by J M Gregson
This was all right, so far. Perhaps it was just routine, as all the other employees had said; perhaps it wasn’t going to be anything like as bad as he’d feared. He still had the piece of paper he’d referred to in his room; he was glad he’d read through the rough draft of his application again just before he’d come down to see them. He took them through the last three years, emphasizing the catering work he’d done in the snack bar at the seaside and even more the work in the Brunton restaurant immediately before he came here. It was almost as though he was being interviewed for the assistant chef’s post again.
And then Peach posed almost the same question Michael Knight had asked him, ‘Why did you want to come here, Mr Lee? Why did Thorley Grange attract you?’
‘I’m interested in restaurant work. I want to become a chef eventually, with responsibility for my own kitchen. I felt there would be more opportunity for me at Thorley Grange.’
‘I see. But you must have been serving many more meals in a busy restaurant than you do here. Wouldn’t you have learned more there?’
‘No. I was more junior there. I’d learned all that I could do. Mr Knight gives me more responsibility in the kitchen here. I enjoy the work more here. And when we have important visitors and big meetings here, we do elaborate menus. We prepare dishes I would never have learned to cook if I had stayed in my post in Brunton. I am happy here, because I am learning much more.’
It all sounded rather like a prepared answer to Peach. But probably it was and quite innocently so. Lee must have said something much like this when he was interviewed for the work here and was merely adding to it a little now for this situation. They’d already asked the head chef about him as a new arrival, and Knight had said that Lee was conscientious and a quick learner; he’d emphasized that he was pleased with him.
Clyde Northcott, perhaps wishing to prick the bubble of merit around this smiling, olive-faced man, said with a hint of sarcasm, ‘And no doubt the money is better here as well.’
Chung Lee did not think, as an Englishman might have done, that it was churlish to raise as sordid a motive as money. He nodded earnestly and said, ‘The pay is not much more than I was receiving in Brunton. But the conditions are good and the work is much more interesting to me. Also I have been given a pleasant room here, and the accommodation and my food are free. That means I spend very little and can save most of my wages.’
Peach nodded, then shot another question at him with crossbow fierceness. ‘Who killed Mr Ketley, Lee?’
This time the shock showed on the features which had previously been so difficult to read. ‘I don’t know that. Why do you think I would know that?’
Peach gave him an innocent smile. ‘Well, you live-in here; you’re at the heart of things. You no doubt saw Mr Ketley’s comings and goings. And you seem to me an intelligent chap, from what I’ve seen and from what other people say about you. I thought perhaps you would have formed an opinion, even if you’ve nothing definite to support it. Whatever you tell us will be in strict confidence.’
‘I don’t mix very much with the other staff, except in our breaks when we’re working. There is much talk of course. Much special – no, that is not the word I want . . .’
‘Much speculation? You mean people are wondering who did this and coming up with their own ideas?’
‘Much speculation, yes.’ Lee articulated each of the four syllables carefully, as if committing a new word to his vocabulary. ‘But mostly we are all worried about what will happen to us. We have been told that for the moment there will be no changes, but we are all trying to look further into the future, to see if we shall have to search for new jobs.’
‘That is understandable. But I’ve no doubt people will also be wondering who killed Mr Ketley. Or do they think they already know who did it?’
Chung’s eyes opened a little wider with surprise, or possibly apprehension. ‘No. No one knows who did this.’
‘But people are only human. There must be speculation about who did it.’
That word again. Chung mouthed it silently, as if he were determined it would not escape him. Then he repeated, ‘No one knows who killed Mr Ketley. I have not heard anyone suggesting who it might be.’
‘I see. Well, try to listen to what people say in the kitchen and in the rest of the house. You may hear some opinions which might be useful to us, by the time we speak to you again. By that time, we shall also know much more about how Mr Ketley died.’
‘You will wish to speak to me again?’ Lee couldn’t resist the question. His apprehension showed on the smooth features which had revealed so little for most of the interview.
‘Oh, yes, I should think so. When we know more, we shall no doubt have some more precise questions to ask you.’
Chung nodded, trying to digest the implications of this. Peach offered that thought to most of the people they saw; he found it useful to see what their reactions were. You had to be careful not to suspect too much when you saw dismay – often innocent people found the prospect of further questioning quite daunting. If you knew you were innocent and yet found yourself being drawn into the centre of the case, you were no doubt fearful that innocence might not be enough.
And now, just when it seemed to Chung that the interview might be over, the forbidding-looking DS Northcott said in a deep, even voice, ‘Where were you on Saturday night, Mr Lee?’
‘Why do you wish to know this? Are you asking everyone this question?’
Clyde exchanged a meaningful glance with Peach, building up the tension as he had seen that Torquemada of interviewers do. ‘We’re asking most people this, yes. Is it difficult for you to answer?’
‘No. It is not difficult. But I am glad you ask everyone. I have been told that British police want every time to pin crimes on foreigners.’
He wasn’t exactly playing the racism card. The two men in the room with him had met that all too often when black or Asian suspects were under pressure. This man seemed to be voicing a genuine fear. Peach said calmly, ‘You will be treated in exactly the same way as anyone else involved in this case, Chung. The people who may find themselves in trouble are those who try to deceive us. We shall have little sympathy for them, whatever part of the world they come from. Would you answer DS Northcott’s question, please? Where were you on Saturday night?’
‘I met a friend of mine. A man I used to work with before I came here.’
‘Name?’ the ballpoint pen and notebook looked tiny in Northcott’s huge hands.
‘Fam Chinh.’ Chung spelt the name out carefully for the big man.
‘Address?’
‘I do not have his address.’ Chung realized this was a mistake; he should have got it from Fam last night.
Northcott looked up at him, savouring the moment, not hurrying his question. ‘A friend of yours, you said. But not a very close one, if you do not know where he lives.’
‘I have never needed his address. I can give you his phone number.’
Chung duly did so, but he had to pull his diary from the pocket of his trousers to find it; he would have liked to rap it out immediately from memory.
Just when he had focussed on his contest with the big detective sergeant, it was Peach who took up the interrogation again. ‘I think you had better tell us the nature of this friendship before we speak to Mr Chinh.’
He made it sound like a threat. Chung felt near to panic. They were questioning him in detail about this, the weakest part of his story. He had been prepared for all kinds of other questions about his residence and his work at Thorley Grange, but he had thought his whereabouts on Saturday night would be merely a brief statement of fact and a nod from the detectives. ‘Fam was a man I worked with in the restaurant in Brunton before I came here. The Indian who owned it was a hard man and he didn’t give us much credit for the good things we did there. Fam and I are from the same part of the world and we looked out for each other.’
‘I see. And now Mr Chinh is looking out for you again.’
Lee looked very puzzled. ‘I am sorry. I do not understand this.’
Peach studied him unhurriedly. ‘I rather think you do, Chung. We are not accusing anyone of killing Mr Ketley. But we shall want to know where everyone in the household was at the time of his death. That is standard procedure. We like to eliminate as many people as possible from suspicion.’
‘Eliminate, yes.’ Lee sounded each syllable carefully again, as if he were committing to memory another new and useful word. ‘So this will eliminate me from suspicion.’
‘It seems so, yes. Provided Mr Chinh confirms that he was with you for the hours which matter on Saturday evening.’
‘What time did Mr Ketley die?’
Peach smiled at him as if he were an intelligent but naïve child. ‘We’re not yet certain of the exact time. When we are, we shall probably keep the information to ourselves. You’d better tell DS Northcott exactly when you were with Mr Chinh.’
‘For the whole of the evening.’
Northcott nodded, licking his lips like a predatory tiger. ‘We shall need exact times, Mr Lee.’
‘I cannot give you exact times, but I will do my best. We had a meal together in the Thai restaurant in Market Street. We met there at about seven o’clock. I was back in my room at Thorley Grange at ten twenty. So I was probably with him until about ten.’
Peach said without apparent irony, ‘That’s commendably precise, for one who thought he would be unable to give us exact times. Do you have your own transport?’
‘Yes. I have a Nissan Micra. I used it on Saturday night.’
They took the colour and the number. Then, when he thought it was over, Clyde Northcott said, ‘What did you eat in the restaurant, Mr Lee?’
Chung looked appealingly at Peach. ‘Does this really matter?’
‘It may do, Chung. What you ordered may enable us to establish you were really in that restaurant on Saturday, if we cannot find other diners who remember that you were there.’
He hadn’t thought of other diners. He realized for the first time how meticulous they could be, when they were investigating murder. ‘I’m not sure I can remember what I ate. The main purpose was to spend some time with an old friend. To exchange notes.’
Northcott gave him that smile which made his stomach churn. ‘I’m sure it will come back to you, if we give you a moment to think about it.’
Chung couldn’t face that moment of silence. He blurted immediately, ‘Thai green curry. And I had ice cream afterwards. I was too full for anything except ice cream.’
Northcott took what seemed a very long time to write this down. ‘Good. I’m sure Mr Chinh will be able to confirm this, in due course.’
Everything sounded like a threat, when you knew you were telling lies. He’d need to get hold of Chinh on the phone and agree what food both of them had eaten, and whether they’d had coffee. Chung was beginning to wish he’d told them that he’d stayed in his own room and watched his small television set there. For a moment, he wondered whether he should do just that. But even as he wondered, he knew he wouldn’t do it. He couldn’t face this contrasting pair following up why he had chosen to lie, as they surely would. He’d never be able to convince them of how lonely and threatened you felt, when you were on your own in an alien country, with a major crime committed and all the forces of the law lined up against you.
Peach said earnestly, ‘Chung, have you any idea who killed Mr Ketley?’
‘No. I’ve already told you I don’t.’
‘If you have heard anything around the place which sounds like the motive for action against your employer, you must tell us now.’
He tried not to show his relief that they had moved away from his whereabouts on Saturday night. ‘No. I have heard nothing.’
Peach stood up, apparently satisfied. He gave him a card and said, ‘Well, keep your ears open, please. Pass on to us anything which sounds even faintly suspicious. We shall make sure you do not suffer any penalty for doing that.’
Chung nodded vigorously, overwhelmingly anxious now for this to be over. ‘I hope you will soon arrest the man who did this.’
Chung Lee would have been surprised to hear the first subject raised in the police car as it drove between the high stone gateposts and out of Thorley Grange. The English, as he had always thought, had strangely indirect minds.
DS Northcott said, ‘I bet that Nissan Micra isn’t taxed and insured.’
DCI Peach came back in less than a second. ‘You’re on. A fiver says it is.’
Clyde grinned; he hadn’t expected to be taken up on the bet. ‘Why do you say that?’
‘Because I think Mr Chung Lee is a meticulous young man. He wouldn’t risk breaking our laws in a small thing like that. I also think he’s an intelligent man and a quick learner. I think he might make a very good chef, in a year or two. If that’s what he really wants to do.’
FOURTEEN
The post-mortem and forensic reports didn’t give the team much that was new. The pathologist for the most part confirmed what the SOCO examination had already suggested.
The most useful additional information supplied concerned the time of death. Oliver Ketley had died instantly as a result of a shot fired from the weapon found in his right hand. The shot had entered at his right temple and emerged at the left-hand side of his forehead. In other words, the path of the shot had been slightly forward as he sat in the driving seat of the Bentley. This would have been very unusual for a suicide. People finishing their own lives often shoot themselves in the mouth, but the temple wound is almost as common. However, the bullet normally goes straight through the head or slightly backwards, rather than on the path this one had taken.
In the case of suicide, the weapon would almost certainly have fallen from Ketley’s hand after the fatal shot. There were no prints on it other than Ketley’s, but that was almost certainly because the pistol had been wiped clean before being placed in his hand. All the signs were that some person unknown had killed Ketley with a single shot and placed the weapon in his hand afterwards, in an attempt to convey the impression that he had taken his own life. This could have been done from outside the car, but the window or the door would have had to be open at the time for that. It was much more likely that the killer had been in the back of the car when the fatal wound was administered.
The analysis of stomach contents showed that a meal had been consumed two to three hours before death. Enquiries at Thorley Grange had established that Ketley had eaten an evening meal there between six thirty and seven, so this gave a probable time of death between nine and ten on Saturday night. The body had been discovered by a sixty-six-year-old man walking his golden retriever at eleven fifteen.
The most interesting facts from forensics related to the fatal weapon. The pistol which had been found in the dead man’s hand was a Ruger 9mm pistol. The number showed that it had been bought in the USA and illegally imported into Britain; almost certainly it was one of sixty-six weapons smuggled through Manchester’s Ringway airport by Stephen Greenoe, who was now facing trial in North Carolina for his crimes. The case had raised major security issues in Britain. Many argued that the handguns, which had been taken apart to stow within luggage and then reassembled for sale at around £5000 each in Britain, could just as easily have been bombs.
Most of these powerful pistols and revolvers, purchased openly in the USA, were undoubtedly now in the hands of criminal gangs in north-west England. There was a ready demand, since the ban imposed on handguns in Britain after the Dunblane shootings in 1996 had been largely effective, making it very difficult for criminals to obtain them. The Ruger had been purchased during the previous June and smuggled through the airport a month later. It was very new: it was possible it had never been fired before the shot which ended Ketley’s life.
Clyde Northcott looked at Peach as they digested this. ‘George French?’
‘Very possibly. Contract killers have their own chosen weapons, but a Ruger would have been an excellent add
ition to anyone’s armoury. More important, if he always intended to leave it behind to allow the suicide theory, it’s a brand-new weapon which is not traceable to him and thus the ideal one to leave in Ketley’s grasp. We may have to take that Ruger up later with Mr French. I’ll make some discreet enquiries with Manchester CID about where those weapons went to once they were in the country.’
The findings from the forensic laboratories arrived shortly after the PM report. There was no startling clue as to the perpetrator of this crime, but from what they had seen when they visited the scene, neither Peach nor Northcott had expected much. There was a smear on the carpet in the rear of the Bentley – hardly a soil sample, but enough to provide a match with the soles of the trainers that had left it, if they should ever be located. If this was a professional killer, disposing ruthlessly of his clothing after the completion of a job, those trainers were probably already under tons of rubbish on a waste disposal site.
A single hair had been retrieved from the back of the front passenger seat. It would not lead them to anyone directly, but it might eventually provide a match when a suspect was arrested and charged and compelled to provide a DNA sample. Material to clinch a case for the prosecution months from now, perhaps, but not a direct line to their killer.
This material, like everything found within the car during the minute examination by the forensic team, might be unconnected with whoever had killed Ketley, because there was no way anyone could prove it had not been there before that fatal final trip on Saturday night. According to staff at Thorley Grange, the Bentley had been valeted internally eight days earlier, so anyone who had ridden in the car during those eight days might have left behind the material which had been retrieved and analysed by the forensic team.
Janey Johnson was more comfortable in the office near the front door of Thorley Grange than most of the other people interviewed by the CID.
Most of the others had never been in there before, save for the few minutes when they had been interviewed before they were appointed. Janey had cleaned the room several times, and in recent days had come in to see to the pot plants which were kept on the window-sill of the west-facing window. The primulas were doing well, she was pleased to notice as she came in now; the vivid yellow and the red brightened a dull room considerably and reminded people that in another week it would be March, with the days stretching out and the grass beginning to grow on the long lawns by the front entrance.