The Bad Samaritan (18 page)

“Yes, coming up to my last year.”

“How did it start?”

“Well, I fancied him. Quite shamelessly, I'm afraid. So as I said, I threw myself at him. To that extent he was blameless. After church one Sunday I went up to him and asked him if he had any typing or computer work I could do in the holidays. I could see in his eyes that he had something in mind other than typing and that he knew I had too. Humiliating to look back on.”

“So he agreed, and it went on from there.”

“Yes. He gave me some work, bedded me, and I kept on going back on the excuse of wanting more work if it was going. I hate myself for it now.”

“Everyone has one or two big mistakes in that line.”

“I had a whole series.”

“How did it end? Did you just go back to school?”

“Not quite. No, that wouldn't have ended it . . . .” She thought before she spoke, making Charlie very aware that this was the most difficult part. “I had had the feeling for some time that he was getting bored. If I'd had any savvy I'd have cooled it, played
hard to get, but I was very immature. I kept going round there, supposedly to see if he had any jobs, but in reality . . . well, I suppose I don't need to spell it out. Anyway one day he said ‘OK, there's a job for you, but we'll have to fetch it.' So we got into the car and drove to this large house—”

“In Abbingley?”

“Oh yes. Not far. And he opened the front door with his own key, and I was just realising it was his own house when he took me into the sitting room and introduced me—no, it was more like he was flaunting me—to his wife. He said: ‘Hello, Dottie. You know Janet, don't you? She's come round to do something for me.' And he . . . he
leered
. And before I knew what he was doing he took me upstairs and into a big double bedroom that I imagine was his and hers, or had been once, and he was stripping off, and stripping me as well and . . . well, I suppose I don't have to go on.”

“You didn't resist?”

She stared down at the table, remembering.

“I did . . . but very feebly. Just said things like, ‘Stephen, we can't.' Quite useless, really. It was as if he had some kind of
power
. I suppose girls have said that from time immemorial. I think because I was so young and knew so little, and he was so mature and worldly-wise and—
corrupt
, that there was a kind of power he had over me and enjoyed. It was like being mesmerised by a snake.”

“You think his wife knew what you were doing?”

“Oh, of course she knew, and that was the point.”

“How did she look when he took you to meet her?”

“Oh, it's difficult to describe. Weary. Almost indifferent.”

“Was there hate there?”

“Maybe. But she didn't show it. She didn't even show contempt for me, if she felt it. Her look was more . . . pitying.”

“Did you see her again?”

“No. When we'd done he just got up and put his clothes on,
and I did the same. Back to business seemed to be the message he wanted to get across. On the way out, in the hall, we met the father—old ‘Onions' Unwin, her father. Stephen said, ‘Oh, you know Janet Sheffield, don't you, Dad? Paul and Rosemary's girl. She's been doing work for us at the shop.' The old chap sort of bumbled a greeting, Stephen shouted ‘'Bye, Dottie,' and we left the house. He was oozing with self-satisfaction. He drove me home, hardly speaking, but he gave a nasty grin as he dropped me off at the vicarage as if the fact that I was the vicar's daughter gave added spice—maybe the only spice—to the affair. That was his sort of humour.”

“And—?” asked Charlie.

“And that put paid to it. I suppose that was the intention. Nobody was in, and I went up to my room and sobbed and sobbed. You know people nowadays are always talking about low self-esteem? That was the rock bottom of my self-esteem. I bathed him out of me, and by the time I had finished I knew that the affair was over, knew that I wanted it to be over, and knew that I would never ever look at that type again.”

“Have you seen much of him since?”

“I've
seen
him often enough. Couldn't avoid that, with him always being at church. I've not exchanged a word until last night at the party. He came up behind me and whispered, ‘How come we never get together these days?' I gave him a look and froze him out. I think he only came up because he saw I had a boyfriend and was happy with him. That would have been something worth ruining. And I knew he really hated women who rejected him or showed him that he could never get anywhere with them. It's not very effective after he definitely
has
got somewhere with them, but that's why I froze him out.”

“So the fascination had really worn off.”

“Really!” She looked him in the eye with what seemed a genuine
frankness. “It had become repulsion. But that summer it was like a basilisk. It was only the sheer nastiness and cruelty of what he did and made me an accomplice in doing that saved me.”

“What did you feel when you heard he was dead?”

“Nothing. I'm glad I didn't feel exultation, feel my humiliation had been revenged or anything melodramatic like that. I was empty of feeling for him.”

“Could you have killed him yourself?”

She thought.

“No. I suppose you'll think, ‘She would say that,' but since you thought it worth asking, I'll tell you. I couldn't have killed him, not even
then
. I felt disgust for myself, and I think that's what I felt for him too. Disgust, not hatred.”

“Do you think that's what his wife felt as well?”

“I couldn't fathom what she thought then. She's the sort you look at and feel you never can. Those eyes—they're almost frightening. I think the old phrase about still waters running deep very much applies there.”

Charlie shifted in his chair.

“The emotions you feel towards Mills are pretty similar to the ones your mother feels towards him, aren't they?”

“I suppose so. I've come to toe the family line on the subject.”

“Do you think your mother could ever have had a similar experience?”

Her eyes opened wide.

“
No
! No, I really don't. I never thought about it, but it's absolutely out of the question. Mother and father are completely faithful to each other.”

“A lot of children feel that about their parents, quite wrongly. And there has been talk in the parish recently about your mother and the boy from the pizzeria.”

“Oh, you're on to that, are you?”

“I haven't talked about it with your mother yet. Have you?”

Janet nodded.

“A little. She is fond of him, she is sorry for him, she wanted to help him. Anyone would feel the same, except for someone like that old battle-axe Florrie Harridance. That's
all
there was to it. No affair. And no affair with Stephen Mills either.”

“You're very loyal. Do you think your brother feels the same?”

“Mark? Oh, he's training for the priesthood and knows nothing whatever about real life.”

“He struck me as a pillock.”

“He is. You wouldn't trust his opinion rather than mine, would you?”

“No, I wouldn't,” said Charlie truthfully. Especially as on the whole Janet's agreed with his own.

•   •   •

Janet's boyfriend Kevin had little to tell. He admitted that he had spent most of the evening observing the wrong things—in his case Mark Sheffield and Florrie Harridance. He had been watching and listening to them with an inexorable author's interest, and anything else had passed him by.

When he had got rid of them both it was half past nine. Time to knock off for the day. Charlie made some notes to himself for the next day's work and then drove back to the flat. His plans for a cosy supper and an early night were shattered the moment he opened the door.

“Do you want him?” Felicity asked.

“Who?”

“The boy from Pizza Pronto—the other one. I could be mistaken because he was working at the back of a long, narrow takeaway place, but I think he's at Pizza Suprema, which is on the Crompton Road—number 45.”

Charlie thought, looking round regretfully.

“If I don't get him now—” he said, and then turned and ran down the stairs again. Felicity knew better than to ask if she could come. She felt rather proud, however, of the participation she had been allowed thus far and knew that that wasn't something Charlie was going to mention to Mike Oddie.

Charlie spotted Pizza Suprema well before he got there, so he parked a good way away. It was on a corner, and the little yard at the back was open to the street. He sauntered towards the place. The back door was open, and the lid of a garbage bin was on the ground. The boy—
a
boy—was cleaning up for the night. When he reached the place Charlie nipped into the shadows of the yard and waited. It was only a couple of minutes before the young man came out with an armful of tins, packets and other debris and began piling them into the bin. When he banged the lid on it and turned to go in he found Charlie in the doorway.

“Before you do anything silly, like trying to run away,” Charlie said, “let's get this straight: I am a policeman but I'm not in the least interested in seeing your papers. I don't care if you're on the run from the police of five continents and I certainly don't care if you're working here illegally.”

The young man was coffee-cream-coloured, round-faced and curly-haired. He looked at Charlie uncertainly.

“
C'est Stanko, n'est-ce-pas
?” he said, then changed to a very Gallic English. “It is about Stanko, is it not?”

“If he's the one who's sometimes called Silvio, yes. Shall we go inside?”

He stood aside, and they went into a long, narrow kitchen still smelling irresistibly of tomatoes and garlic and basil and oregano. He was reminded that he had had nothing but a sandwich all day. The young man, with the instinct of the hotel trade, sensed his need.

“You 'ave 'unger? You like 'alf a pizza?”

Charlie nodded, just at the moment when his stomach let out a pathetic whine. The boy smiled, took a large pizza from a cooling oven and cut it in half. When he handed Charlie his section they both agreed to dispense with a knife and fork, biting into the gooey heart of the pie.

“You eat with me. You can't mean me 'arm,” said the boy.

Charlie could think of colleagues who could share a pizza with a suspect and nick him while he was wiping his fingers, but he didn't mention them.

“What's your name?” he asked, and then amended that to “What shall I call you?”

“Call me Yussef,” the young man replied.

“Right, Yussef. I'm not going to ask you anything about yourself. How long have you known—Stanko, is it?”

“Yes, Stanko. But I don't think that's 'is real name. 'E 'ave many names. 'E came about three weeks ago to Pizza Pronto.”

“Did you get on well with him?”

“Yes, very well. 'E is a nice, gentle man, very
sympathique
. We talk a lot, 'ave a lot in common—you know?”

“I know. Where was he from?”

Yussef considered his loyalties before replying.

“'E is from Yugoslavia—what used to be Yugoslavia.”

“Are you both Moslem?”

Yussef spread out his hands.

“We 'ave not discussed. I am Moslem, but not so much. If 'e is Moslem, I think 'e is even less.”

“Right. Did he have any friends in Leeds?”

“Oh yes. 'E 'ave Mr and Mrs Sheffield, especially Mrs.”

“Nobody else?” Yussef shook his head. “Or enemies?” Yussef shook his head again.

“Right, now about yesterday. Was it a normal day, or did anything stand out?”

The young man thought long before replying.

“The evening 'e was different. When 'e came down 'e was all shook.”

“Shook?”

“Like 'e'd 'ad bad news, or 'ear something 'orrible.”

“You say came down. You were in the takeaway?”

“Yes. One of us always prepare for the evening with Signor Gabrielli. The other came down when we opened at half past five. Stanko came down then, and 'e was all shook.”

“Did he say why?”

“No. I asked and 'e shook 'is 'ead and said 'e didn't want to talk, but 'e would tell me later. Said it was
atroce
. We talk French and sometimes Italian together.”

“What does it mean?”

“'Orrible. Like you say a-att-atro-cee-us.”

“Was that all he said?”

“Yes. 'E made a phone call—quite short. I didn't 'ear nothing what was said. We was very busy with lots of pizzas for the party at the church.”

“He took them, didn't he?”

“Yes. 'E drove our little van.”

“What about when he came back?”

“Was shook. Still more shook.”

“I see. And what happened as the evening went on?”

“We was not so busy. About five to ten Stanko asked if 'e could go. Said 'e 'ad to meet someone. Signor Gabrielli said ‘fine,' and 'e went.”

“But that wasn't the last you saw of him?”

Yussef seemed to consider his loyalties again, then realised his own peril and shook his head.

“No. 'E come in about eleven, when I was going to bed. Come
into my room, all very shook and upset. Said 'e 'ad to leave Leeds that night.”

“Did he say why?”

“Said 'e 'ad been in a fight. 'E 'ad some martial hearts—said they was very useful in Yugoslavia, with lots of troubles even before the war start. 'E said 'e'd done awful damages to this man. 'E didn't think the man—'e didn't say 'is name—would go to the police, but 'e couldn't risk it. Someone might find 'im before 'e come round, and call the police. So 'e 'ad to go.”