by Gregson, J M
Mark had not prepared himself for such directness; now he realized that he should have done. ‘I — we — er, weren’t close.’
Hook looked up from his notes and said: ‘Could you be rather more specific, sir? Had you merely a certain reserve with each other? Or were you open enemies?’
Mark wanted to minimize his differences with the dead woman. But he was no fool; he knew that these men — and other policemen — would be talking to many people who would no doubt be quite frank about himself and Laura Pritchard. ‘We weren’t sworn enemies, but we didn’t like each other. Perhaps she never forgave me for taking away her daughter. She didn’t like me as a suitor, and things got worse rather than better after I married Joyce. She appeared to think I should have gone off to work with a big company rather than starting my own one after I had left university. I don’t know why; perhaps that was just an excuse for a dislike she felt anyway.’
Lambert said, ‘Thank you for being frank. It’s much the best way, but we waste a lot of time when people don’t accept that. Was there any particular occasion of enmity in the last year or so?’
Mark had no illusions now; despite the careful phrases, the scrupulously polite tones, the acknowledgement of his cooperation, these men were going to be thorough. If they didn’t get what they wanted from him or others, they would no doubt be back. He took his time, laying his hands on the desk in front of him as deliberately as if he were setting them out for inspection. But it was he, not the CID men, who examined them, as if he might find in them an aid to thought and words.
He said deliberately, ‘You may as well know that my mother-in-law’s death comes as a great relief to me. And to the people who work here, though they may not realize it.’ Only when he had delivered the sentiment did he realize its impropriety. ‘I’m speaking in purely financial terms, you understand. Warner Plastics has been in financial difficulties for some time. It’s a good business, producing excellent products, but no small firms who depend upon bigger ones are proof against this recession.’
Hook said, ‘You’re telling us that Mrs Pritchard will have left you money in her will?’
‘Not me, my wife. But it amounts to the same thing. Joyce cares as much about the business as I do.’ He smiled suddenly at that thought, his delight in this conjugal closeness taking him as much by surprise as his listeners.
Hook responded with a smile of his own. ‘You realize that you have just defined a motive for murder?’
Mark was unruffled. Perhaps he was even glad that someone had enunciated the thought. ‘You would have found out easily enough when you spoke to other people. Joyce would have told you, for one.’
Lambert said, ‘Did you ask Mrs Pritchard for financial help when she was alive?’
Warner’s face clouded. He sighed; it would be better to tell them. ‘Yes, I told her a few months ago about our difficulties. I asked her directly for financial assistance.’ He wondered if they understood what savagely dented pride was concealed beneath those bland phrases.
‘And she turned you down?’
‘She turned me down flat. I rather think she enjoyed doing it. And when Joyce asked her a month later, she got the same response.’ They might as well know all of it. He was struck anew by the irony that it was to be Laura Pritchard’s money which would now save Warner Plastics, when in life she had been so resolutely opposed to much more modest assistance.
It was Hook who brought him abruptly back to earth, switching the questioning again in a manner which Mark was beginning to find disconcerting. ‘You seem very convinced that this money will be available. Mrs Pritchard had a husband. Is it not possible that the bulk of her estate will go to him?’
Mark ran both hands through his fair hair. As far as he was aware, it was the first involuntary gesture he had made. He thought it was excitement rather than fear which had made it happen, but it was a warning not to be overconfident. ‘Jim Pritchard was her second husband, with a successful business of his own. I don’t know what arrangements the two of them made, how much they discussed this. But Joyce was shown her mother’s will. It leaves Laura Pritchard’s share in The Beeches to her husband, and virtually everything else to her two children.’
Lambert said, ‘Thank you for that information.’ He made it sound as if Mark had just incriminated himself. ‘Do you have an address where we can contact Mrs Warner’s brother? He has so far proved rather elusive.’
Mark was relieved to have the attention diverted from him. ‘No. He’s in London somewhere.’ As if he realized how unhelpful that was, he said apologetically, ‘He’s been an enigmatic character for years now. For most of the time I’ve known Joyce, in fact. I hardly know him, I’m afraid.’
Lambert said, ‘We shall catch up with him very soon. Do you think he might have killed his mother?’
The abruptness of it made Mark catch his breath. He had to swallow before he could reply. ‘No. He hasn’t been around here for a long time. Why should he want to kill her?’
Lambert smiled at such naivety. ‘You have just told us that he stood to inherit a substantial sum of money. It’s the oldest motive of all, and probably still the commonest.’ The fact that it was a motive which also embraced the man on the other side of the desk gave him only satisfaction.
‘Peter wouldn’t have killed for money. He’s a bit of a drop-out, from all I hear. I’m afraid he’s rather a shadowy figure, even to his sister, nowadays.’
And certainly to us, thought Lambert with irritation. ‘Did Mrs Pritchard see any more of her son than his sister did?’
Mark pursed his lips, miming serious attention to the question. ‘I don’t think so. She could have gone up to London easily enough without our knowledge, I suppose. She didn’t speak of him, but then she wouldn’t have to me. She never admitted failure, and she must have seen him as one.’
Lambert was reflecting how much more difficult it was to pin down independent, intelligent women like Laura Pritchard than their unemancipated counterparts of previous generations. He said, ‘What can you tell us of Mrs Pritchard’s relationship with her husband?’
Mark shrugged. ‘Not a lot. You’ll need to ask him about that yourself, Superintendent.’
‘We have done already. And we shall be back to see him again. I’m looking for someone else’s view on the relationship. Just as I shall no doubt be asking other people about you, I’m afraid, Mr Warner. It’s inevitable, when we are investigating a brutal and almost certainly premeditated murder.’
Mark tried not to look put out. ‘Jim Pritchard was amiable enough to us. Laura was usually with him when we saw him. He was a bit — well, inhibited, I suppose you’d say — by her presence. We never really got to know him very well; remember he was only married to Laura four years ago, and we’ve been busy with young children for most of that time. He was always polite to Joyce, but reserved about it. As if he was watching his wife’s reaction whenever he showed affection. He was pretty much the same with our children: he’s never regarded them as his grandchildren.’
‘But what about his relationship with his wife?’
Mark considered, then allowed himself a rueful smile. ‘You must remember that I’m not an unbiased witness where Laura is concerned. But she always seemed to be the one in control. Jim is a successful businessman, and on the rare occasions when I’ve seen him on his own, he seems as if he would be good company, in a bluff, man’s man sort of way. He spends a lot of time at his golf club, and I can see him being perfectly relaxed there.’ He seized on that thought. ‘Relaxed is the word. I suppose I never saw him as being properly at ease with Laura. He always seemed to be trying to present himself in a way she might approve.’
Lambert nodded. It was a different impression from the one Pritchard had given them when they saw him at the airport, but none the less valid or valuable for that. ‘Do you think James Pritchard could be a violent man?’
Mark paused. He was well aware of the implications his answer would carry. ‘Possibly. Given enough pressure
, most of us can be violent. That doesn’t mean I see him as the killer of his wife. Anyway, he was away at the time, wasn’t he?’
It was Lambert’s turn to pause, though his grey eyes never left the blue ones on the other side of the desk. ‘It appears so, at the moment. But you yourself spoke about the state of the body when it was taken from the river. You will understand that it is impossible to establish the precise time of death from the forensic evidence. We shall have to do that by other means.’ His tone left no doubt that he felt they would eventually do so.
Mark felt he sounded a little desperate as he said, ‘Isn’t it possible that some stranger, or someone she scarcely knew, killed her? I can’t see any of her family or friends killing her like that.’
‘It’s perfectly possible it might be an attack by a stranger, of course. When we know the exact place and time of her killing, it will be more possible to weigh that possibility.’ Lambert knew even as he exuded confidence that they might never establish those things, in a case like this. ‘But at present there is nothing to support such an idea. There is no evidence of burglary, no violence upon her person except for the ligature marks, no sign of a sexual assault. We need more evidence, admittedly, but that which we have supports a view that she was murdered by someone she knew, who had planned the crime in detail.’
There was in truth not a lot of evidence to support any view yet, as he had reminded his team only that morning when he told them to keep open minds about the matter. But it did no harm to keep the pressure upon the obvious suspects until their innocence was established. He said, ‘Have you knowledge of any other facts which might have any bearing upon this case?’
‘No.’ Sensing the end of the interview, Mark had spoken a little too promptly.
‘Do you know Everton Smith?’
‘No. Who is he?’
‘A young man who did gardening for the Pritchards at The Beeches.’
‘No. I remember they were glad to get someone reliable to work in the garden, that’s all.’
Lambert stood up. ‘No doubt we shall be back to see you again in due course, Mr Warner. I don’t suppose you will be going away, but you shouldn’t leave the area without giving us an address. For the moment, we’ll say good morning to you.’
Then they were gone, for all the world as if they had been normal visitors. Mark Warner was left sitting at his desk, re-running the interview carefully in his mind. He decided that it had gone at least as well as could be expected. He was more relieved than he had anticipated that it was over.
He did not think that they had detected him in his single important lie.
Chapter Nine
It was the middle of the morning now. The commuters, with their strained faces and their eyes that flashed from watch to indicator board and back again, had mostly gone.
It didn’t really matter what you played for them; not here in the passage far below the city that was merely the connection between the Bakerloo and the Northern lines. They never had time to listen — not even in the moments when the crowds built until they had to shuffle along, staring anxiously forward towards the source of the bottleneck, resolutely avoiding any glance at the faces closest to them. Their ears might be open, but not to music. The coins which dropped into the greasy cap beside him then came from conscience, not appreciation.
Now that it was past ten, there were people who could hear what he played. There were even those who stopped for a moment to listen, as long as he pretended that he hadn’t noticed them. He tucked the violin more firmly under his chin and resolved to make it sing. For two minutes, he indulged himself with Bach. He did it every hour — not always Bach; sometimes it was Beethoven or Schubert. He’d dropped Vivaldi since that concert hall busker, Nigel Kennedy, had taken it over. People might think he was imitating Kennedy, and he didn’t want it to be thought that he imitated anyone — that was his one remaining bit of pride. Except perhaps Heifitz, whom his Dad had played on those old, scratchy records when he was a small boy.
No one paused to listen to the Bach. He wouldn’t have stopped himself; you could hardly hear its purity, with the rumble of the trains in the distance. He went into the Londonderry Air, lingering shamelessly on the high notes in the way that his teacher at the Royal College would have so deplored. He deplored it himself, but it brought in the cash. He heard coins dropping into the cap as his bow caressed the strings and the notes soared. An Irish voice crooned softly about Danny Boy — all the punters called the tune that.
He had his eyes closed, as they always were when he concentrated upon his playing. He might otherwise have seen the uniforms before they were so near. The two men waited for him to finish his tune, then enjoyed the sudden alarm in the dark pupils of the deep-set eyes which he finally focused upon them.
He drew the back of his hand across his face, then bent automatically to pick up the cap and its contents. He funnelled the coins expertly into the fraying pocket of his long overcoat, noticing even in his haste that there were two fifty pence pieces, as well as the pesetas and lire which a humorous public always visited upon its parasites.
‘All right, I’ll move on!’ he muttered. He didn’t want the spiel about only doing their job.
They didn’t react. When he stood upright again, with his violin hanging like an illegal pheasant at his side, the one nearest to him said, ‘It’s not that, lad, this time. Is your name Peter Brooke?’
It was a surprise. Even to the other men in the squat — the ones he regarded now as being closest to him — he was Jake, and had been Jake for the two months since he had been there. They didn’t deal in surnames in the squats, where knowledge was rarely useful and could sometimes be dangerous. ‘What if it is?’ This aggression was a meaningless reflex. Both sides knew where the power lay in this exchange. He registered for the first time that these were not railway police but constables in the metropolitan force. He had never called them pigs, like the other people in the squat; that was another of his tiny assertions of individuality.
He looked up into their faces. They did not trouble to respond to his churlishness. They were watching him steadily, waiting for his next move. Looking into their young faces, he knew that they would quite welcome any lack of cooperation on his part. A little judicious aggression could safely be visited upon a man like him. ‘My name used to be Peter Brooke, yes. A long time ago. Before — before this.’ He lifted his arms a foot away from his sides, encompassing in the gesture many things, and then let them fall heavily back. The fiddle bounced gently against his thigh.
The shorter policeman watched the violin as suspiciously as if it was a weapon. He had short-cropped, ginger hair and broad shoulders beneath a square chin. Perhaps he had never seen a violin at close quarters before. The man he was watching raised it to his chin and drew the bow across the E string in a single, high note which rang on the tiled, concave ceiling above them. He almost went into a little piece he had written as a college exercise, years ago, then thought better of it just in time.
He said with a sudden hopelessness, ‘My name is Peter Brooke, yes. Who is interested in that?’
The constable who was nearest to him creased his nose disgustedly. The odour Brooke gave off was unwholesome. And he could see ingrained dirt in the skin beneath his hairline. ‘Never mind who’s interested. You’ll find out soon enough. You’re coming along with us, lad.’ He was several years younger than the man they were taking in, but the ‘lad’ came to him automatically, a simple means of asserting his superiority.
Peter Brooke — he was already thinking of himself as that again — wondered what would happen to his place in the squat if he was away for any length of time. They might wonder what had happened to Jake and his fiddle, but no one would defend the oily mattress in the corner for long against a new occupant. Territory was in fluid ownership in such places; everyone knew the rules, or the absence of them.
His guardians marched erect on each side of him as he shambled along, emphasizing their authority and his submissi
on by their gait. As the escalator rose towards the street, they stood with him on a single step, preventing anyone from climbing past them, so that a small queue of curious spectators had assembled behind them when they reached the top.
He had put his violin in its case before they moved. The uniformed men made no attempt to handle him, and he transferred it into his other hand as they emerged blinking into a June morning in London. He felt some further protest was necessary from him if the ritual was to be properly observed. He said, although he already knew the answer, ‘You might at least give me some idea of what this is all about.’
The ginger one said, ‘You’re not under arrest. You’re going to help the police with their inquiries.’ He gazed straight ahead through the pale sunshine. They were not far from the station; with luck, they could deliver their prize and have time for a mug of tea before they went out again.
‘What inquiries?’
It was the other, more aggressive policeman who said, ‘Inquiries into the murder of a woman in Worcestershire. A woman we think is your mother, Peter Brooke.’
*
Joyce Warner was not taken by surprise by the CID visit. She had been anticipating it ever since she heard of the discovery of her mother’s body. It was almost a relief to see the two tall men coming to the front door.
She offered them tea, and Lambert noticed that the tray with its three china cups and saucers and its matching tea pot had already been prepared. A cool customer, this one, composed and watchful. It was not at all the attitude one would have expected of a grieving daughter. But he was far too experienced to deduce much from that. Grief and its handmaiden shock took people in many different ways; those whom they hit hardest could sometimes seem the least affected.
As she poured the tea, the two men took in the room with the automatic scrutiny of experienced professionals. ‘Pleasant, not ostentatious,’ was Bert Hook’s assessment. There was a good quality three-piece suite, a patio door to the rear garden, a bowl of rhododendron blooms and dark foliage in the hearth. There was a wedding photograph of Mark and Joyce Warner on top of a long bookcase; pictures of two toddlers at various stages of infancy occupied the rest of the same surface. Nowhere was there a picture of Laura Pritchard, not even one of her with her grandchildren.