Least of Evils

by J M Gregson

  Peach looked up from his chair behind the big desk and delivered the mantra he had issued to most of the staff. ‘It’s just routine, this. Nothing to be afraid of.’

  ‘Yes. I’ve already seen you once. With Mrs Ketley.’

  ‘Of course you have. You won’t need to be introduced to DS Northcott, then.’

  Janey smiled cautiously at the formidable black man on Peach’s right. Clyde nodded watchfully in return.

  Peach said, ‘Most of the staff here have been interviewed and have signed statements for junior members of our team. You’ve got Clyde and me because you’re one of the recent arrivals at the Grange.’

  Despite his bland smile, he contrived to make the words sound like a threat. Janey settled herself with her knees primly together and said, ‘Yes. I’ve worked here since before the owners moved in, but I’ve only recently become a resident. I’ll tell you whatever I can, which won’t be much. I don’t think I’ll be able to add much to what you heard yesterday from Mrs Ketley.’

  ‘Really? I was hoping you’d have a different perspective and different information to give us. I was hoping you’d tell us things you didn’t like to raise when the mistress of the house was present.’

  His tone was light, but he was watching her closely. She realized in that moment that he would pick up any mistake she made, that he would notice any unnatural hesitations or evasions. But if you’d nothing to hide, you couldn’t suffer, could you? She wondered with a shaft of sympathy how Chung Lee had fared with these two. He’d been struggling with a second language, as she was not. Even though his English was good, he wouldn’t pick up every nuance, as she would – and as Peach would on the other side. She said, ‘I like Mrs Ketley and she’s been a model employer. I wouldn’t wish to say anything against her.’

  He still had his smile, as if he recognized and was enjoying the preliminaries to something more serious. ‘I should remind you at this stage that we have now embarked upon a full-scale murder enquiry. Whatever your personal feelings, you must hold back nothing about Mrs Ketley or anyone else.’

  ‘I understand that. But I do not intend to conceal anything. As far as I am concerned, Mrs Ketley had nothing to do with her husband’s death. But I do not know that. If I hear anything which alters my opinion, I shall not cover it up. I realize I would be very foolish if I attempted to deceive the police.’

  ‘I wish everyone would realize that. People who don’t realize it get themselves into all sorts of trouble. For our part, I can assure you that you speak to us in the strictest confidence. Nothing you say in here will be revealed to your fellow-workers or the management – unless it becomes evidence in a murder investigation, of course.’

  ‘I don’t think there’s much danger of that, Chief Inspector.’ Her small, serious face relaxed into a smile and her dark eyes sparkled beneath the short-cut dark hair, making them realize what an attractive woman she was. ‘As you said, in terms of residence, I’m a recent arrival here. In my view, it will be the people who’ve lived here for much longer who might have definite views on who killed Mr Ketley.’

  ‘I see. Well, you’ll be happy to hear that one of those people, the housekeeper Mrs Frobisher, speaks highly of you and the work you have done since you came here.’

  ‘That is good to hear, because it’s Mrs Frobisher to whom I am directly responsible. She has been very good to me; she extended my duties as soon as she decided I was competent. I think she was also widowed early in life, which no doubt gives her a certain sympathy for me.’

  ‘Yes. How did your husband die, Janey?’

  The first intimate question, the first use of her forename. She wondered if he had been planning to dart this at her from the start. ‘Sam died suddenly. He was – he was involved in an accident.’

  ‘Really? It wasn’t from some awful disease, then. One always tends to presume heart disease or some sort of cancer, when a man dies early, nowadays.’

  ‘No, it wasn’t either of those. It was . . .’ Suddenly she was in tears, throwing up her hands, trying to apologize, fighting for words which would not come.

  The formidable Northcott was immediately at her side, thrusting a carefully pressed white handkerchief towards her. It looked even more immaculate as it passed from his large black hands into hers, which looked pale and tiny beside his.

  Janey looked up, surprised by his solicitude, then nodded her gratitude, not trusting herself to speak. She was still shaken by a sob as she eventually managed to say, ‘I’m sorry. But this isn’t relevant, is it?’

  Peach had not moved an inch as he observed the little cameo of emotion between the two. But now he seemed genuinely shaken by his gaffe. ‘Probably not. I suppose I was trying to put you at your ease – mistakenly, as it turns out. It’s a CID habit to find out as much as possible about everyone we speak to.’

  ‘I should be able to talk about Sam’s death, shouldn’t I? It’s five years ago now. But it was a complete shock at the time, and it still catches me out when people raise it unexpectedly.’

  ‘That’s quite understandable – rather to your credit, I’d say. You don’t have any children, Janey?’

  Another crass enquiry. It seemed for a moment as if she would lapse into tears again as she shook her head, not trusting herself with words. Northcott looked at his chief curiously, then accusingly. Peach’s tone was quiet and sympathetic, but did he need to pry into obviously sensitive areas like this? The DCI didn’t attempt to break the silence as it stretched through long seconds. Janey eventually composed herself enough to say, ‘We didn’t have children, no. We were planning them at the time of Sam’s death. Now I wish we’d done it much earlier.’

  ‘I see.’ He shifted his position, glanced for a moment at Northcott. ‘Well, you’ve settled in well here, according to what everyone tells us.’

  ‘Yes.’ She wondered if this was to remind her again that they had spoken to others and taken their opinions, that it would be unwise for her in turn to hold anything back. ‘The people I work closely with, like Mrs Frobisher, have been very kind to me. I’ve only lived in at the Grange for a short time and I don’t know everyone.’

  ‘But people seem to trust you. Rely on you, even. You must have taken it as quite a compliment that Mrs Ketley herself chose to have you beside her when she spoke to us.’

  ‘I suppose it was. I’d rather she hadn’t done that, as a matter of fact. It didn’t make things easy for me with the rest of the staff.’

  ‘I expect some of them were jealous of you.’

  A tiny shrug of the slim shoulders. ‘It’s a small, rather closed world when you’re a resident member of staff in a big house like this. Things can easily get out of proportion. I’m learning things like that as I go along.’

  ‘I’m sure you are. I’m sure you’re an intelligent and resourceful woman. As I said, it’s because you’re a recent resident at the Grange that DS Northcott and I are speaking to you today. You must get to know some of the staff pretty well, when you’re a resident.’

  ‘Only the ones I work closely with, at present. I see people like gardeners and the business employees sometimes at meal times, but there are still people whom I’ve never spoken to.’

  ‘I expect you know the residents well, though. You’re bound to see them outside working hours.’

  She looked full at him for a moment, trying to divine whether this was a serious query or merely a routine comment. Then her features slipped unexpectedly into a rueful smile. ‘I’m rather cautious with new friendships, to tell you the truth. Especially with men: some of them think that a youngish widow is fair game. “Gagging for it” was the term I heard on TV the other night. I’m fairly self-sufficient; I’ve had to be, over the last five years. I suppose I prefer to establish friendships on my own terms.’

  It was a glimpse into a life which the two men in the room with her could only imagine. But this sturdy woman was merely explaining her conduct, not asking for sympathy. Peach accorded her sympathy, but that did not affect his pe
rsistence. He said with a hint of irony, ‘And have you made any attempts at friendship on your own terms in the last few weeks?’

  Janey reflected for a moment, as the question invited her to do. It would have been easy and natural to say no, not as yet. But she had already been reminded twice that they had talked to lots of other people, who must have given their thoughts about her. She wanted to be finished with the CID and their questions, so she mustn’t leave these men with the idea that she was holding anything back. ‘I’ve become quite friendly with Mr Lee – probably more in the days since Mr Ketley was killed than before that, I think. Chung moved into the Grange only a few days before I did and his room is just down the corridor from mine. He’s keen to become a chef and works in the kitchen mostly, so we don’t see each other much during working hours.’

  ‘But you’ve got to know each other quite well, nevertheless.’

  She immediately bridled at that. ‘I didn’t say that. We have in common the facts that we’re resident and that we’re alone. I didn’t find him sexually threatening and you’d probably find he’d say the same about me.’ She gave again that small smile, which was the more attractive for being unexpected and at her own expense. ‘Chung must feel very much alone at times. He’s a long way from home and I think he’s a natural loner.’

  ‘Yes. Mr Lee has friends in Brunton, though. He met one of them on the night when Mr Ketley died.’

  ‘Did he? I’m glad he’s kept up with his friends. Still, he must find it strange here, operating all the time in a foreign language, even though his English seems very good. And now he’s involved in a big murder enquiry. Whatever he’d anticipated when he moved in here, it couldn’t have included that.’

  ‘Mr Lee seems pleased with his decision to come here, though. He told us he’s getting the experience he wanted in the kitchen.’

  ‘Yes. Chung’s very determined. I’m sure he’ll end up as a chef with his own restaurant, one day. And I for one would be happy to eat there.’

  Clyde Northcott decided that she would make a good friend, this quiet, contained, effortlessly pretty woman. Far too old for him, of course, but a good friend to have. He said, ‘Mr Lee was pleased with the financial aspects of working here, when we spoke to him. He found he lived cheaply and could save most of his wage.’

  She looked at him for a moment, then gave him a smile which conveyed that she knew much more of life than he did. ‘And you’d like to know if I too am doing well for myself? Yes, I can confirm everything you say about the benefits of residence. We exist very cheaply here. And unlike the Victorian servants who lived here when the older part of the house was built, we have comfortable, well-heated rooms and we are paid a decent wage. Would you like to see my room?’

  Peach smiled back at her, as if in appreciation of the way she had handled Northcott’s suggestion. ‘That won’t be necessary at this stage, Janey. We must be on our way in a moment.’

  She didn’t like that phrase ‘at this stage’. She was sure he’d thrown it in deliberately to intimidate her. ‘I don’t think there’s anything else I can tell you.’

  ‘Except who you think killed Oliver Ketley,’ he said quietly.

  She was getting used to the way this bouncy little man suddenly flung unexpected and important questions at her. She said calmly, ‘I’ve thought about it, of course. I expect everyone here has. But I haven’t come up with any theories. And as I’ve indicated, I tend to keep myself to myself, most of the time. So I haven’t heard any interesting theories from anyone else.’

  Peach handed her a card, ‘When you do, please phone this number immediately.’

  ‘When’, not ‘if’, she noticed. She took the card, looked at it for a moment, and nodded.

  As the police car wound its way back to Brunton station, Peach said happily, ‘You rather fell for little Mrs Johnson, didn’t you, Clyde?’

  ‘Not at all, sir. I try to remain objective at all times, as you’ve taught me to do. I do think she’s making the best of life in trying circumstances. I think she’d make a good witness in court, if it ever came to it.’

  ‘As it may do, Clyde, as it may do. Never rule these things out. There’s something we need to do when we get back to the nick and the computers, DS Northcott. Can you think what that might be?’

  Clyde thought for a moment, then reluctantly shook his head.

  Peach smiled happily at such naivety. ‘We need to find out exactly how Sam Johnson, Janey’s late husband, died.’

  There was a much more pressing and intriguing task waiting for Clyde Northcott at the station.

  ‘A woman rang in. Wants to speak to you and only you. She wouldn’t give me any idea what it was about.’ The young uniformed officer didn’t make any joking remark about his relationship with this woman, because she was secretly attracted to Clyde herself. She found his tallness, his hardness, his smooth ebony face which might have come from an Egyptian temple, an intriguing combination.

  Northcott’s past gave him an extra dimension. There were all sorts of rumours around the station of how he was now in the process of redeeming the violent and lurid years he had lived before becoming a copper – rumours invariably gather size and glamour in the telling. And now this mysterious figure was a detective sergeant, one of the youngest in the Brunton establishment. PC Jones had not been long in the force herself; she was still at what her anxious mother called an impressionable age.

  If DS Northcott had any inkling of her secret passion for him, he gave no sign of it. He thanked her for the message, gave her no idea who the caller might be, and went away to ring the number in private. He didn’t even use the station phones. He went out to the car park, sat astride his Yamaha R1, and dialled the number into his mobile.

  He was prepared to convince the woman of his identity, but she recognized his distinctive deep, dark-brown voice immediately. ‘I’ve got something for you.’

  ‘How big, Joey? Can it wait? I’m on a big case at the moment.’

  ‘It’s big. Maybe the biggest.’

  Snouts always wanted to say that, always wanted to stress the importance of what they had to give. That was important to the price; this was a buyer’s market, with the price always in the hands of the copper who was paying for the information. Clyde hissed, ‘Don’t piss me about, Joey! How big?’

  ‘The biggest, Bonzo.’ The name she had called him when she wanted to taunt him, in the old days. Her voice dropped lower still. ‘Could be very big, this. It’s connected with this Ketley killing. You buying?’

  He gave it a couple of seconds of thought. But you couldn’t work out the value of this in a phone conversation. It might be vital, as she claimed, or it might be nothing at all. ‘I might be buying, Joey. But only if it’s as big as you claim it is. Only if you’re not pissing me about!’

  ‘I wouldn’t do that, would I, Bonzo? You wouldn’t want to miss this. That’s all I’m saying, on the phone.’

  ‘You in the same place?’

  ‘Same place. Place where I turned over my new leaf.’

  He didn’t comment on that. ‘Seven thirty tonight.’

  ‘Come the back way. I don’t want anyone round here seeing me talking to the filth.’

  ‘I hope it’s as good as you say it is, Joey.’

  Clyde Northcott stared at his mobile for a moment, not feeling the February cold of the car park as he should have done. It still might be nothing, as he’d said. But he felt the excitement pulsing through him. He wished he could roar away at that moment on the powerful machine beneath him.

  FIFTEEN

  Four o’clock was the time. That was the arrangement they’d made, and Greta Ketley knew he would stick to it. She wasn’t to phone him. He would ring her; if she didn’t answer the first two rings, that would mean that she wasn’t alone. He’d put his phone down and not try again. They’d spoken on Sunday, when she’d rung him. Just over two days ago. It seemed much longer.

  She listened to the pips announcing the hour on Radio 4. On the last
and longest one, which announced the hour exactly, her mobile rang. Bang on time as usual. She placed the tiny box against her ear and rapped out the formula they had always used to confirm that it was safe to go ahead. ‘Greta Ketley here. To whom am I speaking?’

  ‘Martin Price here,’ he said, echoing her formality. And then, in his normal voice, ‘How’s it going, my darling?’

  ‘I can’t believe I’m speaking to you! It seems ages. I know it isn’t.’ Her English was normally so flawless that many took her for a native speaker. Now her attractive Swedish accent came out, as it always did when she was excited, so that Price in his flat felt excited in turn and much closer to her. ‘Have you done the identification?’

  ‘Yes. I did it yesterday morning.’

  ‘Was it horrid?’

  ‘It wasn’t pleasant. But I didn’t break down. I thought it would take me back to my early days with Oliver, when things had been better, but it didn’t. I didn’t feel anything, really, except glad that it was over.’

  Martin didn’t know whether she meant the marriage and her years with Ketley or merely the ordeal of the identification, but he had the sense not to ask. ‘He was shot through the head. Was that very obvious?’

  It sounded almost like a professional interest. Martin had seen many dead men in his time, some of them much more gory than the one she had stared at so briefly at the mortuary. Some of them had been his friends, some of them had been enemies killed by his own hand. Greta felt a sharp, guilty thrill in these images of death and violence. ‘I’d expected it to be much worse. They presented the corpse so that the point where the bullet had entered was on the far side from me. They’d brushed his hair over the exit point on his forehead, so that you couldn’t see much of it. You told me how they do their best to tidy up the body for identification, didn’t you?’