Stuart Pawson - Deadly Friends

Maybe they knew her assailant.

Which left me with Claire Kent. I hadn't planned it that way, it was just how things worked out. "Let's have a word with Samantha, then," I said to her.

From the contours of the sheet draped over her it was easy to see how thin she was. There was a skeleton under there, and little else. The face was a different story. An oxygen mask covered her nose and mouth, resting uncomfortably on the swelling. One eye was closed-up completely and the other was blackening. Her left cheek was the colour of a dip so s liver and in the midst of the bruising I could see three, then four, small deep lacerations.

"What do you think caused those?" I asked the doctor. Claire leaned over to inspect them.

"I wondered if he was wearing a ring," he suggested. "A signet ring or, say, one of those with a sovereign in it."

But wouldn't that have made a sharper cut? These are, like, intense bruises, with the skin bursting in the middle."

"Yes, I see what you mean. Unless he was wearing gloves over the ring."

"Well done, Doc," I said. "I think you're right. We'll have them photographed."

"There's two more down here," he said. He slackened off the elastics holding the oxygen mask, saying that her face was still swelling, and pulled it down to reveal her mouth and jaw.

"She had a ring through her lip," he told us. "We found it in her mouth, hanging on by a strip of skin. That didn't help."

"Oh, you poor kid," I whispered. "You poor kid." I straightened up and took in the battered face. Man's inhumanity to Woman in all its glory. Some men have the need to do it, some women endure it for years. This was as bad as it got the next step was murder.

Her hair was spread out to one side, loose and flowing against the crispness of the linen, and the words of the song flashed through my mind: "Your head upon the pillow in a fair and a golden storm." What if it did come from a bottle? Nobody ever said Marilyn Monroe was a natural.

I put my hands on the rail at the bottom of the bed and turned away.

The walls were revolving around me.

"Are you all right?" the doctor asked, laying a hand on my arm.

"I know her," I said. "I know her."

"You know her?"

"Yes."

I sat on the edge of the bed and leaned across her. "Samantha," I said, softly. "Can you hear me?"

The third time I asked she opened her good eye.

"Hello, Samantha," I said. "My name's Charlie. I saw you last week, in your office. Remember?" There was no response.

"I came to see Darryl," I continued, 'and he sent you out to do some shopping while we talked." I swear her body tensed at the mention of his name, and I wondered if the instruments wired to her recorded it.

Her face was incapable of showing emotion.

"Can you hear me, Samantha?" I asked. "Blink your eyes if you can hear me."

She did better than that. She gave a barely perceptible nod of the head.

"She nodded, Mr. Priest," I heard PC Kent say.

"I know," I replied. "She's a brave girl. Do you remember me, Samantha?"

Little nod.

"You're in hospital, Samantha. Someone attacked you. But you're safe, now. No one can hurt you here. Do you understand?"

Nod.

"I'm a policeman, Samantha. I want to catch the person who did this to you and put him in jail, where he belongs. Can you hear what I'm saying?"

Nod.

"That's very good. You're doing well. Now listen very carefully to this next bit, Samantha. Was it Darryl who did this to you. Was it your boss, Darryl Buxton?"

Her head jerked sideways, away from me, and she winced with pain.

"Was it Darryl?" I repeated.

No response.

"I think that's enough, Inspector," the doctor said.

"OK," I told him, raising a hand to fend him off for a few more seconds. "Samantha, look at me." Her head came back round and the good eye pointed in my direction. "This lady," I said, reaching out towards PC Kent, 'is called Claire." She came and stood by me. "She's going to stay with you, to make sure you are safe. Outside there are ten policemen with guns, just to look after you. That's twice as many as Prince William has. Claire is in charge of them. All you have to do is have a good rest and get better. Understand?"

She nodded.

"Good. There's nothing to be frightened of, now." I stood up and turned away.

The doctor walked to the door with me and I beckoned for Claire to join us. "I'll send for the photographer, get those wounds recorded, if that's OK, Doc?"

"Mmm. No problem."

"Thanks. Claire, have you heard of a dying declaration?"

"Yes sir, Mr. Priest. You mean that if she thinks she's about to die she might change her mind about telling us who did this to her?"

"That's right. She works for a man called Darryl Buxton who is a right thug. There's a good chance this is his handiwork. Keep your notebook with you just in case."

She looked concerned. "Do you think it might come to that, sir?"

I turned to the doctor, deflecting the question in his direction. "I'd say she was off the critical list," he told us, 'but we don't know how bad the internal damage is. She's not out of the woods just yet."

I was dozing behind my desk, feet on radiator, when Nigel rang. If I'd been at home in bed I wouldn't have slept a wink. It's as if you need some discomfort to divert your attention. It was just before one a.m."

Saturday morning.

"We've spoken to the neighbours," he said.

"Go on."

"Samantha lives in a council house that she rented with her boyfriend, but he left months ago. The neighbours who brought her in say they heard a noise at their door at about a quarter to eleven and found her slumped on the floor. They don't have a phone so the husband decided to bring her in himself, thought it would be quicker. The neighbours at the other side heard a car door, possibly a bit before that, and the sound of it driving away. Nothing special, possibly a diesel."

"Or a taxi?"

"Possibly."

"Great." I told him who Samantha was, and that I was going to ask uniformed to arrest her boss, Darryl the Rapist.

"On what grounds?" he asked.

"On the grounds that Samantha was scared stiff when I mentioned his name. Whoever worked her over was wearing gloves. If we can find them we have him. See you here about ten, eh?"

"Ten it is, Boss."

"Get some sleep. Darryl and his solicitor are about to have theirs disturbed."

It took another hour to organise lifting Darryl and searching his house. I rang a lady magistrate I do regular business with and she agreed to sign a warrant. We despatched a panda to collect it. After that I went home and set my alarm for seven o'clock, five hours away. I slept quite well, but was waiting for the alarm.

I drove straight round to Canalside Mews. Two pandas were parked outside and young Graham opened the door for me.

"Any luck?" I asked.

"Fraid not, Mr. Priest. We haven't found any gloves at all. There's three gold rings in the bedroom, and SOCO's taken imprints."

"Right," I said.

The flat was a dump. Men who live alone are granted a certain amount of dispensation in the field of housekeeping, but this went beyond that. His white tux and the frilly shirt were thrown on to the settee, next to several days' tabloids. A dirty plate and mug were on the table, and my detective skills told me that his last meal had been sardines. I wandered through the rooms, taking in the squalor and wondering what his classy neighbours would have thought. He hadn't washed up for two days and his bedroom smelled like a horse box I opened a window. On a chair was a pile of pages from newspapers. I picked a bundle up and thumbed through them. He'd saved every page-three girl for the last six months.

"Gather round, boys and girls," I called out.

There were three of them, Graham's partner Claire still being at the hospital. When I was a rooky PC on nightshift my partner was David Sparkington. Such is life.