by J M Gregson
It wasn’t fair on the single workers like him, who sweated all week to pay the rent for their own places and didn’t live off the state. He went with the rest of the lads to the pub near the gates of the electrical works, but he only drank in halves. When you had what he had to excite you, you didn’t need to drink.
They talked about the Rovers and the next day’s match, and whether the board would shell out any more money for strikers when so much had been misused. Clyde kept his end up in the football conversations, even wrapped a blue-and-white scarf round his neck in freezing weather, but in truth he wasn’t all that interested in soccer. Bikes were more his thing. When you had a three-fifty engine between your thighs and a grip you could twist to accelerate man and machine faster than any car, you were the Captain of your Soul. Clyde liked that phrase. It had stuck in his mind from a poem they had read at school, long after all the other words from it had gone. He liked doing things which made you feel the Captain of your Soul.
He talked a little about the Yamaha, as he always did when the opportunity arose. A seventeen-year-old with acne who worked on the next bench in the works said, “He’ll bloody kill himself, will Clyde!”
Clyde turned his head, gave the boy a slow grin. “Fancy a ride on the back, Dermot?”
“I wouldn’t bloody ride behind you if you paid me the fucking Lottery!” said the boy. “Wall of bastard death, that is.” He looked round at his companions for supporting laughter.
There was a little, because you were usually safe enough when the subject was motorbikes. But no one took too many liberties when they were joking with Clyde Northcott. He was six feet three, lean, fit and very black. He had a two-inch patch of carefully trimmed beard on his chin, which combined with the flashing whites of his eyes to make him look more menacing than the white and Asian youths who worked with him. He was a bit of a loner, Clyde. He didn’t seem to have any close friends. And he could handle himself: he had grown up in council homes, where you learned to do that or suffer.
And he was a crazy bastard to boot. That was the most important thing of all to remember. Clyde was vaguely aware that his companions were a little afraid of him. He wasn’t quite sure why that was so, but he knew that he enjoyed the feeling that it gave him.
The young men stood in a little group outside the pub for a few minutes, talking about women, joking, getting ready for the night and the weekend. The rest of them looked after Northcott for a few moments as he went back to get his bike from the works car park, where he had left it for safety.
“He’s a mad bugger, is yon,” said one of them, and they all laughed their agreement and relief.
*
In the Murder Room at Brunton CID, DCs Pickard and Murphy were comparing notes. They had reduced the men who had been at the previous Saturday’s dance and who remained suspects to six now, from an original list of thirty-seven.
The thirty-one they had eliminated had either been able to come up with a checkable account of themselves or had had some sort of alibi for one of the previous murders. In that respect, having the Lancashire Leopard as a quarry was a help: once you accepted that the same man was responsible for all three deaths, you could discount people who could prove that they could not have done any particular one of them.
Of their remaining six men, three were students who were out of the town and would need to be checked in the next day or two. In all probability, the three would be able to show that they were also away from the area in early November, when the first woman had been killed. If any of them had been at home when all three of the women had been murdered, that would be highly significant. A lucky break for the police, the press would say, ignoring the fact that it had been turned up by the patient and laborious sifting of thirty-seven possibilities.
Of the other three, one was a twenty-five-year-old man with two children who had attended the dance without his wife’s knowledge, left home on the following Sunday morning, and as yet not been located. His wife was “fairly sure” he had been in the house when the first two women had met their deaths, but he would need to be found and checked. The wife thought that their marriage was at an end and said she would refuse to have him back in the house, but marriage was a strange institution: even the spouses of wife-beaters were sometimes willing to protect the men who had abused them.
The other two men were commercial travellers in their late twenties, who were on the road during the week. One was divorced and lived alone, the other was in a childless and apparently unhappy marriage with a wife who was on the way to becoming an alcoholic.
Commercial travellers, like long-distance lorry drivers, always excite the interest of policemen searching for serial killers. They have the transport and often the opportunity, for few people, even wives, can be certain of their whereabouts from hour to hour, and particularly overnight. These occupations seem also to carry more than the normal quota of loners, men who find it difficult to get on well with large groups of people or to form deep and lasting relationships.
At twenty past six, Tony Pickard said, “We’ve done enough of this for one day. Fancy a drink before we go home?”
“You’re on!” said Brendan Murphy immediately. “But it’s only because I haven’t got a pretty little woman waiting at home, mind.”
A few minutes later, Brendan sat in front of a pint of Guinness with a fine white head, into which he drew eyes and a nose and a mouth by the delicate use of his little finger. People expected him to drink Guinness because of his Irish name — you couldn’t always get Murphy’s — and he had no great objection to the stereotyping: he had acquired a taste for stout by now. “Expect Percy will want to interview the commercial travellers himself,” he said.
“Probably. One thing’s for certain: our respected detective superintendent, Tommy Bloody Tucker, won’t go near them!” said Tony Pickard with feeling. “He’ll tell the television and radio people how capably he’s directing the hunt, how hard his boys are working, but he won’t have a clue what we’re about at any particular moment.” At the end of a hard week, a little ritual denigration of the hierarchy was an automatic, cathartic relief. He took a small, exploratory sip of his bitter and sighed with satisfaction.
“Percy Peach won’t let him get away with too much,” said Brendan. “He’s a right stroppy little sod, Percy, and he’s the only copper I’ve ever met who doesn’t give a bugger about rank.”
Tony Pickard smiled. “On balance, we’re lucky having Percy. He drives us hard, but he drives himself even harder. He’s a cantankerous little bugger, as you say, but in the end he’s on our side. I sometimes think he says all the things we’d like to say, but he manages to say them better.”
Tony took a longer pull at his bitter this time, waiting for his companion’s reaction. They were both relatively new recruits to the CID section at Brunton, so it was good to know how other people felt about things.
Brendan grinned. “He’s a character all right, is Percy Peach. The kind of bloke you’re always talking about, even when he’s not with you. Like now. I reckon he treats Tucker the way he does because he knows the old windbag can’t do without him.”
Tony Pickard nodded. “Do you reckon Tucker knows about Percy and Lucy Blake?”
Brendan sipped his Guinness with care: the trick was to drink it almost to the bottom of the glass and still leave the face you had etched staring at you from the froth. “Probably not. I bet Percy still gives the stupid bugger the impression that DS Blake is one of the crosses he has to bear.”
Tony Pickard laughed. “I wouldn’t mind bearing DS Blake myself occasionally. She’s got more curves than any sergeant I’ve ever met. Mind you, most of the others have been males, with moustaches and B.O.!”
They exchanged a few meaningless male fantasies about the nubile Detective Sergeant Blake and the possibilities of bedroom exercise available to the fortunate Detective Inspector Peach. It was harmless enough — just part of the winding-down process at the end of a busy week for two single men who were b
eginning to make their way as CID constables.
*
Clyde Northcott, studying himself in the mirror, decided to trim an eighth of an inch off the little patch of closely cropped beard on his chin. He had already showered; now he put away the scissors and applied a touch of aftershave, enjoying the brief icing of his skin, watching his face in the mirror to check that it did not wince, smiling a little at himself and his foibles.
He had left it as late as possible to smoke the crack. The small cocaine rock disappeared swiftly. He put the pipe carefully away in the drawer, feeling already that sense of omnipotence which always surged through his veins after the crack. You took it as late as you could, for the effects didn’t last for more than a few hours. But in those hours, you felt that you could do anything.
He put on the new shirt he had bought at Next and made himself ready for the disco. He was a good dancer, they said, but that wasn’t of great importance to him. He enjoyed the strobe lights flashing, picking out and glamorising shapes which disappeared as swiftly as they had arrived; the near-darkness as the music surged in a crescendo; the movement of women’s bodies, close to but not touching his own.
He couldn’t analyse quite why he enjoyed it so much, but he knew that it excited him. Yet he didn’t want to carry it through as some of his companions did. He didn’t want to end up in a clinch with some girl at the side of the floor; he was disgusted when he found couples at it like dogs in the darkness outside. Not that there would be much of that tonight: that was for the summer darkness, rather than the winter.
Winter suited Clyde best. He pulled on his leathers as though they were armour, savouring how closely they fitted round his lean and muscular frame. Then he took a last look at himself in the mirror, pulled on the thick gauntlets, and went out into the night.
Eight
Saturday, January 12th
Superintendent Tucker was in his office on a Saturday morning.
No one could recall when this had last happened. Percy Peach, receiving a summons from on high, left the busy Murder Room and wondered as he climbed the stairs whether there would be a plague of frogs by nightfall.
Tucker pulled an armchair from the edge of his office to replace the upright chair which was normally placed in front of his desk. “Do sit down, Percy,” he said. He had forced a wide smile on to his long face. Peach could see more of his teeth than he could recall ever seeing before. They reminded him of the yellowing keys of a neglected piano.
“It’s all hands to the pumps, in a case like this, Percy,” Tucker began weakly. “It’s good to be in charge of a team who are pulling together so well.”
“Yes, sir.” Peach’s fertile mind had already suggested a range of possibilities for his chief’s unprecedented presence here on a Saturday: a sense of duty did not figure among them.
“I thought we should have a talk together at this stage — exchange a few confidences, perhaps. We’re old hands, you and I, Percy. Two old sweats together, as you might say.”
You might, I wouldn’t, thought Peach. Any more than I would dream of exchanging confidences with a flatulent old fraud like you. And you’ve called me “Percy” three times in under a minute: that’s a danger signal if ever I heard one, but I can’t figure out what the danger is, yet. He donned the blandest of his own formidable range of smiles and said cautiously, “Confidences. I see, sir.”
Tucker wondered why this man who was normally so difficult to shut up would now hardly speak at all, when he needed a response to help him on. He said desperately, “I don’t suppose I should be talking to you at all about this, really. Not if I went strictly by the rules.”
“I see, sir. Before you go any further, I think I should tell you that I’m not interested in joining the Masons. I’m flattered to be asked, of course, and I’m sure it’s nothing like as corrupt an organisation as people say, but—”
“I wasn’t inviting you to join the Masons, Peach!” A vision of that round countenance with its vacant smile beneath the bald head sitting beside him at the lodge swam before Tucker’s horrified imagination, and he had to shake his head violently to dissolve this horrid fantasy. He made an immense effort to be affable. “Percy, we’ve worked together now for several years and—”
“Seven, sir.”
“Seven. Is it really? Well, we’ve seen things come and go. And a few people as well. We’ve had our successes and our failures and I think it’s now time to—”
“Before you go any further, sir, I don’t want one.”
“Don’t want what?”
“A transfer, sir. I’m happy at Brunton. Happy with the team I have to work with here. If you’re thinking—”
“No, no, Peach...Percy. I wasn’t thinking of that at all! I wouldn’t dream of fracturing a relationship which has been so successful. We have been good for the service, you and I. We have given them successes which I venture to say in all modesty they would never have achieved without us.”
“In all modesty. I see, sir.”
“What? Yes, that’s right. Well, this is what I wanted to talk about, though as I say, it’s a matter of some delicacy.”
“Delicacy, sir?”
“Yes. I’m speaking to you in the greatest confidence, of course, and perhaps I shouldn’t even be doing that.”
“Do be careful, sir. I wouldn’t like you to compromise your integrity.”
“My integrity?” This was obviously not a concept with which Thomas Bulstrode Tucker was familiar.
“One of the proudest things in Brunton police circles, your integrity is. I often tell the lads and lasses that.”
“I see. Well, I prefer to think in terms of efficiency.”
“Yes, sir. Well, that’s all right then. I often tell the team exactly how much I think of your efficiency, also.”
Tucker peered suspiciously at the round countenance with the cheerful smile and the eyes beamed at a spot two inches above his head. “What I’m saying is that we make an effective unit, the two of us. And efficiency deserves its rewards, does it not?”
Bloody hell, he’s going to tell me they’re about to promote him, thought Peach. If this garrulous old fart is to move even further up the ladder, I should win the bleeding Lottery. And I never buy a ticket. Despite himself, his smile became a grimace. “Rewards, sir?”
“Yes, Percy, rewards. Merit does not go unrecognised in the modern police service, you know. Look at me.”
“Yes, sir. I do. And I tell the rest of the lads to do that, almost every day.”
Tucker leaned forward, brought his face to within two feet of the black toothbrush moustache on the other side of the desk, narrowed his eyes to indicate a moment of intimacy. “Well, then. And may I tell you that it is possible that I haven’t finished yet.”
Oh God in heaven, look down and release me from this torment, thought Peach. The bugger’s saying he’s going to be promoted. The office and its furniture swam briefly before his eyes. When his vision cleared, he found Tucker with his head slightly on one side, tapping the side of his handsome nose and leering. “And it may well be that you too will move up the hierarchy, Percy. At the same time as me. If you...I mean if we...play our cards right.” He tapped his nose again and threw a cunning smile at Peach.
In this mood, he makes Mephistopheles look like Shirley Temple, thought Peach. He said weakly, “I’m happy where I am, sir.”
Tucker smiled his elder-statesman smile, slid his left hand under the lapel of his jacket in the Napoleonic gesture he reserved for his moments of advice. Peach resisted the temptation to ask him if he felt a right tit — this man would never understand, anyway. The superintendent said magisterially, “There is no reason why you should not remain contentedly under my direction, doing essentially the same job, while attaining a higher rank. You must trust me in these things, Percy.”
Peach thought that on the whole he would rather trust Captain Hook, but it did seem that the man on this occasion had a point. He said cautiously, “Promotion, while remaining
contentedly under your direction. That sounds almost too good to be true, sir.”
Tucker was unaware of any irony. He beamed and repeated, “Trust me, Percy, trust me. It may surprise you to know that the CC has a very high opinion of your abilities.”
I bet it surprised you, thought Peach. But you’d go along with it, as long as it meant praise for you and your department: you’re not quite as stupid as I like to make out. And not stupid at all where your own interests are concerned. He tried not to let his distaste show in his face as he said, “That is gratifying, sir, but I don’t quite see how—”
“Come, Percy, you and I are men of the world. We know how these things work. I have had some good results in my CID section in the last few years, and that is bound to be recognised sooner or later. And if I can lift my most valued member of staff up the ladder a rung or two behind me, I am happy to do so.”
For the first time in seven years, Peach was speechless in the presence of his chief. In the face of this effrontery, even his nimble brain and agile tongue were atrophied. His jaw dropped a little, in the face of this hypocrisy from a man they both knew would like to give him a single ticket to hell.
Tucker was delighted by this unaccustomed silence. He held his hand up with the palm towards his DI. “Don’t bother to thank me, Percy. And don’t breathe a word of this to anyone. And remember, promotion, if it comes, will come as the product of our results. We must find the Lancashire Leopard. I feel confident that almost as soon as we arrest him, DI Peach will become Detective Chief Inspector Peach.”