Murder at the Lodge (Inspector Peach Series Book 7)

by Gregson, J M

  ‘Yes, Mr Davies. I’ll bear that in mind. It will be most instructive for me to see a fine hotel pulling out all the stops.’

  Davies looked at him as if he suspected irony, but he could detect nothing in the smooth olive face. ‘Yes. Well, tomorrow’s a night when everyone will need to operate at full throttle,’ he said, feeling that his own metaphor might give him more control over the pep talk he was rehearsing for the assembled staff on the morrow.

  ‘Yes, Mr Davies. I’ll make sure my suit is immaculately pressed before I present myself to the Lodge members and their ladies.’

  Davies looked hard into the smooth face, suspecting again that this fellow was enjoying himself. But Davies could see a way of deflating this confident young man. ‘That won’t be necessary. You won’t be operating in the dining room tomorrow night. We need experienced hands for the serving. You’ll be in the kitchen for this particular function, making sure the food is presented as it should be.’

  It was a decision he had only just made, one motivated by his impulse to take young Afzaal down a peg or two. If there was a small part of him which said that the Lodge members were a conservative lot, that even now they would see an Asian in the dining room as a blemish on the standards of the establishment, Davies did not acknowledge it, even to himself.

  But both men were conscious of the small hesitation he had made before his decision. Wasim Afzaal allowed himself the vestige of a smile as he said, ‘Very good, Mr Davies. The kitchen it shall be.’

  But the young Asian had an eye for the way a table should look, and Davies was shrewd enough to make the best use of the strengths of his team. It was when he was putting out the name-cards for the place settings that Wasim Afzaal found one name which interested him very much indeed.

  *

  At ten seventeen on Friday morning, Detective Inspector Peach looked out of the window of the CID section and saw Superintendent Tucker parking his car. Give the man his due, he thought: he’s an immaculate parker.

  It took Tucker a little time, because he had reversed in, but the superintendent eventually placed his car precisely between the white lines delineating the space labelled ‘Head of CID’. He got out and looked at the alignment of his wheels with satisfaction before glancing up nervously towards the window from which Peach watched unseen. From above, his silvering hair looked even more immaculate than usual.

  He’s been to the barber’s, thought Percy. Of course, it’s the Lodge Ladies’ Night tonight. Tommy Tucker will be parading himself at the White Bull, in best bib and tucker, under the watchful gaze of Brunnhilde Barbara.

  Peach watched hopefully as three pigeons circled suggestively above the car park, but none of them bombed the immaculate coiffure below them. This remains an imperfect world, thought Percy. He gathered a sheaf of papers and went upstairs to the superintendent’s office.

  Thomas Bulstrode Tucker was in congenial humour. ‘What can I do for you, Percy?’ was his greeting.

  He’s like a bloody woman, thought Percy vituperatively; he finds a visit to the hairdresser’s uplifting. Well, he’s nothing but a bloody old woman anyway, Tommy Bloody Tucker. Bet he goes to that unisex Vidal Sassoon-style hairdresser’s in Lord Street. Percy was of the old-fashioned school when it came to the admittedly limited attention his fringe of hair needed: if a barber didn’t talk racing or football, preferably with a dog-end in the corner of his mouth, his sexual preferences were highly suspect. Even Percy’s chosen barber, in the mean streets on the edge of the town, had now abandoned cigarettes while cutting, but you could still let your mind freewheel with him through the routine exchanges about the progress of the Rovers.

  He caught Tucker raising his hand unconsciously to stroke the back of his newly coiffured head. ‘Immaculate, sir!’ he said with a reassuring smile. Then, as Tucker looked puzzled, he said, ‘The old barnet, sir. Immaculate. I expect it costs a little to keep it like that, but it’s worth it in your case. Wouldn’t be in mine, more’s the pity.’ He passed his hand quickly over his smooth bald dome.

  ‘I didn’t bring you up here to talk about hair,’ said Tucker sternly, forgetting already that he had not summoned the inspector at all. His brow furrowed for a moment as he wondered what had brought Peach here. Then he said with determined affability, ‘Our promotions seem to be going ahead smoothly. Mustn’t count our chickens too soon, of course, but I’m quietly hopeful. You’d have to move out of CID and into uniform for a year or so if they made you chief inspector. Standard practice, as you know, to give you more experience.’

  He tried not to look too pleased at the prospect of sending Peach elsewhere.

  Peach was human enough to welcome the idea of promotion for himself, but overcome with guilt that this old windbag should be rising with him. He knew that was the way the system worked, but it didn’t make him feel any easier about it. He said abruptly, almost as though it were an accusation, ‘Darren Cartwright, sir. Of Cartwright Financial Services.’

  Tucker had been dwelling happily on the rosy prospect of promotion to chief superintendent. It took him a moment to refocus. Then he said, ‘Ah, Darren, yes. Sorted him out, did you?’

  ‘Not exactly, sir.’

  ‘Not exactly? This isn’t very good, you know. Darren Cartwright is a prominent businessman in the town, and entitled to our full … well, our full …’

  ‘Full attention, sir? Yes, I agree with that. He was beginning to excite it anyway, before he made the official request to you that he should have it.’

  Tucker tried to look approving, though his puzzlement eventually won the day in the ensuing silence. ‘You were on to this already? Well, I must say, that’s smart work. When he asked for protection, I had no idea that —’

  ‘Not the threats, sir. First I heard of those was an hour or two before I saw him, though he maintained he’d reported them to you days before that.’ Peach paused for a moment to allow an uncomfortable squirm in Tucker, then said, ‘No, sir. I was referring to Mr Cartwright’s rather unpleasant sideline to his main business, which he has been developing enthusiastically in recent months.’

  ‘Sideline? Darren Cartwright runs Cartwright Financial Services, and provides a valuable and highly valued agency in the town.’

  ‘Almost the very words he used to me himself, sir. Interesting to have it confirmed from the horse’s mouth, if you’ll pardon the vulgarity. But he does have another lucrative line, which I’m afraid he doesn’t publicize half as proudly. Doesn’t publicize at all, in fact.’

  ‘I can’t believe Darren Cartwright would be involved in anything dubious.’

  ‘Can’t you, sir? You have a touching faith in human nature, which is quite admirable. And very unusual in a senior police officer: pity the public doesn’t see more of this belief in the essential goodness of man.’

  Tucker peered at him suspiciously from beneath the immaculately crinkled hair. ‘You, Peach, on the other hand, have a taste for the grubby, it seems. What is it that you think you have raked out of Darren Cartwright’s background?’

  Percy noted that the first name approach had gone; he felt easier with that. ‘Detected, sir. I prefer detected. That’s our job, after all.’ He gave the wall above his chief’s head a wide, seraphic smile, then said abruptly, ‘He’s into loan-sharking, sir, is Mr Cartwright. And he’s been increasing his business in that field. And employing pretty violent people as his enforcers. I know he’s a Mason, sir, but in my opinion he’s up to no good, your Mr Cartwright.’

  ‘He’s not my Mr Cartwright, Peach. And I’ve told you repeatedly that the fact that a man is a Mason has no bearing at all on whether —’

  ‘Makes him four times as likely to commit financial crimes as an ordinary citizen, in this town.’ said Peach evenly, his eyes still trained steadily on the wall above Tucker’s head.

  He derived this wholly delightful statistic from the fact that one of the local Brotherhood had been convicted in the previous year on seven charges of fraud, an event which had warped the statistics in
a way that Peach had seized upon and Tucker had been unable to unravel.

  ‘If you think Mr Cartwright is involved in anything dubious, you must take whatever action you consider appropriate,’ said the superintendent stiffly. ‘In the meantime, have you done anything about the far more serious matter of the threats which have been made upon his life?’

  ‘Enquiries are proceeding, sir.’ From one policeman to another, the enunciation of the official jargon was an insult.

  ‘You mean you haven’t a bloody clue.’

  ‘You go to the heart of the matter with your usual trenchancy, sir. Cartwright hasn’t kept any of the notes he’s received, apart from the last one, and —’

  ‘I don’t want your excuses. I need action,’ Tucker tapped the desk in front of him with an attempt at menace.

  ‘I was going to say, sir, that even this limited trail was rather cold when we got there. Mr Cartwright claimed to have reported the matter to you some time before I was instructed to attend to it. There must have been a hiccup in our system, sir. I’m investigating where your earlier instruction to me got lost in the pipeline, and when I find —’

  ‘Oh, don’t bother with all that!’ said Tucker hastily. ‘I want you solving crimes, not getting bogged down with the workings of our bureaucracy.’

  ‘Serious matter, sir. Man might have been dead before we even got to him.’

  ‘Look, Percy, it may be that Darren Cartwright’s request for our help slipped my mind.’ Tucker tried not to register Peach’s black eyebrows rising impossibly high in astonishment. ‘As superintendent in charge of the whole CID section, I have a lot on my mind, you know.’

  ‘Indeed I do, sir. I often have occasion to remind the lads and lasses who beaver away at the crime face of the amount your mind has to cope with.’ Peach’s eyes were back on the wall above his chief’s head, his tone impeccably neutral.

  ‘Did you offer Mr Cartwright protection?’

  ‘No, sir. Considering your directive on overtime issued only last week, I thought it inadvisable.’

  ‘So you don’t think he’s in any real danger?’

  Peach pursed his lips, looked at the ceiling, enjoyed allowing the pause to stretch. ‘Couldn’t say that, sir. The last note — the only one we have, as I said — said, “Your time is almost up. You will die quite soon now.” He enunciated the message as tremulously as if it were the conclusion of a scene in an old-fashioned melodrama.

  ‘And you gave the poor man no protection?’

  ‘Cost us three officers a day, sir, on eight-hour shifts. With no guarantee of how long we should need to employ them. Knock a hell of a hole in the overtime budget. Couldn’t sanction it without your express orders.’

  As always, Tucker quailed before the responsibility of a decision. Then his face brightened. ‘Well, I suppose he’s in no immediate danger. I shall be able to keep an eye on him myself tonight. It’s the Lodge’s Ladies’ Night. At the White Bull hotel. I expect Darren Cartwright will be attending that — it’s one of our big functions, you know. And I can’t see him coming to any harm there. Not with his friends all around him!’

  ‘Yes, sir. Though as I say, it’s four times as likely in this town that he’ll come to grief among Masons than in ordinary company.’ He nodded judiciously at the thought.

  ‘If that’s the best you can come up with, you’d better go and get on with your work. Peach! You know as well as I do that you couldn’t have a safer gathering than the one I shall be attending tonight.’

  Tucker’s hand rose automatically to stroke his hair as the inspector disappeared, like a child reaching for its comfort blanket. He didn’t think at that moment that his words might haunt him in the days to come.

  Five

  Ros Whiteman’s choice of the dark blue dress had been right. She knew that when she saw the way the other women looked at her as they came into the room. Men were not reliable guides: a little bare shoulder and a little cleavage would always get their attention and admiration. But she noticed very early that the women had that look of appreciation tinged with envy, which was the best assurance that you looked attractive.

  She stood beside her husband; John was equally impressive in his new evening suit, confident in his office, with his beautifully cut hair given an appropriate distinction by the grey at his temples. The Master of the Lodge and his lady greeted each couple with a handshake as they were announced by the Toastmaster, who stood out dramatically among the dark-suited males in the vivid scarlet of his jacket.

  Ros was glad of this garish assistant, for though her husband knew all the members of his Lodge and most of their ladies, she was happy to be reminded of the names of these people she had met for the most part but rarely. She heard someone whispering, ‘They make a lovely couple,’ and it took her a moment to realize that the woman was referring to her and John. If only the woman could appreciate the irony of her conventional phrase!

  There were visiting couples from other Lodges as well as their own members, for this was one of the occasions when the Lodge put itself on show, returned hospitality, and generally relaxed on what was its premier social function of the year.

  The spacious dining room of the White Bull was brilliantly lit, and as the room filled and the noise level rose, Ros was surprised how the gleam of glasses, the dark glint of bottles of wine and the glitter of cutlery on the snow-white linen added to the sense of occasion. She began to relax, even to enjoy this stuffy, rather formal function, which she had expected to be such an ordeal.

  That was after she had acted out her little private charade, of course. She had rehearsed it a score of times in the days running up to the Ladies’ Night, but when the real moment came, she found that she was surprisingly calm. The audience even helped her a little: she reacted with them as she played her part, conscious amid the cocoon of affability around her that they had noticed nothing, that she had greeted this couple with conventional formality, with no more and no less affection than all the others.

  She did not dare catch his eye, and he helped her by exchanging a little joke with John rather than saying anything directly to her.

  Ros greeted the lady on his arm with a brilliant smile. If there was a shaft of bitterness deep within her that this woman should be so partnered for the evening, it certainly did not surface. And indeed, Ros knew that she had no reason to be envious of this woman She was no more than a convenient ornament for the evening and a useful distraction for any chattering female tongues. He was good at deception, this man; she knew that now.

  By the time the Toastmaster had announced the last of the couples as they entered through the wide double doors, there was a hum of anticipation in the long room, and John and Ros Whiteman made a stately progress through the smiling faces to the top table.

  Each lady had a gift by her place at the table, and Ros was pleased to notice that the tiny but pretty bottles of perfume she had selected were being well received. She had deliberated over what to buy for several weeks, but finally decided that good perfume never went amiss. It might not be very original, but when you had to buy the same thing for fifty women, originality could easily be misplaced.

  The Toastmaster announced that the Master would say grace, and John enunciated the words of thanks to the Lord in heaven clearly and simply, without any of the pomposity which in Ros’s mind was always the danger when men got serious about their play.

  The Beef Wellington, which was the main dish for all save the vegetarians, was both succulent and plentiful, the pastry encircling the meat surprisingly light and crisp. Charles Davies, a head waiter of much experience, ensured that his minions moved unobtrusively but assiduously among the assembled company, keeping the wine flowing freely as the conversational hubbub reached an ever higher pitch.

  Ros, chatting animatedly to a woman who taught for the Open University, relaxed more than she would have thought possible. However, John was increasingly quiet as the meal proceeded, and she became aware that he was toying with his sweet, nervous of
what lay ahead for the Master.

  She watched the fingers of his right hand moving crab-like across the white linen to the base of his glass and then back again to his spoon. His hand moved in sudden, unpredictable bursts of energy, as if it was operating outside the control of the brain which should have directed it. It was only natural, she thought: all but the most practised of public speakers would have a little stage fright as they anticipated the moment when the room would fall silent and they would become the focus of everyone’s expectant attention. Then she caught sight of her own twitching fingers, and allowed herself a rueful smile.

  But when his moment came, John Whiteman was equal to it. He began his speech of welcome to the ladies a little nervously, but his first small joke went well, and he gathered confidence. The standard of speaking in North Brunton Lodge on occasions like this was in truth not brilliant, and John was well towards the top of the pile when measured against his predecessors of the previous few years. He managed to pay the ladies a few compliments without appearing completely smarmy, and interspersed his address with shafts of humour, mostly at the expense of his Brothers in the Lodge.

  Above all, he did not speak for too long. He sat down to a generous round of applause, plucking nervously at his cuff links and trying hard not to look relieved that the most stressful part of the evening for him was over.

  Ros, despite her own nervousness at what was to come, felt a sharp pang of relief for John as he sat down again beside her. Relief and a little guilt, perhaps, that she should be playing out her charade of fidelity so adeptly and successfully.

  But there was no time for reflection, as the Toastmaster announced the song for the ladies and Eric Walsh drew himself to his full height and thrust out his chest. His ringing baritone, surprising in its sudden volume in the cramped acoustics of the long, low-ceilinged room, boomed out the words of the familiar song: