by J M Gregson
Chung summoned his resolution for a last denial. Against all the odds, they seemed reasonable people, these British policemen. They seemed to see the justice of his case. They would surely not wish to put him away for this, if he could convince them he hadn’t done it. ‘I should have liked to kill that man, yes. That would have given me great satisfaction. But in the end I did not need to. Someone else got there before me. I hope you never find out who it was.’
There was no moon visible as Greta Ketley drove into the visitors’ car park. The Georgian house which had been converted to luxury flats rose like a dark cliff above her as she climbed out of the Audi.
There was no reason why she should not see Martin quite openly now. Oliver couldn’t harm them. The police had discovered Martin and their relationship. There was really no need for concealment. But old habits die hard; a week ago, discovery would have meant death for Martin and something worse than death for her. When the stakes had been as high as that, you didn’t readily abandon the habit of caution.
As usual, the flat door opened without her ringing the bell. She liked the fact that he had been waiting for her, but she knew she would have liked anything about him tonight. He put a hand on each of her shoulders, held her at arm’s length to look into her face, as if seeing her and loving her for the first time all over again. Both of them understood that: they had never needed many words.
Martin Price said, ‘I’d almost forgotten how beautiful you are. It isn’t long – under a week. But it feels as if it’s been months.’
‘It does to me too, my darling. But now we have the rest of our lives.’
Lovers speak like that and mean it. To outsiders it sounds fatuous, but what matters is that they mean it. Even if many love affairs do not last the years they should, the lovers need to believe these wide, sometimes absurd, claims they make about the rest of their lives.
As if they recognized that words were unreliable, this pair did not use many of them. They smiled at each other for a moment, almost shyly. Then he hugged her hard, kissed her tenderly, and led her not into the sitting room but the bedroom, as she wished him to do. She eased off his jacket and he slid her sweater tenderly over her shoulders and her head. They kissed again, his right hand holding her breast and squeezing it softly. Then they undressed without a word and slid between the silk sheets, hands searching for each other as carefully as if this was the first time.
Greta was surprised by how long they took over the preliminaries, using their hands to explore each other’s bodies, gently at first and then with deliciously increasing urgency. When she spoke at last, it was only to reinforce what their limbs were saying to each other. ‘This is our honeymoon!’ she whispered. ‘This is Martin and Greta beginning a new life together.’
And then at last their bodies stiffened and he stroked the soft symmetry of her shoulder blades, then the small of her back and the pleasures below it. They had complete confidence in each other, as lovers should. The whole exchange became more hectic and urgent as urge answered urge and they climaxed exquisitely together.
They lay for a long time without words afterwards, staring up at the ceiling they could scarcely see. Each revelled in the nearness of the other, in the fact that they were so happy without the need of words. Eventually his hand found hers and squeezed gently. ‘Do you want a drink?’
‘Tea would be nice. Nothing alcoholic – we don’t need stimulants.’
He brought them tea in bone china beakers. She liked the quality he seemed to seek out, even in beakers. But then she would have considered it tasteful tonight if he had served it in chipped earthenware, she thought, with that secret smile he found so attractive.
Martin drained his beaker and said, ‘How are the police getting on?’
It should have been an intrusion upon their magic, private world, but tonight nothing could spoil things. She said, ‘They seemed very pleased to have found out about us. Made quite a big thing of how I’d played the grieving widow and tried to deceive them. But they don’t seem to have much idea about who killed Oliver. They don’t like him any more than we did. He’s a bigger villain than I ever knew he was when he was alive. Perhaps they’re not going to bother too much about who removed him.’
‘We mustn’t rely on that. Murder is murder to the police, whoever the victim is. And we’ve got the most obvious of all the motives.’
Neither of them wanted to talk more about the death which had freed them. They made love again, more slowly and with more caresses this time. It was different but equally delicious. Quite a long time later, he said, ‘You could stay the night, couldn’t you?’
‘I could. I don’t think I should, though. I think I should get back to the Grange and keep an eye on things there. We don’t want to draw attention to ourselves.’
She meant it, but a tiny part of her was disappointed when he agreed with her so readily. She was fully dressed and putting on her shoes when she said, ‘You told me you’d had two detective sergeants to see you. You haven’t seen the main man, then? Detective Chief Inspector Peach?’
‘No. They said he might want to speak to me later.’
‘You need to watch out for him. He’s a clever devil. Don’t give him anything, or he’ll be like a dog with a bone.’
It was a cliché that stayed with Martin Price all through the night.
EIGHTEEN
George French decided that a little righteous indignation would probably be in order for the model citizen he claimed to be. ‘I don’t think I wish to speak with you again. I said everything I had to say when you were here on Monday.’
He had only half-opened the door of his bungalow and now he threatened to close it in their faces. Peach smiled sadly at Clyde Northcott, then shrugged. ‘We can have a nice friendly chat here, or we can take you to the station and question you under caution as a contract killer. I prefer friendly chats, but the choice is yours, George.’
French knew there was no choice at all. He stared at them malevolently for a moment, then turned and led them into his comfortable living room. ‘Your idea of friendly isn’t mine. Say what you have to say and then be on your way.’
Peach had not been invited to sit, but he now disposed himself carefully on the sofa and gestured to Northcott to join him. He stretched his short, grey-suited legs and examined the high polish on his black toecaps. When you dealt with the young yobboes of Brunton on a regular basis, you became an expert in dumb insolence. It was several seconds before he said, ‘Further information has come to light, sir.’
French sighed elaborately. ‘Further information about what?’
Peach used the opportunity to stretch his eyebrows high towards the whiteness of his bald pate. ‘Why, about the murder of Oliver Ketley, of course. Did you have some other crime in mind that you wished to help us with?’
George French realized he had almost made a mistake, that in displaying his contempt for these men he should also be careful. Because it was still fresh in his own mind, he had suspected for a moment that they knew about the killing in Birmingham on the previous day. ‘I had nothing to do with Ketley’s death. I told you that on Monday.’
‘Indeed you did, sir. But you will remember that we had information which caused us to doubt your assurances. We now know rather more and are even less confident of your innocence.’ He beamed as if that was entirely to his satisfaction.
‘I didn’t kill Ketley and I don’t know who did. That is what I said on Monday and that remains the situation today, however much baffled plods might wish it otherwise.’
This was definitely one up from the inarticulate yobboes of Brunton. Peach continued to smile whilst he nodded appreciatively, as if every new denial that French made was merely sealing his fate. ‘Whenever it becomes necessary, we can prove in court that you received the first payment of twenty-five thousand pounds for this killing.’ Though he spoke with impressive confidence to shake his man, he doubted if that was actually the case. ‘In due course, we shall no doubt secure the detai
ls of the final payment, made after Ketley’s dispatch.’
‘You won’t, because no such payment was ever made.’
‘You’re admitting the preliminary payment, then, are you, Mr French? Well, I suppose that’s progress, of a sort. Make a note of it, please, DS Northcott.’
‘I’m admitting no such thing. Make a note of that, please, DS Northcott.’ French, who had remained standing when his visitors seated themselves, now reluctantly sat in his armchair to face them. ‘You plainly have me confused with some other person, DCI Peach. I’ve been very patient, but you should know that my patience is not inexhaustible.’
‘I’m pleased to hear that, because we haven’t got all day to waste here. Pleasant and respectable though it is, of course.’ Peach looked down the garden to the newly dug vegetable plot. ‘Your neighbours would have a hell of a shock if they knew what you did for a living.’
French, who frequently had the same thought himself, did not welcome it from this source. ‘Have you come here for any other reason than to offer me insults? I have work to get on with. I’m expecting a call from the MD of a firm which has just retained me for a site in Newcastle.’
‘Work? Ah, the famed engineering consultancy! Do you know, I’d almost forgotten about that, George? Good thing you reminded me – and reminded yourself, I expect. Have you equipped yourself with any new weapons in the last few months?’
‘No. Just the ones I use at the shooting club. Both fully licensed.’
‘So you wouldn’t know anything about a Ruger SR9 pistol?’
‘Nothing whatsoever. A powerful and efficient weapon, I’m told, but I’ve never fired one.’
But Peach had seen a flash of interest in the heavy-lidded eyes, a brief moment of recognition. ‘A weapon purchased in America and brought through Manchester airport illegally by one Stephen Greenoe. It would have been a useful addition to the armoury of a contract killer.’
‘But not to that of an amateur who shoots very occasionally at a club.’
George French had recovered himself in a flash, but even his momentary lapse upset him, because he knew Peach had seen it. French was amoral, like most people who assess the odds and kill for money. He was a perfectionist who lived alone and prided himself upon his self-sufficiency. Increasingly as his strange life went on, he felt the lack of any close companion to confide in. Perhaps that affected what he did now. He leaned forward and said, ‘We’re off the record, aren’t we?’
‘Completely off the record, George. No one is going to re-hear this conversation, unless you have this place bugged.’
‘I did hear a whisper about those weapons from America.’
‘At your shooting club, no doubt.’
‘Eh? Oh, yes, at the shooting club. It must have been there. I heard most of them had gone to Oliver Ketley’s organization.’
‘Did you, indeed? Interesting. And not impossible, I’d have said.’
‘Really? Well, you know about these things and I know nothing.’
‘Except where that pistol came from and where it went to. What I have to ask myself is why you would pass on the information to DS Northcott and me.’
‘Because I am acting as the good citizen you told me I should be and that you refuse to believe I am. I’m merely passing on a rumour I heard to the authorities.’
‘I think you’re telling me that if Ketley was killed with Ruger SR9 pistol, it couldn’t have been by you, because you would have used your usual handgun.’
‘I was saying nothing of the kind. But if it shatters your bizarre theories about me, then I’m happy you think that.’
‘Oh, it doesn’t do that, French. Try this one for size. All killers are opportunists, and contract killers most of all. You go there equipped to murder with your usual weapon, but find that the victim has his own handgun on his person. So you shoot him through the temple with that, then add a clumsy attempt to fake a suicide by sticking the pistol in his hand. Leaves no chance of the slug from your own firearm being identified and traced back to the weapon which fired it.’
Peach had spoken slowly and deliberately, watching his man’s eyes for any further revelation, but George French had been caught out once. He exhibited no further weakness. He said, ‘You live in a devious and ingenious world, DCI Peach. I am glad that I have no part of it. From what I hear, the world is well rid of Oliver Ketley, so I don’t think I shall wish you success in your investigation.’
‘Are you prepared to give us a DNA sample?’
The sudden request did not ruffle him. If anything, there was a trace of amusement now in the deep-set eyes and satisfaction in the sallow face. ‘Not voluntarily, no. I have indulged your outlandish theories quite enough by talking to you about the weapon and passing on a rumour I’d picked up. Now I should like you to leave my house.’
They were up on the moors, ten miles along their route back to Brunton, before Peach said, ‘Whether that bugger killed Ketley or not, he knows how he died.’
Greta Ketley found that her husband’s death brought an enormous release to her. Only with his passing did she realize quite how inhibited she had been in her own household. She had grown used to weighing her every word before she spoke it, as if she were enclosed in a police state, where innocent phrases might be turned against her. Now, after the foetid staleness of life with Oliver, sun and fresh, clear air were sweeping back into her life.
She found Janey Johnson very easy to talk to. It had been an impulsive rather than a considered decision to invite this bright young woman into her life. The more natural confidante would have been Mrs Frobisher. She trusted the housekeeper, who had always displayed an unspoken understanding of her situation and a sympathy for it. But there was a natural reserve about the older woman, a consciousness of the employer-employee relationship which would have made it difficult for her to exchange confidences. Moreover, she had been at Thorley Grange from the start; through no fault of her own, she was identified with the repressive regime and Oliver Ketley.
Janey, though she had worked at the Grange for some time, was a much more recent resident, and she had apparently found the world of Oliver Ketley as strange and constricting as Greta had. She was nearer in age to Greta than Mrs Frobisher, being thirty-five to Greta’s forty-two. Within a few days of Oliver Ketley’s death, reserve had dropped away from his widow and she was talking freely to Janey about many things.
Janey was the first person in the house she told about Martin Price, and she gave her more than the simple facts of the affair. Once she had begun to talk, Greta found she wanted to convey her own excitement and pleasure. Martin was a good man and she wanted now to spend the rest of her life with him; it was important to her that she convinced Janey that this was a long-term partnership, not a passing sexual fling.
With some prompting from her mistress, Janey spoke a little about her own husband. She had been very close to Sam. As always when a man dies young and unexpectedly, there were regrets for a few of the things they had done and many more for the things they had left undone. The fact that neither of these woman had the children she would have liked was a bond between them. When Janey Johnson was persuaded eventually to speak of the family she had planned with Sam and never achieved, she descended unexpectedly into quiet weeping. But that too strengthened the bond between them, as the revelation of vulnerability invariably does.
On Thursday, five days after the death which had brought them so unexpectedly close, Greta said, ‘How well do you know Chung Lee?’
‘Not well. He seems a nice, rather serious young man. But he keeps himself to himself most of the time; I wish all men did the same.’
Greta smiled. Her pretty young companion had had offers, even within the household in the few weeks since she had been here. Even during the last few days, in fact: Oliver’s death seemed to have removed other inhibitions as well as her own. Greta looked at her new friend’s neat dark hair and large, unexpectedly humorous, brown eyes. Greta was sure that she herself had looked prettier since la
st Saturday’s events had freed her; now she fancied that Janey also looked livelier and more attractive since that death. Greta said, ‘Let me know if anyone is being a nuisance to you.’
‘It’s not a problem. Most men get the message, if you’re firm. The problem is that you don’t want to humiliate them. Most of them are just following their hormones; they don’t push it, once you show you’re not interested. Why did you want to know about Chung Lee?’
‘He came to see me this morning. He’s wondering about his long-term prospects. Basically, he wanted to know about the future of this place. And I couldn’t give him any firm answers, except that nothing will happen immediately.’
‘I expect he’s worried about his own plans. I gather he wants to become a skilled chef and run his own restaurant.’
‘That’s ambitious. It’s a crowded field.’
Janey determined to do her best for Chung. ‘I wouldn’t put it past him. He seems very hard-working. And I think your chef would tell you that he’s made a good start here.’
‘I told him that. I tried to assure him that whatever happened I would try to look after him. He said if there was no long-term future here he’d need to make other plans quickly, but I told him not to do anything in a hurry. I said I’d speak to him again when I’d had more time to think. He’s worried about the CID men – apparently they’ve already interviewed him twice.’
‘Poor man. He must feel a long way from home. And also threatened, I suppose; most of us trust our police not to fit people up for crimes, but I expect Chung feels more isolated and more under suspicion because he’s a foreigner.’
Greta nodded. ‘I couldn’t get him to talk much. But I gathered that DCI Peach – that’s the bouncy little detective with the bald head and the moustache – caught him out in a couple of things. I gather he’s no alibi for the time when Oliver was shot, like most of us. He was here on Saturday night, but he’s got no one to vouch for that.’