by J M Gregson
‘Almost eight per cent, sir, last year, on our patch.’ Peach produced the statistic while gazing sphinx-like at the ceiling. The day was improving already.
Tucker glared. Ineffectively. You couldn’t get in a good glare on a man who was staring at the ceiling. ‘What do you mean, eight per cent?’
‘Eight per cent of male criminal offences in the Brunton area were committed by Masons, sir. Little bit of research of my own, that. I thought you might be interested.’
‘But how can you know that when — when—’
‘When it’s a secret society, sir? Oh, but as you have told me so frequently, the secrecy is no longer important. And you’re right, sir, in a way. As you always are. I found when I asked around I could soon find who the Masons were. Some of the hard men even seemed to think it would help them, to declare their Masonic connections. It didn’t, of course.’
Tucker glared again, so fiercely that it hurt his eyes. It was worse than useless: that round moon face was now angled at forty-five degrees towards the ceiling. ‘That is no doubt what the national proportion should be, considering the number of Freemasons in the country.’
He’s fed me just the line I needed again; you couldn’t have a better straight man than Thomas Bulstrode Tucker, thought Peach. He transferred his gaze from the ceiling to his chief’s face and gave him the most dazzling of his smiles. ‘Not so, sir, actually. At the latest count, the number of Masons in the country is well under two per cent. Which gives us an interesting local statistic. In the Brunton area at least, it seems that a man is four times more likely to commit a crime if he is a Mason.’
Tucker’s jaw dropped. ‘Four times more likely?’
‘That’s it, sir. Interesting, don’t you think? I thought that when I can find the time I might produce a little monograph on the subject. Just like Sherlock Holmes used to do.’
‘Sherlock Holmes?’
‘Fictional detective, sir. Bit of an old junkie, too. We’d have him for it, nowadays.’
‘I’m well aware who Sherlock Holmes was, thank you, Peach.’
‘Yes, sir. Well, as I say, we’d have pulled him in for Class A drug possession, today.’ He grinned conspiratorially as another delicious thought possessed him. ‘I wonder if he’d have been a Mason, today, sir. He had a bit of a fascination with secret societies, and Dr Watson certainly strikes me as a potential member of the Brotherhood. It’s —’
‘Peach! Will you stop this nonsense and brief me about your progress!’
‘Of course, sir. Well, as I say, I haven’t actually begun to write the monograph about the local connections between Freemasonry and crime yet, but I’ve got the statistics all ready. And Alf Houldsworth says the Evening Dispatch would be interested, and possibly the nationals, and —’
‘You will not release any such material!’ The mention of Alf Houldsworth, the mischievous one-eyed crime reporter of the local daily, made Tucker tremble with apprehension and fury. ‘You will come to me before you propagate any such nonsense. I shall check whether it is genuine.’
‘Yes, sir. I’ll make a note of that, and communicate it to the lads downstairs. All nonsense must be checked as genuine by Superintendent Tucker before general release. I’ve got that.’ He stared at Tucker’s desk, furrowed his brow, and nodded very seriously, as though each movement of his head was driving the announcement into his memory.
Tucker knew from experience that he should cut his losses and abandon this, before things got even more surreal. But he felt he must make at least a token defence of local Freemasonry. ‘I expect you were including motoring offences in your statistics.’
‘Yes, sir. And fraud.’ He wasn’t going to tell Tucker that a local accountant, convicted of eight offences, had upped his local Masonic count dramatically. ‘And wife-beating. There was quite a bit of domestic violence, as far as I can remember.’ Peach’s round face brightened cherubically on that thought. A vision of Tucker’s Brunnhilde of a wife with a whip floated beguilingly across his mind.
‘Right. Back to business, Peach. Are you near to an arrest in the case of Dr Carter?’
‘No, sir. Enquiries are proceeding apace. No prospect of an immediate arrest.’
‘If you spent more time on real crime, and less on your fantasies about Freemasonry, we might have better results.’
‘Claptrap Carter was a Mason, sir,’ said Peach enigmatically. He was now staring hard at his favourite spot, which was precisely two inches above Tucker’s head.
‘Have you interviewed his wife?’
‘Yes, sir. She doesn’t seem stricken with grief. Doesn’t seem to have been particularly close to her husband, for someone married for over twenty years.’
Tucker’s eyes lit up. ‘Then in my view you should investigate her very closely. Three-quarters of killings are domestic, you know.’ He produced the statistic which every policeman knew with a flourish, as he was wont to do, although he wavered between three-quarters and four-fifths as his chosen proportion.
‘Yes, sir. The killing took place some time on Saturday night, as you will remember. Mrs Carter seems to have been safely ensconced at her mother’s in Kendal for the whole of the weekend.’ Peach stared obsessively at that spot on the wall behind his chief, inscrutable as a statue.
‘I see. Well, just be certain she’s not lying, that’s all. Anyone else in the frame?’
‘Senior Tutor at the UEL, sir. Chap by the name of Culpepper. His ancestor rogered Catherine Howard, he says. Fifth wife of Henry the Eighth, sir. Executed for it, apparently. Proper bit of lese-majesty, that.’ Pity there wasn’t more of that sort of thing in the police hierarchy, thought Percy. Be a brave man who rogered Barbara Tucker, though.
‘Why suspect this fellow?’
‘Didn’t like Carter, sir. They were rivals for the Directorship, eighteen months ago, and he lost out. He certainly hadn’t any high opinion of Claptrap Carter’s intellectual capacity. And he admitted he hated his guts. That’s a quotation, sir,’ Peach said apologetically.
‘Really. Well, he’s certainly a candidate for your killer.’
‘Yes, sir. He’s not a Mason, though.’ Peach said it dolefully, as if this considerably reduced the chances of Culpepper being their man.
‘Peach, will you please rid yourself of this obsession with Freemasonry and get on with your work! You’ve wasted quite enough of my time.’
And you of mine, thought Peach as he went back down the stairs. He glanced through the window. There was a gleam of watery sun among the clouds now. The day was a little brighter than when he had climbed those stairs.
*
Peter Tiler had never spent such a miserable couple of days as the ones following his arrest after he had tried to dissolve Ecstasy in Kathleen Stevens’s drink. A night in the cells, a harsh grilling, a grudging release, with the certain knowledge that he would hear the details of the court hearing on the charges of possession and attempted date-rape in due course.
When he got back to the site, his worst fears were realized. Kathleen had already been notified that she would be required as a witness in the eventual court case. He realized now, when it was too late, that she was as naïve and inexperienced about sex as he was. And consequently outraged by what he had attempted. And a practising and devout Roman Catholic, one of the few who did not seem to have rebelled against the moral straitjacket of the nuns. Just his luck.
Kathleen refused to listen to his explanations, forbade him ever to come near her again, and retired tearfully to her room with her rosary.
On Tuesday, Peter had endured an excruciating interview with his course tutor and been told that his academic future hung in the balance. Now, on Wednesday morning, just when it seemed that things could not get worse, he heard that there were two CID people on the campus again, talking to Kathleen Stevens.
At eleven forty-five, Peter Tiler was summoned to an interview with a Detective Inspector Peach.
Peter had never met anyone quite like DI Peach. Within two minutes, he ha
d decided that he never wished to do so again. Peach for his part saw with his experienced eye a foolish young man, in whom there was no really vicious streak, who had strayed onto paths where he should never have trod. But Peach hadn’t a lot of time to waste; it was only the fact that Tiler was a UEL student that had brought the affair to his notice, and he didn’t want to spend many minutes on what might well lead only to a dead end, as far as his murder case was concerned.
‘Date-rape, eh? Nasty business, that. Very politically incorrect. They’ll throw the book at you for it, I shouldn’t wonder.’
Tiler said wretchedly, ‘It wasn’t rape.’
‘Only because an officer of the law prevented it. Nipped in before you could actually get your todger on the job, it seems. Drugs involved, too. Nasty business.’ Peach repeated one of his favourite phrases and shook his head sadly.
‘Only pot. And one tablet of Ecstasy. And I’d never have raped Kathleen Stevens,’ said Peter, doggedly but hopelessly.
Lucy Blake, who had studied the wretched youth silently from her position beside Peach, said softly, ‘Where did you get the drugs from, Peter?’
It was the first police voice Tiler had heard since his nightmare began which seemed even vaguely sympathetic. He knew he should be cautious, but his whole being wanted to respond to it. ‘On the site. There’s a bloke who comes to the student bar on Wednesday evenings.’
‘A student?’
‘No, I don’t think so. I’ve never seen him any other time.’
Lucy leaned forward, waited for the hunted eyes to look up into her own ultramarine irises. ‘Listen, Peter. You’re in trouble, as DI Peach has told you. But it might not be as bad as it seems at this moment, if things go well for you. It appears that Kathleen Stevens is not anxious to pursue any charges against you. I’m not sure I’d feel so charitable, in her position, but it seems she just doesn’t wish to drag the two of you through the courts. That still leaves the drugs. We don’t do deals with people in your position. But if you cooperate, and we’re able to arrest a supplier, it’s possible you won’t be charged with possession. No promises, mind: that won’t be my decision, or even DI Peach’s. I’m simply advising you about the best course of action.’
She was serious, low-key, yet urgent. If her voice carried conviction, it was because her concern was genuine. Peter Tiler was immature and foolish, not vicious: she had no wish to see his whole life blighted by a criminal record for Class A drugs possession.
Tiler looked from the unrelenting face of Peach to this prettier and more sympathetic one, and then gave them everything he could. Description of the campus supplier, the range of drugs he offered, and the exact time when he dealt. Peter didn’t know much, but by the time they left him to reel back to his room they had all of it.
It was all concluded swiftly and efficiently, the way Percy Peach liked it. He said as the CID pair lunched in a pub, ‘You were good in there, kid. Putty in your hands, that lad was.’
Lucy Blake sank her strong, very white teeth into a ham roll and munched appreciatively. ‘You’d set him up. The lad was at the end of his emotional tether. Ready to grasp at any comfort.’
Peach pulled at his pint of bitter, wiped his moustache carefully with his paper napkin. ‘Maybe. I wish they were all as easy as that. But we’re a good team, you and I. And Tommy Bloody Tucker still doesn’t realize it. He thinks I resent you.’ He slid his hand over hers for a moment to emphasize the absurdity of that delightful misapprehension.
‘I didn’t notice much resentment last night!’
Percy was silent for a moment, savouring the vision of the buxom Blake in the shortest nightie he had ever seen. ‘You led me on, with that garment. Shouldn’t be paraded before active male hormones without a health warning, nighties like that!’
She arched her eyebrows in surprise. ‘Winceyette, that was. For winter warmth, the box said.’
Peach laughed. ‘Can’t provide much warmth when it’s round your neck for most of the night.’
Lucy finished her roll, sipped at the pure orange juice which was all she allowed herself during the working day. ‘Perhaps I should put the garment away. Perhaps it’s dangerous to inflame the thinning blood of an older man.’ Peach was ten years older than her twenty-six.
‘Don’t do that, love, please! I’ll do press-ups, control my blood pressure, even go to the gym, if I must. But please don’t withdraw the fanny pelmet from circulation!’
‘We shall see,’ she said contentedly. It was nice that a man who was so much in control in his work should be content to be so much under her spell away from it.
Twelve
Carmen Campbell sat on the table at the front of the room, pushed her hands beneath her thighs, and said, ‘So what do we make of all this?’
She had the complete attention of all twelve students in her tutorial group. She was an excellent teacher, well prepared, lively and with that enthusiasm for her subject which always communicated itself to an audience. She was also very supple and very curvaceous; she had extraordinarily long legs within her tight jeans; she had well-formed breasts which asserted themselves explicitly beneath her charcoal sweater; she had large brown eyes set above the high cheekbones of her smooth, chocolate-coloured face.
And nine of the students in this tutorial group were wide-eyed young males. Carmen Campbell could have talked in a monotone in Serbo-Croat and kept their attention.
Instead, she spoke in excellent English, with an attractive hint of Caribbean sun in the accent. Her subject was social psychology. She had just showed the group a videotape demonstrating how people’s actions were conditioned by group expectations. A series of otherwise reasonable people who supported Manchester United had ignored a figure in distress at the roadside with a supposedly broken ankle when he wore a Liverpool shirt. Then they had offered instant assistance to the same man in the same situation when he wore a Manchester United shirt.
Students and tutor had a lively discussion about group pressures and inclinations, which were all the more sinister because they were unconscious, and Carmen invited the group to speculate about the implications of this for the situations they met in their own lives.
Some interesting exchanges ensued, with much hilarity as the students raised several group situations they met regularly on the campus of the UEL.
The time flew by, until Carmen experienced that most flattering thing for tutors, a look of disappointment on some faces when the time came for the session to end. The girls thanked her for the material; the boys gave her that special, guarded smile reserved for women who feature in their erotic fantasies in the small hours. Once they had gone, Carmen gathered her books and her tape and prepared to vacate the tutorial room.
She was approaching the door when it opened abruptly. A compact, dapper man stood before her, looking her up and down without any of the embarrassment she associated with males at a first meeting. He had a very bald head, a little startling above a face still in its thirties, a fringe of very black hair and an equally black moustache. He said, ‘Miss Carmen Campbell? I’m Detective Inspector Peach and this is Detective Sergeant Blake.’
They came forward, showing her their identification cards. She had not seen the girl at first: she was as tall as her superior officer, with milk-white skin and striking hair, almost Titian as it caught the low November sun through the window. They did not offer to shake hands. Peach said, ‘We need a few words with you, to clear up one or two loose ends.’
‘That’s all right. I’ve finished my teaching commitments for the day now.’ She flashed him a smile from her wide mouth and her very white teeth. Her large brown eyes expressed a slight, unspoken surprise.
‘It’s in connection with the death of your Director, Dr Carter.’
They watched for her reaction, but she gave them nothing more than a polite, slightly surprised nod. Carmen had dealt with police before. They were the same the world over, in some respects: they would go for any sign of weakness, take up any strand of informatio
n you inadvertently offered them. It was best to let them make their own running, until you found out how much they knew.
When they got nothing from her, it was Lucy Blake who said softly, ‘That doesn’t surprise you, Miss Campbell?’
‘Please feel free to call me Carmen. Even the students do that. And no, I don’t suppose it does surprise me, really. Old Claptrap was murdered, wasn’t he, poor guy? I expect you’re questioning almost everyone on the campus. Among the academic staff anyway. Though I’ve no idea how these things work, of course.’
She gave them that wide smile, with a hint of mockery at its edges, and Peach acknowledged it with a grimmer smile of his own. ‘We often have to talk to a lot of people in the days after a murder, yes, unless it’s what we call a domestic. But we narrow it down pretty quickly, as a rule.’
Carmen did a swift calculation. Wednesday afternoon. Almost four days now, since the murder. Was she one of the many in the blanket early coverage, or one of the select few left after the field had been narrowed down? She said, ‘I’m willing to offer any you any assistance I can, of course. But I can’t really see how I can possibly be of any help to you.’
She hadn’t asked them to sit down, preferring to imply that this exchange would be no more than a brief formality. But Peach now nodded to the single chair beside the overhead projector at the front of the lecture room, while he and Blake sat down on the chairs recently vacated by the two male students who had sat nearest to their coffee-coloured Aphrodite. ‘We have been going through all the papers of Dr Carter. Things we gathered from both his house and his desk and files at work.’
Carmen hoped that the quickening of her pulse didn’t show in anything external. Her work had made her something of an expert in the signs people gave in different group situations, but it was different when you were the person in the spotlight. And she had never been able to study people involved in a murder investigation. She said as nonchalantly as she could, ‘And you came up with my name, somewhere among this mass of material?’