Stuart Pawson - Deadly Friends

"Good morning," I repeated, holding the phone with a hunched shoulder as I turned the page. "My name is Detective Inspector Charlie Priest, of Heckley CID. I believe you have a Mrs. Cicely Henderson at the clinic'

There was a pause, before she said: "This is Mrs. Henderson speaking.

How can I help you, Inspector." I could feel the smile in her voice.

"Hello, Cicely," I said. "How are you?"

"I'm fine. And you?"

"Excellent. It's amazing what a good night's sleep can do. I just thought I'd thank you for coming to the theatre with me. It was a very enjoyable evening."

"Yes, I thought so, too. Thank you for the invitation. Shakespeare has taken on a whole new meaning for me."

"He's full of surprises, isn't he? I was thinking that maybe we could go out for a meal, say, Thursday or Friday. What kind of food do you like?"

"I thought you were busy."

"I can get away, if I know in advance."

"I'd rather not, if you don't mind, Charlie."

"Oh. Some other time, then? Or just out for a drink, over the weekend?"

"Er, no, but thanks all the same."

"You mean… you'd rather not see me again? Is that what you're saying?" I catch on fast, these days.

"No. It was very pleasant, Charlie, and I enjoyed myself, but I'd rather leave it at that, if you don't mind. I don't want any involvement."

"Fair enough," I said, 'but I might see you if I have to call in the clinic, sometime."

"That's all right. We can still be friends. It's not you, Charlie, it's me. You were… well, you were… magnificent, believe me. I don't want you to think otherwise. It's just that… I'd wondered what I'd been missing, all these years. I decided that it was very nice, but not worth all the complications. Does that make sense?"

Bloody good sense, I told her; and damned sporting of her, too. We said polite goodbyes and rang off. Perfect, I thought, replacing the handset. I couldn't have managed it better if I'd written the script.

No tears, no regrets, no recriminations, no guilty consciences.

Except. Except… It would have been nice to have had a say in it.

The mini-bin was on page twenty-two and cost 6.99. Janet Saunders was right: you could buy a jar of coffee for that and use the jar. There was a nearly empty one on the table where Gilbert makes his brews. I jumped up and tipped the dregs into his new jar, which I had to open, and dropped the pile of drying tea bags into the now-empty jar. I stuck a label on it reading: 'used tea bags There's a penny on the community charge for me to make decisions like that.

I sat down again and resumed my perusing. The only thing they didn't make was a device for recycling useless devices, but it was only a matter of time. I turned the final page and read the ordering instructions on the back. I felt uneasy. There was a space for the agent to place his or her name and address. Mine had come straight from head office, so it was blank. I tossed it on to Gilbert's shiny desk top, drummed my fingers several times, and reached for the squash club membership list.

I'd started at the end and worked forward, but couldn't remember where I'd reached. The best thing, I decided, was to start again, at the beginning this time, and stop when I knew I'd gone far enough. Abbott, John, I read. Never heard of him. Next…

Five minutes later Gilbert's chair was neatly in place with my feet under the desk and firmly on the floor as I thumped numbers into the phone.

"Heckley Squash Club," said a male voice.

"It's DI Charlie Priest," I told him. "I got the membership list.

Thank you. This girl that the doctor played the mixed doubles with I don't suppose you've remembered her name?"

"Oh, hello, Mr. Priest. No, sorry. I've tried to remember, but my mind's a blank."

"Never mind. You also told me that they played the first round of the mixed doubles competition with one of your regular members and his wife. Have you asked them if they can remember her name?"

"No, sorry," he replied. "Paul and Tricia, we're talking about. They go away for Christmas, every year. Have a place in Spain. I'd forgotten. They're back now, I'm told, so I'll ask Paul when I see him. He'll be in tomorrow, probably."

"Don't bother. Just tell me his second name and I'll ring him."

"It's Duffy. Paul Duffy."

I found him on the list and rang his number. I was rewarded with a long buzzing noise his phone had been cut off. I rang the control room on the internal and asked them to do a person check on Paul Duffy. He was on our files, with a conviction for receiving, dated 1987, and was currently banned from driving for being OPL. Tricia Duffy had been cautioned for perjury, again in 1987. The loving wife sticking up for her bent hubby. I decided that the personal approach was called for.

"You're in charge," I told the sergeant at the front desk. "Give me a ring if you need me."

"Where are you going?"

"Door to door."

"It's hissing down outside," he replied.

"Oh. Can I borrow a coat, then?"

He found a waterproof jacket for me and handed it across the counter. I ran to the car with it over my head.

It was a smart house, built from local stone on a hillside. The drive was steep and the gates were closed, so I had to park on the road. I pulled the coat on and slogged up the drive, feet squelching. Mrs.

Duffy answered the door.

She was average height and comfortably plump. She wore a lilac jogging suit adorned with sequins, and several gold chains, worn on top to remind her of what she'd achieved every time she looked in a mirror.

Nouveau riche or market trader; I wasn't sure which. She had the best tan I'd seen in ages. I showed her my ID and she tilted her head back as she inspected it, looking through the bottoms of her spectacles, where the tint was lighter. It said Police on the breast of the waterproof I was wearing, just to confirm my origins.

"Is Mr. Duffy in?" I asked, after introducing myself.

The man himself appeared almost immediately, as if he'd been waiting.

Maybe they saw me approach.

"I'm Duffy," he said. "How can I help you?" He was big and bronzed, with a huge gut and a respectable handlebar moustache.

"I'd like to ask you a few questions," I replied, 'about Heckley Squash Club. Do you think I could come in?"

"Of course. Come in, Inspector," he gushed. And why not? He'd nothing to worry about. He'd been out of the country for a month, hadn't he? "Let's have you out of this stinking weather. Bloody rotten climate. Take your coat off."

"Your phone doesn't work," I explained as Tricia Duffy took the dripping coat from me. A large bag of Ping golf clubs stood in the hallway.

"Bloody thing's cut off!" he exclaimed. "I don't know what this country's coming to. We've been to our place in Portugal for a month and that's what you find when you come home. Going to the dogs, we are. Saturday at the airport every face you saw was one of our Commonwealth cousins. Why do we let them in, eh? Bloody taking over, that's what they're doing. I'm telling you, Inspector, as soon as I sort out a few things I'm moving over there, for good. You can keep this place. Have a seat."

And then you'll be an immigrant, too, just like them, I thought.

They hadn't heard about the doctor's murder, and were suitably saddened. "How well did you know him?" I asked.

Duffy shrugged. "Reasonably well, I'd say, but just to have a drink and a laugh, in the bar. He was a good sort. Everybody liked him." He considered this last remark, then added: "Well, somebody didn't."

"Any thoughts who?"

"No. No idea." He pondered for a few seconds. "I know it's the done thing to say kind words about somebody after they've died," he continued, 'but I'm not bullshitting when I say that the doc was one of the nicest people I've ever met. Not that I knew him all that well, of course, but I always thought of him as a gentleman. A good old old-fashioned gentleman."