by J M Gregson
‘I don’t believe that, no. But you would need to ask Sharon Burgess herself. We are not bosom friends and I had not seen her for years until Frank’s funeral.’
She looked up to see that the black officer had resumed his note-taking. It was Peach who said evenly, ‘Did you kill Alfred Norbury, Enid?’
It was the first time he had used her forename and it represented an invitation for confession. Enid’s tone was steady as she said, ‘No. To be honest, I don’t know what I’d have done to him, given time and opportunity.’
‘You had the opportunity. He offered it to you on a plate, when he told you about the pistol in his car.’
‘He offered that opportunity to everyone. He went out of his way to be flamboyant. That was his way and he paid for it, in the end. I can’t say I’m sorry, after what he did to me. But I didn’t shoot him.’
‘Did you know that he attended the art group on Tuesday evenings?’
A long pause whilst she considered the implications of her answer, or perhaps whether she could get away with a denial. ‘Yes. I knew someone else who painted with him on Tuesdays. But I wasn’t the only one who knew about it in the group. Alfred had been attending those sessions for years.’
Northcott looked up from his notes, sounding at that moment as if he was calmly and affably signing a death warrant. ‘So you knew exactly when he would be leaving his house on Tuesday evening.’
‘I did. I could envisage him going out to that old car of which he was so proud. I could envisage exactly where he kept the pistol he’d boasted about. But I wasn’t there and I didn’t fire it. I was here, as I told you on Thursday.’
Peach gave her a tight smile. ‘So who do you think did pull that trigger, Enid?’
She answered his smile with one equally minimal. ‘I’ve no idea. That’s your business, isn’t it, Chief Inspector? I look forward to hearing of your findings.’
The CID pair let themselves out of the spacious modern flat in the Georgian house. They left her sitting in her armchair, a small, upright, defiant figure.
DS Clyde Northcott was enjoying the feeling of being in charge. He’d been delighted to fill the role of Percy Peach’s bagman when Lucy Blake became Lucy Peach, but it didn’t allow you to display a lot of initiative. Percy took his advice from time to time and made no secret of his high regard for his assistant, but that is what he was: an assistant. Percy Peach controlled his cases and everyone involved in his team; one ignored that fact at one’s peril.
So it was a pleasant change for him to be in control of this little expedition with DC Brendan Murphy. Sunday evening wasn’t the ideal time to be out and about on police business, but if it gave him a chance to show a little of his own initiative, fair enough. And this was better than capturing caches of Armalite rifles at 34 Boston Street in Brunton, which was the last time he’d been in command of an operation. This was less dangerous, for a start: you weren’t in any danger of getting your head blown off by militant Muslims on this one.
That was the sentiment he conveyed to Murphy as his fresh-faced companion drove them through Darwen and then over the moors on the A666 to Bolton. ‘The devil’s number,’ said Brendan. ‘I’m surprised they haven’t renumbered this road before now.’
Clyde didn’t react to that. His thoughts were elsewhere. They were about to pass the lay-by where he had examined the body of a murder victim in the course of an investigation a couple of years earlier. He still felt obliged to show a certain deference when he passed the scene of a serious crime. That death had been particularly bleak and isolated; he shivered a little as they raced past the scene.
‘We may need to lean on him a little,’ he said to Murphy as they drove into Bolton. He smiled at the prospect, making no secret of the pleasure it afforded him. Northcott in fact rarely laid a finger upon even the most violent of villains. His formidable physical presence was usually enough to secure their respect.
They were surprised how humble the house was. This man was a journalist with an established post on one of the great national dailies. They had expected him to live in something grander than an end-of-terrace in one of the rows which had originally run down to the now long-defunct cotton mill at the end of the street.
Ernie Ainsworth must have noticed their unspoken surprise. He said ruefully, ‘Welcome to my humble abode. When you’ve had three marriages and three divorces you’re lucky to have any sort of roof over your head, I suppose. My exes all live in greater comfort than me, at my expense.’ He spoke without apparent rancour: he had obviously grown used to the situation and the ritual protests he uttered about it.
The house was in fact well decorated and comfortably furnished, much brighter and more welcoming inside than its grimy exterior had suggested. The two big policemen sat close together on the neat little sofa in front of the surprisingly convincing dancing flames of a new electric fire. ‘One or two things need to be cleared up, Mr Ainsworth,’ DS Northcott opened ominously.
‘Always happy to help the law,’ said Ainsworth with a cheerfulness he didn’t feel. He didn’t know what Dick Fosdyke was up to, but he hadn’t liked this business from the start.
‘That’s good. Cooperation will be much the best option, for all concerned. It will minimise the effects and the consequences of any infringement of the law which has occurred. I’m sure there will be no call for violence here.’ Clyde studied the black kid gloves he had donned before he entered the house and nodded his satisfaction at Murphy, who was jammed so tightly beside him that he too was studying his companion’s formidable fists as they turned and twisted beneath the fine leather.
Murphy struggled to withdraw a single sheet from the rear pocket of his jeans. ‘Our visit is in connection with your account of your activities on last Tuesday night, Mr Ainsworth. I have here a copy of the statement you made about your presence in Brunton between the hours of six-thirty and eight-thirty.’
‘Yes, so I understood when you rang me. The times are a little approximate, because I wasn’t expecting that they would be important at the time, as you can appreciate. But I’m sure there’s nothing which can’t be easily sorted out.’
He received no reassurance from the unsmiling black countenance of Clyde Northcott. ‘Are you, sir? Well, that’s good, I suppose. You’ll forgive me if I’m not as optimistic about these things as you are. That comes from experience. Tricky thing, the law, and we need to treat it with respect.’ He flexed his powerful fingers thoughtfully beneath the leather, then took the paper from Murphy. ‘You say here that you entered the restaurant at the rear of the White Hart at shortly after six-thirty p.m. alongside Mr Fosdyke.’
‘That is correct, yes. It was the first time I’d seen Dick in almost a year and we were laughing and joking. I wanted to eat quite early because I had to be at the Daily Express offices in Manchester by eight o’clock on Wednesday morning. Early to bed, early to rise, for us journalists nowadays!’
‘Really, sir. I wouldn’t know about that. It’s the activities of Mr Fosdyke on that evening which concern us, as you no doubt appreciate. Any attempt to deceive us about those would be regarded most seriously.’
‘Yes, I can see that.’ Ernie licked his lips, which seemed suddenly much drier than they normally were. ‘I suppose that this is connected with the murder case in Brunton I’ve seen reported.’
‘Indeed it is, sir. And if the journalistic grapevine is imbued with its normal accuracy, I’m sure you know that Mr Fosdyke is involved in our investigation of that crime.’
‘Is he? Well, knowing Dick as well as I do, I’m sure he has nothing to fear from even the most searching of investigations.’
‘Are you, Mr Ainsworth? Well, no doubt he will be glad to have a man like you speaking up so forcefully on his behalf. What time did he join you on Tuesday evening?’
Ernie was conscious of the pen poised over the paper in one pair of hands, of the other pair which continued to twist against each other beneath black leather, of the white face and the black face both tilt
ed slightly to one side as they examined him. ‘It would be about twenty-five to seven, I think. We went in to the restaurant section together, were shown to a table, and studied the menus we were given. It didn’t take us long to make our selections and—’
‘You’re sure Mr Fosdyke was with you at this time, are you? That’s what is recorded in your statement, of which DC Murphy has a copy for you to check if you wish to.’
‘Yes, Dick was with me. I’m sure of it. Is that not what he says?’
‘Yes, that is emphatically what he says, Mr Ainsworth. We wanted to check that you were still of the opinion that this is what took place.’
Ernie tried hard to ignore the unfamiliar presence of two large plain-clothes policemen upon his sofa. ‘It seems perfectly straightforward to me, Officer. Dick Fosdyke and I met to eat together and to chat about old times. We had a pleasant meal and a bottle of wine which went down swiftly. This took place between six thirty-five and eighty thirty. Having taken care not to exceed the legal limit for alcohol, I drove carefully back here, had a large beaker of coffee, watched a little television, and then went to bed relatively early. It seems straightforward and unexceptional to me.’
‘And to us, sir. We have no doubt that these events did take place on Tuesday evening last. The problem is that other accounts of them do not tally with yours.’
‘Other accounts?’
‘In a murder enquiry, sir, what people tell us is checked scrupulously against other testimony, as I’m sure you would expect.’
‘Well, if Dick says something different, I’m sure he’s correct. As I say, I wasn’t—’
‘Oh, Mr Fosdyke’s account tallies exactly with yours, sir. Almost suspiciously so, you might say. There’s no discrepancy there.’
‘Well, where’s the problem then?’ Ainsworth forced a smile he did not feel.
‘The problem is with the owner of the restaurant at the White Hart, sir. And with the young lady who fulfilled your order and was grateful for the tip you gave her at the end of the meal. They both remember things a little differently from you.’
‘In what respect?’ Three feet away from him, the hands had ceased to twist beneath the black leather. They looked bigger than ever to Ernie.
‘As they remember things, Mr Fosdyke arrived considerably later than the time given in your statement. As they recall events, he came into the restaurant and joined you at seven o’clock, or even a minute or two after the hour. They agree with you about the other events of the evening.’
‘All right. I got it wrong. What they say is probably correct.’
‘Probably, Mr Ainsworth?’
He was sweating now. Why the hell had Dick Fosdyke dragged him into this? Calling in a favour was one thing; pitching him into a murder enquiry was something quite different. It was time to cut his losses. ‘Well, definitely then. Look, Dick asked me to say that, and I owed him a favour. I shouldn’t have done it.’
‘Do you now wish to revise your statement?’
‘Yes. Yes, I do. I’m sorry for any trouble I’ve caused you.’
‘I can’t guarantee that you won’t face charges, sir. I hope they won’t include being an accessory to murder.’
SIXTEEN
A light dusting of snow covered the streets of Brunton on Monday morning. No more than quarter of an inch, but enough to make commuters curse as they cleaned the windscreens of their cars and persuaded reluctant batteries to turn cold engines.
The car park at Tesco was scarcely a third full when Peach drove into it with Northcott at nine-thirty. A few mums and three house-fathers had come here dutifully after dropping their progeny off at school; the rest of the populace had delayed shopping until later in the day, when there might be a rise in temperature.
Jamie Norris was enthusiastically restacking his shelves after the weekend when Mr Jordan brought the two senior detectives to see him. ‘It’s in connection with this murder in Wellington Street. You’d better use my office. Ignore the phone if it rings. I’ll take any calls in the staff rest room: it’s quiet enough there at this time of day.’ The manager looked at Norris curiously as he left, as if he sought clues in that unlined countenance about the dark event which was dominating the local press and radio.
Clyde Northcott thought that Jamie Norris looked less stressed than their other suspects. He had youth on his side of course, but his fair hair was neatly combed and there was colour in his cheeks and a spring in his gait as he led them into the room suggested for this meeting. When they refused coffee or tea, he said with a light little laugh, ‘Pity, I could use a drink. I’ve been here since six. But don’t worry about me, I had breakfast an hour or so ago.’
Jamie was trying to behave as naturally as if this was no more than a routine meeting, where he might be asked about his views on tinned soups or the rising popularity of the new meals-for-one range. He’d determined this would be his strategy before they came. He’d always known somehow that they would come back to see him again. You should always use their names if you knew them: the personal touch. That was good retail practice. He spread his arms a little, as he’d seen Mr Jordan do when people came in to see him from their suppliers, and said, ‘What can I do for you, Detective Chief Inspector Peach?’
‘You can answer more honestly than you did on Thursday, for a start.’
Peach and Northcott sat down on upright chairs, scarcely five feet from Norris, who was on the other side of his manager’s desk. The room was a closed, windowless cube, not dissimilar from an interview room at the station. That suited Percy admirably. Jamie swallowed hard and said with a curious formality, ‘I told you no lies.’
Peach flashed him a smile which signalled only danger. ‘You were economical with the truth, Mr Norris. DS Northcott has a record of those economies. I would strongly advise you to be more forthcoming this morning.’
‘I can’t recall that I was anything other than cooperative.’
Peach looked at him steadily for five seconds, then said without taking his eyes from the young face, ‘Remind Mr Norris of his omissions, DS Northcott, will you?’
Clyde flicked open his notebook and ran his finger down the page. He appeared to be making a selection from many damning statements from the nervous young man in front of him. ‘Mr Norris told us when asked about our murder victim that, “I know very little about his past life apart from what he told me.” We know now that this is not true. In fact in the week before Mr Norbury’s death, Mr Norris made extensive enquiries about his previous activities. He contacted people who attended the same art club meeting as Mr Norbury on Tuesday evenings; he spoke to people who had been taught by him when he worked part-time for the Open University; he even questioned a young man who had attended a creative writing group Norbury had run as long as eight years ago.’
Jamie felt himself turning paler as each of these groups was mentioned. It was almost like hearing charge sheets read out in court. He said weakly, ‘It was natural that I should try to get to know as much as I could about Alfred. He’d mentioned these activities – he seemed to be almost inviting me to follow them up. And I wanted to know everything I could about him. He was threatening to take over my life and I wasn’t happy about that.’
‘That is exactly the kind of information you could have given us on Thursday. I explained to you then that we knew very little about our murder victim and needed to find out as much as we could as quickly as we could. You chose to be obstructive when you could have been helpful. We now have to ask ourselves why.’ Peach nodded several times and reserved his smile not for Norris but for Northcott beside him on the upright chairs.
‘There’s nothing very complicated about what I was doing. I told you on Thursday that Alfred was treating me as a kind of writing apprentice. He was rather patronising – that was his way with everyone – but I didn’t much resent that, because he was generous in so many ways. He allowed me full access to his extensive library. More importantly, he allowed me full access to his extensive mind.’
/> Norris stopped on that, as if he wished to savour his phrase and memorise it for future use. Peach said dryly, ‘He was using you, Jamie. He wanted to display you as his latest protégé. You were to be the young man who had come through a difficult adolescence and missed out on the formal education system. A promising young writer now rescued and developed by the sensitive intellectual Alfred Norbury.’
Jamie knew this was meant to challenge him, but it encapsulated so much of what he had been thinking himself that he felt immediately uncomfortable. It was as if this man whom he had never seen until three days before had been looking over his shoulder as his relationship with Alfred had developed. Developed and soured: he didn’t want these people to know about the souring, but he wondered now how he was going to conceal it from those all-seeing dark eyes beneath the shining bald pate. He said stubbornly, ‘Alfred was very good to me. He was honest about my poetry and he didn’t pull any punches when he thought it was trite or overwritten. But he was constructive. The exercises he gave me were useful and he really was giving me pointers to improving my writing.’
‘Why then did you wish to cool your relationship with this most helpful and sensitive of mentors?’ It was spoken quietly and it was a shot in the dark. Peach didn’t know that there’d been a crisis between the two immediately before Norbury’s death, but something indefinable, some slight uncertainty in Norris’s words to them this morning, had suggested it to him.
The shot hit home. Norris assumed, as people often did with Percy Peach, that the DCI knew far more than he did, that what he ventured was not speculation but fact. ‘I suppose I didn’t like being paraded as a protégé. I felt when Alfred took me along to the first meeting of the book club that I was being exhibited as a pet animal who was learning a series of clever tricks from Alfred. He was being very good and very helpful to me, so perhaps I should have been more grateful, but that was the way it felt. The fault might have been in me rather than Alfred, but I was finding him overbearing. I felt I was becoming his creature and I didn’t like it.’