[Inspector Peach 05] - The Lancashire Leopard

by J M Gregson

  He was silent for a moment, wondering if Northcott knew what he was hinting at: that he would probably get away with no more than a caution. There was no trace of what was going on in the brain behind that black face, smooth and handsome as if it were a polished ebony effigy.

  Clyde fingered the little rectangular patch of tightly clipped hair on his chin and came to a decision. “You don’t need a search warrant. You can come and look round as soon as I can open the place up for you.”

  That probably meant that there were no more drugs than the amount he had admitted to. Good. But Northcott didn’t know what other things they might be seeking. Also good. Peach said, “Right, lad. Always happy to cut down on the red tape. Now, while you’re here, we want to ask you a few routine questions about another matter entirely. All right?”

  “All right.”

  There was no hint of fear in those smooth features. Peach told himself he wouldn’t have expected it, even if this was their man. “Can you tell us where you were on the night of Saturday the fifth of January, Mr Northcott?”

  Clyde furrowed his brow. “That’s three weeks ago.”

  “Yes. Just over that. It was the night it snowed. About two inches, by the end of the night.”

  Northcott’s face cleared. “I remember now. I was at home. I was going to go out to Whalley with a few other biker lads. But I called it off when it snowed. Motorbikes are lethal on snowy or icy roads.”

  Peach smiled grimly. “I remember. Is there anyone who can confirm your presence in your home that night?”

  “No, I don’t think there is. Why, is it important?” Then they saw realisation flood into the hitherto unrevealing features. “That’s the night when that girl was killed, isn’t it? You’re thinking I might have killed her!”

  Brendan Murphy said hastily, “We’re not thinking any such thing, Mr Northcott. Inspector Peach said ‘routine enquiries’ and these are just that. The more people we can eliminate from suspicion, the more attention we can concentrate on the few who might have done it.”

  “Well, you can’t eliminate me. There were other people in the house. I live in a bed-sit. But no one will be able to confirm that I was there, because I didn’t speak to any of them that night.”

  How could he be sure of that so quickly, with the night in question twenty-three days in the past? Because he knew he wasn’t in the house at all, perhaps? Peach said evenly, “That’s a pity. Still, it’s understandable, when someone lives alone. Would you be able to tell us where you were on the night of November the third? That was also a Saturday.”

  “No. Not at this distance.”

  “Or December the twelfth? That was a Wednesday.”

  “No. We have bikers’ meetings, but they’re usually on Fridays.”

  “Pity. Well, I’d like you to make a note of those two dates. If you can remember where you were and what you were doing on either of them, it would be a great help to us. Especially if you could suggest someone who might confirm it.”

  There seemed to be a threat in the last phrase. Unless Clyde was imagining more than there was. He said, “I’ll try. I can’t promise anything.”

  “No. Perhaps if you talk to your friends it might stir a memory. For the earlier dates I mean. Do you have a steady girlfriend, Mr Northcott?”

  “No.” Clyde wished at that moment that he had some regular girl, that he wasn’t such a loner.

  Peach and Murphy were reflecting that in all probability the Lancashire Leopard didn’t have a girlfriend, either.

  *

  “DC Pickard will be taking your statement in a few minutes, Mr Dutton. I hope you’ll see fit to revise what you told us earlier, but that’s up to you. Now, will you tell us please where you were on the night of Saturday, the fifth of January?”

  He glared at them. He knew what they were after, immediately. Knew that they had switched to the Leopard inquiry. Did that suggest anything? Had Dutton been prepared for this, from the moment he was pulled in for something else entirely? It was interesting that he should seem to be expecting this. But you had to allow for the fact that the kind of men he associated with were probably fascinated by violence; that they had probably discussed the Leopard and his identity at length.

  Dutton said, “That was the night it snowed. The night that girl was killed.”

  “Hannah Woodgate, yes. Where were you?”

  “At the dance. The one she attended. At King George’s Hall. But you can’t fit me up for this, Peach. I’m not stupid.”

  “It appears not, despite all the evidence to the contrary over the last twelve hours. Six quite good GCSEs, I see from your record. At the same school as Hannah Woodgate. How did you get home that night?”

  “By car. Four of us together. The driver was quite sober. We take turns, you see.”

  “How very sensible of you. What time did you get in?”

  “Twelve thirty. We sat talking in the car for twenty minutes or so, before he dropped me off. I was the last one, see.”

  It had all been volunteered too promptly by this previously uncooperative man. He had it ready, complete with the reason why he had been so late into his house. With only a single one of his friends needed to confirm the alibi, they noticed.

  It was Tony Pickard who two weeks earlier had taken Dutton off the list of men they had checked out from the dance, on the grounds that he had gone home in a group. The DC now said grimly, “We’d better have the driver’s name. You know why.”

  Dutton gave it to them with a sour, contemptuous smile. They knew he could probably get to the man before they could, if that should be necessary. Pickard said, “Can you tell us where you were on the night of the third of November? That was also a Saturday.”

  “Three months ago? No chance.”

  “Think about it. When you come up with an answer, let us have it. Be in your own interest, that.” Pickard stared into Dutton’s belligerent face until the big man dropped his eyes. Peach thought that this newish DC was training up nicely.

  It was Peach who said, “Can you recall where you might have been on the night of Wednesday, the twelfth of December, or has a convenient amnesia also obliterated that date?”

  Dutton tried to relax, to force contempt into his voice. “I’ll let you know, if I remember.”

  “Splendid! I don’t suppose you have a regular girlfriend, do you, Paul?”

  “Why the bloody hell should you think I don’t?”

  “Certain qualities I have seen in our short acquaintance. Are you saying I’m wrong?”

  “I don’t have a girl. Not at present, I don’t. Not that it’s any business of yours, pig!”

  “Oh, it might be, Paul, in due course. Unless you can come up with some convincing evidence as to where you were on at least one of those dates. Be in your interests, as we’ve said, that would. But it’s up to you, of course.” He glanced down at the sheet in front of him. “You’ll be charged with causing an affray. With carrying an offensive weapon with intent to use it. With actual bodily harm. In view of the fact that we know you brought a knife to last night’s gathering, we shall need to search your flat. We shall need you with us. Someone will accompany you from here, when you’ve been charged and released.”

  They expected him to argue, but after a few seconds he nodded dumbly.

  *

  Peach had a Holland’s meat and potato pie for his lunch. A very present help in times of trouble, Holland’s pies.

  But today even that failed to restore his normal cheerful optimism. It wasn’t a bad morning’s work. Terry Plant in the nick in Preston, and two other suspects for the Leopard whose premises they were going to inspect later. Blood samples and stray hairs from both of them, for DNA sampling.

  But there was nothing to compare them with, as yet. The Leopard left so little of himself behind at the scenes of his crimes that he was still anonymous. They might collect DNA samples from all over the place, but they would still have to wait for something to compare them with.

  They wer
e sitting here waiting for the next murder, hoping that this time the Leopard might leave a little more of himself behind.

  Twelve

  Tuesday, January 29th

  Superintendent Tucker was not looking forward to this. Peach was sure to be reactionary and unhelpful: he rejected all the modem ideas. And for some reason he didn’t seem to like notions which came from his chief; that would surely make it even more difficult for him to take it on board. The bolshy little bugger clearly didn’t take kindly to direction.

  The fact that Peach was working ten or twelve hours a day on this Leopard case had only made him more difficult. He seemed to think it allowed him to be more tetchy with his superintendent as well as those working beneath him. Peach needed to be kept in his place, there was no doubt about that. But Tucker had to be careful; the last thing he wanted was for the man to throw up his hands and demand that the superintendent responsible for directing the biggest criminal hunt in Brunton history actually did his job.

  Well, Thomas Bulstrode Tucker told himself, this was part of management. Your staff must know who was boss, when it came to it. He ran a finger round the inside of his immaculately pressed collar, licked his lips, and buzzed for DI Peach to come up from the Murder Room.

  Coffee, Peach noted. On a tray, with cups and saucers. Ginger nuts. He was being treated like a visitor from outside. Danger. Tommy Bloody Tucker was looking to pull a stroke of some kind. Better let him make the running then; Tucker wasn’t good at that.

  “How’s the case going?” said Tucker nervously. He didn’t need to identify which case: smaller criminal investigations went on, as they had to, but the Leopard was now dominating the station’s thinking as completely as the public’s.

  “We’re continuing to eliminate people. There’s not a lot else we can do. The man left nothing of himself behind at any of the crimes. Motive doesn’t seem to be much help: we’ve already eliminated the immediate circle of family and close acquaintances for all three of the women involved. We’re having to work on opportunity, and that leaves too wide a field.” This was all in the written summary which lay unopened on Tucker’s desk, but Peach didn’t trouble to taunt him with that; he was too busy watching for whatever fast one the man was trying to pull.

  “Yes. Yes, I see. Well, it may be that I can offer you some help there.”

  That would be a first, thought Peach. Time to baffle the bugger with science, if he was about to speak. “We’ve got these two hard men who were involved in a knife fight on Sunday night. One of them on drugs, the other a known hard man with a record of violence. Both live alone; both of them have not as yet been able to alibi themselves for any of the three killings. But nothing specific to tie either of them up with the Leopard.”

  “Yes, I see. Well, it may be—”

  “Even managed to justify a search of their residences in each case, but it hasn’t produced anything you can call a clincher. We turned up a few drugs at the black boy’s place, a few dirty mags and a knuckle-duster in the National Front lad’s flat. Interesting, but you can hardly say either is a direct tie-up with the—”

  “No. Well, perhaps—”

  “And we’ve found this bugger Terry Plant we’ve been looking for, for a fortnight. You remember, the bloke who used to beat his wife up, who went inside for GBH in a warehouse robbery.”

  “Well, it might just have slipped—”

  “Silly sod virtually gave himself up. Most inept building-society job you could imagine, in Preston. He’s a thick bugger with a history of violence, man who went looking for his wife as soon as he came out of Strangeways, but whether he’s the Leopard is another matter entirely.”

  “Yes, I see the difficulties. And that’s why—”

  “The murders began five weeks after he came out of stir, of course, and again he hasn’t an alibi for any of them, so—”

  “PEACH! For God’s sake shut up for a minute and let me get a word in! I have a suggestion to make.”

  Peach looked as hurt as a child who has tried to please and met brutal rejection. His face quivered towards tears for a moment. Then surprise stole slowly over his revealing features and he said in tones of incredulity, “A suggestion, sir?”

  As if the most astonishing thing of all to him was that his superintendent should have an idea of his own, thought Tucker angrily. Well, this idea might strictly speaking have come from the Chief Constable, but there was no way this wretched man Peach was going to know that. The superintendent said pompously, “Yes. Now that you have finally deigned to listen, I have a suggestion to put before you. A suggestion which any objective person would find helpful, I believe.”

  Defensive, that. Peach put on his objective person’s face. It had an open mouth, raised eyebrows and eyes that were so eager that they seemed in danger of boring, gimlet-like, into the features of his informant. “Yes, sir?”

  Tucker gulped at his rapidly cooling coffee, then shut his eyes. He couldn’t concentrate when that moonlike countenance gave him its full attention. “I think it’s time we had a psychologist in. Oh, I know you’ll pour scorn on the idea, but we must move with the times. It’s a forensic psychologist I’m talking about. They’ve proved that they can be useful in other cases of this kind and I’m now going to insist that we use one.”

  He had expected to be interrupted by an outburst of indignation long before this. He opened his eyes warily. And found that Peach’s eyes were no longer on his face. They were fixed on that point a foot above his head which the inspector seemed to find perennially attractive; Peach’s mouth munched appreciatively on a ginger nut, then fell into a gratified smile. “Delighted you agree, sir.”

  “Agree?”

  “Yes, sir. As one of the old school, I thought you might not be in favour. But the Chief Constable rang across to me last night after you’d gone home, to see how the investigation was going, and I cleared it with him. He seemed quite enthusiastic about the idea.”

  Tucker’s chair seemed suddenly slippery beneath him. With some difficulty, he pushed himself into an upright position and said, “I see. Well, you seem for once to be ahead of me. I’m glad to hear it. Well done, in fact.” He forced a bleak smile. “Well, if you’ll just get back to work now, I’ll see what I can do about arranging—”

  “All arranged, sir.”

  “What?”

  “Ten o’clock Thursday morning. Dr Wishart from Manchester University. Good man, I believe. Helped the Greater Manchester Police in similar situations. They speak very highly of him.”

  “Do they, indeed? Well...er...it’s good to know we think upon the same lines, Peach, isn’t it? Sign of a healthy team.”

  “Yes, sir. You’ll be attending the meeting, I expect. I’m sure Dr Wishart will be glad of your contribution. He said he’d need to be put in the picture about where we’ve got to, so your overview and insights will be almost essential.”

  “I’m not sure I’ll be able to make it, Pea — ...er...Percy. I have a press briefing tomorrow afternoon. Normally I’d leave it to the Press Officer, but in a case of this magnitude it hardly seems fair to leave him on his own. And then I shall be meeting with the Serious Crime Squad superintendent on Thursday, to see what extra help I can get for you. But I shall be most interested to hear what this trick-cyclist fellow has to offer us. If anything, of course.”

  So the forensic psychologist had become just an intrusive nuisance, once it wasn’t Tommy Bloody Tucker’s idea. Pity this Dr Wishart wasn’t a psychiatrist, with the power to section superintendents, thought Peach, as he went contentedly back down the stairs.

  When you were working as hard as he was, you needed a little cheap amusement to keep you sane.

  *

  Wednesday, January 30th

  When they brought him up from the cells at Preston prison for this latest interview, Terry Plant wore a resigned, defeated air. He had been remanded in custody at the brief court hearing. Now it seemed the police wanted more information from him, when they already had a watertight c
ase.

  Lucy Blake was struck, as she had been on previous occasions, that a violent man should appear so ordinary. This was a man who had beaten his wife; who had started to hit his daughter; who had coshed a warehouse night-watchman hard enough to put him in hospital for weeks; who had threatened a junior woman employee in the Burnley Building Society with a baseball bat and tried to use the weapon upon a police officer when he was arrested. A dangerous man — and danger should surely parade itself in more obvious terms than this.

  Terry Plant was slight and narrow-shouldered, with slicked-back black hair that imitated the style of an earlier era. His brown eyes looked empty of emotion. He was small-featured, with a nose that was smallest of all. Not ugly, but nondescript. You would have passed him by without a second glance in the street or in most other places. Perhaps men who hit women and children should have some kind of badge on their forehead, thought Lucy. At least that National Front thug that Peach had interviewed had been happy to proclaim himself for what he was.

  She watched the man with interest as she said, “I am Detective Sergeant Blake and this is Detective Constable Pickard.”

  “I’ve said all I’ve got to say. You’re not getting the driver’s name because I don’t know it.”

  Don’t grass. The only bit of the criminal code that this bungler understood. He would probably be in and out of prison for the rest of his life now, thought Lucy. He would make shallow resolutions to reform, disappoint a series of well-meaning people who would try to help him, age prematurely, die miserable. But you might be quite wrong, Lucy Blake, she told herself firmly.