by J M Gregson
Hook shrugged, more elaborately than the men opposite him had shrugged at the outset of their exchanges. ‘If you say so, Sturley. Forensic will tell us all about the smears of blood on the corpse which didn’t come from Charlie. Just as they’ll match up the hairs they found there with others, in due course. That’s the beauty of science, you see; you can’t argue with it.’ He tapped the side pocket of his suit with satisfaction. ‘I think we’ve got everything we need from here, sir. Unless of course you have further questions for these fools?’ Only on the very last phrase did he allow the full depth of his disgust for the two vicious men in front of him to come through.
Rushton thought he had never seen a barren hand played so convincingly. He was experienced enough now not to risk overplaying it. ‘Don’t move out of the area without letting us know any new address,’ he said. ‘And give your position some thought. Consider just who it is you are protecting. He wouldn’t hesitate to sacrifice you, and you know it.’
He knew that wouldn’t work: they couldn’t admit murder as they could a lesser crime and hope to mitigate it by implicating their employer. But it was the best he could manage by way of an exit line. He was very glad that he had brought Bert Hook with him. For a moment, he had even believed him about the blood on the corpse.
Bert Hook left without another word. He looked back from the exit at their adversaries, as if he was memorizing their every feature for future use. But it was the picture of Amy Pegg’s grief-stricken face which filled his mind.
10
In another, more respectable part of the ancient city of Bristol, in the warm and well-lit offices on the fourth floor of a tower block, Detective Superintendent John Lambert was having his own problems.
He had spent another half hour with Pegg’s little red book, then levered himself out of his swivel chair and set off in pursuit of James Berridge, who he was more than ever convinced was the force behind this murder. But the man was elusive. Even his personal secretary in the new office block did not know where he was. She was fifty, with well-coiffured grey hair and rimless glasses. She was efficient, experienced, and eminently respectable: just the kind of impeccable front that Berridge would have put in place here, Lambert reflected sourly.
And she was well versed in concealing her employer’s whereabouts. When Lambert pressed, she referred him eventually to the only senior executive who was in the building, the head of his sales force. If someone was going to reveal the whereabouts of the boss to this persistent policeman, she knew her industrial procedures well enough to ensure that it would be someone who was paid to take the flak.
Lambert raised no objections to talking to Ian Faraday. He had found the initials ‘I.F.’ in Pegg’s book, in a section which seemed to relate to James Berridge’s flat in Old Mead Park. Berridge was a villain, though they had still to bring him to justice. Some of his enterprises were perfectly legal, a profitable and effective front for the darker activities which went on behind them and were the real source of his wealth. There was the same kind of mix among his employees; he had no idea yet into which category Ian Faraday might be placed.
The man was certainly nervous. His handshake had a practised firmness, but his limbs flailed a little wildly as he rearranged the two armchairs in front of his desk so that he could sit opposite his visitor. ‘I’m afraid I’m not sure where Mr Berridge is today. Is it anything I might be able to help with?’ he said rather breathlessly.
‘Frankly, I don’t know the answer to that. Do you have any connection with the Curvy Cats night club in Bristol?’
‘No. Is the place a part of Mr Berridge’s empire?’ The denial came a little too quickly; the ignorance was protested insistently upon its heels.
‘It is. Not a very pleasant one, to my mind. It calls itself a night club, but it’s more a strip club, with extremely expensive entry fees and drinks.’ And the kind of place where even more dubious and illegal arrangements were often completed.
Faraday nodded. ‘It sounds like the club he has in London. I have nothing to do with that side of the group’s activities. I am merely sales director for the clothing we make at our small factory in Stroud.’
Again he was firm about the disclaimer: Lambert found himself wondering about how his employer might have reacted to that. ‘May I ask how many men you are responsible for?’
‘Three. One of them is semi-retired now, but we keep him on for his contacts.’ Not a big operation then; like the men’s shops owned by Berridge in Oldford and Gloucester, this was no doubt a perfectly legal and modestly profitable business, a useful front behind which more evil dealings were conducted. Faraday had not hesitated over the information: he had the air of a man who seemed anxious to distance himself from Berridge’s more nefarious activities, and from whatever major crime was the subject of the present enquiries. He seemed not at all surprised that a CID superintendent should be looking for his boss. And, Lambert now suspected, not at all anxious to protect him. This man might be a valuable contact if they were really going hard for his employer.
Lambert said, ‘Have you ever heard mention of two men called Jones and Sturley? They are based in the night club at Bristol. But we think they also have other functions.’
‘No. I don’t even know the names.’
‘In that case, you should congratulate yourself. How long have you worked for the Berridge group?’
‘Six years. I’m thirty-seven now.’
It was curious that he should volunteer his age like that. Lambert took it as a cue to assemble more personal details. ‘Are you married?’
‘No. Not any longer. I’ve been divorced for four years.’ This time Lambert was amused rather than surprised by the detail. He found increasingly that heterosexuals wanted to assert that they were not gay. Even a failed marriage seemed to be taken as proof of that; people seemed unaware that on occasions it could indicate exactly the opposite.
As he sat in the armchair opposite his questioner, Faraday crossed his legs, but he was certainly not relaxed. His hands fluttered a little, and he had the air of a man constantly on the verge of revealing things about himself. That was a factor that was bound to interest detectives. He now said, ‘Can you tell me what all this is about, Superintendent?’
Lambert smiled. ‘I thought you might have asked that a little earlier. We are investigating the death of a man called Pegg, in Gloucester last night.’
Faraday pushed one of those too-mobile hands through a plentiful crop of dark-brown hair. ‘I’ve never heard of him, I’m afraid. How did he die?’
‘He was murdered, Mr Faraday. Expertly stabbed, with a knife which has not been recovered. He bled to death within a few minutes, but he was not found until this morning.’
Ian Faraday’s brown eyes widened at the calm recitation of this detail. ‘And — and you think that Berridge might be involved in some way in this?’
Lambert wondered whether the omission of any title for his employer signified anything. Hostility, he fancied: the man had at no point sought to defend his boss. ‘We think Mr Berridge could help us with our enquiries. But we don’t think he plunged a dagger into Charlie Pegg himself, and I’d rather you kept the subject of our investigation to yourself. Now, bearing in mind the seriousness of this, can you give me any suggestion as to where your employer might be at this moment?’
‘You’ve tried the London business number?’
‘We’ve done more than that. We’ve sent people round there to look for him. He isn’t either at the club or in his London flat. Nor is he at home in Oldford. We’ve tried his penthouse in Old Mead Park. He isn’t there, and neither is his wife. Do you think he might be with her?’
Ian Faraday’s clean-cut features were too expressive for his own good. They clouded, momentarily but significantly. ‘No. I’m sure he isn’t with Gabrielle.’
The use of the Christian name was surely noteworthy. He had not used Berridge’s first name, and from what he had let slip about the man it seemed unlikely that there was much soci
al interchange between them. As if he realized what he had done and was trying to retrieve it, Faraday said awkwardly, ‘The Berridges don’t go about much together nowadays. I believe they may — may even separate before too long. But perhaps I’m reading too much into things I’ve seen.’
Lambert thought of the initials in Charlie Pegg’s book, and realized suddenly what the likely source of the small collection of words and initials he had listed under the number of the Berridges’ penthouse apartment: an answerphone. If he was right, it meant this man had left messages on such a contraption. But by his own account, perhaps not for Berridge. He said, ‘Do you visit them often at Old Mead Park?’
‘No!’ The vehemence seemed to take the speaker even more by surprise than his listener. Ian Faraday grinned sheepishly at it and said, ‘I’ve been there, but I scarcely see Berridge at all outside this office. I’ve no desire to see him, as a matter of fact.’ He opened his arms wide, then sat back on his chair and folded them, as if he felt that these recalcitrant limbs must be firmly controlled.
Lambert did not help him out; Faraday seemed to be in danger of stumbling into interesting revelations. The more he talked, the more this man seemed likely to be a valuable aid in any investigation into the more dubious activities of James Berridge. Faraday now waved those telltale hands in an unscripted arabesque, then clasped them firmly over his crossed right knee, as if his vocal cords lay there and might be stilled by his grasp. He smiled at his interrogator in a slightly embarrassed manner, but he managed to refrain from further words.
Lambert said brusquely, ‘Let’s leave your personal relationship with him for the moment.’ He left the impression that he could unearth deeply compromising material at any moment he chose to do so. ‘I’ve told you more than I should have about a brutal killing. I need to know where James Berridge is. I get the impression that some people round here have an idea where he might be. Frustrating the course of a police investigation can easily turn into a serious offence. I think you should tell me now where you think your employer may be; there will be no reason for me to tell him where the information came from, of course.’
The man opposite him had been looking increasingly confused and distressed. Berridge, as Lambert knew only too well, was not a man to cross. Faraday hesitated for a moment; then he was suddenly calm and determined, as if the decision he had taken had strengthened his resolution. ‘You could try a woman called Sarah Farrell. I’m told she has a cottage on the outskirts of Gloucester. I don’t know the number, but I expect she’ll be in the book.’
‘Thank you, Mr Faraday. I shan’t tell Mr Berridge where the information came from. He will of course be able to find out easily enough that I have been talking to you. But you have done no more than your duty as a citizen. You should remind him of that if there is any unpleasantness.’
Lambert did not trouble to conceal the haste of his departure. He had wasted enough time locating James Berridge already. But he was also excited. Because the initials ‘S.F.’ had also figured in Charlie Pegg’s cryptic little records.
**
Gabrielle Berridge found out the details of the death of poor Charlie Pegg without too much difficulty. George Lewis was very upset after the visit of the tall policeman to his little porter’s office, and he was only too ready to talk about the death of his friend to the lady with the patrician manner and the sympathetic ear.
Gabrielle was surprised how much the death of Pegg affected Lewis: obviously the two had been closer than George had let on when he recommended Pegg for the work in her apartment. Well, that did not matter; the little man’s work had been of a surprisingly high standard. She was sorry to see him go, especially like that. But she was not stricken with any great grief; she had scarcely known him, having been out of the flat for most of the days when he had worked there. She remembered how adamant James had been that he should not go into his study. Well, he would not need to worry about the busy little man any longer now.
And she herself would not be bothered by James for much longer. She shut out the fantasy of the life she would soon enjoy with Ian Faraday, for she had things to do now. As she went back into the penthouse, the phone was ringing, but she ignored it, as she had throughout the day. There was only one person whose calls she cared about, and she knew that he would not ring her here; not today. The rest of the calls could collect on the answerphone, to be answered later if she thought fit.
She went to the bottom drawer of her dressing table, removing the underclothes and stockings until she could slide her hand to the back and withdraw the small key she had hidden there. James would be furious if he knew she had it: the thought drew a small, secret smile to her lips.
She went through to his study, checking as she passed the picture windows of the drawing room that there was no sign of her husband’s BMW in the drive or the car park. Then, with the infinite care of a safe-cracker, she slid the key into the lock of the top right-hand drawer of the big desk and eased it open. Even at this last moment of her treachery, apprehension held her still for a moment, during which she had time to notice the pounding of her heart and the trembling of her fingers.
But it was excitement, not fear, which eventually predominated. She took out the small black pistol and the box of ammunition, locked the drawer as carefully as she had opened it, and crept away to her bedroom to hide her booty.
***
Lambert looked up the address of Sarah Farrell in the phone book. But he did not ring before he visited her: it had been his aim throughout the day to confront James Berridge without any warning. He would have appreciated the solid presence of Bert Hook at his side, but to pick him up from the incident room in Oldford would have added another half hour to the journey, and there had been enough delays already.
Ms Farrell lived in the end one of a row of mews cottages, with a garage and a parking space discreetly tucked away behind it. It was a conversion of an old stable block which had been well done; the four cottages had a charm which far outstripped their humble origins. The front of the cottages faced north and there were three tall chestnuts shutting out the light at no great distance from them. This meant that the spring dark dropped early upon the lounges of these residences, for they were positioned beside the front doors with their brass lanterns. Two of the cottages already had lights on, but there was no light in the front room or the tiny hall of number four.
Lambert looked briefly to the rear of the cottage, and saw what he thought was Berridge’s light-blue BMW there. That made him ring the bell insistently, even when at first there was no reply. Eventually, the little grille to the right of the door crackled into life, and an irritated female voice said, ‘Well? Who is it?’
The sound made Lambert start, for he had not seen the grille. It seemed an unnecessary security refinement, in an area like this. He wondered if all the cottages had them. He stooped to the hidden microphone and said firmly, ‘Police. We wish to speak to James Berridge.’ Might as well let him think there was a full raiding party, if he was planning to be difficult.
There was a confusion of metallic murmurs before the distorted tones of Berridge came snarling through the device. ‘I’m busy, Lambert. Why don’t you piss off, instead of harassing innocent citizens?’
Lambert felt that being thus identified had lost him the first round in this strange contest. Had Berridge seen him arrive from behind the unlit windows? Or had he recognized his voice, even through that tinny medium? Perhaps he had been half-expecting him, though presumably not here. If so, it was further confirmation of a connection with Pegg’s killing, though, like everything else they seemed to find out about James Berridge, quite useless in a court of law. Lambert rang the bell again lengthily and raised his voice from the discreet to the clamorous. ‘Open the door, please. Unless you wish us to make the reason for this visit more public.’
A light went on suddenly behind the thick upstairs curtains, and there were muffled sounds of movement. A few moments later, the security locks on the door clicked
back and it opened a reluctant six inches. Lambert moved forward immediately, like an importunate door-to-door salesman. ‘Thank you. I need to see Mr Berridge urgently, or I should not have been so insistent.’
The woman looked at him for a moment with open hostility, then turned abruptly and went back into the lounge. She drew the curtains before she put on a light, so that for a moment they were in the inappropriate intimacy of darkness. When the standard lamp went on, she stood beside it, fastening the top button of her blouse before she looked at him.
He stood awkwardly, a tall man whose head almost brushed the door frame of the small lounge, but she did not ask him to sit down.
She was quite small, though in this setting she did not appear so: she might have been chosen to complete the furnishings of that neat room with its Chinese carpet, its draped ruched curtains and its soft cream leather suite. There were no ceiling lights, so that it was impossible to speculate whether the blonde hair which gleamed lustrously in the light of the lamp was natural or contrived. She had clear skin and a well-formed figure; she checked the side fastening of her expensive skirt as if to draw attention to her slim waist. Her eyes glittered blue and angry as she faced him. ‘You people have a bloody cheek! You barge in here without—’
‘Sometimes it is necessary for us to be determined. Sometimes the people we wish to see can be very elusive.’
She whirled angrily away from him. In that small room, it was not possible for her to put much distance between them, but she busied herself pointedly with the things she might have done had she been alone. She switched on the small brass wall lights on each side of the fire, then lit the living-flame gas fire with a violent twist of its electronic starter.
Lambert was pleased to be ignored: he had no intention of getting involved in an argument with this woman. If she had thought to embarrass him by leaving him standing, she failed completely. He was well used to hostile receptions, and he had no wish to confront James Berridge from the comfortable depths of one of the armchairs. He stood quite still, listening intently to the sounds from the room above. He moved only when he heard the sound of feet on the stairs behind him. At that point, he stepped briskly into the centre of the room and turned to confront the man he had sought out here.