Stuart Pawson - Deadly Friends

Sparky ran through our list of suspects, although acquaintances was a more accurate description of them. No one leaped off the board as a fully fledged, twenty-four carat suspect. The doc was a popular character, with lots of friends and colleagues ready to say what a splendid fellow he was. He'd have had no trouble at all getting HP from a double-glazing company. But there is always a dark side to popularity. Success breeds jealousy, and that can fester away inside you like a malignant worm. More so if the person you envy just happens to be screwing someone you love. Reading between the lines, there were plenty of people who might have been glad to see Mr. Jordan dead.

Trouble was, they all had cast-iron alibis.

"Maybe it was a contract killing," Nigel suggested.

"OK. So who might have the necessary connections with the underworld?"

"Perhaps someone came into the clinic for a face-lift. Or someone's wife."

"And just happened to say they were an assassin?"

"Not like that. They might have got to know them over a period of time. First of all as friends, and then perhaps the conversation worked round to it."

"It's a possibility," I admitted.

"I think we're getting a bit fanciful," Mr. Wood said.

"If it was a contract killing," Sparky began, "I'd place it back with Ged Skinner and his friends. They've got the contacts."

"Why would they want him dead?"

"Because he was refusing to play ball."

"So we're back with drugs?"

"Yes."

"What about his showbiz friends?" Maggie asked.

"Good point," I said. "Is any of them about to play the part of a murderer? It'd be just like one of them to get into the role by indulging in homicide."

"This isn't being helpful," Mr. Wood protested.

"Sorry," I replied. "Truth is, we're floundering."

"OK," he said. "Let's be thoroughly unprofessional. Dave, who's your favourite for the deed?"

Without hesitation Sparky said: "Him," stabbing a finger against Ged Skinner's name. "Or one of his cronies," he added.

Gilbert nodded. "I don't think we need to go into motives. Nigel?"

"Dr. Barraclough," he replied, again without hesitation.

"Go on," Gilbert invited.

"Professional jealousy, plus possible sexual angle, but I don't know what."

I let my chair drop on to its front legs with a clomp.

Nigel's theory was interesting. There was the added attraction that I hadn't liked Barraclough, but I'd never let a personal opinion affect an investigation. Much.

"And," Nigel continued, 'there's always the possibility that he's in cahoots with someone else."

"You mean… they're giving each other alibis?" Gilbert suggested.

"Mmm."

"Don't!" I protested, clamping my hands over my ears. "Please don't!"

Jeff Caton was with us. He thought Skinner was worth another look at, but was interested in the malpractice suit against the doctor.

"Barraclough's supposed to be finding me details of that," I said.

"Maggie, when we've finished how about if you go round there and see if he's found the information? You might even learn something about the man himself from his secretary or the other staff' "Will do, Boss."

"Meanwhile, Margaret," Gilbert said, 'who's your favourite for the killer?"

"Hey, we should be running a book on this," Sparky said.

Maggie studied the chart. "I haven't been in from the beginning," she said, 'but there's an awful lot of grief down there." She nodded to the box that said "Abortions, X 10,000'. "That's where I'd be looking."

"And you, Charlie?" Gilbert asked.

I folded my arms and shook my head. "None of them," I replied. "None of them."

In a way, I was right. But then again, in a way, I was wrong.

Maggie went off to the White Rose; Sparky and Nigel rang the wife of the registrar, ex-lover of the late doctor, and made an appointment to see her while hubby was at work; and I settled down with the reports.

Mr. Wood's conclusion, after our meeting, was that we should pursue all the alibis until the Pope himself was a more likely suspect. I decided that some lateral thinking was called for and made another list. Melissa, the mysterious sender of Christmas cards was on it, followed by Mr. Farrier, husband of the receptionist at the White Rose. It wouldn't hurt to have a word with George, his chum from college. To prove my impartiality I added Mrs. Henderson. Maybe Dr.

Jordan hadn't chatted her up first, and maybe she thought he should have done. Lastly I wrote "Malpractice'. That was a gaping hole in our investigation that needed looking into, pronto. I drew a line through "Mrs. Henderson' and a thick box around "Malpractice'.

The SOCO had made a video of the murder scene. I collected it from the associated property store and watched it in the CID office. It showed general views of the doctor's kitchen, where he'd been found, followed by close-ups of everything in sight. The doc died with his eyes open, a look of terror and surprise carved on his features. The camera zoomed in close and moved slowly over his chin, nose and sightless eyes, like a helicopter tour of Mount Rushmore. His shirt was undone and he was in his stocking feet.

We were taken on a journey across his carpet, the shiny toe caps of the SOCO's shoes bobbing into the bottom of the picture like two bald headed men on a see-saw at the other side of a wall. The camera panned over his kitchen cupboards and along the work top In a corner I saw the plastic bin that I'd thought about stealing, between the electric kettle and a box of muesli. The doctor's tie was draped over a chair back, given an extra turn to prevent it sliding to the floor, and his shoes were just inside the door.

The office was quiet. Everyone was out. I switched off the video and reached for the telephone.

"Pay section?" I asked, when someone answered. "Oh, good. This is DI Priest, at Heckley CID. I was wondering if you could work out for me what terms I could expect if I took early retirement?"

Maggie returned as I was finishing the video and we watched the last few minutes together.

"Learn anything?" she asked as I ejected the cassette and returned it to its envelope.

"Mmm. He knew his killer, as we suspected. The doc's shoes were just inside the door, so when his visitor rang he must have opened the front entrance for him and let him come up to the apartment, not gone to meet him downstairs."

"Sounds sensible."

"And he was male."

"How do you work that out?"

"It's a guess, but the doc's tie was hanging over a chair. If his visitor was female I think he'd have whipped it back on, and his shoes.

Did you see Barraclough?"

"Yes. He's a charmer, isn't he?" She opened her notebook and slid it across my desk. "That's the party who made the complaint Rodney Allen.

His mother, Mrs. Joan Allen, was a fit and active sixty-year-old who liked to have a good time. She was booked in to the General for an hysterectomy. The operation was done succesfully, as they say, by Mr.

Jordan, but the patient died. She had an aortic aneurism later that day, right out of the blue. According to the rules there had to be a post mortem, and this found that her condition could not have been anticipated by the pre-operative investigations. However, her son, Rodney, has learning difficulties. He's forty, by the way. Mrs. Allen had been comfortably off and he was left everything, in trust. The trustees, who are a firm of solicitors in Scarborough and a retired GP in Heckley, decided to sue the hospital and Mr. Jordan for malpractice and negligence."

"For a fee, no doubt," I said.

"No doubt. But the inquest brought in a verdict of natural causes and the case was dropped. I've had a word with the retired GP. He was a friend of the family, before they moved to Scarborough. He says he was opposed to the action but outvoted. Rodney, he told me, was deeply disturbed by the thought of his mother's body being cut open, and dwelt on it for months."