Stuart Pawson - Deadly Friends

"What did Mr. Isles have to say?" Nigel asked.

"He's happy enough. Thinks it's Rodders what did it. Carry on as we are, no extra staff."

"Great' "It won't be great if we don't arrest someone soon and it goes to review. Then it'll be: "What have you been playing at for all this time?"

I brewed myself a mug of tea, paused with the tea bag dripping off the spoon as I looked for somewhere to put it, said: "Oh, sod it," and dropped it in the bin.

Nigel was on the phone when I turned round, looking as if the lottery unclaimed prizes crew had finally tracked him down. "Scarborough CID," he hissed at me, briefly covering the mouthpiece as he listened. "One moment," he told them. He moved the instrument away from his face and said:

"They sent a DC round and he's now in hospital. Rodders laid about him with what he thinks was a double-barrelled shotgun and he's barricaded himself in. Fancy a trip to Scarborough?"

"You bet!" I told him.

"We're on our way over," he told them. "It'll take us about two hours.

You'd better give me some directions."

We needed a breakthrough and this looked like it. You have a murder on your conscience, there's a knock at the door and when you answer it a detective flashes his ID at you and asks your name. You panic. The more I thought about it, the better it looked. I drove while Nigel phoned City HQ to get a message to Mr. Isles. No harm in letting him know that his hunch was paying off.

It's a fast road to Scarborough, on a Tuesday in winter. As soon as the days lengthen and the sun comes out for more than an hour it clogs with caravans and a procession of coaches and asthmatic family cars that have seen more polish than petrol. But not today. Driving can be a pleasure on empty roads, even when the temperature is hovering just above zero and sleet is in the air. Going to catch a murderer adds a sense of purpose to the journey.

A Scarborough panda was waiting for us in a lay by on the outskirts of town. I pulled in behind him and Nigel dashed out to introduce himself. They led us to a little estate of bungalows, ideal for retired couples, on the north side.

"Birr! It's freezing," Nigel had complained as he got back in. His coat was spotted with raindrops.

It was circus time on the estate. The street was cordoned off but everyone was out to watch the excitement, wearing big anoraks and woollen hats against the weather. I expected the ice-cream man to pull round the corner anytime, jingle blaring, desperate for a sale. The wind was coming straight off the North Sea, and tasted of salt. I pulled my down jacket on and we went looking for whoever was in charge.

'"

"DI Charlie Priest, from Heckley," I told the uniformed inspector, when we found him, 'and this is DS Nigel Newley." I explained our involvement, and why we wanted to talk to the man barricaded in the house, namely Rodney Allen. He was grateful for the information. Up to then, he'd been struggling to know what it was all about.

"How's the DC who was assaulted?" I asked.

"Not too bad, Charlie," he replied. "It's just a scalp wound."

"But Rodney hit him with a shotgun?"

"That was the first story, but since then the DC has changed his mind.

He thinks it might have been a length of pipe, wrapped in a plastic bag."

"What, to look like a gun?" Nigel asked.

"Possibly. The DC can't be sure, but now he says it didn't feel like a shotgun."

We all smiled. "Is he an expert on how it feels to be bashed on the bonce with various tubular devices?" I wondered.

"I think I know what he means, with the emphasis on the think, but we can't take chances."

"Of course not," I said. "Have you seen Rodney?"

"Oh, yes, he keeps appearing at the window, brandishing what could be a gun, or a piece of pipe in a bag. There's a phone in there, but he won't answer it."

"So what's happening?"

"Nothing until we get some reinforcements. I've sent for a negotiator, too. Up to now we've just concentrated on housing him. Soon as I've a few more bodies I want the street clearing and some form of communications setting up. In the light of what you've told us I'd say we need the TFU, as well."

"What do the neighbours say about him?"

"That he's a bit simple. Lived with his mother until she died, now he's alone. He's a voluntary patient at North Bay House that's a psychiatric hospital on the edge of town. We've sent someone there to find out if he has a doctor or anyone who can come and talk to him."

"Do you mind if I ring him?" I asked.

"Be my guest." He dictated the number and in a few seconds I was listening to the ringing tone, but he didn't answer.

I turned to Nigel. "Fancy a burger?"

"We passed a place down the road," he replied.

"Mind if we leave you at it?" I asked the local man. "You know where we'll be."

We lingered over the burgers. I rang Annabelle to tell her where I was in case I was delayed, although I was determined not to be, but she wasn't answering, either. We had a couple of hours at the scene of the siege and briefly saw Rodney at a window, brandishing his weapon, whatever it was. A superintendent took charge of proceedings and used a loud-hailer to no avail. I tried on the mobile again, with similar lack of success. Rodney was deaf to our efforts. Unsmiling policemen from the tactical firearms unit, in baseball caps with cheque red bands around them, took up positions in gardens and windows. They brandished their Heckler and Koch MP5s as if they were the latest fashion accessories. We had another cup pa at the burger house, which was rapidly becoming the siege canteen, and went for a last look at Rodney's neat little bungalow, with its pocket handkerchief lawn and plastic window boxes.

"Ah, there you are," the superintendent said, when he saw us. "This is Dr… he stumbled over a name with too many syllables it sounded like 'ram in a woolly jumper' to me, '… who is Allen's pychiatrist at North Bay House."

I shook hands with a plump grey-haired lady who wore a fur coat over pantaloons. "How do you do, Doctor," I said, wondering if the fur was fake, deciding it wasn't. We sat in her car and I told her what I understood about the post mortem on Rodney's mother, about the malpractice charges and Dr. Jordan's subsequent murder.

When I'd finished Nigel asked: "What exactly are Rodney's problems, Doctor?"

She chose her words carefully. "Exactly is not an expression we recognise in psychiatry," she replied. "Rodney came to us for the first time after the death of his mother. He had a morbid fascination for her, possibly brought on by dwelling on the details of the post mortem. He suffers from anxiety, panic attacks and depression. There may be incipient schizophrenia. He has not been sectioned and we do not regard him as violent in any way. He comes to us on a voluntary basis, usually as an out-patient, at the recommendation of his GP. Most of the time he gets by in the community, which is as much as we can hope for, these days. We take him in if we can, when things are getting too much, but generally speaking we don't have room for him and he is quite capable of existing by his own resources."

"Would you say he was capable of shooting the doctor?" I asked. No point in beating about the cabbage patch.

"No more than you or I, Inspector," she replied, which wasn't very helpful but made a lot of sense.

Nigel said: "Has he sufficient nous to travel to Heckley by public transport?"

"Oh, yes. He has certain difficulties, what you might call being slow, but can function normally in society. He's sick, not stupid."

She started her car engine and set the blower on maximum to clear the condensation. The lenses in her spectacles were thick enough to start a forest fire on an overcast day. It was dark outside, and flakes of sleet slid down the windows. A floodlight illuminated the outside of the bungalow.