop in town.

Using an HB which she found I demonstrated how to do it and watched as she tried herself. Some people have a knack for drawing, some don't, and to them it's like being tone deaf. A foreign language. Annabelle had the ability, but had never practised. It was only colouring squares, so she'd soon get the hang of it. She explained her ideas, for my approval, and I told her about the silver and gold pens you could buy. They'd do for highlighting the borders.

"Do you want me to take you to the station in the morning?" I asked as I finished my mug of decaff and stood up to leave.

"It's kind of you Charles, but I've.ordered a taxi. For six thirty, would you believe?"

"You know I'd be happy to take you down there; go with you."

"No. We want to take a look at a couple of restaurants in the West End and Docklands. See if they inspire us. There's a limit to how many times you can do that in a weekend."

"So when are you coming home?"

"Monday."

"You'll put on weight."

"Probably."

I put my arms around her for my customary goodnight kiss. She melted into them but buried her face in my neck.

"You're a very thoughtful person, Charles," she said as we separated.

I pecked her on the nose. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight."

Halfway out of the door I hesitated. I wanted to tell her not to go to London. Not to go running to this mysterious millionaire with his grandiose schemes whose spell she'd fallen under. "Annabelle, what would you say if I asked you not to go?"

But I didn't. If I'd asked, and she'd not gone, it would always have been there between us, like an invisible strand of barbed wire with bits of wool dangling where something had blundered into it. I pulled the door shut and strode down her garden path.

I drove straight off, but stopped around the corner at the end of her street. Perhaps I should have said more? Maybe I should go back? But what would I be going back to? Her eyes had been on the edge of tears as we said that last goodnight, and I was scared of the reason. I put the car in gear and drove away, fairly close to them myself.

Darryl Buxton's Mondeo was in his spot outside the Canalside Mews, but there was no light showing in his apartment. I don't know what I'd expected. I sat and watched for fifteen minutes but nobody came, nobody went. "Go home, Charlie," I said to myself. "Go home. You shouldn't be here." Common sense got the better of me, for once. I went home.

The ansa phone was beeping. A visit from the mailman used to be a delight as you anticipated the message he'd brought, read the envelope and wondered who it was from. Now, envelopes with windows contain bills or computer-generated claptrap that makes your heart bleed for the rain-forest dweller that your personal consignment has rendered homeless. You scan the pile on the doormat and dump the lot in the bin without a second thought.

Not so the ansa phone It still has the power to raise a minute thrill of expectancy as you press the replay button. Double glazing companies and charities do not leave junk messages on ansa phones They know you're not going to ring them back. And, now of all times, there was the possibility that it was Annabelle…

The electronic lady told me that I had one message. There were the usual bleeps and clicks, followed by a brief silence and the noise of a handset being replaced, breaking the connection. "Your message timed at eleven sixteen p.m.," the lady told me, which made it about ten minutes ago. I pressed 1471 and she gave me the number for Heckley police station.

"Hello, Arthur, it's Charlie Priest," I said when they answered.

"You've been after me."

"Hello, Boss that's right, a few minutes ago. We've contacted DS Newley and he's taken it, so you can go to bed safe in the knowledge that it's all in good hands."

"What was it?"

"Girl well, a young woman on the Sylvan Fields estate. Badly beaten up. She staggered into a neighbour's and they drove her to the General."

"Right. I think the young Mr. Newley should be able to handle that.

Let me know if there are developments." In other words, if she dies.

"Will do, Boss. And thanks for ringing."

On the other hand, I was still wearing my shoes and jacket, the car engine was warm, and sleep was about as far away as the cure for snoring. I squealed the tyres as I set off, just to let the neighbours know that the forces of law are vigilant around the clock.

A Heckley panda was parked outside the Accident and Emergency entrance.

We always used to call it Casualty. Inside I found a PC I knew and WPC Kent, who I didn't.

"Hello, Graham," I said. "What have we got?"

"Hello, Mr. Priest. DS Newley's here, you know."

"Is he? I must be slowing down in my old age. Where is he?"

"Talking to the doctor in IC

"What happened?"

"The hospital contacted the station, after she was brought in. They say she's obviously been done over pretty bad. She's called Samantha Teague, from an address on the Sylvan Fields."

"What happened to the people who brought her in?"

"They've gone home."

"OK. In that case let's find Nigel."

I led the way to Intensive Care. It was a journey I knew too well. As we followed the yellow line painted down the length of the corridor floor I turned to WPC Kent and said: "I'm sorry, I don't know your first name."

"It's Claire, sir."

"And you don't mind me calling you Claire?"

"Of course not, sir."

"Good. Pleased to meet you. I'm Charlie Priest. I object strongly to you calling me sir, unless it's absolutely essential. Graham will tell you all about it."

Nigel and a ridiculously young doctor were standing outside the doors of IC, deep in conversation. They turned as we approached and Nigel introduced me. "She's stable," the doctor said. "We'll have her in surgery in the morning and she should be able to go straight on to a ward, if we've picked up everything."

"What are her injuries?" I asked.

"Broken jaw, depressed fracture of the cheek, several broken ribs, concussion, extensive bruising and a few lacerations. I'd say she was given a good thumping round the head and then he put the boot in."

"Nice man," I said. "You mentioned concussion, when can we talk to her?"

"She's drifting in and out of consciousness. You can try having a word, for a minute or two, but she won't be able to speak."

"Thanks." I turned to Nigel and suggested that he take Graham to the Sylvan Fields and they interview whoever brought her to the hospital.