by J M Gregson
Tucker waved his right hand vaguely over his empty desk. ‘Why don’t you get on and arrest this man? And the widow too, if she was in it with him.’
‘Lack of evidence, sir. Of course, if you’d like to give us the go-ahead for these arrests, we’d be happy to make them.’ He stared steadily at his chief; a small, mysterious smile appeared upon the versatile Peach lips.
‘You know I don’t interfere with my staff. I’m merely trying to GAL-VAN-IZE them.’ It was a word Tucker had picked up from a recent management circular; he pronounced each fearful syllable of it in capital letters.
Peach did not seem as impressed as he should have been. ‘Martin Price is the man involved. Both he and Greta Ketley say they now intend to get married. Price has the know-how, the background and the motive for this crime, with or without Greta Ketley’s assistance.’
The Tucker chin jutted aggressively. ‘Then why hasn’t he been arrested?’
‘Because we haven’t yet managed to place him at the scene of the crime, sir.’
‘Then get on and do so! Haven’t house-to-house enquiries given you anything?’
‘Nothing conclusive, sir. Indeed, very little indeed. A woman thought she saw a couple walking away from the spot where the Bentley was parked at around half past nine, but can give no details of them at all, beyond the fact that they appeared to be a man and woman. She thinks they had linked arms or were holding hands, but she’s not even sure of that. She was only interested in driving her own car into her garage and getting safely into the warmth of her home on a cold night.’
Tucker sighed extravagantly at this terrible omission by a member of the anonymous masses he was supposed to protect. ‘What about your hit-man?’
Percy noted that any unproductive suspect became his, whilst any promising one was ‘ours’. Tommy Bloody Tucker was a hopeless golfer, but he had the attributes of an experienced caddie. ‘George French? He’s certainly a killer and we know he was employed by a rival villain to kill Ketley. But again, we can’t place him at the scene. And whilst we know he received the customary advance payment for a contract killing, we haven’t so far pinned down the second payment which follows the completion of the assignment.’
Tucker shook his head gloomily. ‘I hope it isn’t French. If it is, you’ll never pin the bastard down. And we need a result!’ He leant forward and banged his desk emphatically.
‘We’re watching Martin Price and Greta Ketley closely and keeping our ears to the ground, sir.’ Percy suddenly caught the mixed imagery of this, and cackled high and loud. ‘Quite a feat, sir, if you could bring it off, eh?’
Tucker, who had started violently, now rubbed his ears vigorously. ‘I do wish you wouldn’t do that, Peach. It’s a most unseemly noise for a Detective Chief Inspector.’
‘Sorry, sir. I won’t burden you with any further speculation or unseemly noises. I shall go away and push the enquiry forward vigorously.’
He left a rather dazed Detective Chief Superintendent feeling considerably irritated but very little wiser. Peach was clearly a difficult man to GAL-VAN-IZE.
On the night of Thursday, 24th February, Martin Price drove his car between the high gates of Thorley Grange for the first time in his life. He parked the BMW near the main entrance to the house, where it would be quite obvious to the resident staff. He got out and stood for a moment with a proprietorial air, admiring the impressive front elevation of the original building which was all that was visible here. He glanced round at the parkland through which he had driven, then mounted the steps unhurriedly to the front doors of the Grange.
It was the statement of intent he had agreed upon with Greta. He enjoyed making it.
Greta greeted him, then embraced him warmly in the privacy of her own apartments. Suddenly, they were in bed and making love. This wasn’t part of what they had agreed beforehand, but it proved a wholly acceptable diversion. Martin lay back with her head upon his arm and gazed happily at the high ceiling. Then he frowned. ‘Is this the bed you used with Oliver?’
‘No. He had his own room and his own bed. I used to go to him there when – when it was necessary.’
‘Like a king and queen.’
‘Yes. Like Henry the Eighth, I used to think. You never knew quite what to expect. And you knew you mustn’t step out of line.’
He drew a finger softly down the vein on the inside of her arm. ‘That’s all over now.’
‘Yes. I can hardly believe it. I have to keep reminding myself.’ She let him stroke her arm again, then leaned over and ran her hand through his short fair hair, feeling its springiness against her palm. ‘Would it have worried you, if this had been Oliver’s bed?’
He smiled, his eyes upon the mouldings of the ceiling again. ‘Not really, no. I’ve made love in some very odd places, in my time. So long as I had you with me, the location would soon be forgotten!’
She loved him for that – not for the conventional compliment at the end, but for not disguising that he’d had other women in other places before he met her. She said, ‘It’s time we were moving. I told them seven thirty for dinner.’ When he reached out to restrain her, she levered herself up on her elbows and looked down into his face. ‘We’ve no need to snatch at things now, my love. We’ll hold each other again in this bed tonight. We’ve no need to snatch at things for the rest of our lives.’ She spoke wonderingly, as if she could hardly believe it.
They ate in the small annexe which she’d always used when there were no guests to be entertained with pomp and ceremony in the main dining room. She was there exactly at the time she had arranged. She was the mistress of the place and no one could have chided her if she’d been late, but she regarded punctuality as one of her duties. Besides, the food was always at its best if it didn’t sit around waiting for you.
They had a good bottle of claret with the beef and chatted like a happily married couple. It was the performance they had planned for the staff, but they found it came naturally enough to them. Indeed, for Greta it came much more easily than the strained charades of closeness she had needed to perform with Oliver in the months that were gone. There was a moment of intimacy, when the main course had been served and there was no one in the room but the couple at the table. They clinked glasses, muttered a toast to the life to come, and touched fingers briefly.
A little later, he tried to discuss their future together and what they would do about the Grange and its staff. But Greta said, ‘It’s too early for that, my love. And this isn’t the place. There are people serving this meal and running this place who have more at stake than either of us.’
‘You’re right. I should never have raised it. Not here, and not now.’ He was a man used to secrecy, a man for whom it had been a necessary fact of life in many a hazardous enterprise. He had no secrets from Greta; they had come a long way together in the last year, and had further still to go.
But elsewhere it would be difficult but necessary to drop the habit of secrecy, with his last great coup achieved.
In the house of Jack Burgess at Alderley Edge, things were nothing like so relaxed. He had summoned his hit-man, and the hit-man had not wanted to come.
The whole essence of being a contract killer was anonymity. George French had lived by that maxim so thoroughly that he was distinctly uncomfortable whenever he was compelled to abandon it. Jack Burgess was a good customer and a good payer, and the customer called the tune. So he had come here when bidden, parking his car a hundred and fifty yards from the gate of the high Edwardian house, as was his wont. But he wasn’t easy about his presence here with the gangland boss.
Indeed, he went so far as to offer the opinion that this could have been better done by telephone, from the point of view of both parties.
Jack Burgess smiled. ‘You’re quite safe here, George. You surely didn’t think you’d anything to fear from me?’
‘No, of course not.’ French had noticed that all these tycoons of crime liked to demonstrate their power, as if they had to remind thems
elves continually of how far they had come. ‘It’s just that I like to keep a low profile.’
‘And I like to see the people I use face to face occasionally, George. Especially those people whose services I retain for money.’
‘Ah! I was going to mention that, as soon as I got the chance.’
Burgess let the words hang in the high, quiet room, as though exposure to the air might somehow diminish them and cast the appropriate doubt upon the speaker. ‘Really, George? I thought myself that there’d been a notable absence of contact or information from your quarter.’
‘I’ve been interviewed twice by the CID. They came to my house.’
‘Yes, I know that. Cigar, George?’ He pushed the open box towards his visitor and began the unhurried process of piercing and lighting a cigar for himself.
‘No thanks.’
‘No? Well, I suppose anything which might take the edge off the French reflexes has to be avoided, eh?’ He blew a long, reflective funnel of blue smoke towards the glass bowl of the light fitting.
‘But I didn’t deliver on the assignment you offered me.’
‘Indeed you didn’t George. Pity, that, from your point of view.’
‘I didn’t fail. My preliminary plans were already in place. But someone got there before me.’ Burgess was making him nervous, and nervousness was something this cool and well-organized man wasn’t used to.
‘Yes. Who was that, George?’
‘I don’t know. I thought you might know, Mr Burgess.’
‘Me? Oh no, I’m an innocent in such things, George.’
It seemed a strange statement from the man who had given him twenty-five thousand as deposit for the killing of Oliver Ketley. ‘I don’t know either. I’m innocent of this killing.’
‘I believe you are, George. Though not quite so innocent of the death of a certain man in Birmingham yesterday, I hear.’ Burgess blew another long, leisurely plume of smoke and smiled reflectively as it dissipated around the light. ‘The problem is that I don’t like paying for services which haven’t been rendered. You’ve just said you didn’t deliver on Oliver Ketley. Pity, but there it is. I’ve made a large preliminary payment, but never received delivery.’ He nodded slowly, apparently happy with his phrasing.
‘I’ve every intention of reimbursing, you, Mr Burgess. Always have had.’
‘That’s good to hear, George. I’m sure my staff will also be glad to hear it.’
French ignored the threat. ‘It’s just that with the police watching my every move, I didn’t want to offer them anything.’ A happy thought occurred to him. ‘I didn’t wish to do anything which might lead them to you.’
‘Admirable, George, admirable. But I don’t like paying for what hasn’t happened, as I said. It’s a matter of principle. If I let one person get away with exploiting me, the word might get around and others might be tempted, you see.’
‘I’ve always had every intention of returning your money, Mr Burgess.’ The fear he heard in his voice wasn’t a good advertisement for a contract killer. But he was an individual operator, and Burgess had a huge criminal organization. In real life, Goliath rarely lost.
‘That’s why I brought you here tonight, George, you see. To make things simple for you. An old-fashioned cheque will suffice.’ He gestured towards the desk and the thirties desk-set upon it.
French had many objections to cheques, but he wasn’t going to voice them now, in this room where might was so emphatically right. He slipped a cheque-book from his inside pocket and said, ‘To whom do I make it payable?’
‘I like that “To whom”, George. Shows a well-educated man, that does. Burgess Enterprises will do, for this one. And you must have had certain preliminary expenses.’
‘Pardon? Oh, yes, I mentioned that I’d made preparations for the assignment.’
‘You did indeed, George. And I shall make allowances for that, being a reasonable man.’
‘There’s no need for that, Mr Burgess. Luck of the game, as you might say.’
‘Might you, indeed?’ He blew a valedictory funnel of smoke, then stubbed his cigar into the ashtray. ‘But fair’s fair, George. I shall allow you five thousand for preliminary preparations and the expenses involved. I know you plan carefully, and I know that time is money, for a professional man like you. Make out your cheque for twenty thousand only – assuming that is acceptable for you.’
‘Very fair, Mr Burgess.’
‘Good. I like to be fair. I should like to think you would be glad to oblige if I should require your services in the future.’
‘Always willing, Mr Burgess. And always discreet.’ French tried too late to recover equilibrium and standing.
‘Good to hear, George, good to hear. And now I expect you’d like to be on your way.’
George French had to prevent himself from scurrying down the drive. In the road outside, he found himself wishing that his car was rather nearer. He kept a wary eye on the straggling rhododendrons and cedars in the gardens of the big houses beside him as he hurried back to his car. He wasn’t used to being scared. But then he was used to controlling the places where he went and the plans of action he followed.
He drove fast down the M56 towards the haven of his anonymous bungalow in Oldham.
TWENTY-ONE
Percy Peach was normally a good sleeper. It was one of the reasons why he arrived at the station bouncing with the energy of a March hare, a quality much regretted by his fellow officers in the CID section.
But in the early hours of Friday the 26th February he was much disturbed. He woke at one a.m. with an idea in his mind which refused to be dismissed. He slept but fitfully for the rest of the night. Like all people in such circumstances, he resented the serene sleeping of the person beside him. Lucy lay still and breathed evenly through the wildest of his speculations. That seemed to him insensitive. He was, he was sure, quite right to be irritated.
He would like to have tested his ideas against his wife’s sturdy common sense, but she slept on regardless until the clock shrilled beside them. Then she stretched her arms extravagantly, slid from the bed, and showered quickly. ‘Time you were moving!’ she called breezily to the mound beneath the bedclothes.
Percy had suffered the usual fate of the deprived sleeper. He had fallen into an exhausted sleep half an hour before the alarm summoned him back to the harsh realities of the day. ‘Who rattled your cage?’ he growled at Lucy, who was already almost dressed.
‘And a bright good morning to you too.’ She slipped into a New York accent for the phrase she knew he hated. ‘Have a nice day now!’
Percy groaned and levered himself to a sitting position on the edge of the bed. He scratched his head, as he remembered his father doing when he was a boy. But his father had possessed hair, which he did not. He felt better by the time he had washed and shaved. The ideas which had disturbed his night were still with him. He would run them past Lucy at breakfast and get her professional opinion as to the best way to proceed.
But Lucy was ready for the off as he poured his cereal from the packet. ‘We’ve got militant Muslims to question,’ she explained casually, as if this was run-of-the-mill stuff for her. Unfortunately, that was very nearly the true situation. Brunton, with its large Asian population, was a centre for the fanatical minority who plotted terrorist acts. The CID section where DS Lucy Peach now worked was aware of several embryo plots against the state. They observed and waited, hamstrung by the necessary restrictions of a democracy. You couldn’t arrest and charge anyone until you had enough evidence to mount a convincing case in court. Yet if you let the action move beyond a certain point you endangered innocent human lives.
‘Good luck, then. And for God’s sake take care!’
She smiled at him from the door, blew a silent kiss at the figure hunched at the breakfast table, and was gone. It was a useless phrase he had flung at her as she left – like that of an anxious parent. But wasn’t that appropriate, for a newly married man bidding farewell to the woma
n he loved? Percy went back to his thoughts of the small hours and his plans to take account of them. He knew quite well what he was going to do, but it would have been heartening to run it past Lucy, his companion on many previous and similar occasions.
Instead, he voiced his thoughts to that very different figure, DS Clyde Northcott. The tall and powerful black man could hardly have been more different in appearance from the fair-skinned, chestnut-haired and voluptuous Lucy Peach. Yet they had one thing in common which was more important than any physical feature. Both of them were detective sergeants, experienced not only in the many manifestations of crime but in what was possible and what was not for those whose duty it was to uphold the law.
Clyde Northcott listened, at first doubtingly, then with increasing excitement. He asked a number of questions as Peach outlined his thinking, then sought directions about the way he should play his own part in this unfolding drama. ‘By ear,’ said Percy rather grimly. ‘We haven’t a lot of firm evidence yet. We’ll get it over the next couple of weeks, if we have to. My feeling is that there won’t be much resistance, if we blend accusation with understanding and a little bluff.’
Clyde weighed this judgement as he drove the police Mondeo towards Thorley Grange. Percy Peach was very good at understanding and bluff. He also had judgement, an appreciation of when to move and of what was possible. As his still quite new DS, Clyde was quite prepared to follow the master. He was also unexpectedly nervous about it. Playing it by ear was all very well, but if you misjudged the moment, you made mistakes. And Percy had that determined look which indicated that he wouldn’t allow mistakes.
They’d given no notice of their arrival, since Peach wanted the two people concerned to have no warning and no chance to confer. Mrs Frobisher allotted them the office by the front entrance, which had been little used since Ketley’s death, and promised to locate and deliver the two employees concerned without delay. It was a test of her professional bearing, but the housekeeper passed it easily enough. She showed neither the surprise nor the curiosity she felt with the announcement of these names.