by Gregson, J M
‘Inspector Peach!’ The intruder rapped out his introduction as brusquely as if he had been taking a prisoner. ‘And this is Detective Sergeant Blake.’
Darren had not even noticed the woman at first, so precipitate had been Peach’s entry. She was in her mid-twenties, with remarkable ultramarine eyes and red-brown hair that gleamed even in this sunless room at the back of the building. She was in plain clothes, and she filled her dark green sweater quite splendidly. Darren gave her a smile of welcome, which he would have amplified if the inspector in his immaculate dark suit had allowed it.
Without being asked, Peach sat down in the chair in front of the desk where Darren usually asked his visitors to sit, and said, ‘Best make yourself comfortable. This may take a while.’
Darren sat as he was told, feeling immediately off balance as this visitor took the initiative in the chair where people normally waited for his advice. ‘You must be the Cartwright of Cartwright Financial Services,’ said Peach, scarcely bothering to register Darren’s nod of acknowledgement. ‘They say in Yorkshire that where there’s muck there’s brass. In Lancashire, we’re more inclined to find that where there’s brass there’s usually muck. Us being policemen, of course, and muck meaning villainy.’ He stared suspiciously round the walls, as if he expected villainy to leap out at him from Cartwright’s tasteful prints of the Lake District.
Darren tried to recover his poise. ‘Yes, that’s as may be, but I wish you’d thought to make an appointment before you came!’
He made to shift the file he had been using for his phone call, then gave up the idea as the dark eyes opposite him fell like lasers upon the back of his hands.
‘I was told it was urgent,’ said Peach implacably, ‘that you’d been complaining about the lack of police attention. So I came round here like a whippet out of its hutch.’
Darren wasn’t sure that whippets were kept in hutches, but he had no direct experience of the animals. He said weakly, ‘It’s true that I had asked for some sort of police attention. I’ve been threatened, you see, and —’
‘When did you first report this, sir?’
‘Two days ago. I asked Superintendent Tucker to give it his attention. Not that I expected him to investigate personally, you understand, but …’
Percy Peach’s sigh was heavy enough to stop him in midsentence. That old flatulence Tucker had forgotten to relay the message, as usual. Leaving others to pick up the pieces. Too interested in his talk of promotion to remember poor sods whose lives were in danger. Peach said heavily, ‘You say you’ve been threatened, sir. When and in what way, exactly?’
‘I’ve had notes, Inspector. Threatening my life. At first I didn’t take them seriously, but when —’
‘You've kept them, of course.’
This man seemed determined to throw him on to his back foot, as if he were a common criminal, instead of a member of the public entitled to police protection. But somehow Darren didn’t fancy putting that thought into words. ‘Afraid not, Inspector. I didn’t take them seriously at first, as I say, and by the time —’
Peach turned to Lucy Blake and shook his head sadly at the omissions of the public. ‘Evidence, they’d be, if they’d only been kept.’
‘I’ve got the last one here, the one which came yesterday,’ said Darren desperately. He slid open the top drawer of his desk with nervous fingers and produced the envelope with his own name but no address. ‘I expect you might want to fingerprint it.’
‘Probably won’t produce much: I expect your own sweaty hands have been all over it,’ said Peach accusingly. But he held the envelope by its bottom corner and picked up a paperknife from the desk to extract the sheet inside. He read the message aloud slowly, with every appearance of enjoyment. ‘Your time is almost up. You will die quite soon now.’
As Darren studied the inspector’s face expectantly, it relaxed into a broad smile, with the teeth looking very white against the blackness of the moustache above them. Darren found the smile more disturbing than the previous acerbity. Peach turned to Lucy Blake. ‘Wonder what “quite soon” means in this context.’
‘Difficult to say, sir. Different psychopaths have different agendas, don’t they?’
Darren caught his breath at the word ‘psychopath’. He had expected emollient words, a playing down of his fears, an assurance that the threats would be the work of some harmless crank whom the police would expose in due course. He licked his lips and said, ‘You think these threats are serious?’
Peach smiled again, gently but complacently, as if rejoicing in the fact that he himself was certainly not in danger. ‘Difficult to say, sir. Some are, some aren’t. Still, you’re still here, so far, so that’s a good start. Course, if your anonymous correspondent is both serious and efficient, he might just be biding his time, planning the best opportunity for himself. Or herself, of course: we mustn’t be prescriptive, in these days of equal opportunity.’
‘So what do you propose to do about it?’ Darren tried to be truculent, but his voice sounded too uncertain to carry conviction.
‘How many of these notes have you had?’
‘Four, altogether. That was the last one.’
‘And it has no address. Delivered by hand to your home, was it?’
‘No. It was left here. It was in my post tray outside. It must have been delivered about this time yesterday: I found it when I was going home.’
‘What did the other notes say? The ones you unfortunately did not retain.’
‘Much the same as the one you have. Simply that I was going to die.’
‘No indications of when?’
‘No. The one you have there is the first one which suggests that it’s going to be soon.’ Darren shuddered at the recollection.
‘No phone calls?’
‘No. Just the notes.’
‘Pity. Voices often give people away, even when they try to disguise them.’
There was a pause before Darren said diffidently, ‘I expect you get these things happening all the time.’
‘Not all the time, no. Death threats are quite rare round here, wouldn’t you say, DS Blake?’
‘Very rare, sir.’
Darren smiled weakly. ‘Still, I expect they’re rarely carried through. Most of them come from disturbed minds, I should think.’
This time there was no answering smile from Peach. ‘Couldn’t really say that, Mr Cartwright. Only wish I could.’ He leaned forward a little, as though about to impart a confidence. ‘I think we need to take this seriously.’
‘Yes. I see. Well, needless to say, I’m all in favour of that.’ Darren gave a high, nervous giggle, which sounded ridiculous but was out before he could suppress it.
‘We need to know your enemies, Mr Cartwright.’
‘Enemies?’
Peach smiled patiently. ‘People who dislike you. Hate you, even. I’m sure there are some.’ He was interested that this man he had already decided he didn’t like should play out this charade of surprise. Cartwright must have thought hard about just this question; you didn’t get notes threatening your life and not wonder which of your enemies might have sent them.
‘I suppose I must have a few people who dislike me. Everyone has. But I can’t think of anyone who’d be planning to kill me …’
Peach studied him closely, pursing his lips. ‘Cartwright Financial Services. Where there’s brass there’s muck, as I said. You must have made some enemies in your business dealings, Mr Cartwright.’
Darren managed this time to produce his most urbane smile, as if the mention of the firm had restored the manner he usually produced automatically for his clients. ‘You seem to have a misapprehension of how financial services work, Inspector. I offer people investment advice, I hope of an informed nature. People weigh the value of that, and choose whether or not to follow my suggestions. Where considerable sums of money are involved, I send them away to think about it before they put pen to paper. It’s all very civilized, very cool.’
‘So not the sort of business where people feel angry enough to kill you.’ Peach seemed disappointed about that. ‘But there must be occasions when your advice has gone wrong? When things have not turned out as people expected?’
Darren was relaxed enough now to allow himself another smile, this time of rueful acknowledgement. ‘It’s true that people often have expectations which are quite unrealistic. The financial press is partly responsible: advertisements quote the results of fat years in the markets to push their products. Not everyone realizes that there must be lean years as well.'
Sitting beside Peach, Lucy Blake sensed the rising irritation the inspector always felt when people went into well-rehearsed professional spiels. She said hastily, ‘But there must surely be occasions when people blame you. Mr Cartwright, even if their expectations have been unrealistic.’
Darren welcomed the incursion of this pretty girl into the dialogue. It encouraged him into a smooth, ‘No one has resented my advice enough to kill me, I’m sure, DS Blake.’ He gave a little laugh at the absurdity of that thought, then bathed Lucy in his most dazzling professional smile.
‘Right!’ Percy Peach’s hammering monosyllable removed the smile as effectively as detergent. ‘So we’ll write off the people who’ve had the benefits or otherwise of your financial advice, for the moment. What about your other business activities?’
‘My other business activities?' Darren echoed the phrase stupidly, his brain reeling. He had no idea that the police knew anything about the other side of his working life. ‘I don’t know what you're talking about.’ The denial sounded feeble, even in his own ears.
Peach’s dark eyes stared at him until Darren’s gaze dropped to the desk. ‘Not much use calling us in if you’re not prepared to be frank, Mr Cartwright. People who lend out money at high rates of interest to desperate people normally have enemies.’
‘The loan side is a very minor part of my business.’
‘I see. But a lucrative one, no doubt. The point is that people who lend money and have people to enforce repayments always have enemies. Sometimes among the people who borrow and cannot repay; sometimes among other loan sharks whose territory is threatened. What I suppose you would call fellow businessmen, though I might use a different term.’
‘The loan side is only a very minor part of my business.’ Darren repeated the lie stubbornly, anxious only to prevent himself from revealing more than this disturbing visitor might already know about him and the people he employed. He could not work out how these police people, whom he had called in to defend him against assault, seemed to have turned the spotlight upon the seamier side of his life.
Peach let the pause stretch until Darren raised his eyes from the desk again, as he knew he eventually must. ‘We’re here to talk about death threats, Mr Cartwright. You’re not stupid: you know that the world of the loan shark contains violent people. I’m asking you if there is anyone in it who you suspect might have sent you these notes.’
‘No.’ Darren felt the silence beginning to stretch again. ‘I’d tell you if there was.’
‘I hope you would. Otherwise we’re all wasting our time. Right, then: that leaves your private life. Is there anyone there who might be threatening you?’
‘No.’ The reply came promptly, perhaps too promptly.
‘It might be someone who doesn’t really intend to kill you. Whose warped idea of fun is to give you a scare. Who is wasting police time, incidentally: we take a dim view of that.’
Darren wondered why he should hear this last phrase as a warning to himself as much as to his anonymous tormentor. This time he gave his reply some thought. There was one name he could think of. But he was a fellow Mason, and the code in the Fraternity was strong. You didn’t denounce a Brother to the police. He could end up with a lot of Masonic egg on his face if he wasn’t right — and surely he couldn't be? He said slowly, ‘I’ve thought about that, of course. When your life is threatened, you do. But I can’t think of anyone I know who would want to kill me.’
Peach stood up. ‘Keep your doors and windows locked. Only park your car in very public places. If there are any more threats, don’t go to Superintendent Tucker. Get in touch with me at Brunton CID immediately.’ Almost before Darren Cartwright realized what was happening, he was alone again in his office.
As she drove the police Rover back to the station, Lucy Blake said, ‘You weren’t very sympathetic to a man who fears for his life. Did you consider offering him police protection?’
Peach grinned beside her. ‘Bloody expensive, police protection, as you know. Eat up our overtime budget for a month within a few days. Besides. I’d have more sympathy with someone who was completely honest with us.’
‘You think Cartwright was holding something back?’
‘I’m damned sure he was. He’s into the loan shark business much more heavily than he admitted, for a start. And I’m certain he had someone as his candidate for those notes. Perhaps there’s more than one possibility. But until he’s scared enough to be completely frank with us, we can’t help him.’
Lucy thought about this carefully as she negotiated the town’s notorious one-way system. She decided Percy was right; he usually was, in his snap judgements about people. But she hoped his words would not come back to haunt him in the weeks ahead.
Four
Wasim Afzaal was a relieved young man. True, he had been forced to apologize to old Harry Alston in his crowded little shop, in front of a watchful DC Murphy and his cowed companions in the previous night’s mayhem. That had meant some inevitable loss of face.
But the young thugs who had helped to smash up the shop were as scared of the police as he was, as anxious to get out of DC Peach’s clutches without a criminal record and worse. They had accepted Afzaal’s assurance that an apology and compensation to the offended shopkeeper represented the easiest way out, and when Wasim had provided the entire two thousand quid himself, they had been in no position to resist either the solution or Afzaal’s continued status as leader of their little group. They needed to stick together to defend themselves against the white groups at the weekends.
Without it ever being stated, without any climb-down by their leader, they knew that any violence would be reserved for their contemporaries and natural enemies in the National Front. There would be no more attacks from them on Harry Alston or his like.
Which made Percy Peach into some kind of therapist, or social worker. It is not certain which of these labels would have most outraged the detective inspector. Or chief detective inspector: Superintendent Tucker was now resigned to pushing his subordinate’s case for promotion.
Rather to Afzaal’s surprise, he found that Peach had not spread the news of his disgrace around the town. The manager of the White Bull, where Wasim was serving his latest ‘industrial placement’ for his hotel and catering degree course, seemed totally unaware that his temporary employee had even been questioned by the police. The local paper reported that Harry Alston had been compensated for the damage to his shop, and that there would be no court case. But no names were printed beneath this short news item. The university would learn nothing of this undergraduate aberration in Brunton.
Even more important, Mr Afzaal senior appeared to know nothing of his son’s latest escapade. Two thousand pounds was a hefty addition to a student loan which the father did not even know the son possessed, but that was a necessary evil in these circumstances.
Wasim determined to keep his head down and get on with his work at the White Bull. It was a surprise to himself as well as to some of his contemporaries that he seemed to be doing rather well there. His university tutor had said so when he came in to monitor his progress. Several patrons of the hotel had commented favourably upon his deft and assiduous service in the dining room. Although Wasim made due allowance as always for the liberal reactions which the colour of his skin could prompt in the more enlightened diners, he had to admit that his three-month spell in the White Bull seemed to be a success.
Confirmation came from an unlikely source. Like most people in the hotel industry, Charles Davies, the manager of the White Bull’s restaurant, did not give praise easily. So when he told the slim, handsome Pakistani that he was doing well, Wasim knew that he had made an impression. And, contrary to his expectations when his father had directed rather than persuaded him to undertake the degree course, he found that he enjoyed the work. He was adept and swift in the manual processes of cooking and serving food, and when on duty in the dining room, he managed the difficult combination of being deferential to clients without seeming unduly servile.
Wasim Afzaal decided that he would stick with this. He would get his degree, obtain a job as a manager, serve his time. In due course, he would get his own hotel. It would be sooner rather than later: the old man would set him up, once Wasim showed him that he was serious and competent. The old man had a soft spot for him, beneath his paternal acerbity, and as the eldest son of the family it would be no more than his due. In time, he would make shrewd investments, having sized up the industry, and would in the end own a chain of hotels, passing among them like a regal presence to ensure that the appropriate standards were maintained. Wasim had not only ambition but also an excellent imagination.
His reverie was abruptly interrupted as he set out the cutlery on the spotless white table linen for the evening session in the restaurant. ‘You know all staff are required this Friday?’
Wasim was not sure whether this was a statement or question from Mr Davies. But he displayed his usual alertness. ‘Yes, sir. Saw the rota in the rest room. Whole of the dining room taken over for a special function.’
‘That’s right. And not just any function. The Ladies’ Night of the North Brunton Masonic Lodge.’ Davies rolled out the words clearly, as if introducing at least a duke. ‘Our most important evening of the year. A booking we cannot afford to lose. And one which we shall not lose.’ Like many a pompous man, Davies sought to increase his stature to match the weight of his pronouncements; he was now on the balls of his feet, seeking in vain to look down into the dark brown eyes of this latest addition to the staff of his empire.