by J M Gregson
She stood up now. The tall DC who was her sidekick stood too, between him and the window, blocking out some of the light, making the man in the bed feel suddenly more vulnerable. Lucy Peach said, ‘If you want to help yourself, let the uniformed officer outside know and someone will be down here immediately to take your statement and initiate enquiries. I strongly advise you to do that. Please note that I made that quite clear to Mr Barton, DC Murphy.’
The two of them were gone then, without a backward look at him. They issued some instructions he could not distinguish to the invisible man in uniform who defended him against unwelcome visitors.
After they’d gone, Eddie lay for a long time looking at the high ceiling above the fluorescent lights. Out of his depth, they’d said. They were right about that, even if they were stupid. He was a small-time burglar, however expert he pretended to be in that. He’d strayed way out of his depth and he still felt a long way from the shore. Not waving but drowning, the poem he remembered from school said. He felt some of the panic that poor sod must have felt.
Eddie Barton felt more alone and more frightened than he had ever felt in his life.
THREE
At Thorley Grange, the repercussions of Eddie Barton’s attempted burglary were still being felt.
The man who had commissioned the new building on the site of the nineteenth-century cotton baron’s site was a representative of the worst side of twenty-first century capitalism. A century and more ago, men who made fortunes from local industry had built their modern castles to display their wealth. Nowadays, fortunes came by other means. There were all sorts of rumours, but no one knew for certain exactly where the new occupant’s money came from, or which was the most lucrative of his many enterprises.
Oliver Ketley was physically an impressive man. He was six feet two inches tall, with broad shoulders and hips and no noticeable embonpoint, even at the age of fifty-six. In his youth, he had been a fearsome centre half in amateur football; he had put on no more than half a stone in the last thirty years. No one knew whether he watched his diet or whether he was one of those fortunate people who could eat whatever they liked without adding inches to their waistlines. Certainly no one around him felt bold enough to enquire about it. He took little exercise save for the occasional game of golf at the North Lancs Golf Club, the best course in the area.
Ketley should have been a handsome man, but he was not. He had regular features in a large, square face, but they were for the most part expressionless, even when he seemed perfectly relaxed in convivial company. His inscrutability seemed always to carry a certain menace. He registered everything around him, but reacted to it as he pleased and when it suited him. His facial control gave him a sinister aura, which was enhanced by the fact that his eyes were a very pale blue, a shade which was inappropriate in such a face. No one enjoyed Oliver’s stare. He had a good head of black hair, sharply parted and slicked straight back, in the style of an earlier era.
He was a physically powerful man, but none of those around him now had ever seen him use that strength in physical combat. When you made the amount of money that Oliver Ketley did, in the way he did, you made enemies also. He had killed, in the past – had murdered his way to the top, in the envious phrase of one of his contemporary villains. But he had long since acquired the hard men who were his carapace against opposition. He had muscle to defend him against any attack, muscle to enforce his will when that was necessary. In the twenty-first century, it was easy enough to hire hard and ruthless men as your enforcers, once you had the money to do that.
But loyal muscle was often unintelligent muscle, which could bring its own problems. Ketley was investigating one such problem now. James Hardwick was the head of his enforcers. This was a man who had also killed in his time, a man who carried the knife scars on chest and side which were the badges of loyalty and survival in the brutal world where he operated.
It was Hardwick who spoke now. If he was nervous about this investigation of his department, he gave no sign of it. ‘It was Wayne Taylor who shot him. He saw him leaving the house.’
‘Did he shoot to kill?’
‘No. He was bringing him down.’ Even in an increasingly lawless world, killing still excited irritating attention. Unless you could dispose of the remains swiftly and without any trace, it was better to avoid murder.
‘Then why shoot at all?’
‘Because the man would have got away with your wife’s major jewellery. Taylor felt he had no alternative.’
Ketley nodded. You couldn’t allow anyone to get away with a burglary here. Almost a hundred thousand pounds worth, retail. And it wasn’t just the money. If the word got round that Oliver Ketley had been outwitted by a petty thief, it would provoke hilarity and loss of status for him, in an underworld where status was strangely important. ‘So this sod nearly got away with it?’
‘Yes. Almost got away scot-free. He was over the wall and away, and he was faster than Wayne. Taylor brought him down with a couple of shots and gave him a good kicking. He took your stuff back and left him there.’
‘Left him there unconscious. Almost against the wall of the property. He could have died there.’
It wasn’t the possible death that was the concern, but the location and the possible consequences. If you killed a man, you dumped him elsewhere. You didn’t leave the body on your own patch, where a body would invite in police snoopers. Best of all, you dumped the carcase beneath motorway concrete or in the ocean, and thus ensured it was never seen again. To leave a wounded man outside your walls invited investigation.
‘Taylor miscalculated. He thought the man would get up and limp off home. He didn’t think he’d be picked up and taken to hospital by a passing motorist.’
Both of them were silent for a moment. You didn’t usually get brains and brawn together; the people who had both rose higher in the criminal world than being bruisers for others. Taylor should have either finished his man off or sent him on his way, too scared to utter a syllable about what had happened. Hardwick eventually said, ‘Do you want me to fire Wayne Taylor?’
‘No. Send him down to Birmingham. Let him operate there: the casino can always use a bouncer.’ Oliver Ketley rarely sacked people. If they stepped seriously out of line, they would simply disappear from the world, eliminated by the machinery of which they had been a part. If they made minor errors, you gave them a warning and kept them on; it was better to keep employees who knew anything about you under the company umbrella, where they would certainly not reveal any of your business to others. Becoming a bouncer at the entrance to a Birmingham casino was certainly a demotion, and Taylor would recognize it as that. But he’d be grateful that the consequences of his mistake weren’t worse. ‘What happened to this bugger who broke into the place?’
‘Eddie Barton, he’s called. Small-time thief moving out of his league. This would have been his biggest-ever haul. He broke in before we switched the security system on for the night. Forced a window in the old library and went straight to your wife’s jewellery in the dressing-table drawer.’
There was silence between them again, each knowing what the other was thinking. His wife was a careless fool to leave stuff like that among her smalls; it was inviting trouble, even in a house like theirs. Jewellery should be kept in a safe. These seconds of silence were the nearest Hardwick would come to voicing that opinion. His boss eventually said with ominous calm, ‘Did he have inside information?’
‘It’s possible. He seemed to know where to get in and where to go. He didn’t touch anything else except the jewellery and a couple of miniatures.’
‘Cleaners?’
‘It’s possible. They’d be the ones who knew where your wife kept the stuff. I’m investigating discreetly.’
‘Where’s the thief now?’
‘Barton? At present he’s in the Brunton Royal Infirmary, with a uniformed copper on the door to prevent access by people like us. But his injuries aren’t serious. He’ll be discharged within a day o
r two.’
A small, mirthless smile flitted for an instant across Ketley’s inexpressive face. ‘Perhaps he ought to have a visit at home – just to make sure he keeps his miserable mouth shut.’
Detective Chief Inspector Percy Peach was finding married life splendid in all sorts of ways. One of these was the improvement in his diet. Not only was he eating better fare than that he had formerly procured from takeaways, but instead of returning to a cold and empty house he often found warmth and a meal almost ready for him when he returned to his ageing semi-detached home.
This night was different. His new wife would not be home until around eight as she had to interview a gunshot victim in hospital. But Percy was a modern man: he had declared it to his mother-in-law. So he set to and prepared sausage and mash and baked beans – the central principle in bachelor cooking, he had always argued, was not to be overambitious. The bangers were done to a turn when Lucy arrived: near-black all round, without being burnt. The boiled potatoes had just the right additions of milk and butter added to make them smooth and tasty after his energetic mashing. The beans were piping hot, with the superfluous tomato sauce in which they had been heated discreetly minimized on the plate. Perfection within simplicity: that was the secret.
Lucy found both the aroma of cooking and the warmth of the kitchen welcome. It was too often forgotten at the station that bachelor girls as well as single and divorced men went home to empty and unwelcoming houses and flats. She was too hungry to be anything other than highly appreciative of her spouse’s efforts. When he then produced his pièce de résistance as dessert, she even offered heartfelt applause. Percy had only attempted rhubarb crumble twice before, so he must be a quick learner, he said, when Lucy announced loyally that it was just right. He beamed so affably that Lucy decided it was better not to remind him that this was an essentially simple dish. She was beginning to pick her way through the minefields of marital diplomacy.
It was not until they had the steaming mugs of tea, which Percy preferred to the elegance of cups and saucers, that they reviewed the events of the day. The CID section considered that DCI Peach was a man who feared nothing and was never shaken, but Lucy knew him well enough now to sense what made him nervous. Criminals rarely worried him. Appearances in the Crown Court and traps set by astute and unscrupulous defence barristers did. She sighed a final approval of her repast and said, ‘How’d it go in court today?’
He did not shrug the query aside with a virulent obscenity, as he might have done at Brunton nick, where his iron-man reputation was unchallenged and carefully preserved. He said thoughtfully, ‘All right, I think. As usual, I said as little as possible, until called upon for a professional opinion by the prosecution. We’ve given them a good case: verdict and sentence aren’t until tomorrow, but I think the bugger will go down.’ He spoke with considerable satisfaction. Brought up as a Catholic, he retained from that experience only what he called ‘a starred A grade in A-level guilt’. The nearest thing he had to a creed was a personal crusade against the forces of the criminal army ranged against him.
As if he was embarrassed to reveal so much of himself, even to Lucy, Percy said quickly, ‘I had a session with Tommy Bloody Tucker this afternoon. He wants to make sure all officers’ panties are in order – I’ve offered to do the inspections on the female staff at Brunton, so long as he makes it an order in writing.’
‘You’re joking!’ But it was never safe to assume anything in the case of Chief Superintendent Tucker, even though you knew Percy Peach would be putting the most damning interpretation possible on it.
‘It’s true! He wants to put a circular about dress around, with particular reference to correct underwear. It has to be neat and of an appropriate colour, he says. He got the idea from some equally deranged bugger in the Midlands, apparently.’
‘Did you manage to talk him out of the idea?’
‘No. I merely offered my assistance in inspecting the bras and pants of female personnel, as I said. I think I should confine that to the CID section; I might need danger money to tackle Diane the Dangerous Dyke in the uniformed division.’
Percy maintained that this lady had all the essential qualities for rapid elevation to chief constable in the modern police service: she had a degree, a black skin, lesbian preferences, and a total lack of imagination. Lucy was too tired to argue the lady’s cause, the more so since she could hardly contain her amusement at the picture of Percy asking this particular woman to remove her uniform with a directive from on high in his hand.
Warm and replete, she almost dozed off before the latest episode of Downton Abbey, which they had recorded from Sunday night television. She had to get Percy to tell her what had happened. ‘Great costumes, great setting, lousy dialogue,’ he summarized sourly. ‘And your mum’s allowed to fall asleep in front of the telly, but a young flibbertigibbet like you isn’t!’
‘Must be married life with an older man.’ She yawned and stretched her legs luxuriously. ‘Speaking of marriage, shouldn’t you have asked me why I was late home?’
‘Not yet. If it happens three times in a week, I’ll have you and your lover tracked by a private eye. Anyway, I know you were at the hospital. It was me who detailed Brendan Murphy to keep an eye on you. How’d you get on?’
She smiled. ‘He’s a good lad, Brendan. Very chivalrous – except that he felt he needed to defend my honour against a man with gunshot wounds and at least one broken rib. He behaved as if I’d never heard obscenities before.’
Percy grinned. ‘It’s the Catholic upbringing, you see. We believe every woman should be like the Virgin Mary. Until we learn better, of course.’ He ran a hand appreciatively over her non-virginal thigh.
‘We didn’t get much out of the little sod in the hospital bed. I think he was scared, beneath his standard anti-police bluster.’
‘Who shot him?’
‘I doubt we’ll ever know that. He was found unconscious outside Oliver Ketley’s place. We think he’d tried a break-in and been spotted. But nothing from the house was found on him when he was taken to hospital.’
‘Thorley Grange?’ Peach was immediately interested. He had been disturbed when Oliver Ketley had moved on to his patch, but powerless to prevent it. The man was a known villain and a big one, but too slippery and too well defended for anything to stick. A major employer of dubious labour and a centre of criminal activity: just the sort of man you didn’t want in your area. ‘Who was employing this man?’
‘Eddie Barton? My guess is no one. I think he’s a petty burglar who got out of his depth and very nearly paid for it with his life. But we didn’t get anything out of him to tell me whether I’m right or wrong. And I thought we agreed last week that we weren’t going to talk shop at home.’
‘You’re transparent, Lucy Peach! You’re a shameless hussy who only thinks about one thing. And I’m just putty in your hands – for the moment, at least. Lead me to your bed and remind me of my manhood!’
Three minutes later Percy Peach, who retained his magical capacity to disrobe at record speed, was between the sheets and conducting the first of his inspections of female underwear in CID, to the accompaniment of a low, appreciative growling. ‘You’ve passed!’ he said breathlessly as Lucy discarded the last of her clothes and joined him with a leap beneath the duvet he held up for her. He explored the now familiar but no less luscious curves which had excited even the wounded Eddie Barton. Several minutes later, his appreciative cry of ‘Bloody ’ell, Norah!’ signified both excitement and the imperious dismissal of all thoughts of work.
Indeed, it was not until the first light of a February dawn was seeping into the room that he reflected that sooner or later he might need to speak to this Eddie Barton himself.
DCI Peach would have been surprised to know that, forty miles to the south, a very different man was thinking about the owner of Thorley Grange, Oliver Ketley, at the same time as he was.
Jack Burgess was not a policeman, however. He was very much the same type
of being as Ketley: an enormously rich man who acquired his wealth by dubious and occasionally shocking means. He operated a variety of industries, based largely in the great northern cities of Manchester and Liverpool. The legitimate ones, such as casinos, nightclubs and betting shops, made smaller profits but were very useful for laundering money from the illegal but highly profitable concerns. The latter were principally drug-running, prostitution, and an increasing amount of illegal immigration.
The scale of his wealth as well as the industries in which he collected it made Burgess a rival for Oliver Ketley. At forty-four, he was twelve years younger than Ketley and more newly on the scene, but he was now almost as big. He lived in Alderley Edge in Cheshire; his estate was much more modest than the rolling acres of Thorley Grange, but the house built for him here was outside the range of all, save for people like him and the Premiership footballers of Manchester United and Manchester City.
Two footballers had in fact been among the people entertained at Burgess’s house on the last night of January. There had also been the leader of the latest boy band chart-toppers and two of the women who had got to the final stages of the last Big Brother series. Burgess was more prone than he realized to a little celebrity gloss. These people were happy to have hospitality thrown at them and they didn’t ask embarrassing questions about where it came from. And Burgess maintained that it didn’t do any harm with the public to show yourself alongside faces which featured in the innocent pages of magazines like OK!.
All of this was true enough. But Jack Burgess came from a working-class, single-parent background, where as a boy he had been left much on his own in the evenings. The most undemanding television had often blared out at him until nearly midnight. Perhaps he gathered people like this around him to prove to himself as well as to others that he had arrived. Well-known faces, however vacuous, demonstrated that he was now one of the richest and most powerful men in the country.