Stuart Pawson - Deadly Friends

"And he probably still blames the hospital," I said. "We need a word with him, soon as possible. Nigel was checking with the GMC. We'll make sure the official version tallies, then we'd better see what Rodders has to say. Thanks, Maggie, that's a good day's work."

"There was one other thing," she began.

I sat back, inviting her to continue.

"I think you have a fan."

"A fan?"

"Yes," she said. "One Cicely Henderson, receptionist at the White Rose. I was supposed to be asking the questions, but she wanted to know all about you. She's an attractive lady."

"I had noticed," I admitted, 'but she's not my type. What did you tell her?"

"That you were a very nice man single but you had a girlfriend who you were besotted by. Did I do right?"

"As always, Maggie. Did you ask her about her colleague, Mrs.

Farrier?"

"Yes, we went over it again, but she didn't come up with anything new."

"Do you think she's jealous of her?"

"Cicely jealous of Mrs. Farrier?"

"Mmm."

"No. She told me that she was off men. She left her husband eight years ago and since then has found all the companionship she needs in her cats. However… I think meeting you may have stirred the ashes of some long-forgotten fires."

"Gosh, how odd," I said.

"Just what I thought," she replied, stifling a smile.

I lunched at the cafe in town and went walkabout. There was one avenue that I could follow without too much effort and no charge to the budget. When the squash craze started a few of us from the office tried it, but we had to book a court weeks in advance and quickly lost interest. I found it too claustrophobic. The boom faded and has now settled down to a healthy core of enthusiasts. Heckley Squash Club had financial difficulties, was taken over, converted a couple of courts for other activities and is now doing quite nicely. Several of the wooden tops work-out there. I wandered in and asked to see the manager.

I recognised him, when he came, as a foot baller with one of the local teams who never quite made the grade. I could sympathise with him. I had trials with Halifax Town and turned out for the second team when I was at art college. We lost, seven-one. I was the goalkeeper. They didn't invite me back.

I introduced myself as a policeman, not a foot baller and asked what had happened to him.

"Knee problems," he said. "Cartilage, then ligaments. You name it, my knees have had it. There came a time when enough was enough, but fortunately I was a qualified sports administrator by then. When this job came up I applied for it and stopped kidding myself about soccer."

We were talking across the front counter. He invited me to take a chair at his side and lifted the flap to let me through. Two young men came and asked for a squash ball.

"Giving up football must have been hard for you," I said, when they'd gone. Shouts of encouragement came echoing from within the building and the air smelled of sweat and chlorine. That was enough to put me off.

"I had plenty of time to think about it, get used to the idea. Now, I enjoy myself. Life's good. When Bill Shankly said that football was far more important than life and death he was talking out of the back of his head."

"I've always thought it was a pretty stupid thing to say. I'm investigating the death of Dr. Clive Jordan. He was murdered just before Christmas you probably read about it in the papers."

"Never read a paper, but I saw it on the telly. He was a member here, you know."

"Yes," I said. "Hence my visit."

"Obviously," he replied. "Sorry about that. What can we tell you?"

"First of all, why did he stop coming? Apparently he was a keen player, then, quite abruptly, he wasn't. Any reason for that?"

He nodded. "That's easy. Same problems as me — damaged knee ligaments.

He knew I'd been through it and we talked a lot. There're two methods of treatment: rest or surgery. I was a professional, my livelihood depended on my legs, so I went for the knife. For an amateur, just playing for amusement and to keep fit, there was only one sensible option. He packed in, thinking that maybe one day time would heal it and he'd be able to play again. Work was taking up a lot of his time, and he was courting a bird off the telly she's in Mrs. Dale's Diary, you know so there was no real choice open to him."

"Right," I said. "That clears up one little mystery. What can you tell me about the man himself. Did he have any particular friends in the club?"

"Not really," he said, after giving it some thought. He was tall and angular, his shoulders bulging through too much work with the weights.

He wore streamlined leggings with a stripe down the side and a Heckley General heart research T-shirt. "He usually played with a crony from the hospital. Not always the same one, rarely with any of the other members. Squash is a bit like that, if you don't enter the competitions."

"And he never did?"

"No. His working hours wouldn't let him. He was popular enough, though. He'd have a drink in the bar and chat away to anyone. People liked him. I certainly did. I thought he was a smashing bloke. Have you any ideas who killed him?"

I shook my head and said: "We are following certain lines of enquiry," enunciating the words to make it plain that this was a euphemism for not having a clue.

"I'll tell you what the doc was like," the manager began, a smile of affection on his face as he recalled some anecdote. "He did enter one competition. We were standing here, me and him, talking about our knees, would you believe, and this girl was pacing up and down, just there," he pointed into the foyer, 'with her kit on, waiting for her partner to arrive. The doc started to chat to her. At the time there was a mixed doubles competition on, strictly for couples husbands and wives or boyfriends and girlfriends. It was light-hearted, just to try and get partners interested, make it more a family thing, if you follow me."

"Sounds an admirable idea," I said.

"It was, wasn't it? Well, apparently, this girl and her boyfriend were due to play in the first round. The other couple were already on the court, having a knock-up, waiting for them. She was starting to get a bit upset. We were looking at the sheet with the draw on it and the doc noticed that the boyfriend was called… would it be Davey? Was the doc's middle name David?"

"Yes, it was," I told him.

"Right, that was it, Davey. She'd entered them as… I can't remember her name. It might have been Sue, or Sandra. Anyway, she'd put them down as Sue… Smith, or whatever, and Davey. Just Davey. "I'm called David," the doctor said. "I could pretend to be your boyfriend.

Come on, let's give them a game." And they did. And they won. Blow me if they didn't win the next round, too. She was over the moon about it. That's the kind of bloke he was."

"It sounds Mills amp; Boon," I said. "Did she fall hopelessly in love with him? Did he seduce her?"

"No, I don't think so. They had a laugh about it afterwards and went their separate ways, as far as I know. She was a bit, you know, plain. Not really his type."

"But was he her type?"

"I suppose so. We all dream, don't we? But she seemed a sensible kid.

I think her feet were on the ground."

"Is she still a member?"

"I'm not sure, and I can't check if I don't remember her name. I don't think she comes any more. I haven't seen her for ages."

"When did all this happen?" I asked.

"Oh, about two years ago."

"And when would you say she stopped coming?"

"I couldn't tell you. I don't see some people for months, even though they play every week. It all depends on what time they book the court for."

"But she could have stopped playing round about the same time as the doctor did?" I suggested.

"Probably," he replied, nodding. "About then, at a guess. Do you think that's significant?"