Stuart Pawson - Deadly Friends

"No," I admitted.

Three women in leotards and leg warmers walked past us, eyes righting as they said hello to the manager in loud voices. I watched them retreat, several layers of even louder lycra clenched tightly between their buttocks.

"Aerobics," he explained.

"Are they comfortable?" I asked, wincing.

"They like to look the part."

"I'm interested in this girl," I told him, pulling myself back to the job. "How can we find her name? Will it still be on the computer if her membership has lapsed?" I nodded towards the terminal that sat on the counter.

"Oh, nobody ever comes off the computer," he replied, 'but we're talking about over two thousand entries."

"To me, that's nearly as good as a fingerprint. You think she was called Sue or Sandra?"

"Something like that Sue, Sandra, Sally but I'm just guessing. I only saw her about three times."

"Can't we just ask it to find all the females beginning with S?"

"Er, you might be able to, but I can't."

"Me neither. We must have headed too many footballs."

"And I'm not even sure about the S. My assistant can do it, when she takes over." He looked at the clock on the wall behind him. "She should be here in about an hour."

"Do you mind if she runs a full membership list off for me?" I asked.

"No problem. I'll give you a ring when it's ready. And I've just remembered who the doc and this girl played in the first round of the mixed doubles. He's one of our stalwarts. I'll ask if he or his wife can remember her name they probably had a drink together, afterwards."

"That'd be a big help," I said.

I did my reports back at the office, and had a discussion with Luke, our civilian computer expert, about rehashing our standard interview documents, targeting them more specifically at this offence. Nigel and Dave came back, looking dejected.

The registrar's wife admitted that she'd had an affair with Dr. Jordan, which went back several years. It started as just a fling, she told them, which developed into a habit. Her marriage was sound, but her husband was not very adventurous in bed. It was imperative that he didn't find out.

"As he did know about it," Sparky said, 'he must have had his reasons for keeping quiet."

"Perhaps he was waiting his opportunity for revenge,"

Nigel suggested, adding, 'she's a bit older than I expected. I'd have thought the doc could have found someone nearer his own age."

"Experience, Nigel," I said. "There's no substitute."

"I'll take your word for it."

"Maybe her husband was having it away with someone, himself," I suggested, 'and was happy for her to have her little games with the doctor. Grateful, even."

"That's what I'd wondered," Sparky claimed. "Or maybe he just couldn't keep up with her, and was grateful for someone to help him out. It can't be easy, married to someone like that."

"Corf I wouldn't mind giving it a try," Nigel enthused.

"Sounds like penal servitude to me," I said. "Look into it. See what the word is among the nursing staff. What about their alibis?"

"Engraved in stone," Nigel told me. "We've talked to everybody at the party. They started arriving shortly after seven and stayed until the early hours."

"So neither of them pulled the trigger."

"No way."

I altered the number on the chart next to their names to three foolproof.

Chief Superintendent Isles sent a message via his secretary apologising for not being able to attend my little presentation that morning and wondering if I could give him a quick run-through of the case so far in his office, first thing tomorrow? I said: "Yes," naturally, and before I went home I asked Luke to redraw the charts in a more portable format.

I had an hour's snooze in an easy chair, catching up on the radio news, and dined on chicken tikka makhani. That's choice pieces of chicken breast, marinated in a ga ram masala, coriander and fenugreek sauce and served with turmeric rice. It only took six minutes in the microwave.

I followed it with tinned grapefruit and a pot of Earl Grey.

Sparky had loaned me the video of Oliver Stone's JFK. I swivelled the chair round so my feet would reach the settee and settled down, the teapot within easy reach of my right hand. The phone rang in the middle of the newsreel sequence of the assassination, as we saw the fatal shot to Kennedy's head, the secret serviceman diving on to the cavernous trunk of the Cadillac and Mrs. Kennedy trying to climb out of the back. History captured on film, as it happened, and telling us less about the President's killers than we know about King Harold's. I found the stop button on the remote control and picked up the phone.

It was Annabelle. "Hello, Charles, I'm home," she said.

"You should have told me when you were coming," I told her, sinking back into my chair. "I could have met you at the station."

"I'm sure you have much better things to do. Have you eaten?"

"No, I wouldn't have anything better to do, and yes, I'm afraid I have eaten."

"Never mind. What did you have?"

"Frozen curry."

"Sounds delicious," she laughed.

"It was OK," I told her. "I was just settling down to watch a video.

Sparky lent me JFK. It's about a District Attorney from New Orleans, Jim Garrison, who took out a prosecution against some gangsters over the Kennedy assassination."

"I've heard of it. It's on my list of "must sees"."

"Do you want me to save it for another time?"

"That would be nice," she said. "I was going to invite you round for a meal. We could watch it afterwards."

"Great. When?"

"Tomorrow?"

"Super. That's something for me to look forward to. How did your trip go?"

"Very well, Charles. I'll tell you all about it when I see you."

We said our goodbyes and I put the phone down a happier man than when I picked it up. I rewound the tape and tried to pick up the threads of The Bill. It wasn't too difficult.

Les Isles nodded approvingly when he saw my fancy computer-generated diagram. "It's nice to see that my older officers are embracing the new technology," he said, grinning.

"It was on the flip-chart until late yesterday," I confessed.

"Don't disillusion me, Charlie. What does it tell us?"

I went through the list of characters, starting with Ged Skinner and making a diversion to tell him about Darryl Buxton and the rape. He listened, nodding and sucking his teeth.

"What's happening with this one?" he asked, tapping Rodney Allen's name with the tip of his pen.

"The malpractice allegation," I said. "DS Newley's contacting Scarborough CID this morning. If he's available we'll dash over to interview him."

"Is that where he lives?"

"Mmm, but he originates from Heckley. Apparently he's a bachelor, not very bright, lived with his mother, hence the grief when she died."

"It sounds better all the time," Les declared. Middle-aged men living with their parents always attract suspicion, even if their only crime is to be unlucky in love.

"It does, doesn't it?" I agreed.

"And then there's this lot." He pointed to the box marked "Abortions'.

"God knows what we can do about them. Keep working at all these alibis, Charlie, but cross your fingers that Rodney doesn't have one.

It's him, I can feel it in my water."

We'd all said that about Ged Skinner, but I didn't remind him.

Nigel was in the office, typing a report. I clicked the switch on the kettle and asked him what was happening.

"Waiting for Scarborough to ring me back," he replied. "I've faxed the details to them. Sparky and Maggie are paying a return visit to the White Rose Clinic, encouraging the nursing staff to gossip about their medical director."

"Dr. Barraclough," I sighed, for no reason other than to give a name to the title. In this job, we deal with individuals, not positions.