'The trustees will probably be in touch with you.'
'We did find some regular deposits in the doctor's bank account that we couldn't explain,' Nigel told him. 'Presumably they were from you?'
'Probably,' he replied. 'I transfer three hundred pounds a month to him, sometimes a bit more, if I can afford it.'
'Right, well, I think that clears that up nicely,' Nigel conceded. He turned to me. 'Do you have any further questions, Mr. Priest?'
'No.' I shook my head. 'As you said, I think that clears things up, er, very nicely, thank you.'
'In that case, thank you for your assistance, Mr. Weatherall.'
On the stairs I casually asked him where he'd been at eight thirty on the night in question, 'Just to complete our record of the interview, sir.' He and his wife had been working at the new house all evening. I resisted slamming Nigel's car door but yanked the seat belt tight.
Nigel rattled numbers into his mobile phone as I watched two young girls walk by. They looked about fifteen but must have been twenty and had six kids between them: two infants in buggies, two toddlers pulled along by hand and two older ones following behind.
Nigel folded the phone and started the car engine.
'Tell me the news,' I invited.
'It's a white Lotus Elan, owned by A.J.K. Weatherall of Sweetwater, Heckley. Previous owner: Dr. CD. Jordan, also of Heckley. Shit!'
'And botheration,' I added. 'Back to the station, please, driver, let's have an early night.'
'Sorry, Boss,' he said.
'Nothing to apologize for, my young friend. It had to be investigated.'
I closed my eyes and dozed as we drove back, the heater blowing on to my legs and the weak winter sunshine flickering across my eyes. It was my antidote for disappointment. I pretended I was lying on a sun bed on a Caribbean beach and felt curiously content. I went to Heckley Grammar School. I was school captain, too, about fifteen years before the doctor had that honour.
'What's making you smile?' I heard Nigel say, above the whisper of the breeze in the palm trees.
'Oh, I'm just daydreaming.'
'What about?'
'I was wondering what toffee-flavoured condoms are like.'
Chapter Seven
On my way home I called in at Marks and Spencer's and bought two new shirts it was easier than ironing and stocked up with ready meals. The travel agent next door was still open, so I collected brochures for Italy, Kenyan safaris and, as an afterthought, cruises.
Annabelle and I needed a holiday. I'd love to have taken her to Kenya, but the memories might be too bittersweet for her. She married a missionary worker there when she was still very young, but he couldn't resist the temptations of the Happy Valley set. They made a fresh start back over here and found happiness of a sort, until he died of cancer.
A week in Florence doing the galleries, followed by a walking tour in the Dolomites, sounded just perfect, but would mean waiting until the weather was warmer. I'd leave the brochures with her on Friday, see what she thought.
Sparky interviewed the residents of Canalside Mews and came away with lots of ideas about salt-water aquariums and integrated hi-fi systems but nothing that helped in the hunt for the doctor's killer. He even talked to Darryl Buxton, but managed to keep the two cases isolated from each other. Darryl had been out at the time of the shooting, he said, with his secretary. They had, Darryl told him, 'Something going, know what I mean?'
Two residents had heard a bump or a bang that could have been a gunshot, which gave us an accurate time of death. We place great importance on knowing the exact time of death. In the absence of the name of the trigger-puller, knowing the precise moment that the trigger was pulled is a small victory over ignorance. The doctor kept himself to himself, everybody said, and no strangers had been seen hanging around. It was all in the original reports and now we had it twice.
I talked to the staff at the White Rose Clinic. When I first started grammar school my father had just been made sergeant and we moved to Leeds for a while. I used to come home via the city centre and would often make a diversion through the various department stores. More and more often I found my route taking me past the perfumery counters. The ladies who sold Clinique, in their high-collared white tunics and immaculate make-up, were my favourites. I remembered all this when I first saw the White Rose's receptionist.
Her hair was pulled tightly back, but she had the features to carry it.
The eyelashes looked like two black widow spiders and her teeth out-dazzled the uniform. I pulled my stomach in and flashed my ID like there was an intruder on the premises and I had a.357 Magnum in my belt that hadn't been used for two days and I was scared of it growing rusty.
'My name's Priest,' I said, 'from Heckley CID. I have an appointment with Dr. Barraclough.'
She smiled and tapped a number into a state-of-the-art communications system. I mentally filled in an MFH report on her: five-three, forty-five, hundred and twenty pounds, and stunning with it, in spite of the heavy make-up. She could have saved herself fifty minutes in front of the mirror every morning and still given the odd cardiac arrest to the clinic's male visitors. Her shoulders were like an American foot baller but they may have come with the uniform. The name badge said: 'Cicely Henderson, Receptionist'.
'There's Mr. Priest to see you, Dr. Barraclough,' she said into a microphone the size of a toothbrush.
The foyer of the clinic was all exposed brickwork, but it looked good.
Chinese rugs were scattered around and a huge shaggy collage hung on a wall, depicting a stylised moorland scene, with mill chimneys in the valleys with smoke streaming from them. The artist must have done that bit from memory. The heating was high, which is always a sign of prosperity.
'Would you like to take a seat, Mr. Priest,' she said. 'Dr.
Barraclough will be with you in a moment.'
I preferred to lean on her desk. 'How many reception staff are there, Mrs. Henderson?' I asked.
'Two of us full-time, and two part-timers who cover the weekends,' she replied.
'So do you and the other person work different shifts?'
'Yes. We cover from eight in the morning to ten at night.'
I was about to say that I'd like a word with her later when a door opened and Dr. Barraclough, Medical Director, swept into the foyer.
'Inspector…' he greeted me, hand extended.
He was wearing a suit that was just a tone too blue, white shirt and complementary striped tie. His hair was a fraction longer than respectable and greying to order at the temples. He could have stepped straight off the set of a Northern Upholstery commercial.
The hand might have been a musician's or a surgeon's, with long, perfectly manicured fingers. I tried not to crush them, although I suspected his livelihood had long-since ceased to depend on them.
'Dr. Barraclough,' I said. 'Thanks for seeing me at such short notice.'
He led me to his office after asking Cicely to make us two coffees, if she didn't mind. 'The decent stuff,' he added, with a wink.
Her look said that for him she'd gladly have fetched it herself from Brazil, walking all the way with one stiletto heel missing.
The office was tidy and hi-tech, as I'd expected. A photo frame stood on his desk but I could only see the back of it No doubt it helped him resist the temptations of his position and gave off a signal to predators. His window looked up the moor, towards Blea Fell, our local hill.
'Nice view,' I said, accepting his invitation to sit down 'It is, isn't it? Some of us jog to the top three times a week.'
'Really? I'm impressed.'
