Stuart Pawson - Deadly Friends

"Super," she replied, beaming.

"And tomorrow," I told her, with my wicked est smile, 'you can come back on the doctor's case."

Nigel was jumping round the office like a squirrel in a wheel. One second he was on the computer, then the phone, and next he'd be maniacally thumbing through the telephone directory.

"Not yet," he hissed at me, covering the mouthpiece, when I asked him what he was on with.

At half past five, just as I was planning to leave, he burst into my office with a "Ta Da!" and a two-fisted salute. "Barraclough!" he announced. "I've got him!"

I placed the cap on my pen, closed the pad I was using, pushed it away and leaned back against the wall. "What's he done?" I asked.

"I'll tell you what he hasn't done," Nigel declared. "He hasn't passed any medical exams. He's a fraud."

"Really!" I exclaimed, dropping my chair on to all four legs. "You mean… he's posing as a doctor?"

"Well, not quite. I've just been talking to wait for it the San Bernadino Faculty of Transcendental Philosophy and Tantric Learning, in California."

"It had to be," I interjected.

"Right. And that's where his doctorate is from. I've run up a heck of a phone bill, by the way."

"Don't worry, we'll deduct it from your salary. Maybe that's what he does at the clinic, this transcendental stuff. He doesn't practise medicine, does he?"

"He's called the medical director. He flunked his first year medical exams at Leeds University and dropped out. It'd be interesting to know what he put on his CV and application form, don't you think? Maybe Dr. Jordan rumbled him."

"And was killed for his trouble? It's worth knowing Nigel, well done, but I'm not sure if it's a good enough motive. And don't forget he has a cast-iron alibi. Let him know you know, and use it to prise information about the abortions out of him. That's our best avenue, I think."

"I'm sure you're right, but I can't wait to see his face."

None of the pubs do meals so early in the evening, so I went to the cafe over the road and had tomato soup, gammon and pineapple, blackberry crumble with custard and a pot of tea. I took my time over it, preferring watching real people go about their mundane activities to watching second-rate television at home. I was about to ask for a refill when the old gimmer at the next table lit his pipe, so I decided to leave. As I reached inside my jacket for my wallet I found the tickets for Romeo and Juliet.

I walked back into the station yard, where my car was, and stood there, indecisive, wondering what to do. I'd already been accused once of approaching a witness with a view to obtaining sexual favours; would I be tempting fate?

The performance started in fifty minutes. Sod 'em all, I thought, and marched back into the nick.

Her number was in my book and she answered her phone almost straight away. "Is that Mrs. Henderson?" I asked.

"Yes, it is. Who's speaking?"

"Hello, Cicely. It's Detective Inspector Charlie Priest, from Heckley CID. Do you remember me? I met you at the clinic' "Hello, Inspector," she replied, warmly. "Of course I remember you.

How can I help?"

"It's Charlie," I told her. "Please, call me Charlie. Actually, it's not business, it's a personal call…"

I told her that I'd been left with these tickets for Romeo and Juliet and forgotten all about them until just now and I was still in my working clothes because I hadn't had time to go home and change and hoped she wouldn't get the wrong impression but I'd intended giving her a ring when this whole thing was over and I realised it was very short notice and if she'd prefer to go with a friend she could have the tickets but it was a shame to waste them because it was a good production and…

She said she'd love to accompany me, and could be ready in twenty minutes.

I found the emergency razor and toothbrush in my bottom drawer and made a hasty toilet in the office loos. Somebody had been there before me and left a bottle of aftershave, so I used it liberally, including large dollops in my shoes, like Jon Voight in Midnight Cowboy. I tipped myself a wink in the mirror and left.

Cicely looked good. Fantastic, in fact. Not my type, with her heavy make-up, tight-back hair and impossible heels, but I'd have looked twice. Any man would. I imagined her doing the flamenco by the light of a campfire, stomping her sturdy legs, arms aloft, as she danced passionate tales of old Iberia.

It was drizzling, so I dropped her off at the Playhouse entrance and went to park the car. I dashed into the foyer as they gave the two-minute warning and brushed my wet hair out of my eyes. "You look stunning," I told her. She'd taken her coat off and was wearing a blue suit, with a black polo-necked blouse and black tights. Her hair wasn't black all the way to the roots, but nature sometimes needs a little help.

"You don't look bad yourself," she replied, with a smile that I took to have a trace of disapproval in it. I imagined she liked her men in suits.

"Yeah, well," I mumbled, "I normally do make a bit of an effort…"

"You look fine," she said, 'and I wasn't looking forward to another night in with the cats. I'm glad you rang."

"How many cats do you have?" I asked.

"Just two. Sasha and Mustapha."

"They sound Persian."

"That's right."

Ah well, at least they weren't Omar and Khayyam.

It was a good production. It must have been on that year's national curriculum, for several school parties were present. The kids were more familiar with the story and led the laughter at the bawdy bits, which created a happy atmosphere. Cicely had a gin and tonic I made it a large one during the interval, and asked me how the enquiry was progressing.

"Not very well," I admitted. "We're nearly at a standstill with it. In fact, we're wondering if it might have been a case of mistaken identity."

"You mean, they murdered the wrong man?"

"It's possible. How do you like working at the clinic?" I was supposed to be asking the questions.

"Oh, it's all right," she replied.

"Only all right?"

"It's fine. Conditions are good, pay is reasonable and they treat us well."

"Cheap cosmetic surgery, if and when the time arises?"

"Ha! They're not that generous."

"What about Dr. Barraclough," I asked. "How do you get on with him?"

"I hope you didn't bring me out just to grill me about the clinic, Charlie," she admonished.

"Sorry," I said. "Force of habit. No more shop talk. What do you think of the play?"

"He's not a real doctor, you know?"

"Isn't he? Which one's the doctor?"

"I mean Barraclough," she giggled.

"Oh, that doctor. What is he, then?"

"He thinks nobody knows, but we all do. He's a doctor of divinity, or something, from one of those American universities that sells qualifications. He's never passed any exams."

Nigel was going to love this. "Well, well," I said. "It looks as if we'd better have another word with Dr. B."

It went downhill in the second half. The kids grew restless and I couldn't understand why the friar and the nurse were taking such apalling risks just to get two spoilt brats into bed with each other. I nodded off a couple of times, towards the end.

"It was a bit like West Side Story," Cicely observed as we filed towards the exit.

"Yes, it was," I agreed, 'but without the tunes," and the woman in front turned to give me the look she usually reserves for when she's cleaning up dog sick.

I offered to fetch the car but Cicely said she'd be OK. The rain had slowed to a drizzle and after years of practice she'd mastered the technique of trotting in five-inch stilettos.

"Brrr!" I said, spinning the engine and pushing the heater controls to maximum.

She fastened her seat belt and looked across at me. "Thank you for a lovely evening," she said. "I've enjoyed it."