by Gregson, J M
‘Trouble?’ Cook repeated the word foolishly. This exchange seemed to have robbed him of the capacity for independent thought.
‘Only a few days ago, actually. And the pig involved was that bugger Peach. The one who seems to be taking charge of this investigation.’
‘The little bald chap with the moustache who was here last night?’
‘That’s the one.’
‘But he didn’t even question us.’
‘No. He left that to the poor sods in uniform. Peach is CID, though, and he’s in charge.’ Wasim tried not to show his impatience with the naivety of this young innocent.
‘You covering something up, then?’
‘No! Of course I’m not. It’s just that in the circumstances, Peach already having a down on me and all that, I’d like someone to back up my story.’
‘And how am I going to do that?’ Tom Cook was cautious, suddenly and belatedly.
‘Simply say I was with you in the kitchen for the whole of the period between eleven twenty last night and midnight. That I didn’t go out into the car park during that time.’
Horror flooded into the long, pale face. ‘What were you doing? You’re not telling me —’
‘I’m not telling you anything, Tom.’ There was a sudden steel in the soft voice. ‘I was in the kitchen for all of that time. We’d cleared the tables. I was doing nothing. Chatting to you and the others. Waiting for those Masonic geriatrics to go home so that we could tidy the place.’
Tom nodded. ‘That's what I thought. But why —’
‘Why do I want you to say just that? That you were with me for all of those forty minutes? Good question, Tom. Well, as an insurance, I suppose. I know enough about Peach to know that he’ll pin anything on me if he can, like the rest of the pigs. Even murder, if he gets the chance.’
‘And all you want me to say is that you were in the kitchen with me for the whole of that time?’
‘That’s it. Just as an insurance, as I say. You can’t be too careful with the fuzz.’
Tom felt a surge of relief. It wasn’t much, after all. ‘All right. It’s the truth, anyway, isn’t it?’
‘Of course it is, Tom. I know that and you know that. I just need someone to repeat it to the police. Just to be on the safe side.’
‘Yes. All right. If they ask me. I’ll say you were with me for all of that time. I’ll only be telling them the truth. It’s their own fault: they shouldn’t be such suspicious sods.’
‘That’s just it, isn’t it? Thanks, Tom. Fancy another spliff, for later?’
Before Cook could answer, he found those slim fingers beneath the white cotton of his overalls again, slipping another twist of cannabis into the pocket of his shirt.
Wasim Afzaal watched his alibi leave. Then he walked over to the urinals and gave himself the relief he suddenly needed. He put his forehead for a moment against the cool dampness of the tiles.
Tom Cook wouldn’t be the most reliable of supporters if they pressed him hard. But Wasim couldn’t see any reason why they should do that. Still, it was, as he had said himself, an insurance.
Ten
John Whiteman had told DI Peach that modern Freemasonry embraced all creeds, that there were even a few Roman Catholics among the membership of the North Brunton Lodge. One of them was Adrian O’Connor.
Adrian had not been called upon for a statement about his whereabouts in those crucial forty minutes on Friday night, for he had not been among that group around the Master who had remained to relish the success of the evening. He had left the main body of the company at around a quarter past eleven and driven quietly home. He had only attended this function at the Master’s request, accompanying the widow of a former Worshipful Master of the Lodge.
Adrian was a man who generally kept himself to himself, so this behaviour was what might have been expected of him. He was not nowadays a heavy drinker, so he had not needed the taxis which many of his companions had arranged to avoid having to drive home.
At eight thirty the next morning, he received an excited phone call from one of his fellow Lodge members, telling him the sensational news about Eric Walsh. He expressed appropriate shock and surprise. But no police arrival troubled Adrian O’Connor during the Saturday which passed so anxiously for John Whiteman and Wasim Afzaal.
Now, on Sunday morning, he attended nine o’clock mass at the Church of the Sacred Heart. Like many Catholics in the new century, Adrian did not treat the ‘obligation’ the church put upon him to attend Sunday mass as seriously as he once had. In his youth, he would have felt the stain of mortal sin upon his soul if he had missed Sunday mass, would have feared eternal damnation until he had confessed this heinous sin of omission. Not that he had ever put that to the test, in those days: the direction to attend Sunday mass had been one of the easier directions of the One Holy Catholic Church to fulfil.
He wasn’t the only one who had lapsed. The pews were nothing like so crowded as they had been in the old days, when the nine o’clock mass on Sunday mornings had always been the most popular of the five Sunday masses available. The parish priest, Father Hanlon, came out to talk amiably with his flock as they left the church — for all the world like a Church of England vicar anxious to preserve his declining congregation, thought Adrian uncharitably.
‘Good to see you, Adrian,’ said Father Hanlon. He was a red-faced, professionally cheerful, shrewd man of around sixty. Adrian wondered if this was to be a reminder of his erratic Sunday attendance. But then if you had been brought up a Catholic, priests usually induced a feeling of guilt, even when their intentions were wholly innocent.
‘It’s good to see you, Father,’ Adrian responded, ‘and to join in the service the way we do nowadays. The mass is a comfort in trying times.’ He reiterated the conventional sentiment the priest must have heard a hundred times — and was surprised to find that he meant it.
‘Bad business on Friday night at the White Bull,’ said Father Hanlon.
Adrian realized that the priest not only knew about Eric Walsh, which wasn’t surprising, but knew also about his own Masonic membership, which was. But priests seemed to have their own ecclesiastical grapevine, mysterious and efficient. He said rather foolishly, ‘A very bad business, Father. Not the kind of thing you expect in a town like Brunton, even in these violent days.’
‘The devil is all around us, showing himself when we least expect him,’ said Father Hanlon.
Adrian was surprised at this, even from a priest. It was a long time since he had moved in circles where the devil got a mention. ‘Yes, it was quite a shock. I didn’t know Eric well, of course.’ He wondered why he had said that; the words had sprung automatically to his lips.
Father Hanlon raised his grey, humorous eyebrows as he said, ‘But you were both Irishmen, weren’t you?’
And both Masons. That’s what you mean, though you’re too clever to voice it, thought Adrian. He pointed out cautiously, ‘But Eric was not of the faith, Father.’ What a curious expression that was, thought Adrian. You would only use it to a priest nowadays, in England. But in Ireland, everyone would still recognize immediately what you meant. ‘It’s a barrier, you know, still, between people of our background.’
‘Indeed it is. More’s the pity. Well. I must let you get along now. Though I think there’s someone else here to speak to you.’
Adrian saw the priest’s eyes looking past him, turned quickly, and tried to repress a start of alarm.
The man was short and powerful, with a black leather coat above sharply creased dark trousers and shining black shoes. The whiteness of his round face was accentuated by the jet of his eyebrows and the fringe of black hair around the bald pate. Everything about this man seemed black, and his darkness was somehow more intense, more threatening, than that of the priest before him. And the blackest things of all seemed to be the pupils of the eyes, which assessed Adrian without a hint of apology.
The man’s smile did not extend to those eyes. He said, ‘I’m Detective Inspe
ctor Peach, Mr O’Connor. I’d like a few words with you.’
*
It took them a little time to find the house they wanted. The road had once been a country lane, and though it had been widened a little, there was only just room for cars to pass each other, and the sharpness of the bends made for cautious progress. The substantial houses here still had no numbers, and they had to pause frequently to read the names on the gates.
Ravenscroft, when they finally arrived at it, was identified quite clearly by a sign on the high gatepost which depicted a plump black bird over the bold lettering on a white background. It was a solid 1930s house, rambling comfortably across the breadth of its one-acre plot. The double garage ten yards to the right of the house had a studio above it, and the greenhouse beyond that was large enough to house sizeable camellias in large pots.
The police Mondeo eased into the curved drive and circled the small roundabout in front of the garage before stopping outside the porch, which shielded a heavy oak front door. Lucy Blake was in the front passenger seat; she took a last look at DC Brendan Murphy’s account of his and Peach’s meeting with John Whiteman on the previous afternoon before she slid out of the car and looked up appreciatively at the gables of the house. It was unpretentious: it looked more like a home than a castle. But it was grander than anything Lucy had ever aspired to live in.
The door opened quickly when she rang; as the drive ran past the front of the house, it must be difficult for anyone to drive in and park without being seen. And they were expected. John Whiteman smiled a greeting from the doorstep and said, ‘You must be Detective Sergeant Blake.’
‘And this is Detective Constable Pickering. We’re sorry to have to disturb you with this on a Sunday morning.’
‘That’s all right. We realize that the circumstances are quite exceptional. I haven’t really come to terms with Eric’s death myself, and my wife is still very upset by it. I’m no medical expert, but I should think it’s the shock.’ He was curiously stiff and formal, as though reciting a prepared statement. Lucy, who had not spoken to him before, wondered if that was his normal manner. In her as yet limited experience, solicitors tended to be cautious men.
He took them into a comfortable sitting room, warm after the cold outside. There were windows in three of its walls, and the bright morning light brought the best out of the vase of chrysanthemums which filled most of the fireplace. Mahogany gleamed from the antique bureau and bookcase in the alcoves on each side of it. The woman who rose as they entered the room looked much more confident than he had implied she would.
She said, ‘I’m Rosemary Whiteman. Everyone calls me Ros. You were at the White Bull on Friday night, weren’t you?’
‘Yes. Detective Sergeant Blake. And this is Detective Constable Pickering.’
Gordon Pickering, who had worked hard for a transfer from uniform to CID, was a tall, rather gangling young man whose lack of social ease concealed a talent for sharp observation and lateral thinking, qualities which Percy Peach had noted in selecting him, though he affected to deride them. Pickering stepped forward and reddened, almost held his hand out on the introduction, then contented himself with excessive nodding.
John Whiteman said, ‘Would you like coffee? I thought we could do whatever we have to do in here, if —’
‘We’d like to see Mrs Whiteman alone, please,’ said Lucy. ‘It’s standard procedure. I know that DI Peach has already spoken at some length to you, and now we’d like to check your wife’s recall of events.’ She was firm but courteous, trying not to notice Pickering’s enthusiastic supportive nodding on her right.
John Whiteman hesitated. ‘I see. But as I said, Ros is still very disturbed by what happened on Friday night.’
‘I appreciate that. Murder is disturbing. And you will know better than most people that you are helping us with this inquiry quite voluntarily. But we’d still like to speak to Mrs Whiteman alone.’
‘But I told you, she’s —’
‘That’s all right, John.’ Ros Whiteman cut in quietly, but her tone brooked no argument. ‘Either go off to your study and leave us to it, or we’ll remove ourselves and leave you here.’
Though plainly not happy, her husband acknowledged defeat. ‘All right. You stay here with the officers, and I’ll go.’ He turned resentfully to Lucy Blake. ‘But bear in mind what I said: Ros is more shaken than she might appear on the surface. Please don’t take longer than you have to over this.’
There was an awkward silence as he removed himself and they listened to the diminishing sounds of his footsteps in the hall. Then Ros Whiteman sat down in the chair her husband had been about to use and motioned to the two armchairs opposite it. ‘I’m sorry about that. He means well, and I suppose that I should be pleased that he still feels the need to protect me.’ Despite the smile and her apparent composure, as the light from the window beside her fell upon her face, Lucy realized that Ros Whiteman had been crying. There was a puffiness around the eyes and a redness on their lids which make-up could not wholly conceal. Was it just shock at this death and the brutal manner of it? From her lithe body movements and her air of command in her own house, this did not look like a woman who would be convulsed to the point of tears by shock, not thirty-six hours after the initial bombshell of the event.
Lucy said, ‘How well did you know Eric Walsh, Mrs Whiteman?’
Ros Whiteman paused, assembling her thoughts and picking her words carefully, reinforcing the impression of composure she had given throughout. ‘We’d known him for years, of course. I’m sure John told your inspector for just how long: he’s much more precise about these things than I am. I’d say Eric was a friend, but not a close friend.’
‘Forgive me, but I need to clarify what you mean by that, because we’re trying to build up a picture of a man who can give us no account of himself. Did he visit this house? Did you go to his house?’
‘Eric lived in a flat.’ As if she thought she had made a mistake with this prompt correction, she gave a small, involuntary grin and stroked her dark hair above the temple. ‘And no, we weren’t on regular visiting terms. He’s been here a few times over the years, and I think John and I called at his flat once. These were social occasions, with other people. Other people in the Lodge. We might meet for a drink before going off to something like Friday night’s dinner, but there were always other people there.’
‘So you’d say you were friends, but not intimate friends.’
She looked quickly into DS Blake’s unlined face beneath the frame of reddish hair, as if she suspected some kind of trickery. Seemingly reassured, she said, ‘I’d say that was a fair summary. Eric never came here for a meal, for instance, and nor did we visit him in that way.’
‘And you feel that despite the Lodge connection, your husband was not much closer than you were to Mr Walsh.’
Again that quick, appraising look, which this time took in DC Pickering as well as the questioner. Gordon Pickering retreated into his notebook; nothing in the training courses had prepared him for formidable middle-class women like Mrs Ros Whiteman. She watched his busy ballpoint pen for a moment before she said, ‘I think John would say he was friendly with Eric, but less friendly than with ten or a dozen other people in the Lodge. No doubt he will have given Inspector Peach his own assessment of that friendship.’
There were the first signs of irritation in her words. Pickering was uncomfortable, but Lucy Blake had worked long enough with Peach to feel lifted by anything which ruffled an interviewee. She said, ‘And your own friendship? Did you know Mr Walsh entirely through your husband?’
‘Entirely. I don’t think I ever saw Eric without John being in the company at the same time. I knew him as one of a group of pleasant friends, brought together by a common interest in the Lodge.’
The reply had come promptly and precisely, and this time Lucy was sure that the woman had had the words ready. She wondered why, and decided to see what she could tease out. ‘But no doubt you knew Eric Walsh well enou
gh to know that he had a certain reputation.’
‘Reputation?’
You know damn well what I mean, I’m sure, but you’re going to make me state it, thought Lucy. All right. ‘Eric Walsh was a ladies’ man. He had an eye for a pretty face. And it didn’t stop at the face, we’re told.’
This time Ros Whiteman was not merely ruffled but positively rattled. She flushed. Lucy, as someone with freckles and fair skin who had suffered for years from blushing, was an expert on flushing. She was sure that this tall athletic woman with dark hair didn’t flush easily. She seemed to be struggling to control anger as she said, ‘You shouldn’t listen to gossip, DS Blake.’
Lucy smiled, taking a little of the sting out of her words as she said, ‘On the contrary, in a murder investigation, where the victim cannot speak up for himself, it is a positive duty to listen to gossip. We have to weigh it, and set it against facts and other people’s views, of course, before we can decide how much to rely upon it. That is what I am doing now. Are you telling me that Mr Walsh had no interest in the opposite sex? That he lived a life of monastic seclusion?’
Ros Whiteman smiled, but Lucy was certain that it was a forced smile. ‘Put like that, I have to agree with you. Eric was a lively, heterosexual man. And he did not have a wife: I understand he was divorced several years ago. You would no doubt expect him to have liaisons. What I was rejecting was the idea that he was irresponsible or promiscuous. That seems hardly fair to a man who, as you say, can no longer defend himself.’
It was logical enough, and as she outlined the argument, she recovered her composure. Yet for some reason her voice quavered on the last phrase. She reached across to the small table beside her, took a tissue from the box there and blew her nose. Lucy Blake watched her dispassionately whilst the silence stretched. It was DC Pickering, looking up from his notes and feeling a need to break the tension, who said clumsily, ‘So could you tell us who were the women involved in these liaisons, Mrs Whiteman?’