by Roy Lewis
‘You think the academic staff should support you,’ she said slowly.
‘You should, instead of clucking your tongues and shaking your heads. The capitalist society is destroying intellectual truth in Burton. By your silence you assist in that destruction.’
They said no more. The darkness of open moorland stretched around them and she could no longer ignore the significance of the route he had taken, nor the significance of her own lack of protest. She did not ask herself why she had failed to protest for the evidence and the answer lay in the physical state in which she found herself. She sat still and her heart was pounding and she could not control the quivering of her legs; her stomach felt weak, a lassitude stole over her body and breathing was suddenly difficult. He stopped the car under some tall black trees, turned off the engine, and the warm darkness rushed in on them. He turned to look at her. His hand touched her shoulder.
‘No!’ she said in a gasping voice.
He moved and his thigh was pressing against hers, his arms going around her. ‘When I see what I saw in your eyes tonight, in that hall,’ he said in a quiet, hard voice, ‘I know!’
He was kissing her. The weakness was spreading throughout the whole of her body and she was shaking uncontrollably. She tried to break free but he was strong, and his arms were hard against her body. She was aware of the faint odour of his sweat-stained shirt as he pressed close to her and his knees forced her own apart, painfully, as she struggled against him. And then it was as though she was dropping into a well as any thought of resistance fell away; her body opened to him and she no longer fought.
There was the close darkness, the sound of his panting breath and she did everything he wanted, everything he asked, everything he demanded, and she was shaken by his strength and his urgent persistence and she was lying across the back seat and it had never been like this with Bill, never . . . never . . . never . . . as she shuddered into darkness, a vast, pulsating, driving darkness that ended in a peak of violence.
Then, there was only the drifting.
* * *
Chief Inspector Crow took most of the morning to familiarize himself with the details that Wilson and the two constables had provided on Peters. He wasn’t sure yet just how much of it was going to be useful, but that was something you couldn’t ever be sure of anyway. When you started probing, needling at a man, there were admissions he would make and some he would not; there’d be incidents he’d recall to mind, and some he’d hesitate over; there’d be names he’d remember, and some he’d insist on forgetting. But Crow needed them all, the facts, the incidents, the names. Their importance was something he couldn’t yet calculate; their relative importance would emerge, he hoped, when he spoke to Dr Antony Peters.
‘Wilson, get the squad car laid on. I’ll want you to come with me to Burton, and I’ll want you in the room while I question Peters.’
Wilson bustled away. Crow gathered up his notes and pushed them into a folder along with the lab report on Rosemary Harland. They were still preliminary findings but they were explosive enough to warrant his attempt to press Antony Peters.
When the squad car arrived Crow stumbled moodily into the back seat and remained silent throughout the drive. Wilson looked back twice, as though he were about to say something but on each occasion thought better of it and remained silent. There were few students about when the car swept on to the campus.
An attendant directed them to the places reserved for visitors. He had been conspicuously absent the last time they’d arrived. Crow respected his judgment; any uniforms could have been roughly handled on that morning once the police cars had shown up at Burton. But this morning there wasn’t going to be any trouble. As Crow got out of his seat he lurched uncomfortably against the door of a family saloon parked next to the police car. He raised his eyebrows when he saw what was placed on the back seat: a black briefcase with gold embossing. Fanshaw was already here at Burton.
Crow ambled up the steps of the Administration building with Wilson just behind him. When they entered the hall it was to see Robert Fanshaw engaged in conversation with a member of the teaching staff. Crow stopped near them as Wilson unobtrusively slipped away, briefcase under arm, to tell the rector’s secretary that they were on the way. The Inspector’s face was solemn.
‘Here again, Mr Fanshaw?’
Fanshaw smiled and inclined his elegant grey head.
‘Good morning, Inspector. I’m just on my way out, as a matter of fact.’
‘Was it curiosity or business that brought you?’
‘You’re not conversant with the task of Her Majesty’s Inspectorate, Inspector Crow. Our business is based on curiosity.’
‘But not about murder.’
‘As you say. The organization and management of a college and the teaching standards and innovations within it — these things are more our concern. Murder we leave to you. Er . . . have you established any . . . er . . . leads yet?’
Crow smiled gravely.
‘As you say, Mr Fanshaw, that you must leave to us.’
Wilson was waiting with the rector’s secretary at the door to Peters’s office. He stood aside to allow Crow to enter the room first as she opened the door for them. Peters was rising from behind his desk to greet them as they came into the room.
‘Good morning, gentlemen. Have you had coffee yet? Margaret, could you bring in three cups? And perhaps arrange for lunch for—’
‘We won’t be staying to lunch. And this isn’t a social occasion. No coffee.’
Crow’s tone was deliberately curt; without waiting for an invitation he took an upright chair from its station against the far wall, brought it near to Peters’s desk and sat down. After a moment’s hesitation Peters went back behind his desk and sat down also; Wilson took an easy chair to Crow’s left and opened the briefcase that he carried, without bringing it up onto his knees.
Antony Peters settled back in his leather chair, swinging slightly from side to side. Crow stared at him, quietly, observing the man. The greying hair was carefully parted, the sideburns full but neatly edged and trimmed. The rector was a man who liked the sun; this was evident from the light tan he sported, and the backs of his hands were brown against the white cuffs of his shirt. A thumb and one finger caressed his square, positive chin while the other hand gently stroked the dark brown tie that so well matched his suit. Crow was aware of both gestures and wondered whether they were habitual or occasioned by a slight nervousness. Peters had been nervous the last time his office had been invaded by the police but perhaps that had been a natural reaction to the news of the murder of his secretary. Now . . .
‘Have you managed to obtain any further information?’
There was something lying at the back of Peters’s eyes, lurking, careful, watchful. He seemed calm enough at the moment apart from his gestures, but there was something in his glance that denoted wariness and it interested Crow. It decided things for him. He could have come straight out with what he had but now he knew what he was going to do. He was going to watch those eyes, watch whether what was lurking there would leap forth, in fear, or excitement, in panic or desperation. A slow probing was called for; Peters would have to be subjected to a sifting of the sands of his past.
‘We do have a few things to help us in our investigation, but I’d like to leave those on one side for a moment. First of all I want you to tell me all about yourself, Dr Peters.’
The glance was evasive, the smile deprecating, the stroking gesture unaffected.
‘Tell you about me? I hardly think there’s much about me that can be regarded as relevant to this investigation.’
‘That’s for us to decide.’
‘Yes, but surely—’
‘One moment.’ Crow’s voice was sharp and cold as an ice-splinter. ‘Let’s get one thing straight. If you persist in a coy denial that your life and success story has nothing to do with this affair the only result is that I’ll be here rather longer than I want to be, or need to be. The quick
er the better. I’ve got a dossier on you, I just want the facts confirmed and we can go on from there. All right?’
Peters didn’t like it. He didn’t like being spoken to so sharply and he didn’t like the assumption being made that his life story could have any effect upon the murder investigation. Yet he capitulated at once and this in itself gave Crow some food for thought. Peters shrugged.
‘Well, all right, you’ve got a task to fulfil I suppose. I’ll do as you say. I took this job here at Burton when the Polytechnic was established two years ago. You’ll be aware, of course, that this was an additional college to the thirty or so that were originally designated—’
‘One moment, please. Don’t let’s start with the job here. Let’s go back earlier.’
‘Earlier? But how far back do you want to go.’
‘Twenty years?’
Peters licked his lips and stopped swinging the chair. He gave a short bark that affected amusement and passed for a laugh.
‘I can see you’re determined to be bored, Inspector, and though I can’t see the point of it all I’ll do as you suggest. Like most men, I am not averse to talking about myself. Now let me see, twenty years. . . I was about twenty-five then. Yes, well, I’d taken up an offer of research fellowship at Cambridge. I was involved in some work in the electronic engineering field — I won’t bore you with the details unless you are passionately interested, but I spent three very pleasant years there. Towards the end of that time, late in 1952 I think it was, I made the acquaintance of Sir Steven Humphreys, who was director of an engineering company in Rugby and he offered me a post—’
‘You had already done some work for them?’
‘Well, yes, I had in a way. Part of the findings from my research project had a direct bearing on the work done at the plant and they asked me to do a bit of liaison work with their own people. I did this and—’
‘Did you get paid for it?’
‘Paid? Well, yes, I believe I did but I don’t see—’
‘Did that have anything to do with your leaving Cambridge and working for Humphreys?’
The hand had stopped stroking the tie; it remained still, pressing lightly against the lapel of his jacket.
‘I don’t understand what you’re getting at, Inspector.’
The voice was dangerously controlled. ‘I’m not getting at anything. I’m not inferring anything. And if you’re wondering about libel actions, forget it. I’m just presenting facts to you. A research project at Cambridge, but no publication of research findings. A contact with Humphreys. A job with Humphreys. Where’s the linking factor?’
‘Your tone of voice suggests there is something improper in the facts you’ve stated.’
‘It depends what you mean by improper.’
Peters was staring fixedly at the papers in Crow’s lap. His expression quite clearly illustrated that he would have been more than pleased to read their contents. He sighed.
‘You would seem to have researched me very carefully. I don’t know why. But all right, I’ll not spin this thing out longer than necessary. I’ll say what you want me to say. I was involved in a research project at Cambridge; I was paid by the University; I made certain findings which were of interest to Sir Steven and made his acquaintance; I turned those findings over to his people; I later joined the firm and worked with his researchers. There’s nothing illegal, or even unethical in all that.’
‘The University didn’t like it.’
‘Understandably. But then, they just wanted an academic research paper, giving the findings to the world of science. It seemed more sensible to me to turn the facts over to Sir Steven.’
‘Sensible . . . and profitable?’
Peters met Crow’s glance calmly. He flicked his fingers, accepting the point contemptuously.
‘If you say so. Yes, all right, I handed the findings over to Sir Steven and he paid me more than the University could do and he gave me a job also. But I really would like to know what this has to do with the murder of Rosemary Harland.’
Crow consulted the notes on his lap. ‘Perhaps nothing but we’ll come to that later. So you joined Humphreys. What then?’
‘I stayed with him for three years. Then I left the firm and became director of a chemical firm. After that—’
‘Wait a minute. You were with him four, not three years.’
‘I believe you’re right,’ Peters replied in a mocking tone. ‘But then, you have the facts before you. I just have my memory.’
‘We won’t leave Humphreys just yet, if you don’t mind. That four years span — did it see the firm expanding?’
‘Somewhat.’
‘How did you leave it?’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘How did you leave it — in a blaze of glory, or like a sinking ship?’
There was a short silence and Peters’s jaw was stiff, his mouth set in a grim line. Wilson sat stolidly in his chair. He knew what Crow’s tactics were: unsettle Peters with a brutal directness and let anger and anxiety lead the man into admissions. Peters leaned forward and placed both hands on the desk in front of him.
‘I can’t say that I care for the tone in your voice—’
‘The inference, you mean, not the tone. You did, though, didn’t you — you did leave the ship sinking, like a fleeing rat? Isn’t it true that Humphreys was in liquidation within a year of your leaving him?’
‘That’s so, but it had nothing to do with me. I had a good offer from—’
‘From Eugene Garland, head of Munson Chemicals, I know; it’s here. Let me tell you what else is here. In 1956 management consultants were called in to the Humphreys firm and they recommended certain changes; some of these were of a confidential nature and involved the development of a new computerized purchasing, distribution and sales system. Humphreys never installed that system, because the necessary program had been written by an American organization and it was bought and killed by a rival firm, who then put the squeeze on Humphreys and within a year forced him into liquidation.’
‘I think you have the facts about right,’ he said quietly. ‘But this is all a matter of public record.’
‘That’s right. It’s also a matter of record that when you left Humphreys you took the offer of a directorship in the chemical firm Munson Chemicals, Ltd. A big firm?’
‘Big enough.’
‘Salary of seven and half thousand.’
‘Also a few perks — that won’t appear in the record.’
The chair had begun to swing again, gently, and the fingers caressed the thin lips. Peters peered at Crow with narrowed eyes.
‘You were doing well. But tell me this. What was the name of the rival firm that squeezed out Humphreys?’
‘I suspect,’ Peters said in a cold voice, ‘that particular information is already in your possession. But I’ll play your game. It was a firm called International Electronics, Ltd.’
‘Yes. And can you tell me who owned Munson Chemicals?’
There was a fractional hesitation before Peters replied.
‘I’m not sure whether I understand your question. The shareholders would not be known to—’
‘I’d appreciate a straight answer. You know perfectly well that seventy per cent of the equity in Munson Chemicals was owned by another company. And that company was Continental Industries Ltd.’
‘So?’
Crow smiled, but it was an unpleasant smile with an edge of distaste.
‘Continental Industries is a holding company — it does not undertake any business in its own right at all. It owns a number of other trading companies, one of which is Munson Chemicals. Another of its subsidiaries is none other than International Electronics!’
Peters raised his head, staring vacantly past Crow’s long face to the blank doorway. His hands were still on the desk, but there was a pinched look about his nostrils now, and he swallowed, twice, before he spoke.
‘I seem to remember a scurrilous article being written some years ago�
�’
‘Yes. It’s from that article I got most of this information. But it didn’t name names, of course, or people might have been forced to sue. I say forced, because they wouldn’t really have wanted to sue, would they, Dr Peters?’
The rector was silent.
‘All right, let’s get on then, let’s draw our conclusions from all this. Humphreys is in business but needs sales and distribution reorganization if he’s to keep his share of the market. The program he needs to keep solvent is bought up by International Electronics and Humphreys goes bust. An employee of Humphreys enters the employment of Munson Chemicals shortly before the blow-up. Both Munson Chemicals and International Electronics are subsidiaries of Continental Industries, Ltd. The inference? Maybe that the employee in question gave some useful information to International Electronics — information which enabled them to squeeze out Humphreys, their rival. That employee couldn’t be rewarded with a job in International Electronics, for then the whole thing would smell; instead, he could be given a job with a firm, another subsidiary in the group owned by Continental Industries. Now, just how did you get your directorship in Munson Chemicals, Dr Peters?’
The rector shook his head. His face was expressionless as he rose, walked across to the window and stared out across the campus. His shoulders were set firm, his back arrogantly, confidently stiff.
‘All these innuendoes, these inferences you draw and try to attribute to me, Inspector, I don’t see what you’re driving at. I deny that there’s any truth in it at all, but then, I don’t need to deny anything really because you’re not investigating my past. You’re investigating the murder of Rosemary Harland.’
‘Mm. I thought you wouldn’t take exception to my remarks. I thought you wouldn’t have the courage even to threaten suing me for slander.’
Peters whirled angrily from the window.
His face was suffused with an anger that up till now he had carefully controlled.
‘What the hell do you mean by that! Are you trying to say that I’m afraid to challenge the imputations, the slanderous imputations you make?’
‘Aren’t you?’ Crow’s tone was cool and he stared at Peters with contempt. ‘You’ve too much to lose, haven’t you? That’s why you never attacked the writer of this article in 1964.’