by Gregson, J M
‘Which we did, within twenty-four hours.’
Peach went on as if he had never been interrupted. ‘On the second occasion, we found that you had tried to suborn a witness, which you denied until you were confronted with the evidence. You then came up with a cock and bull story about your connection with the murder victim. You said that you had been interested in the man’s singing, that you had been trying to persuade your father to employ him at some of his functions.’
‘I think I admitted at the time that that was rubbish.’
‘You did, rather. Though not in so many words. You then said you used to have the occasional drink with Eric Walsh, that you shared a common interest in girls. Distinctly more promising, though you were still holding things back. It went a lot further than a common interest, didn’t it?’
‘I don’t know what you mean by that. I’ve tried to be frank with you, and all you do is twist everything I say.’
Lucy Blake had her gold ballpoint pen poised over her notebook. So far she hadn’t bothered with a single note. She now said quietly, ‘The electronics wizards have been examining Mr Walsh’s computer files, Wasim. It takes them a little time, but they usually manage to get into whatever system is used, eventually.’
He was clearly shaken. But after a pause, all he said was, ‘Good for them. I can’t see what relevance that has to me.’
She smiled at him, using her softness where Peach had been all aggression. ‘Don’t you, Wasim? I think you do. It would be much better if this came from you than from us, you know.’ He looked from her earnest, persuasive face to Peach’s happy smile, wanting to talk but finding that denial was all that sprung to his lips. ‘I don’t know what you’re getting at. I want to help, but I can’t tell you what I don’t know.’
Peach’s smile widened. ‘What blood group are you, Mr Afzaal?’
The question was so unexpected, appeared so much a diversion from the previous line of questioning, that Wasim replied quite readily, ‘AB. Rhesus-negative, I think.’
‘Is it really? Reasonably rare blood group, that.’ Peach’s voice hardened. ‘Now, let me tell you an interesting fact, Mr Afzaal. We spoke to you last time we saw you about a break-in at Mr Walsh’s house a few hours after he had been brutally murdered. Our scene-of-crime team found a sample of fresh blood on the doorstep of the house, which we assume came from the person who broke in. This morning I had a phone conversation with our forensic laboratory. The blood group of that sample was AB. Rhesus-negative.’
There was a pause in which the traffic outside seemed unnaturally loud, even through the double glazing of this modern fiat. Afzaal said hopelessly, ‘That isn't conclusive.’
‘No. A significant addition to the evidence, though, isn’t it? It’s a fairly rare group, as I say, which is fortunate — but perhaps not fortunate for you. You broke into the house that night, didn’t you?’
Another pause. Then Afzaal said dully, ‘I didn’t break in. I had a key.’
‘And how did you come by that, from a man with whom you only had an occasional drink?’
Wasim stared at Peach’s feet. The twinkle of the highly polished black leather seemed to be mocking him. ‘He didn’t give it to me. I took his keys from his coat pocket.’
‘After you’d killed him.'
‘No. After someone else had. Mr Davies, the head waiter at the White Bull, came in and said that Eric had been murdered in his car. He went off to fetch Superintendent Tucker from the bar. I nipped out and took the key from Eric’s pocket whilst Davies was fetching Mr Tucker.’
Lucy Blake saw her moment, saw that they must keep him talking now that he had begun. She said softly, ‘Eric Walsh had some kind of hold over you, hadn’t he, Wasim?’
He nodded, suddenly anxious to explain himself, to try to persuade them that he hadn’t committed the worst crime of all. ‘It’s not complicated. I owed him money. Quite a lot of money. Eight thousand pounds and a few hundred in interest.’
She said, ‘We know all about Eric Walsh’s lists of women. He supplied you and others with names of women who were prepared to have sex and be paid for it, didn’t he?’
‘Yes. He didn’t charge all that much for the information, I suppose. But it got me in debt to him. And … and he lent me money for my gambling. It got into the thousands quite quickly. I kept thinking I’d get it back the next night at the casino.’
He sounded bewildered, as if he couldn’t understand why that hadn’t happened. It was a tone they had heard often enough before from people with serious gambling debts: there was a curious, fatal innocence about their optimism.
Lucy shook her head, ‘It doesn’t happen like that. You must know that by now. Was Eric Walsh threatening you about the debt?’
‘Not with violence.’
‘What, then?’
This time it was Wasim Afzaal who shook his head, violently, as if he might thus clear it of all confusion. ‘Nothing. He wouldn’t have had me beaten up, Eric. That wasn’t his style.’
Peach said harshly, ‘You stole a dead man’s keys and broke into his house in the hours after he was killed. At the moment, it looks to us as if it was you who tightened that cord around his neck. If you want to convince us you didn’t kill Eric Walsh, you’d better start telling us the complete truth, not the snippets you want us to have.’
Wasim looked at Peach as if he would like to have killed him at that moment. The inspector’s face did not change; his eyes remained unblinkingly on the delicate, mobile features of the man in the chair opposite him. Wasim eventually dropped his eyes and his slim shoulders at the same time. ‘He was threatening to tell my father.’
‘And that’s all?’
‘All! Have you any idea what it would have meant if he’d told my father about the women? About the gambling? About the debt I’d built up?’
Still Peach moved not a muscle. ‘My guess is that he’d have paid off Eric Walsh.’
‘Oh, he’d have paid, all right! To preserve the family name! To preserve his own honour as a prominent businessman in the town! And I’d have been finished. He’d have stopped my university course, put me to work as a shelf-stacker in his humblest shop, and looked to my younger brothers to take over his business empire. In his eyes, I’d have acquired all the vices of a dissolute Briton. He’d have put me to work in his shops, at the lowest level. If I’d have kept my nose clean for a few years, he might have arranged a low-grade marriage for me. Oh, yes, I would have had everything to look forward to!’
The only sound in the flat at the end of this bitter outburst was of Afzaal’s uneven breathing. Lucy Blake said softly, ‘I think you exaggerate a little for effect, Wasim.’
He had been shouting at Peach, but now he rounded on her. ‘Have you any idea what it’s like to belong to a Muslim family in England? Of course you haven’t! Listen, to all intents and purposes, I’m British. I was born here, reared here, in English schools, with boys who’d never been outside England. I want to complete my university course and get a job in a hotel, to make my own way, like the other graduates. I feel English! I am English!’
Peach could have pointed out that he seemed to have taken the worst from the British culture, with his paid sex and his desperate gambling. Instead, he waited for the passionate outburst to end and then said quietly, ‘I think we’d accept that. The trouble is, Mr Afzaal, that you’ve just given us an excellent account of why you might have killed Eric Walsh.’
Nineteen
Agnes Blake picked up the silver-framed photograph of Percy Peach, dusted it thoroughly, and put it carefully back on the sideboard beside that of her dead husband, positioning them carefully so that neither should have precedence.
It was the greatest compliment Percy could have had, thought Lucy Blake as she watched her mother’s movements affectionately through the low doorway of the old cottage. There was many a man behind bars who would not have recognized this picture of Percy Peach. Agnes had found a photograph in the files of the Lancashire Evening Telegraph
which showed a very different side of the man. This smile was not the hunter’s smile which criminals knew so well. It was the happy, almost boyish, smile of a man at play, a man who returns to the schoolboy he thought was long left behind.
Peach was dressed in white and carried a cricket bat. He wore a red cap at a rakish angle, covering the familiar bald head. Even the name was different: the black letters inscribed beneath the photograph in Agnes Blake’s careful hand read: ‘DCS Peach, after making 53 off 48 balls against Haslingden, 1998.’
This must be about the only place where Percy was afforded his full and proper forenames of Denis Charles Scott. He had been named after the legendary Denis Compton, the ‘gay cavalier of cricket’, the favourite batsman of his dead father and, more surprisingly, of Agnes Blake. ‘Percy’ Peach was a name devised by a police service which loved alliteration. Few people nowadays understood the significance of Percy’s initials; fewer still revelled in them as delightedly as the sixty-eight-year-old Mrs Blake.
Agnes turned to find that her daughter had been watching her in the contemplation of the two men in cricket clothing, Percy and her dead husband. Like most Lancashire women of her era, she was embarrassed to be caught indulging a moment of sentiment. So she said briskly, ‘You shouldn’t creep up on people like that, our Lucy. Your washing’s dry and folded near the back door. Don’t forget it when you go.’
Lucy understood exactly that she had caught the older woman off guard. She said, ‘You really shouldn’t be doing my washing any more, you know. I’ve got my own machine in the flat.’
‘Ay, I know. But it’ll save you a bit of time. You’re always short of time, you working women.’
Lucy came into the room and looked at the photographs of her dead father and Percy, standing together in joint preeminence on the sideboard. ‘I’m glad you took to Percy, Mum.’
‘Your Dad would have liked him. It’s a pity they never met.’
Lucy looked down at the older picture, of her father Bill, with a shy, exhausted smile, taken after he had taken 6 for 44 against Blackpool. ‘The paper said that even Rohan Kanhai had to treat him with respect that day.’ Lucy quoted the familiar words before her mother could come out with them, teasing the older woman in the affectionate way daughters have with mothers they love.
‘Ay! Well, it’s true enough, however much you like to mock your old mother. You two moved in with each other yet, then?’
‘Mother!’ Lucy was genuinely shocked. With the unconscious arrogance of youth, she believed that sex had only really begun when she discovered it. To have a parent mentioning your love life was really quite unnerving. ‘No, we haven’t! I have my own flat and Percy has his house.’
‘You won’t do better, you know. He’s a good lad, is Percy, even if he’s a bit older than you. He won’t let you down, you know.’
It should have warmed her, to hear such approbation of her choice from her mother. But she wasn’t ready for such frankness. ‘We’re happy as we are, thank you,’ she said primly.
‘Ay. And meantime I get older, and still no grandchildren. Time you made an honest man of him!’ She smiled at her own little joke, enjoyed reversing the usual cliché, and enjoyed discomfiting Lucy even more.
‘It’s not straightforward, Mum. Not in the police service. We work together, you see. You’re not supposed to have serious relationships with people you work closely with.’
‘Serious relationships!’ Agnes sneered at this modern evasion. ‘You’re not supposed to sleep together, you mean. Have to conceal it from people higher up the ranks, do you?’
It was too near the mark for comfort. If Tommy Bloody Tucker had been more in touch, he’d have seen how things were and separated them months ago. ‘We have to be discreet, sometimes, yes. But we like working together. I wouldn’t like that to end.’
‘Well, you’ll have to make your mind up, won’t you? Time a lass of your age was thinking of getting wed. High time, if you ask me! Time you got yourself out of that dangerous job. You could have been killed last year, without Percy!’
It was true enough: she had almost been killed by a man who was now locked away in Broadmoor, a former colleague. She didn’t care to remember the details. ‘That was quite exceptional, Mum. It won’t happen again.’
Agnes sniffed dismissively. ‘So you say. Anyway, it’s time you two made it legal, if you ask me. You’re right for each other.’
Lucy smiled fondly at the ageing, anxious face. ‘It’s nice to have parental approval, anyway. But things aren’t always as straightforward as they seem to you, Mum.’
It was a picturesque run back to grimy Brunton on that frosty Thursday morning as she drove her bulbous blue Corsa over the wide sweep of the Ribble at Ribchester and through the vivid autumn colours. But Lucy saw little of the morning, for she was busy wondering whether her mother might not be right after all.
She would have liked to know what Percy Peach thought about the matter.
*
Darren Cartwright sent his secretary out for the morning to investigate a new source of office supplies. He didn’t want her around when Peach came; she might hear things which she should not through the thin wall which divided her outer office from his room.
Within minutes of the inspector’s arrival with DS Blake, Darren was glad of this precaution. Peach had grounds now to arrest Cartwright, if he decided to do so. He no longer felt any need to disguise his dislike of the man. ‘We need information from you, Mr Cartwright. A frank and full discussion. Here or at the station, whichever you prefer.’
‘I’ll help you in any way I can; that goes without saying. But I really can’t see how I’m —’
‘You can start by telling me why you employed two men to beat up a young mother on Tuesday evening.’
Darren hadn’t expected this. When Lucy Blake had made the appointment she had said on the phone that it was in connection with developments in the investigation of the murder of Eric Walsh, and Darren had prepared himself accordingly. To have his involvement in loan-sharking challenged head-on like this threw him completely off balance. He said, ‘I really don’t know which young mother or which men you’re referring to. A case of mistaken identity, I’m sure.’
Peach looked at him with a cold smile, like a tiger preparing to capture its dinner. ‘No mistake, Mr Cartwright. Mrs Kershaw is in hospital, but one of our officers is outside the ward, in case you get any ideas of further intimidation. And your two gorillas are presently helping us with our enquiries.’
That was rather an exaggeration, since the two men were sitting in separate cells and refusing to talk. But it was only a matter of time, in Percy’s view: those buggers hadn’t yet had the full frontal onslaught of Peach himself. He watched as Cartwright thrashed around in his net. ‘Cartwright Financial Services is a respectable organization. There is no way in which —’
‘Cartwright Financial Services may be just that. I’m sure that everything which goes through the books is dull but respectable. I can’t say the same for your other activities.’
‘Other activities? I really think —’
‘Loan-sharking. The thing we touched on in our last meeting, Mr Cartwright. Lending at excessive rates of interest to poor desperate sods who can’t see what they’re letting themselves in for.’ Percy found himself breathing hard; he was having to control the genuine anger which he knew got in the way of efficiency.
It was Lucy Blake who said evenly, ‘We now know all about your less publicized activities, Mr Cartwright. We can provide chapter and verse, whenever it should be necessary. The CID at Brunton has been interested in you for some time, you see. There are others, as well as Mrs Kershaw, who will act as witnesses when these matters come to court.’ She was anxious to protect the young mother from intimidation when she came out of hospital: if she were the only witness she could well be in danger.
The mention of court proceedings deflated Cartwright. He repeated the feeble mantra he had ready for these accusations. ‘It’s not agains
t the law to lend money. You try to help people; if they get themselves into difficulties with repayments, that is their own fault.’
Peach was back in control of himself and the situation. ‘That is something which may well be tested in court. I’m sure a jury would be interested in the rates of interest you charge and the terms of repayment demanded. What is clearly illegal is your method of enforcement. The violence you have ordered against Mrs Kershaw and others will probably merit a custodial sentence.’ He grinned in anticipation of that happy outcome.
Cartwright’s smile was sickly. ‘My assistants are strictly forbidden to use violence in the collection of debts.’
‘Not what they say, sunshine.’
‘I emphasize to them in all my orders that they shouldn’t use force. It’s even down in writing.’
‘Perhaps you should employ heavies who can read, then. They seemed to have a pretty clear idea of what their duty was. And it wasn’t to behave gently.’ Peach sighed. ‘But we’re not here about that, are we, DS Blake? Not today, anyway. Other CID officers are dealing with that.’
Darren tried hard not to look relieved. ‘DS Blake said you had more questions to ask about Eric Walsh.’
‘Yes. If we can pin a murder charge on you, loan-sharking will seem almost insignificant. Pity, that would be.’
‘I didn’t kill Eric Walsh.’
‘Glad to hear it. But in view of the state of Mrs Kershaw and your previous pack of lies, you won’t expect us to take that on trust.’
‘I wasn’t even there. I told you, I didn’t go to —’
‘When we first saw you last week, you were very worried about threats to your life. You were scared enough to be demanding police protection. When we saw you on Monday, you made no mention of this supposed threat to your very existence. Why the sudden change, Mr Cartwright?’
They could almost see the mind working beneath the carefully combed hair and the furrowed forehead. Cartwright apparently decided that in this at any rate honesty was the best policy. ‘By Monday, I no longer felt under threat. It was Eric Walsh who was sending me those threatening letters.’