by J M Gregson
Ten days after she had moved in at the Grange, there occurred one of those days when important business associates and senior staff of Oliver Ketley met for a day at the Grange. As Mrs Frobisher had warned her, it was a day when all hands were called to the pumps; Mrs Johnson was needed to act as a waitress at the tables for the major meal in the early evening. The kitchen, as is usual on such occasions, was not a place for the sensitive. Michael Knight, very anxious that all should go well, bellowed orders at all and sundry, with choice epithets added whenever the pace seemed to slacken or attention to wander.
In the event, the meal was excellent and the serving of it went off smoothly. Whatever crimes Ketley oversaw to make his wealth, he enjoyed playing the role of lord of the manor. As his guests retired to what had once been the old library for port and cigars, he came into the kitchen to compliment the chef on the meal and the rest of the resident domestic staff on the service. He offered gracious words of thanks, even though his pale eyes conveyed no pleasure and his sphinx-like features scarcely altered as he spoke. There would be a little bonus in the pay packets at the end of the week.
Whatever they thought of his bearing, the staff were pleased that he had acknowledged their work and the hard fact of extra money was well received. There were bottles of excellent wine to finish up with their own meals and at last they could relax. Most of them agreed that the boss was a fair employer, not a bad chap at all, once you got used to him.
There was one exception to the general approval. Janey Johnson was surprised to see the usually bland and unreadable Chung Lee give Oliver Ketley a look of pure hatred as he left the kitchen.
DCI Peach’s preference would have been to arrive without warning, but he had to make an appointment to see Oliver Ketley. The police might know the man was a villain, but as far as the law went he was still pure as the driven snow. Or as Peach put it to Tommy Bloody Tucker, as pure as the driven slush. Ketley, like all major criminals, had his own well-paid, efficient and conscienceless lawyer at his beck and call. Oliver was simply a member of the public who must be asked to act as a good citizen and give the police whatever help he could.
Ketley saw them alone. Help was available at the end of a phone line if he should need it, but his habit of secrecy dictated that even those he employed were told as little as possible of his interests and activities. He sat this curiously dapper little man and the black sergeant who was such a contrast to him in comfortable armchairs. That way, they were a little lower than him as he steepled his fingers behind his big desk. ‘Always happy to give the law whatever help I can, of course, but perhaps I should tell you that I’ve cleared a half-hour window in a busy day to accommodate you. This will need to be brisk, gentlemen.’
‘It will be as brisk as you choose to make it, Mr Ketley,’ said Peach aggressively.
Oliver transferred his pale gaze from sergeant to inspector. ‘I may choose to make it very brief indeed, if you continue that attitude. I may choose to have you shown out without even declaring your business. I would be within my rights to do so.’
‘But as a model citizen, you will obviously be anxious to give us whatever help you can,’ returned Peach drily.
Ketley was not used to verbal combats. It was years since anyone had cared to challenge his opinions or statements. ‘What is it you want, pig?’
‘Ah! More the language I would expect from the gutter.’ Peach nodded his satisfaction. ‘We’re here to arrest whichever of your staff shot a man and put him in hospital. No doubt you will be able to identify the culprit for us.’
‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’
Peach sighed elaborately. ‘On the thirtieth of January, a twenty-two-year-old man named Edward Barton committed the offence of breaking and entering here. He stole valuable jewellery. He was fleeing from the scene of his crime when he was twice wounded by rifle shots fired by a member of your staff. Our officers questioned your staff immediately after this incident and received nil cooperation. The law says that you are allowed to employ reasonable force against a burglar. You are not permitted to employ a weapon which might well fatally injure a man, especially when he has already taken flight.’
‘The Americans are much more sensible about that.’
‘Possibly. But I am not here to debate the shortcomings of English law but to make an arrest. Am I to have your cooperation?’
‘I cannot give you that, because no such crime took place.’
‘You deny the shooting?’
‘There was no such retribution by a member of my staff, because there was no burglary here on the thirtieth of January.’
‘And if I produce a witness to say there was?’
‘You will be able to produce no such witness.’
‘Because you nearly killed that witness in the first place, then beat him up to make sure he kept his mouth shut when he was still convalescent, you mean? Well, I dare say you’re right about that. I’d be reluctant to appear in court myself, if I had murderous thugs like the ones you employ to fear. Don’t trouble to deny it – we both know you won’t let it come to court. We’d like to speak to one of those thugs, though. A man with various aliases, most recently calling himself Wayne Taylor.’
If Ketley was surprised by the extent of CID knowledge, he gave no sign of it. His expressionless face was silent for a couple of seconds. Then he said, ‘Wayne Taylor is indeed a very junior member of my organization. He is presently employed in our Birmingham casino. He has been working there since the twenty-fourth of January.’
It was Peach’s turn to disguise any trace of surprise or disappointment. ‘Strange that you should be so certain of that date, with such a junior employee. Well, as you say, this may never come to court. But we shall keep a note of Mr Taylor’s offence, against the day when he is arrested for some other violent crime. It is surprising how much men like him will tell us, when they’re facing a long stint in the big house.’
‘I’ve had enough of this. I’ve business to conduct.’
‘I believe you, Mr Ketley. It’s almost the first thing I’ve believed since I set foot in this room.’
‘In our modern world, even detective inspectors who get too big for their shoes can disappear mysteriously.’
‘Threat duly noted, Mr Ketley. But you know as well as I do what happens when you kill a policeman. The whole might of the law is released upon you. There’d be so many boys in blue and plain-clothes men turning over this place that even your organization wouldn’t survive it.’
‘Forgive me if I don’t feel threatened. And now your time is almost up.’
‘You’re safe enough, for the present, Ketley. But not for very long, now. Things happen fast, once those at the top begin to topple. All sorts of people in your organization may be anxious to sing all sorts of songs, once the Special Branch gets you for your crime on the fifth of February 2004.’
This time Ketley was shaken. DS Northcott, who had watched him keenly throughout, caught a tiny wince in his body, even though his face remained as unyielding as ever. Ketley blinked those sinister light-blue eyes and said, ‘2004 is a long time ago. And I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘Oh, but you have, Ketley. The cockle-pickers in Morecambe Bay. Twenty-three deaths in one appalling night, all down to you.’
‘Perhaps you need to be reminded that a man has already been convicted of the manslaughter of those people. A man I have never even met.’
‘Lin Liang Ren. Now serving fourteen years. But no one thinks he was the only person involved in what happened that night.’
‘But the case has been closed. Things move on, Detective Inspector Peach.’
‘The case remains open. Money’s no object to the Special Branch, lucky buggers. They’ll get you, sooner rather than later. And then lots of other things will come out, once the rats begin to leave your sinking ship. I look forward to that. In the meantime, keep your filthy fingers off our Brunton patch, please. And don’t ring me about a round of golf: I play
with almost anyone, but even pigs find some company beneath them.’
He was gone before Oliver Ketley could produce any appropriate words of dismissal. They were almost back at the station before Clyde Northcott said from behind the wheel, ‘Do you really not feel in any danger from him?’
Percy Peach allowed himself a grim smile. ‘I’m relying on the fact that he doesn’t know Tommy Bloody Tucker’s in charge of CID.’
As Oliver Ketley reviewed once again his connections with that awful February night of 2004, his rival racketeer Jack Burgess was covering his traces in a more contemporary crisis.
The police had that morning revealed they had arrested a group of Asian men in Rochdale who had been systematically ‘grooming’ white girls of thirteen and fourteen for prostitution. It would cut off a substantial source of income for Burgess, who had financed the organization and made substantial profits from it. But at the moment he was more concerned that the police could not connect it with him.
‘Is there any way they can show a link between us and the Rochdale group?’ he asked Geoffrey Day.
‘No. I paid those men myself, in cash. It was local; we didn’t need any other link.’
‘Will they talk? Those Pakis I mean, now they’re under arrest?’
‘No way. Most of them didn’t know where the money was coming from and had the good sense not to ask. We ran an incentive scheme: the more girls they delivered, the more they were paid. In effect they were paid on commission. And paid bloody well. It was a lucrative enterprise for them as well as for us.’
Burgess relaxed a little. ‘Sex always is, Geoff. Always will be. You just identify the demand and supply it. People will always pay.’
‘There’s just one man who knows the money came from us. He was the intermediary; he was our contact with the men who found the girls and did the grooming.’
‘And boys. There’s plenty of demand for them, in our enlightened society.’
Geoff Day shook his head. ‘Plenty of demand, but a fair supply. The rent boys don’t charge enough. There isn’t the same profit margin.’ He spoke as dispassionately as a marketing man in a retail store. ‘Ketley’s organization runs a few boys’ groups in Liverpool, but the vast majority of his grooming empire is based on young girls; they’re easier to come by than they used to be. And they pay better.’
‘Speaking of Ketley, hasn’t he burned his fingers with his grooming rings? There have been three cases in the Brunton area since he moved his headquarters there.’
Day smiled. Burgess kept his eye on everything his rival did, especially when he came unstuck. ‘They haven’t even come near Ketley. He runs as tight a ship as you do. The child protection people spot lots of Asian men approaching and grooming under-age girls, but that’s as far as they get. Plenty of convictions for sexual activity with children and supplying drugs to them. The men involved get pretty heavy sentences at Preston Crown Court. But the police never get to the big boys who are doing the systematic organization and supplying men with young, mainly white girls.’
Jack Burgess became thoughtful, as he usually did when they reached the subject of Oliver Ketley. It worried Geoffrey Day, because it was the one area where you couldn’t rely on the boss to be totally objective. Usually he assessed risk and reward with cold calculation, his aim always being maximum reward with minimum risk to himself and his organization. But his contest with Ketley was more personal, and in Day’s experience when things became personal objectivity suffered. He would be glad when the governor’s scheme to eliminate Ketley and take over his empire was safely achieved.
As if he read the thought, Burgess now said, ‘Any news on George French? Do we know how near he is to success?’
‘No word.’ Neither of them mentioned the killing of Ketley, almost as if they were superstitious that putting it into words would endanger the mission. ‘French is a loner, like all contract killers. He’ll proceed in his own way, but in the end he’ll give us what we want. He’ll plan to ensure the least risk for him, but that suits us as well. He knows Ketley’s weaknesses, like his liking for shoving his hand up the newest skirt in the vicinity, and he’ll use them if it gives him an opportunity. We don’t want this traced back to you. That means it must be efficient and anonymous. But Ketley’s well guarded. French will need to wait for his opportunity rather than try to force it.’
Burgess nodded ruefully. He recognized that George French was the best in his specialized business, but he was used to being able to prod those he hired. ‘We’ll need to replace our Rochdale business by taking over some of Ketley’s. Let’s hope French delivers soon.’
NINE
Percy Peach was a man who constantly startled those around him. The Brunton criminal fraternity found he turned up in unexpected places and knew all sorts of unexpected things. His colleagues in Brunton CID had ceased to be surprised about that. But they had speculated for several years about who would secure the permanent affections of DS Lucy Blake, the bright young woman with the chestnut hair, ultramarine eyes and disturbing curves, who figured in the sexual fantasies of all ranks. There was amazement when this most delicious of prizes was secured by the bald, round-faced, divorced Percy Peach, a man ten years her senior.
For the Brunton public at large, bred on Northern comics and traditional humour, the most surprising thing of all about Peach would have been something quite different and altogether more mundane. DCI Peach loved his mother-in-law and she returned his feelings in spades.
Long before Percy had roared like a comet into her life, the then Lucy Blake had known that her mother was a remarkable woman. What she had not expected was that the man who had seemed initially to be the embodiment of all the traditional male prejudices should also find Agnes Blake remarkable. Still less had she expected her mother to trumpet the virtues of this unpromising-looking candidate as the ideal husband for her only and much-cherished daughter.
It had helped that Percy Peach was a prominent local cricketer, a fleet-footed batsman who regularly made half-centuries in the Lancashire League, where each team employed an eminent professional and the standard of cricket was very high. Agnes had been delighted to find that the man universally known in the police force as ‘Percy’ had the initials D.C.S. He had been christened Denis Charles Scott by a cricket-mad father, who had been a youngster alongside the young Denis Compton in Hitler’s war.
A very young Agnes had been taken to Old Trafford by her father in 1948 to see Compton take on the Australians. He had been hit on the head and carried bleeding from the field, but had insisted on returning with a mere sticking plaster on the stitched wound – no helmets and no health and safety rules in the days of Denis. He had then scored 145 and etched himself for ever in the memory of the child Agnes. To have a man named after her hero as first the boyfriend and now the husband of Lucy was a dream fulfilled for a lively widow now entering her seventies.
For the first time in several months, Percy and Lucy were visiting her mother in her cosy cottage at the base of the broad flank of Longridge Fell, to assist in the splendid ritual of high tea. Agnes loved baking and Percy loved whatever she baked. After years of coping with a daughter who protested that she must watch her weight, Mrs Blake found it bliss indeed to have a man who smacked his lips and never mentioned calories.
And Percy knew his part in this cosy domestic drama. He stepped into the tiny dining room which was almost filled by the fully extended table, groaning under the goodies assembled upon it by their shyly smiling hostess. There were home-roasted ham and thinly sliced brown and white bread, buttered scones and strawberry jam, queen cakes, sponge cake, rich fruit cake. Percy stopped spellbound before the feast. ‘You’ve surpassed yourself, Mrs B. We wouldn’t have any crime in the world, if people could all eat here!’
‘Go on with yer, Percy.’ Agnes beamed her approval of her son-in-law and stood for a moment with her weight on one foot, as she had done as a blushing seventeen-year-old when a boy complimented her.
‘We certainly w
ouldn’t have the energy to chase them, if all the police ate here,’ said her daughter more soberly. It was one of the great delights of her life to see the two people she loved most in the world getting on so well together, but they were a formidable alliance, when they ganged up on her. She would try to control their wilder sallies during the meal and its aftermath.
There was no immediate problem. Percy had lived alone for ten years after the break-up of his short-lived first marriage and existed largely upon takeaways. His admiration for Agnes’s baking was genuine and profound. He was a bouncy little figure, certainly not skinny, but without the paunch he should have been developing at thirty-nine. Whatever he ate, he never put a pound on, Lucy had learned resentfully. He now proceeded to do ample justice to the efforts Agnes had made for him. ‘That Nigella Lawson’s not bad, in her own way,’ he said, carefully damning the delectable kitchen goddess with faint praise. ‘But she could learn a thing or two from you, Mrs B, when it comes to baking.’
Agnes’s giggle was positively adolescent, her daughter thought uncharitably. ‘I’ll brew the tea, Mum. That’s if it’s safe to leave you two lovebirds alone for two minutes.’
‘Just you watch your tongue, our Lucy,’ said Agnes, finding the simulated shock on her son-in-law’s face the occasion for a renewed outburst of hilarity.
‘Two minutes wouldn’t be long enough for us, love,’ said Percy magisterially. ‘Your mum’s an artist and artists can’t be bound within the squalid restraints of time.’