could always fit you in, Charlie. Fact is, if you wanted to invest some money, we could expand a little. What I need is a depot on the outskirts of London. I could treble my business overnight if there was someone down there I could trust. You'd be just the man. How about that, then? Five minutes ago you were staring at unemployment, and now you're a partner in a thriving courier business.
Can't be bad.'
'Sounds interesting, Eric. I'll think about it and have a word with pay section on Monday.'
We chatted a while and some of his enthusiasm transferred to me. The weather forecast had said that tomorrow was going to be fine and clear.
I found another number and booked myself into a guest house in Keswick for the night. Three hours later I was eating rabbit pie in a Lake District pub, my down jacket over the back of the chair and hiking boots on my feet.
Sunday morning I had the compulsory full English and walked over Helvellyn and Striding Edge. There was a thin covering of snow on the hilltops and the air froze the cilia in your nostrils as you breathed it, feeling like shards of broken glass being stuffed up your nose. I screwed my eyes into pinholes against the glare and absorbed the wonder of it all. There's a well-known conundrum about noise. Does a sound exist if there's nobody to hear it? I feel the same about beauty. Is beauty wasted if you've nobody to share it with? I think it is. I ate my bar of mint cake and strode off downhill.
Weekdays, I do murders. I told Mad Maggie about the weekend's adventures with Darryl and told her to keep an eye on things. If forensic couldn't come up with anything and Samantha didn't make a complaint we'd done all we could. I asked Mr. Wood if he could join us and pulled a few chairs around the white board in the main CID office. Sparky re-drew the chart, bigger and with more colours. I was peeved. I'd wanted to do it.
'Right, Dave,' I said as the super joined us. 'You're on your feet so you might as well do the honours.' I rocked my chair back until it was leaning against the top of a radiator. After a few minutes I could feel the heat striking through my shirt.
Sparky ran through our list of suspects, although acquaintances was a more accurate description of them. No one leaped off the board as a fully fledged, twenty-four carat suspect. The doc was a popular character, with lots of friends and colleagues ready to say what a splendid fellow he was. He'd have had no trouble at all getting HP from a double-glazing company. But there is always a dark side to popularity. Success breeds jealousy, and that can fester away inside you like a malignant worm. More so if the person you envy just happens to be screwing someone you love. Reading between the lines, there were plenty of people who might have been glad to see Mr. Jordan dead.
Trouble was, they all had cast-iron alibis.
'Maybe it was a contract killing,' Nigel suggested.
'OK. So who might have the necessary connections with the underworld?'
'Perhaps someone came into the clinic for a face-lift. Or someone's wife.'
'And just happened to say they were an assassin?'
'Not like that. They might have got to know them over a period of time. First of all as friends, and then perhaps the conversation worked round to it.'
'It's a possibility,' I admitted.
'I think we're getting a bit fanciful,' Mr. Wood said.
'If it was a contract killing,' Sparky began, 'I'd place it back with Ged Skinner and his friends. They've got the contacts.'
'Why would they want him dead?'
'Because he was refusing to play ball.'
'So we're back with drugs?'
'Yes.'
'What about his showbiz friends?' Maggie asked.
'Good point,' I said. 'Is any of them about to play the part of a murderer? It'd be just like one of them to get into the role by indulging in homicide.'
'This isn't being helpful,' Mr. Wood protested.
'Sorry,' I replied. 'Truth is, we're floundering.'
'OK,' he said. 'Let's be thoroughly unprofessional. Dave, who's your favourite for the deed?'
Without hesitation Sparky said: 'Him,' stabbing a finger against Ged Skinner's name. 'Or one of his cronies,' he added.
Gilbert nodded. 'I don't think we need to go into motives. Nigel?'
'Dr. Barraclough,' he replied, again without hesitation.
'Go on,' Gilbert invited.
'Professional jealousy, plus possible sexual angle, but I don't know what.'
I let my chair drop on to its front legs with a clomp.
Nigel's theory was interesting. There was the added attraction that I hadn't liked Barraclough, but I'd never let a personal opinion affect an investigation. Much.
'And,' Nigel continued, 'there's always the possibility that he's in cahoots with someone else.'
'You mean… they're giving each other alibis?' Gilbert suggested.
'Mmm.'
'Don't!' I protested, clamping my hands over my ears. 'Please don't!'
Jeff Caton was with us. He thought Skinner was worth another look at, but was interested in the malpractice suit against the doctor.
'Barraclough's supposed to be finding me details of that,' I said.
'Maggie, when we've finished how about if you go round there and see if he's found the information? You might even learn something about the man himself from his secretary or the other staff' 'Will do, Boss.'
'Meanwhile, Margaret,' Gilbert said, 'who's your favourite for the killer?'
'Hey, we should be running a book on this,' Sparky said.
Maggie studied the chart. 'I haven't been in from the beginning,' she said, 'but there's an awful lot of grief down there.' She nodded to the box that said 'Abortions, X 10,000'. 'That's where I'd be looking.'
'And you, Charlie?' Gilbert asked.
I folded my arms and shook my head. 'None of them,' I replied. 'None of them.'
In a way, I was right. But then again, in a way, I was wrong.
Chapter Nine
Maggie went off to the White Rose; Sparky and Nigel rang the wife of the registrar, ex-lover of the late doctor, and made an appointment to see her while hubby was at work; and I settled down with the reports.
Mr. Wood's conclusion, after our meeting, was that we should pursue all the alibis until the Pope himself was a more likely suspect. I decided that some lateral thinking was called for and made another list. Melissa, the mysterious sender of Christmas cards was on it, followed by Mr. Farrier, husband of the receptionist at the White Rose. It wouldn't hurt to have a word with George, his chum from college. To prove my impartiality I added Mrs. Henderson. Maybe Dr.
Jordan hadn't chatted her up first, and maybe she thought he should have done. Lastly I wrote 'Malpractice'. That was a gaping hole in our investigation that needed looking into, pronto. I drew a line through 'Mrs. Henderson' and a thick box around 'Malpractice'.
The SOCO had made a video of the murder scene. I collected it from the associated property store and watched it in the CID office. It showed general views of the doctor's kitchen, where he'd been found, followed by close-ups of everything in sight. The doc died with his eyes open, a look of terror and surprise carved on his features. The camera zoomed in close and moved slowly over his chin, nose and sightless eyes, like a helicopter tour of Mount Rushmore. His shirt was undone and he was in his stocking feet.
We were taken on a journey across his carpet, the shiny toe caps of the SOCO's shoes bobbing into the bottom of the picture like two bald headed men on a see-saw at the other side of a wall. The camera panned over
