Murder at the Lodge (Inspector Peach Series Book 7)

by Gregson, J M

  ‘No! That is a monstrous assumption to make! I should warn you that —’

  ‘Question, not an assumption, Mr Whiteman. Just looking for information, that’s all. You must see that it has a bearing on our investigation. Women who indulge in affairs habitually are less likely to behave violently when ditched, in our experience. Women for whom it’s a serious affair, who thought it was going to develop into a permanent liaison, are more likely to go off the rails. If they have a husband or partner who is not used to such sexual cavortings, he’s likely to react violently too. Sometimes to the affair itself; sometimes to the slur on his partner when she’s cast aside and devastated.’

  ‘I see your point. I don’t think there was any need to couch it in the language you did.’

  Got a reaction, though, didn’t it, thought Percy. The regular features beneath the hair that was almost too perfectly groomed were flushed, and the fingers on the hands which were clasped together on the desk were now folding and unfolding as Whiteman tried to maintain his composure. Peach said, ‘You haven’t answered my question. Let me use more acceptable language. Do you think the women Walsh successfully bedded were habitually promiscuous?’

  ‘I’m not qualified to say.’

  ‘Even when you’re trying to do your duty as a responsible citizen and help us with a murder inquiry?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ve never thought about it.’

  ‘You’re the Master of the Lodge, Mr Whiteman. You must have acquired a knowledge of most of your members over the last twenty years. And of their partners, whether married or otherwise.’

  ‘It’s not the central part of our activities, to study the sexual proclivities of members.’ He was fencing now, and all three of them knew it as his eyes dropped to the desk. Noticing the feverish movements of his fingers for the first time, he stilled them abruptly.

  Peach smiled. ‘I’m glad to hear it. But you know more about these things than you are telling me, nevertheless.’

  Suddenly, Whiteman shouted, ‘What do you want? A detailed account of all Walsh’s women, and what he did to them in bed?’

  Peach let the shout echo round the walls, allowed Whiteman to wonder how much the people in the outer offices had caught of their leader’s loss of control. Then he said quietly. ‘You knew all about your wife and Eric Walsh, Mr Whiteman, didn’t you?’

  For a moment, it looked as though Whiteman would hit his tormentor. Then he said, through a mouth that hardly opened, ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘I think you do. I’m sorry I have to raise it. But as a lawyer you will see quite clearly that I must pursue these things when a man has been murdered.’

  ‘That bloody man Walsh deserved to be murdered.’ The voice which had been a shout was now scarcely audible.

  ‘That may be your view as a husband, Mr Whiteman, and it is naturally of great interest to us. But as a lawyer you know perfectly well that every victim has the right to justice, that every suspicious death must be properly investigated.’

  ‘All right, all right! Walsh was shagging my wife!’ The word he had never used in public dropped harshly from his lips. ‘You’ve dug up your nasty little bone. Now go away and bury it again.’

  Peach was totally unruffled. ‘Can’t do that, I’m afraid, Mr Whiteman. Has to be investigated, you see. We have to make sure it has nothing to do with this death. Especially as it’s information you chose to conceal from us. Especially as you’ve just voiced the opinion that Eric Walsh “deserved to be murdered”.’

  ‘Figure of speech. No more than that.’

  ‘Perhaps. Remains to be seen, that.’

  ‘Ros isn’t promiscuous. She hadn’t done anything like this before. That made it worse.’ He sounded like a man pleading for understanding.

  Peach wasn’t interested in understanding the man’s emotions. At this moment, he wanted only the truth, and he sensed an opportunity to get it. He said, ‘So you took it hard when you found out about Eric Walsh and your wife. You’re not the first husband to do that. Not even the first husband to murder the man involved.’

  ‘I didn’t kill Eric Walsh.’

  ‘So who did?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. But I’m telling you here and now that I didn’t.’

  ‘You’ll need to convince us of that, having lied to us so comprehensively about what you knew.’

  John Whiteman looked at that moment as if he would have liked to kill Percy Peach. Instead, he forced a smile and said, ‘I’m enough of a lawyer to know that that isn’t true. I don’t have to prove anything. The burden of proof is on you. And you haven’t a scrap of evidence.’

  Peach gave him an answering, much broader smile. He liked a bit of resistance. Especially when he still had trump cards to play. ‘You realize by now why we have been asking everyone about the forty minutes between eleven twenty and midnight last Friday. Eric Walsh was last seen alive at eleven twenty. His body was discovered in his car just before twelve o’clock.’

  ‘I gathered that. Superintendent Tucker was taken out to see the body by the hotel staff at just after midnight.’

  ‘So why did you lie about where you were in those forty minutes?’

  Whiteman forced himself to take his time. They saw him swallow, an exaggerated movement which he obviously found quite difficult. He raised his right hand and caressed the becoming patch of grey at his temple, as if the touch could give him reassurance. ‘I didn’t lie. I don’t know why on earth you should accuse me of that. I was surrounded by other members of the Lodge in the bar, chatting over the events of the evening. They were plenty of people around me. They’ll confirm I was in the bar for the whole of that time.’

  The words were definite enough, but the certainty leaked out of his voice as he proceeded, as if he spoke in hope rather than conviction. Peach looked at him coolly for a moment before he said, ‘On the contrary, one person has already confirmed to us that you left the bar during that time.’

  ‘Then he’s mistaken.’

  ‘On the contrary, the person concerned is quite certain.’ He wasn’t going to tell Whiteman at this stage that it was his wife who had said that he had been out of the bar. These two had quite enough to sort out as it was; Ros Whiteman was still under the impression that John knew nothing of her affair with Eric Walsh. ‘I’ve no doubt we can get other witnesses to confirm this, if you insist you were there throughout that forty-minute period.’

  Whiteman gave an unconvincing impression of giving the matter some thought, of remembrance dawning. ‘If I left the bar at all, it was only for a few minutes. I must have gone to the gents’ at some time after the formal part of the evening was concluded. We all did, I imagine.’

  ‘A few minutes were quite long enough to kill Eric Walsh. A man you say you thought deserved to die.’

  ‘I suppose that is so. But I didn’t kill him. I went to the gents’, as I told you.’

  ‘What time was this?’

  ‘I can’t be sure. You don’t think when you go for a pee that you have to record the time.’

  ‘How long before Superintendent Tucker was summoned to see the body?’

  ‘Ten minutes, quarter of an hour perhaps. Not more. There weren’t too many of us left in the bar by the time I went.’

  ‘About quarter to twelve, then. Have a conversation with anyone in the cloakroom, did you?’

  ‘No, not that I recall.’

  ‘Pity, that. It might confirm that you were actually where you claim to have been at that time. Important to do that, as you lied to us about it as long as you thought you might get away with it.’

  ‘I didn’t lie. It slipped my memory, that’s all. You don’t think you’re going to be grilled about a visit to —’

  ‘The cloakroom’s the only place you went to whilst you were absent from the bar, is it? You didn’t pop outside and garrotte the man who had bedded your wife?’

  ‘Look, Inspector, you seem to be trying hard to be deliberately offensive. Perhaps I should remind you that I am
on friendly terms with your superior officer at Brunton CID. And —’

  ‘And perhaps I should remind you that you have lied consistently about both your knowledge and your conduct, until we forced you to be more honest. Quite how honest remains to be seen. I’m asking you again, did you go out to Eric Walsh’s car whilst you were allegedly visiting the cloakroom at the White Bull? It’s a simple enough question.’

  ‘No. I didn’t even go into the car park, let alone look for his car.’

  ‘You’re sticking to that?’

  ‘I’m sticking to the truth, if that’s what you’re asking me.’

  ‘Very well. DS Blake has something which might interest you. A receipt for a purchase of petrol.’ Lucy Blake produced the small envelope of polythene with its innocuous-looking slip of paper. She displayed it to Whiteman, keeping it just out of his reach across the desk. He must not be allowed to damage what might eventually be a courtroom exhibit.

  John Whiteman was genuinely puzzled. Like many another man before him, he had never studied the computer trivia which modern life threw up. He said, ‘So it’s a petrol receipt, if you say so. Am I supposed to be impressed?’

  Peach studied him for a moment, decided that the man was still unaware of the significance of what Blake held. ‘It’s a receipt for petrol, paid for with a credit card. With the number of the credit card account included in the garage printout. Your account, Mr Whiteman.’

  They watched him whilst a sick realization crept through his veins. He said dully, ‘So it’s a receipt given to me. Why are you claiming it has any significance?’

  ‘Because of where it was found, Mr Whiteman. It was picked up beside the back door of the Triumph Stag in which Eric Walsh was murdered.’

  There was a pause whilst they watched him suffer. Eventually he said, ‘You could have planted this there.’

  ‘If that’s your defence. I’m sure the Crown prosecution service will be happy to take you on. I think the jury in a murder trial would be inclined to believe our scene-of-crime team.’

  They could hear his breathing, heavy and uneven, before he said, as though speaking to himself, ‘It must have been in my pocket. I must have dropped it when I pulled out my gloves.’

  ‘On Friday night?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So you now admit you went out to that car.’

  ‘Yes. But I didn’t kill him.’

  ‘In view of your persistent refusal to tell us the truth, you can expect us to treat that with —’

  ‘He was dead when I got there.’

  ‘Is this your latest fiction?’

  ‘I went out to tell him what I thought of him. To tell him that I knew about him and Ros and I wanted him out of the Lodge and out of my sight. He was dead when I got there. Sitting with his head slumped forward.’ Whiteman spoke in a dull monotone, like one recalling a nightmare. Or one reciting a statement prepared for just this situation.

  ‘What time was this?’

  ‘Ten to twelve. I looked at my watch as I went back inside the hotel.’

  ‘You’re sticking to this?’

  ‘It’s the truth, this time.’

  ‘I seem to remember you saying that before.’

  Whiteman flashed a look of hatred at this implacable opponent. ‘You can see why I did that. You’re going to say I killed him.’

  Peach studied him coolly for a moment, waiting to see if there would be any further revelations. The head was hunched forward, the eyes cast down, and he knew Whiteman was not going to look at him again. He said, ‘We’ll need to get a formal statement from you, in due course. There is still time to change what you have said, when you have had time to reflect upon it.’

  John Whiteman stayed looking at his desk as they left him, scarcely believing he was still there. He had expected the formal words of arrest.

  Sixteen

  Peach and the man in the dark suit eyed each other cautiously across the few feet of the inspector’s small modern office. ‘You say you were sent to me by the superintendent,’ said Peach, more as accusation than question.

  ‘Ay. The tosser upstairs who doesn’t know his arse from his elbow,’ said the man with distaste.

  Peach leapt forward for a vigorous handshake. ‘Detective Inspector Peach. Universally known round here as Percy. And the tosser upstairs is Detective Superintendent Tucker. Universally known round here as Tommy Bloody Tucker. That’s on his good days.’

  ‘Ian Graham. Until five years ago Detective Sergeant Graham.’

  Peach nodded. ‘It shows. But we all have our skeletons in the cupboard. You weren’t round here, though.’

  ‘No. North Riding CID. But I retired to Clitheroe. My wife comes from the Ribble Valley. And being retired, I don’t have to watch my opinions any more. I can call a spade a spade. Or a tosser a tosser.’

  Peach grinned, taking in the maroon tie, the white shirt, the shoes which shone as brightly as his own. He felt he knew the answer to his next question almost before he asked it. ‘So what are you doing in retirement, Ian?’

  ‘Private enquiry agency. Not my own. I work for someone else.’ He said it defensively, wondering what reaction he would get. Working coppers do not usually take kindly to men working outside the system.

  But Peach nodded equably enough. ‘Better than being a glorified nightwatchman in a factory, I expect.’

  Graham grinned ruefully. ‘It’s dull enough work, most of the time. Trapping petty fiddlers with their hands in the till, following randy husbands to chronicle their meetings with bits on the side. You spend a lot of your time sitting in a car. Occasionally we come across something a bit more interesting.’

  ‘Which is why you’re here now.’

  ‘Which is why I’m here now.’ Ian Graham grinned comfortably, happy to be on the same wavelength with a CID man after his unfortunate experience upstairs. ‘Eric Walsh. Have you found who did for him yet?’

  ‘No. We’ve lined up a few suspects.’

  ‘I’m not surprised at that. He was a man who made enemies, Mr Walsh.’

  ‘Were you one of them, Ian?’ It was always as well to know where people were coming from when they spoke of dead people.

  ‘No. We had what you might laughingly call a professional relationship. He was paying my firm to investigate the activities of someone else.’

  Peach tried not to show the quickening of his interest. All good CID officers are hunters, and when they get an interesting scent, their noses react to it. ‘And who was that?’

  ‘Man called Adrian O’Connor. You know him?’

  Peach nodded. ‘I know him. We’ve questioned him in connection with Walsh’s murder. Alongside a lot of other people who were around at the time, I have to say.’

  Ian Graham nodded. ‘I’m not saying he did it. And I’m afraid I’ve not come here to give you a murderer on a plate.’

  Peach grinned. ‘So why are you here?’

  An answering grin, a grin of recognition between two professionals. ‘Because I can’t take it any further. Because I’d quickly be out of my depth if I tried. Because I’d need a full police murder team to help me. And because no one’s going to pay me to take this any further. Eric Walsh was paying my fees. They stopped abruptly with his death. So did the investigation of Adrian O’Connor.’

  ‘Fair enough. But what is there to take further?’

  ‘Maybe nothing. Maybe a hell of a lot. All I can say is that when Eric Walsh was murdered, I thought immediately of Adrian O’Connor. I’ve nothing to offer which would give you a conviction in court. Nothing which directly connects him with Walsh’s death. I just think you should follow up what I have found, that’s all.’

  Peach looked at him keenly, then nodded. When a murder isn’t a simple domestic killing, there are usually people who come into police stations with wild accusations. Usually they are cranks, sometimes harmless, sometimes malignant. This man was a professional, acting as a professional should when events moved beyond his control. ‘Right. Thanks for coming in.
Let’s have whatever you can give us about Adrian O’Connor.’

  Graham took a deep breath, using what was plainly an orderly mind to deliver his material. ‘First of all, I was employed by Eric Walsh. He asked me to check up on the activities of O’Connor. He wanted discreet probing, not an official stirring of muddy waters. There is a history to this, which you may or may not know.’

  ‘We know O’Connor was questioned by the RUC in Belfast in 1988. In connection with an assault on a certain Dennis Walsh. Eric’s brother. The RUC were pretty certain O’Connor was involved, but he got off with a caution. Dennis Walsh had been courting a Catholic girl: Kathleen O’Connor, Adrian’s sister.’

  Ian Graham nodded, impressed and slightly disappointed by what this sharp-eyed inspector already knew. ‘That is substantially correct. I had the advantage of being able to speak to Eric Walsh about that, of course. I think the only thing I’d really argue with is your word “courting”. Walsh didn’t say so in so many words, but I think his brother was out to bed a Catholic girl and be on his way. I don’t think he’d have stayed around to marry her, even if that had been possible. In the peculiar world of the troubles in Belfast, a Catholic harlot would have been a trophy for the Protestants to brandish.’

  Peach nodded. ‘Certainly Eric Walsh’s subsequent record with women would imply that that was the family approach. He didn’t stick around too long, once they dropped their drawers, our Eric. Perhaps Dennis was the same.’

  ‘I think he was. I think the danger, and the idea of putting one over on the Catholics, were what appealed to the Walshes. Which would make O’Connor all the more bitter. Eric seems to have been the driving force behind these events. He was the elder brother, and the head of an active Loyalist cell in the powder keg which was Belfast at the time. He moved out pretty smartly after his brother was assaulted: perhaps he thought he’d be the next victim.’

  ‘And fourteen years later, he decides to employ you to make discreet enquiries. Why?’

  ‘Because he thought Adrian O’Connor had come to this area to pursue him. It’s melodramatic, but in terms of Irish feuding, it’s possible.’