Stuart Pawson - Deadly Friends

"No thanks," she replied. "The bus stop's just outside."

"But I'm going that way."

"It's all right, thanks."

Have it your way, lady, I thought. I was driving past the mall while they were probably still waiting for a bus. They're not exactly as numerous as the daisies in the fields in that neighbourhood. Recently they've gone back to two-man crews driver and shotgun.

On an impulse I hung a right at the traffic lights, completely wrong-footing a woman pushing a pram across the road, and parked outside Heckley Squash Club. I made a mental note to paint a little silhouette of a baby carriage on my door, next to the hedgehogs, cats and traffic wardens.

A young woman with that healthy outdoor look you used to see on Syrup of Figs posters was standing behind the desk, drinking an isotonic concoction from the neck of the bottle. Orange juice with a pinch of salt is just as good and a fraction of the price, but it doesn't have that certain cachet. Magic Johnson drinks the real stuff, whoever he is. She was wearing green jogging bottoms and a polo shirt with akangaroo embroidered on the left pocket and sweat spots in delightful places. I averted my gaze.

"Hello," I began.

"Hi," she replied.

"Your manager," I went on, 'tells me that as well as being highly proficient with bat, ball and dumb ells you are also a whizz kid on this." I tapped the top of the computer VDU.

"Yer what?" she demanded.

I flashed her my ID and crossed her off my list of possibilities.

"Charlie Priest, Heckley CID," I said. "He promised me a printout of all your members' names; said he'd ask you to run it off for me."

"Aw, gee, the printout!" she exclaimed. "Completely slipped my mind."

"I'd be very grateful for it."

"OK, but it'll take ages. Tell yer what, are you at the police station here in town?"

"Uh uh."

"Right." She delved under the counter and came up with a large manilla envelope that had been used. "Why don't you just cross out our address and write your own there, and I'll set this thing going right now and drop it in on my way home. How does that sound?"

"Very cooperative. Thanks a lot." I reinstated her as a contender.

"Did yer want them in alphabetical order?"

"Yes please, if possible."

"No problem. Nice meeting you, Inspector."

"And you."

The office was empty. I ate the prawn sandwich I'd bought on the way back and shut myself away. A plan of action was required. I wrote my reports to clear my mind and made notes on a sheet of A4. First thing we needed was a suitable venue. I put my coat back on and drove to City HQ.

Superintendent Isles wasn't in, which suited me fine.

"Are the old Bridewell cells still in use?" I asked the desk sergeant.

City HQ is attached to the town hall, and parts of it date back to Victorian times. The old cells, known universally as the Bridewell, were down in the basement. He seconded a young PC to help me and we went exploring.

The one we chose was used to store sports equipment. We manhandled a wobbly ping-pong table into the cell next door, along with assorted cricket pads and a one-armed bandit. The PC, called Martin, tried the fruit machine and wondered if the social club would let him have it.

There was a bit of dust around, but not enough to make the place uninhabitable. We'd ask the cleaning ladies to give it a quick once-over. There was a power point and the fluorescent light on the high ceiling worked. The walls were covered from top to bottom in white tiles, broken only by a thin blue line running round the room at waist height. I ran a hand over them, wondering how many frustrated prisoners had found their glazed surface unyielding to scratch or skull. You couldn't buy tiles like these any more. They had curved edges and special corner pieces, and were as hard and unforgiving as tungsten carbide. Just what I wanted.

I took Martin upstairs and introduced him to the technical support wizards. They found one of the portable tape recorders we used before the new interview suites had them built in, and showed him how to drive it. I dithered over a video camera, then decided to go for it. They gave Martin a crash course on that, too. We carried the lot down to the Bridewell and I left him practising. I told him to make sure the batteries were charged, the tapes were blank and the lights worked. If all went well, I'd buy him a fruit machine. He nodded enthusiastically and went to fetch a table and some chairs.

Maggie was in when I arrived back at Heckley. "How did it go?" I asked.

"Like drawing teeth," she sighed. "Slow and painful. Patient confidentiality, all that crap. I don't know who they think they are."

"Did you tell them that our investigation overrides any duties of confidentiality they may have towards their patients?"

"Till I was blue in the face."

"So how have you left it?"

"I had a long discussion with the counsellor who talks to all the young women who go in for abortions. She said most of them know exactly why they are there and are not interested in counselling. A few sad ones seize the opportunity but usually decide to go ahead. Not many back out. She said that she has had one or two disturbing cases, possibly unbalanced, and nothing they did would surprise her. One involved an irate boyfriend. Trouble is, she wouldn't name names. I had a word with Barraclough and suggested that if she told him they might then be able to come to some arrangement where he could pass the information on to us, whereby she wouldn't have contravened the etiquette of her profession."

"Mmm, maybe. I'd rather you leaned on them. Tell them that we are not interested in their consciences or the sexual transgressions of their clientele. We're trying to catch a killer. Make that a serial killer.

Say we have reason to believe that one of them is next on his list.

That should focus their attention."

"Ha!" she laughed. "Some serial killer. He's only done one, so far."

"That's the best time to catch them, Maggie. That's the best time to catch them." I decided to change the subject. "Have you," I asked, 'ever heard of a company called Magic Plastic?"

"Magic Plastic?"

"Mmm."

"No. What have they done?"

"They haven't done anything. I want to know where they are. They produce a catalogue of a hundred and one things for the home that you never thought you needed, and employ door-to-door salesmen. I'd appreciate it if you could track them down and tell them to send me a catalogue, soon as possible."

"Right, no problem. Is this police work?"

"Maggie!" I exclaimed. "Of course it's police work. When did I ever do anything else?"

If you sit still too long in this job everybody learns that you are at your desk and rings you. By five o'clock my right ear was numb and my brain was reeling, so I trudged upstairs for a decent cup of tea with Gilbert. The atmosphere is always more relaxing in his office. I refused to answer questions about crime but told him that I was on the verge of solving the great tea bag disposal problem. He wasn't impressed.

We were on the way out, walking past the front desk, when a voice shouted: "Mr. Priest!" I turned to see the desk sergeant coming out of the office. "Packet for you," he said, reaching under the counter.

He handed me the self-addressed envelope I'd left at the squash club.

"Thanks," I said, taking it from him.

"A big green Sheila brought it in," he told me. "Said it was special delivery, for you and you alone. Wish you'd tell me how you do it."

"That's the problem with Australian women," I replied, winking at him.

"They keep coming back."

I drove out of town on the old Oldfield road, quiet now, since the coming of the motorway. There is a transport cafe, famous for its wholesome meals and warm atmosphere, where all the truckers stopped on their journey over the Pennines. It has had to contract, grass over the lorry park, and change the menu, but it has, thankfully, survived.