Deadly friends, p.18
Deadly Friends, page 18
‘How’s the DC who was assaulted?’ I asked.
‘Not too bad, Charlie,’ he replied. ‘It’s just a scalp wound.’
‘But Rodney hit him with a shotgun?’
‘That was the first story, but since then the DC has changed his mind. He thinks it might have been a length of pipe, wrapped in a plastic bag.’
‘What, to look like a gun?’ Nigel asked.
‘Possibly. The DC can’t be sure, but now he says it didn’t feel like a shotgun.’
We all smiled. ‘Is he an expert on how it feels to be bashed on the bonce with various tubular devices?’ I wondered.
‘I think I know what he means, with the emphasis on the think, but we can’t take chances.’
‘Of course not,’ I said. ‘Have you seen Rodney?’
‘Oh, yes, he keeps appearing at the window, brandishing what could be a gun, or a piece of pipe in a bag. There’s a phone in there, but he won’t answer it.’
‘So what’s happening?’
‘Nothing until we get some reinforcements. I’ve sent for a negotiator, too. Up to now we’ve just concentrated on housing him. Soon as I’ve a few more bodies I want the street clearing and some form of communications setting up. In the light of what you’ve told us I’d say we need the TFU, as well.’
‘What do the neighbours say about him?’
‘That he’s a bit simple. Lived with his mother until she died, now he’s alone. He’s a voluntary patient at North Bay House – that’s a psychiatric hospital on the edge of town. We’ve sent someone there to find out if he has a doctor or anyone who can come and talk to him.’
‘Do you mind if I ring him?’ I asked.
‘Be my guest.’ He dictated the number and in a few seconds I was listening to the ringing tone, but he didn’t answer.
I turned to Nigel. ‘Fancy a burger?’
‘We passed a place down the road,’ he replied.
‘Mind if we leave you at it?’ I asked the local man. ‘You know where we’ll be.’
We lingered over the burgers. I rang Annabelle to tell her where I was in case I was delayed, although I was determined not to be, but she wasn’t answering, either. We had a couple of hours at the scene of the siege and briefly saw Rodney at a window, brandishing his weapon, whatever it was. A superintendent took charge of proceedings and used a loud-hailer to no avail. I tried on the mobile again, with similar lack of success. Rodney was deaf to our efforts. Unsmiling policemen from the tactical firearms unit, in baseball caps with chequered bands around them, took up positions in gardens and windows. They brandished their Heckler and Koch MP5s as if they were the latest fashion accessories. We had another cuppa at the burger house, which was rapidly becoming the siege canteen, and went for a last look at Rodney’s neat little bungalow, with its pocket handkerchief lawn and plastic window boxes.
‘Ah, there you are,’ the superintendent said, when he saw us. ‘This is Dr …’ he stumbled over a name with too many syllables – it sounded like ‘ram in a woolly jumper’ to me, ‘… who is Allen’s pychiatrist at North Bay House.’
I shook hands with a plump grey-haired lady who wore a fur coat over pantaloons. ‘How do you do, Doctor,’ I said, wondering if the fur was fake, deciding it wasn’t. We sat in her car and I told her what I understood about the post-mortem on Rodney’s mother, about the malpractice charges and Dr Jordan’s subsequent murder.
When I’d finished Nigel asked: ‘What exactly are Rodney’s problems, Doctor?’
She chose her words carefully. ‘Exactly is not an expression we recognise in psychiatry,’ she replied. ‘Rodney came to us for the first time after the death of his mother. He had a morbid fascination for her, possibly brought on by dwelling on the details of the post-mortem. He suffers from anxiety, panic attacks and depression. There may be incipient schizophrenia. He has not been sectioned and we do not regard him as violent in any way. He comes to us on a voluntary basis, usually as an out-patient, at the recommendation of his GP. Most of the time he gets by in the community, which is as much as we can hope for, these days. We take him in if we can, when things are getting too much, but generally speaking we don’t have room for him and he is quite capable of existing by his own resources.’
‘Would you say he was capable of shooting the doctor?’ I asked. No point in beating about the cabbage patch.
‘No more than you or I, Inspector,’ she replied, which wasn’t very helpful but made a lot of sense.
Nigel said: ‘Has he sufficient nous to travel to Heckley by public transport?’
‘Oh, yes. He has certain difficulties, what you might call being slow, but can function normally in society. He’s sick, not stupid.’
She started her car engine and set the blower on maximum to clear the condensation. The lenses in her spectacles were thick enough to start a forest fire on an overcast day. It was dark outside, and flakes of sleet slid down the windows. A floodlight illuminated the outside of the bungalow.
‘When did you last see Rodney?’ I asked.
‘New Year’s Day,’ she replied, without hesitation.
‘You were open New Year’s day?’ I queried.
‘We’re not a corner shop, Inspector,’ she admonished. ‘We are there for the benefit of our patients. Holiday times can be particularly stressful for them.’
‘And the rest of us,’ I sighed.
‘Actually,’ she said, ‘we do not have out-patients at holiday times, but sometimes we have vacancies and can take certain vulnerable cases in for a few days. We felt Rodney fell into that category.’
Why did Nigel shuffle uncomfortably in his seat? Why did I suddenly wish I was somewhere else, like having a prostate biopsy?
‘He was with you for a few days?’ I said.
‘Yes. Some of our regulars went home to their families for Christmas, which meant we had some spare beds. There are many temptations and pressures for someone like Rodney at Christmas, so we felt it desirable to keep him with us.’
‘Temptations like alcohol?’ Nigel wondered.
‘Alcohol and loneliness are a potent combination,’ she replied.
‘So how long was he with you?’ I asked.
‘Ten days.’
I couldn’t do the sums. ‘The doctor was killed on the twenty-third,’ I told her, ‘at eight thirty in the evening. Was Rodney Allen an in-patient at North Bay at that time?’
‘He came in during the afternoon of the twenty-second, Inspector,’ she replied. ‘The following evening – the day before Christmas Eve – we had our party. Rodney earned everybody’s displeasure by hogging the karaoke machine. If that is when the doctor was murdered then I can assure you it wasn’t Rodney who pulled the trigger. I’m afraid you’ve had a wasted journey.’
I told the superintendent that Rodney had been given an alibi and thanked him for his cooperation. Before the enormity of my words registered in his brain we were in the car and driving away. As we pulled on to the main road an ARV and a van load of the heavy mob sped in the opposite direction. When they’d vanished from my rear-view mirror I slapped my thigh and declared: ‘Well, that’s nicely cocked-up their overtime budget!’
Nigel laughed. ‘I’m just grateful that you were with me,’ he said. ‘It goes on your record, not mine.’
‘Think positive,’ I said. ‘It’s another suspect we can draw a line through – eliminate from enquiries, as they say. And it’s probably the best bit of excitement they’ve had since the candy floss stall was condemned by the health inspector. We’re asking all the right questions – it’s just a pity that we’re asking them in the wrong order.’
As we headed inland the sleet turned to rain. There was no moon and the night was blacker than the bottom of a gipsy’s chip pan. I was surprised how much commuter traffic was heading east, towards the coast, a pre-dinner sherry and the little woman. Nigel fiddled with the radio and found a country music station. A cracked voice was wailing: ‘I left you tied to the hitching rail and my best friend rode you awayee …’
‘Do you think that’s meant to be a metaphor?’ he asked, pressing the off button.
‘What’s a metaphor?’ I mumbled, squinting against the glare of headlights. I was thinking about Rodney, and North Bay House. Did his trustees pay his bills when he was admitted? It sounded to me as if they had a few vacancies over Christmas, so they rounded up their regular reserves to fill them. I’m paid to have a suspicious mind.
‘Why,’ I wondered aloud, ‘did Mrs Allen have her operation in Heckley when she’d already moved to Scarborough?’
‘Waiting lists,’ Nigel explained. ‘She’d probably been on the General’s waiting list for about two years.’
‘Of course. Thank you.’
This side of York, heading towards the Al, I swung into a layby and hit the brakes. ‘I’d better ring Annabelle, I’m running late,’ I explained, reaching into the back for the telephone, in the pocket of my down jacket. I pressed the last number recall button and held the phone to my ear.
‘WHAT YOU WANT?’ a voice boomed at me. A male voice, close to hysteria. ‘Why not you leave me alone?’
I jerked back in my seat and stared at the instrument. ‘It’s him!’ I hissed. ‘It’s him!’ The last number I’d dialled hadn’t been Annabelle, it had been Rodney!
CHAPTER TEN
‘Hello,’ I ventured. ‘Is that Rodney Allen, please?’
‘Yes!’ he snapped. ‘Why you not leave me alone?’ ‘My name’s Charlie,’ I told him. ‘Do you think we could have a little talk?’
‘What about?’ he asked, his voice wavering with fear. I could imagine him, quailing in a corner of his little room.
‘Oh, this and that, Rodney. Are the policemen still outside your house?’
‘Yes, they are. Lots of policemen.’
‘Well, I’m not with them, Rodney. I was, about an hour ago, but I’m fifty miles away, now. I’ve decided to go home for my tea and leave you in peace. Tell me this: do you have a gun?’
‘Not a real gun. Don’t have a real gun. Real guns dangerous.’
‘Very dangerous, Rodney. I’m glad you don’t have a real gun. Did you make it yourself?’
‘Yes. Rodney made it.’
‘What with?’
‘Some pipe and a piece of wood.’
‘That sounds very clever. All those policemen are fooled by it. Why did you make a gun, Rodney? What did you want it for?’
‘To scare lads and lasses.’
‘What lads and lasses, Rodney?’
‘Lads and lasses that come round and throw stones at windows. Say Rodney’s not all there. Bad people.’
‘They gave you a bad time.’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you point your gun at them?’
‘Yes. Rodney point gun at them.’
‘Did they run away?’
‘Yes.’
‘And did they stop coming round?’
‘Yes, but tell police.’
‘I see.’ The local youths had given him some hassle, and then we had. My contribution hadn’t helped at all. ‘Listen, Rodney,’ I said. ‘Listen very carefully to what I say. Can you hear me?’
‘Yes. Rodney hear you.’
‘Where are you sitting?’
‘On floor, in corner.’
‘Right. Are you sitting in the dark, in there?’
‘Yes. Not put light on. They shoot me if I put light on.’
‘No they won’t. Nobody will shoot you unless you start pointing your gun at people. Have you got your gun with you?’
‘Yes. Is here.’
‘Good. Do you want me to help you get out of this, Rodney? If you do as I tell you the policeman and the lady doctor from North Bay House will look after you. Are you listening?’
‘Rodney frightened.’
‘I know you are. I’m frightened, too. Will you promise to do exactly as I tell you? Then you’ll be OK.’
‘Promise to do as you tell me.’
‘Good man. I want you to unwrap the gun, Rodney, and throw it to the other side of the room. Have you done that?’
There was a pause, then: ‘Done that.’
‘OK. Now this is the bit where you have to be brave. I want you to stand up and put the light on. Then I want you to put your hands above your head and walk very slowly to the window and stand there, so they can see you. Do you understand what I’m saying, Rodney?’
‘Surrender. You want me surrender.’
‘I want you to give yourself up. You’ve made your point, Rodney, and we don’t want anyone else to be hurt, do we?’
‘Rodney not want to hurt anyone.’
‘Good man. When they come to get you they will shout at you, but they won’t hurt you. Some policemen like shouting, but they don’t mean it. I promise that. They’ll tell you to lie on the floor. Just do as they say, very slowly. Nobody will hurt you. Understand?’
‘Rodney know what you mean. See it on telly.’
‘OK, Rodney, this is what you do. Stand up. Put the light on. Walk very slowly to the window and stand there with your hands above your head. Understand?’
‘I understand.’
‘There’s a good man, Rodney. Do it. Do it now.’
I heard a rumble and a scrape as he laid the handset on the floor, leaving the line open. I thought I heard the click of the light switch, but it may have been my imagination. A trickle of sweat ran down my spine, zigging and zagging an inch at a time, like the raindrops on the windows.
‘Just pray that one of those trigger-happy bastards doesn’t open fire,’ I whispered, holding the phone at arm’s length.
‘Keep still!’ we heard someone bellow, quite distinctly, followed by what might have been a Heckler and Koch’s rifle stock being slammed into the extended position.
‘Put your hands on your head!’ They had a very loud voice.
‘Now! Slowly. Kneel down.’
‘Face down on the floor.’
‘Stretch your arms out.’
I counted to ten, to give them time to put the cuffs on, and shouted: ‘Hello! Hello! Anyone there?’ into the phone.
More rumbles and scrapes, before a voice demanded: ‘Who is this?’
‘This is DI Priest of Heckley CID,’ I told him. ‘Who are you, please?’
‘Oh, er, Sergeant Todd, sir. Tactical firearms unit.’
‘Good evening, Sergeant. Rodney is a friend of mine, so treat him kindly. Remember, he did give himself up. Please tell the superintendent that I’m glad to have been of assistance. Goodnight.’ I clicked the phone off and clenched my fists in a gesture of triumph. Nigel was grinning like a fireplace.
‘You jammy so-and-so!’ he said.
I rang Annabelle, the long way, and told her we were running late but homing in on a fair wind and a wide throttle.
‘You sound happy,’ she said. ‘Have you been drinking?’
‘Nothing stronger than tea has passed these lips,’ I told her. ‘Coming to see you always fills me with the joy of life.’
Nigel tutted and looked away.
Guns have a language all their own. You cock a single-action revolver by pulling the hammer back with your thumb. Pawls mesh into gears and rotate the chamber one sixth of a turn, bringing the next cartridge in line with the barrel. The resulting c-click has been used in a thousand westerns to terrorise goody, baddy and audience alike as the gun was pressed against someone’s head.
It’s different with an automatic. You slide the mechanism back to bring the first cartridge from the clip into the breech, with a ka-chink that is as familiar to armchair fans of gangster films as the smell of a smoke-filled speakeasy or the tinkling of a honky-tonk.
A sawn-down repeater shotgun says chunk-chunk as the next round is jacked into the chamber, and you know that death or serious bleeding is coming to someone.
But the Heckler and Koch is a disappointment. There’s nothing like that with the Heckler. You put the safety to fire and you’re away. The gun comes with an extending rifle stock and they usually snap it into position silently, in the privacy of the van, before moving into position. For more intimate situations a few officers have invented a little strategy that’s not in the manual. They will have the stock loosely extended but not locked. At the right moment they will bark their instructions at the target and yank the stock home, hard. The resulting chuck of catches snapping into place is mundane and meaningless, but in the psychology of brinkmanship it strikes terror in the already sweaty palms of the hearer.
Annabelle had cooked one of my favourites – trout and almonds – for me, followed by home-made cheesecake. We’d called at the Granada services on the M62 and I’d bought a bunch of carnations, to put me in the good books, and the JFK video, to save time collecting Sparky’s copy from home. Only trouble was, I was wearing the clothes I’d been sitting and standing about in all day and was unshaven. I apologised for my appearance and told her about Rodney, which was a mistake. All her sympathy immediately transferred to him.
‘So,’ I said, after I’d topped up her glass with the last of the Spanish red we both like, ‘how did the trip go?’
‘Very well,’ she replied. ‘I’ll show you my ideas.’ She stood up and left the room. We’d eaten off the large refectory table in her kitchen. I cleared our crockery away and when she returned we spread the drawings out.
‘Unfortunately the fabrics have already been ordered,’ she said, ‘so we have to work around them. Actually, it makes it easier, I suppose.’
They were architects’ impressions of the interiors, and Annabelle had coloured them in. Her schemes looked good, although her skills with the pencils required polishing. ‘Use the edge, like this,’ I said, and coloured a wall on a spare drawing. ‘And make the end of the wall that is nearer to you a little bolder. If you’re doing it quickly, for an immediate impression, use big zig-zags, full of confidence. Don’t be faint-hearted. Like this.’
I handed her the pencil and made her show me. We were talking about drawing, which I know about, and avoiding discussing her trip to London, which I didn’t. She was grateful for the diversion, I accepted it.
