by Gregson, J M
‘No I couldn’t. I didn’t know him that well. And I don’t see why you’re wasting your time prying into these things, with the man lying dead.’
Lucy Blake glanced sideways at the too-revealing face of DC Pickering. She had enough to do without nursemaiding new DCs. But she knew that the thought was unworthy even as it flashed into her mind. Gordon Pickering was shrewd enough; he just needed time and experience. She said, ‘I think you must see that this is relevant to the investigation, Mrs Whiteman. Sex and money are the chief motivators in violent crimes. If Eric Walsh was conducting an affair which made someone — man or woman — insanely jealous, we would have to investigate that person.’
‘All right!’ She looked down at the carpet, struggling to control her petulance. ‘You’re talking about what the French call a crime of passion, I suppose. And I can see the logic of your argument. It’s just that I don’t like the life of a dead man being raked over like this.’
‘Not even if it leads us to the man or woman who killed him?’
‘Of course, if it does that, it justifies itself. I suppose I’m just not used to murder cases.’
‘No. We understand that. So tell us, who was Eric Walsh sleeping with at the time of his death?’
Lucy would never have been so direct, so unapologetic, before working with Percy Peach. But she had learned what a valuable tactic brusqueness could be with those who were used to the polite oiling of conversational wheels.
Ros Whiteman flashed her an unguarded look of hostility that was itself revealing. Then she said, ‘Neither John nor I knew Eric well enough to be able to tell you that. I’m not even sure that there was anyone.’
‘Indeed? From what other people have told us, that seems unlikely. Not a man to restrain his sexual appetites, Mr Walsh, from what we’ve been told.’
‘Who told you that?’ The words were out before she could contain them, and this time she did not check her hostility.
Lucy let that enmity hang between them for a moment in the quiet room before she said, ‘I’m sure you’ll understand that I couldn’t tell you that, Mrs Whiteman. We respect confidences. We shall respect yours, when you tell us things about this murder victim. Whatever the nature of your friendship, you will surely wish to see his killer or killers arrested.’
‘Of course I do. I don’t know about any partner of his, that’s all. I can see why you have to pry into these things. But I’m glad I haven’t got your job. I wouldn’t enjoy it.’
Lucy wasn’t going to react to that. She watched Gordon Pickering making a note on her left, waiting until he had finished writing before she said abruptly, ‘Where were you between eleven twenty and midnight on Friday night?’
Ros Whiteman fought for control for a moment at the suddenness of the challenge. ‘I was in the main bar at the White Bull. As other people have no doubt told you. Relaxing after the main part of the evening, receiving compliments on the speech I had made. And for your records, I didn’t speak to Eric at any time during the evening, apart from when I greeted him formally as the Master’s wife.’
Lucy ignored this gratuitous information. ‘Did you leave the room and the rest of the company at any time during those forty minutes?’
‘No. I’d already been to the ladies’ cloakroom to repair my face. That would have been at some time around eleven.’
‘And was your husband present with you throughout the forty minutes?’
‘John went out to the gents’ cloakroom, I think, briefly. Otherwise he was there.’
‘Thank you. You didn’t see anyone acting suspiciously when you went to the ladies’ cloakroom at about eleven?’
‘No.’
‘You didn’t go out into the car park?’
‘No! What the hell would I — ? I’m sorry. No, I didn’t go into the car park. Nor did I see anyone else go into the car park.’ She was tight-lipped now, staring ahead of her, only occasionally glancing at her questioner.
‘All right. Now, before my last question, perhaps I should warn you formally that it is your duty to give us all possible help. And to remind you that nothing you say will affect the fate of anyone you name. We are asking other people the same question and we shall investigate any suggestions without prejudice. Can you think of anyone who had a reason to kill Eric Walsh?’
‘No. Eric was a good man. A friendly man. I can’t think why anyone would want to kill him.’
She seemed near to tears, and Lucy allowed a few seconds to elapse before she spoke, in case emotion should lure this contradictory woman into any revelation. Then she said, ‘Some significant thought may occur to you at any time. Please get in touch with Brunton CID immediately if it does. Ask for Detective Inspector Peach.’
Ros Whiteman nodded bleakly, seemingly anxious now only to have this over, her initial politeness long since forgotten. A few minutes later, she stood with her husband on the step of the handsome house, presenting a picture of marital unity as they saw these visitors off their property.
Lucy Blake was sure that there was much more to come yet, from both of the Whitemans. And Ros had already contradicted a key statement of her husband’s.
Eleven
Adrian O’Connor decided not to take Detective Inspector Peach back to his flat. His neighbours were not particularly curious, but something told him they would not miss this police presence accompanying him into the quiet house, and he did not want that.
He opted instead to accompany Peach to the Brunton police station, making it as clear as he could that this was a voluntary visit. Within five minutes, he was wondering if he had made a wise decision.
Although there was a choice of interview rooms available on a Sunday morning, Peach chose the smallest and the oldest. The green paint had bubbled a little towards the top of the walls. In the lowest two feet of the room, the colour was scarcely visible at all beneath the multiple dark scuffs of chairs and feet. When a big man who Peach introduced as DC Murphy sat down beside the broad-shouldered inspector, they appeared to present a wall in themselves, for Adrian could see nothing beyond them. The warm, claustrophobic room smelt strongly of disinfectant.
He glanced up at the single harsh light in this windowless cube, and said with a nervous smile, ‘I heard police funds were short. This is hardly the Ritz, is it?’
Peach glanced around him, as though registering his surroundings for the first time. ‘Seen some action, this place has!’ he said with a nostalgic grin. Then he looked back at its latest occupant and said, ‘We’ll have the tape on, I think. Just so that we can all recall what’s said, if we need to go back over any of it. Not that you’ve been charged with anything, of course.’
His round, eager face seemed to imply that it was only a matter of time.
He looked interrogatively at Adrian, as though he expected him to begin the conversation. The Irishman was disconcerted enough to say, ‘I want to help you, as you’d expect. But I’m sure that there’s nothing I can tell you which will be of any help to you.’
Percy Peach liked that; it put his man on the back foot to start with. ‘Been involved in many police investigations, have you, Mr O’Connor?’
Adrian found himself licking his lips, wondering just how much this bothersome, powerful man knew about his background. He had thought he would be a good deal cooler than this, but he realized now that it was a long time since he had been questioned by policemen of any kind. The cloak of respectability he had gathered around him had ensured that people treated him with respect; it had also made him softer than he used to be. He said stiffly, ‘This is the first time I’ve been involved in anything like this.’
Peach grinned wolfishly. ‘What we need to clarify is the exact nature of your involvement.’
Adrian had meant involvement in the investigation, not in the murder itself. He said tersely, ‘That’s easy. I had nothing to do with this killing. I wasn’t around at the time Eric died. And I’ve no idea who might have done it. I’d like to know why I’m here.’
Peach’s
dark eyes assessed him coolly for a moment. ‘How do you know when Eric Walsh died?’
Adrian felt the colour rising to his face. ‘I don’t. I meant I’d left the place before he died.’
‘You see, even we don’t know exactly when he was killed. We know when he was last seen, but not when someone tightened a cord round his neck and nearly took his head off.’ A little exaggeration never did any harm when pressurizing a suspect, Percy believed.
‘And when was he last seen?’
Peach smiled as a man might have done with an impetuous child. ‘When did you leave the White Bull on Friday night, Mr O’Connor?’
‘Eleven fifteen.’
A pause stretched like taut elastic across the three feet which separated the eyes of the two men whilst Peach allowed the notion that answering with such precision had been a mistake to take root in the other man. ‘Thank you. That’s very exact. Did you think at the time that such accuracy might be important?’
‘No. I … I remember looking at the clock in my car, that’s all. Sometimes these things stick. I should have thought it was useful that it had, from your point of view.’
‘And from yours, Mr O’Connor. Eric Walsh was last seen alive at eleven twenty. His body was discovered at midnight. We’re asking people to account for their movements between those times.’
‘Including me, I suppose. Well, I’ve already told you that I left the place at eleven fifteen.’
‘Which your partner of the evening can no doubt confirm.’
O’Connor smiled. ‘As a matter of fact, she can’t, though she will confirm that I took my leave of her just after eleven. I was partnered at the Ladies’ Night by the widow of a former Worshipful Master. The present Master suggested it to me: we try to ensure that widows are not left out of things. But the arrangement was that someone else would take her home after the event. So I left the White Bull on my own. I hadn’t drunk very much, so I was quite fit to drive.’ He smiled at this reassurance to the guardians of the law.
‘But you say you were away by quarter past eleven.’
‘Yes. I drove quietly home, had a hot drink, and went to bed.’
‘And is there anyone who can confirm this?’
Adrian smiled, feeling on firm ground now, despite the fact that he had to say, ‘No. I live alone, Inspector. I don’t for a moment think that any of my neighbours saw me coming in at that hour of the night, or that they could give you the exact moment if they had. If your questioning of the White Bull staff is as comprehensive as you claim, I suppose it’s possible you may find that one or more of them saw me drive away.’
Peach watched the tape turning silently in the cassette recorder for a moment. Then he said quietly, ‘Fond of Eric Walsh, were you, Mr O’Connor?’
‘We weren’t bosom pals, no.’
‘But you went back a long way, didn’t you?’
‘We’d known each other for years, yes. But that doesn’t mean —’
‘Right back to the days when you were both in Belfast, indeed. You certainly weren’t bosom pals then, were you?’
‘No.’ Adrian hadn’t been prepared for this. Now he wondered exactly how much this disconcerting man did know about those days. He found himself licking his lips. ‘It was a long time ago.’ As soon as he’d said that, he regretted the words. They sounded so feeble.
‘1988. Not so very long, in terms of the Irish memory. They’ve treasured the memories of Cromwell’s excesses for three and a half centuries.’
‘And the Orangemen have shot their mouths off about the Battle of the Boyne for almost as long.’ Adrian knew he shouldn’t have risen to the bait, but the words had come shooting out before he could abort them.
‘Indeed they have.’ Peach shook his head sadly, without taking his eyes off his man. ‘Eric Walsh was an Orangeman, wasn’t he?’
‘I believe he was.’
Peach smiled, relishing a small victory. ‘You know he was, Mr O’Connor. I expect he’d call you a Papist, if he were here now.’ He pronounced the two syllables carefully, savouring the old-fashioned word.
‘I don’t see how these old Irish enmities can have any relevance to this investigation.’
‘Don’t you now? Well, that’s interesting, I must say. And you may well be right. But that remains to be seen. Remains to be investigated, as you would no doubt say.’ Peach nodded thoughtfully. Then he rapped out suddenly, ‘Knew each other well in Belfast, you and Eric, didn’t you? Knew all about these old Irish enmities.’ He threw the phrase back in the face of his quarry like an accusation.
Adrian made himself pause, forced himself to frame the words as carefully as he could. ‘I wouldn’t say we knew each other well, no. We certainly knew about each other, but we weren’t friends. Not then.’
‘And not ever, perhaps.’ Peach waited for a denial which did not come. ‘You were on opposite sides of the great Irish divide, weren’t you?’
‘I was a Republican, if that’s what you mean. A believer in a united Ireland. I still am. It’s an honestly held opinion. In a democracy, you’re not allowed to harass me for my opinions.’
Peach smiled a smile that Adrian did not like at all and nodded to the man at his side. ‘DC Brendan Murphy. There’s an Irish name for you to conjure with — but he’s spent all his life in Brunton. I’ll let him fill you in on what we know. Save a lot of time, that will.’
DC Murphy leaned forward, replicating Peach’s position but not his smile. ‘You were questioned by the RUC in Belfast about a violent incident in Belfast in 1988.’
It was a statement, not a question; Adrian didn’t like that. ‘Lots of people were questioned. There was a lot of violence around the Shankill area at that time. The RUC were bastards. If you were a Catholic, you were a suspect. They took in whoever they fancied for questioning.’
‘And they fancied you, Mr O’Connor. As a suspect, that is.’ Peach’s smile was back again.
‘That didn’t mean anything. I told you, they —’
‘Oh, but I think it did, Mr O’Connor. Because they suspected you of an attack on a certain Dennis Walsh, didn’t they? Brother of Eric Walsh, businessman and singer of this parish. Now the late Eric Walsh.’
‘They couldn’t pin anything on me. I wasn’t even charged with anything in 1988.’
‘Interesting way of putting things, Mr O’Connor. I notice you don’t say you didn’t do anything.’
‘I didn’t. Nothing happened to Dennis Walsh.’
Brendan Murphy said quietly, ‘No. But it certainly would have, if a British Army patrol hadn’t arrived at the right moment.’
‘Or the wrong moment, for you,’ said Peach just as quietly.
‘I wasn’t there!’ The voice was harsh. The sudden noise bounced around the cell-like room.
Peach studied the face which Adrian was struggling to keep impassive, noting with satisfaction the nerve which twitched in the right temple. ‘Maybe not. Possibly you weren’t at the scene of the crime. But you were certainly involved in the threats of GBH. Reading the record, it looks to me as if you were lucky to get off with an official caution.’
Adrian stared at the small square of table between him and the CID men. His face set into the rigidity of a fanatic who states his case and listens to no other argument. ‘Dennis Walsh had it coming. He was going out with a Catholic girl. Trying to make it serious. You didn’t do that, not in Belfast.’
‘Apparently not. Especially when the girl was your sister, eh? You’ve hated the family ever since. Hated Dennis’s elder brother, Eric.’
‘Eric was the man who put his brother on to Kathleen. Eric was the head of that Loyalist gang. He thought he could do whatever he wanted, just because he could sing a bit.’ Adrian was careless of his own situation as the old bitterness came leaping back down the years. The brogue he thought he had lost long ago came out with his anger.
‘So you followed him to Brunton.’
‘No. He disappeared from my life. I got myself a job with Shell Oil. I worked abr
oad for a few years, and then in Southampton and London. I lost touch completely with people in Ireland.’
Peach doubted that, in view of the passion that had sprung out of him when he described events in Belfast. ‘How long have you been working in this area, Mr O’Connor?’
‘About four years now.’
‘And when did you discover that your old enemy Eric Walsh was working and living in Brunton?’
O’Connor pursed his lips. ‘A few months after I’d been posted here, I suppose. I found out quite by chance. I wasn’t even sure it was the same Eric Walsh at first.’
‘But it didn’t take you long to find that out.’
Adrian smiled, feeling himself on firmer ground. ‘Brunton is a smallish town, Inspector.’
‘How long have you been a member of the North Brunton Masonic Lodge, Mr O’Connor?’
‘Three years.’
‘And why did you join?’
Adrian managed what he hoped was a condescending smile. ‘That’s my business, surely.’
‘Not in a murder enquiry it isn’t.’ Peach’s answering smile was much more savage. Adrian thought he had never seen teeth which looked so white and so sharp.
‘I … well, I suppose I found I was in sympathy with the philosophy and the aims of Freemasonry. We do a lot of good things, you know.’
‘So I understand,’ said Peach dryly. ‘But wasn’t it to get nearer to Eric Walsh that you joined?’
‘No!’ The monosyllable came too promptly and too loudly, and all three of them knew it. ‘I joined for the reasons I said, and for the social side of the Lodge. We have some good evenings, you know.’
‘I see. And the fact that Eric Walsh was present in the same company didn’t in any way impede your enjoyment.’
Adrian shrugged his shoulders and strove hard for a dismissive tone. ‘You have a rather melodramatic view of things, Inspector. Eric and I weren’t bosom pals, as I said earlier. But the days when we were bitter enemies were long behind us. We were young men then. We had both acquired a little more balance since those days back in the eighties.’