by J M Gregson
‘He’ll see an old acquaintance like me, love.’ As her mouth opened to protest, Peach brandished his warrant card before her blue-lidded eyes. Clyde Northcott sprang forward on cue to line his own card up beside his chief’s. Peach grinned. ‘I take DS Northcott around with me in case things get violent. But he’s a softy, when people are reasonable. He enjoys his tea and biscuits, when people are kind enough to provide them.’
The PA spoke in a low voice into the intercom. She did not trouble to conceal her disappointment as she said, ‘Mr Valento will see you now, Detective Chief Inspector.’
Peach already had his hand upon the door. ‘Long time no see, Tony!’ he said as he flung it open. ‘Can’t say that’s been a disappointment, though.’ His smile said that this sort of meeting was much more to his taste than the one he had conducted with a grieving widow earlier in the day.
‘What the hell do you want, Peach?’
‘And a good afternoon to you, Tony! I think you know very well what I’m here for.’
‘I haven’t a bloody clue, mate. And time’s money. So spit it out.’
Peach took the seat he had not been offered and gestured to Northcott to take the one beside him. He looked round at the pictures of show business luminaries, past and present, which lined the walls, presumably because they were clients of Valento. Only then did his attention switch back to the big man with the black curly hair and olive skin who sat behind the desk. ‘Adam Cassidy. Sometime client of yours. Recently became an ex-client, as you learned a week ago. Now also a murder victim. Are these three things a random series of events, or is there a logical progression in them? That is what I have to ask myself.’
‘Don’t be fucking daft, Peach!’
Percy’s smile grew wider. ‘You’ve written that down, DC Northcott? Not a formal cassette-recorded interview, this, but we might wish to recall Mr Valento’s tone and attitude at some future date. As a citizen anxious to help the police with their enquiries, he doesn’t seem wholly cooperative.’ He glanced at the door to the outer office. ‘And we wouldn’t want important clients with delicate ears to hear unseemly words, would we? Ah, here comes the tea. What friendly and thoughtful staff you have, Mr Valento!’
Tony Valento glared his disapproval at the girl as she set the tray with china crockery on his desk; Peach and Northcott beamed quietly at the rear view of short skirt and long legs. Percy sprang to his feet as the PA closed the door firmly behind her. ‘Shall I be mother, Tony? It’s no trouble, really it isn’t.’ He poured the tea with elaborate care.
Valento glared at the cup and saucer set in front of him and shook his head angrily when offered the biscuits. ‘You’re wasting your time here, Peach.’
‘I’m glad to hear it, Tony. If we could eliminate you from this enquiry, it would be a major step forward.’
‘I can tell you exactly where I was at the time of this death.’
Clyde Northcott looked up from his notebook and spoke for the first time. ‘And when would that be, Mr Valento?’
The agent realized immediately that he’d made a mistake. Until this moment Peach, the man he’d clashed with years ago, had taken all his attention. Now he looked into the black, unsmiling face with the unblinking brown eyes and the faint scar at the top of the left cheekbone. More the sort of face he was used to dealing with, this, among the heavy muscle he and his associates used when they needed it. He said, ‘I’m willing to tell you where I was on Friday night. That’s what you want to know about isn’t it?’
Clyde allowed himself a slow smile. ‘Is it, Mr Valento? You tell us. We haven’t established a time of death yet. We’re still waiting for the PM report and forensics to tell us that. So how would an innocent man like you know so much more than them?’
‘I don’t know, you black dumbo! It’s just that from what they said on television, it seemed to me—’
‘Whoa, Tony! Stop it right there.’ Peach’s amiable tone was gone. ‘Seems we’re going to have to add racialist abuse to obscene epithets and unhelpful attitude. Won’t make a good impression on a judge, these things. Not when he takes into account your previous record.’
‘It’s not going to come in front of any fucking judge, because there won’t be any bloody charges, Peach.’
The big man didn’t sound as confident of that as he meant to. The olive forehead was now oily with sweat, but he couldn’t give the man on the other side of his desk the satisfaction of seeing him wipe it. Peach nibbled a chocolate digestive thoughtfully, took a sip of his tea, and said, ‘Tell us how you know when Cassidy died, will you, please? In your own time – wouldn’t like to hurry you on something as important as this.’
‘I’m sure they said Friday night on radio or television. I’m sure I’m right.’
‘Oh, I’m sure you’re right as well, Tony. I’d put a week’s wages on it being Friday night, now that you’ve told us. But none of the bulletins included that information, because we didn’t know it ourselves when they were issued.’
Valento said from beneath a thunderous brow, ‘I must have just assumed it. It must have seemed the likeliest time, from what I heard. I wasn’t paying a lot of attention.’
Peach’s amusement returned to him with that remark. ‘Not paying a lot of attention, Tony? When hearing about the death of your most valuable and high-profile client? Or rather, ex-client. You didn’t take kindly to his switch of agents, did you?’
Valento silently cursed himself for the threats against Cassidy he had issued in his phone conversation with that smooth bugger Mark Gilbey, who had poached Cassidy from him. He said sullenly, ‘I can get along without Cassidy. I got the bastard everything he had and he sold himself on without even consulting me. But we’re big enough not to need him.’
‘Maybe, but treachery hurts, doesn’t it? And you’re not used to it, are you, Tony? You’re used to responding with violence when anyone upsets you; we know that from our previous dealings with you. This killing will certainly encourage others to think twice before deserting you, won’t it?’
‘You never proved anything against me, Peach! Never even got me into court.’
‘But we could have proved it, and you knew it. Cost you best part of a million pounds to prevent those two giving evidence against you six years ago, I’m told.’
‘They’re in Marbella now, having a good laugh at you.’
‘Must be quite an unsavoury place, Marbella, with the number of villains sitting beside those expensive swimming pools. I expect you’d feel at home there.’
‘I didn’t kill Adam Cassidy. I can account for my movements for the whole of Friday night and Saturday, so I’m out of the frame whenever he died.’
‘Can you, indeed? Almost suspicious that, a man having an alibi for such a long period. Doesn’t often happen with innocent people. But I’m sure you’re right about it, Tony, if you say so. Doesn’t get you off the hook, though, does it?’
‘Of course it does. I’m telling you that I can demonstrate that I couldn’t possibly have done this killing.’
Peach set his cup and saucer back on the tray, then wiped his mouth delicately on the paper napkin provided. He smiled contentedly. ‘That’s not your way, though, is it? We know from previous experience that you don’t do anything as sordid and obvious as killing for yourself. You employ people to do that sort of work for you.’
‘I didn’t use a hit man on Cassidy.’
‘I’m glad to hear it, Tony. But I’m sure you wouldn’t expect us simply to accept that. Not from a man with your record. We’ll get a formal statement from you about your whereabouts at the time of this death, once it’s definitely established. But we shall also investigate the whereabouts and the movements of people you have employed in the past to eliminate men who have displeased you. Hit men, as professionals like you and me call them. Don’t leave the area without letting us know your new address, will you?’
They departed as abruptly as they had arrived. Tony Valento was more shaken than he cared to admit to his PA
. He took a few minutes to collect himself before he picked up the phone.
The death of Adam Cassidy was the lead item on the six o’clock news bulletins on both television and radio. There were snippets of scenes from his work, most of them showing him as the man-of-action hero, triumphing over evil against the odds.
The word ‘murder’ was used for the first time. Chief Superintendent Tucker, the man in charge of Brunton CID, said that although no one was at present helping police with their enquiries, he was confident of an early arrest, in what he recognized was a case of national, even international, interest. He jutted his chin towards the camera and said that he was determined that the man or woman responsible for this despicable crime would not get away with the brutal murder of a well-loved national figure.
Tucker’s image was a little undermined by the news editor, who chose to follow his statement with a clip from a recent edition of the The Gerry Clancy Show on afternoon television. This purported to show the dead actor’s sense of humour and his concern with the wider issues of life. In reality, the item had a nice, understated paradox for any viewer who chose to see it. Adam Cassidy was making a fool of Tucker, the same senior policeman who was now directing the investigation into his sudden and violent death.
The irony was not lost on the person who had killed Cassidy. But more important to the murderer was the fact that as yet the police had clearly come upon nothing vital.
THIRTEEN
Dean Morley looked more than his forty-seven years. Perhaps that was because he was nervous, Clyde Northcott thought. In his early days in CID, he had considered anxiety a possible indication of guilt. Now he realized that everyone who is interviewed in connection with a serious crime is nervous and that sometimes the most innocent people are the most nervous of all. But perhaps it might just be that actors were naturally nervous at nine fifteen in the morning, being more naturally creatures of the evening and the night.
If Percy Peach was given to such esoteric musings, he gave no sign of it on the steps of the big late-Victorian house. ‘Dean Morley? I’m Detective Chief Inspector Peach and this is Detective Sergeant Northcott.’
Morley glanced at his watch. ‘You come most carefully upon your hour.’
‘Even a minute or two early, I suspect,’ said Peach affably. ‘We don’t often get greeted with the opening of Hamlet.’
‘You must forgive me. My first few lines in the theatre were as a sentry in Hamlet.’ If Morley was surprised by a policeman who recognized his quotation, he gave no sign of it. He led them through a shabby hall with a strip of worn carpet down the middle and opened a wide oak door. The room beyond it was a surprise to the CID men. It was beautifully decorated, in a combination of very pale green and cream which not many people would have selected but which seemed to fit perfectly with the high walls and spacious dimensions. With its wide Yorkshire stone bay window, the room now recalled the Victorian heyday of this house. A large white glass light-fitting was adorned with delicate pink flowers. There was a print of Monet’s garden over the big fireplace. The other paintings in the room looked like originals; there were three oil paintings and five smaller watercolours.
Peach surveyed the room automatically, looking as always for anything it might say about its occupants. He said conventionally, ‘Nice room, this,’ and meant it.
‘You can compliment Keith on that,’ said Morley. ‘The paintings are his, apart from the print, and he decorated the place a fortnight ago.’
He had spoken with genuine pride. As if entering on cue, a man emerged from a door on the other side of the room and stood awkwardly, like a child accepting praise but not sure how to react to it. His diffidence seemed more ridiculous as he was six feet tall, with rapidly receding hair and shiny black leather jacket. He said, ‘They were good houses, these, when they were built. They’ve gone downhill since they were split up into flats. I’m Keith Arnold, by the way; I live here with Dean.’ He looked from Peach to Northcott, and actually recoiled a few inches as he confronted the big man. Then he said to Morley, ‘I must be off to the gallery, Dean. I’m on duty at ten.’ He nodded briefly to Peach, ignored Northcott completely, and disappeared into the hall. They heard the front door close behind him and watched him march quickly past the police Mondeo outside.
‘Doesn’t like cops,’ said Peach thoughtfully. ‘I wonder what he has to hide.’
‘Cops don’t like us,’ said Morley in prompt defence of his partner. ‘They don’t have much time for puffs. Some of them are not averse to the odd kicking to declare it.’ He glanced speculatively at the formidable figure who towered above him and Peach.
‘A prejudice from the past, Mr Morley. And you shouldn’t use that word, you know. Leastways, I suppose you can call yourselves whatever you like, but we mustn’t use it. If it’s of any interest to you, the only time I’ve seen DS Northcott use violence recently was in making the arrest of four yobboes who were beating up three men outside a gay club. He’s a hard bastard – don’t make any mistake about that. But he’s generally on the right side, nowadays.’
Clyde, who thought it was high time he was allowed to speak for himself, said briskly, ‘We’re here because we’re investigating the death of Adam Cassidy.’
‘Yes. And I’m anxious to answer your questions and be done with it,’ said Dean firmly.
‘Friend of yours, was he, Mr Cassidy?’ said Peach.
Dean didn’t hurry into his reply. Anyone of his sexual persuasion had brushed often with the police over the last thirty years; one of the things he had taught himself was not to rush into hasty statements. ‘Yes. I suppose you could say he was, until quite recently. I helped him to get his first part in the theatre and recommended him for others. Took what you might call a fatherly interest in him, until his looks and his luck took him out of my sphere.’
Not his talent, Peach noticed: Morley hadn’t mentioned that. ‘You must have been gratified to watch his progress?’
Dean smiled, recognizing the guarded nature of the question as a response to his own caution. ‘I was. It’s always good to see people you’ve known as youngsters doing well. Ours is a precarious business, but we all know that and accept it, I suppose. More fool us for staying in it, as Keith tells me when I go on about it.’
Peach glanced round at the paintings. ‘Your partner is an artist. Another overcrowded profession.’
‘And full of even more phoneys. Keith has a part-time job as curator at the art gallery, but he earns a pittance. He’s a good painter, as far as I can tell. Other people who know a lot more than me about art tell me that he is. But getting established in art is even more difficult than in the theatre. You need to mount your own exhibition, and unless you have money or a rich patron, it’s almost impossible to do that.’
He was eager to talk about his partner. Peach pulled him back to the reason why they were here. ‘But you’re doing quite well in your own profession. That must be a help to you.’
Dean was immediately cautious. ‘I suppose I’ve done well enough, over the last ten or fifteen years. Television’s been good for me. I’ve never had a star part, but I’ve had a series of small roles, which means that I’ve been able to keep working. But there’s no guarantee those parts won’t dry up. There’s always another generation of young actors coming along. Always someone anxious to take the part you thought was yours. Dog-eat-dog is the nature of the business, now that the old repertory theatres have closed down. Not many of us can aspire to the National Theatre or the Royal Shakespeare Company, where subsidy gives them a little more latitude.’
He was talking too much, trying to postpone the questions he must surely know were coming to him. Peach said bluntly, ‘But you thought you had a big role lined up in the next series of Call Alec Dawson, didn’t you?’
Morley’s face set itself into a cautious mask. ‘I thought I had the part nailed down, yes. But as I said, you learn to take nothing for granted in our game.’
There was a pause whilst DS Northcott made his first
note. He looked up at Morley and said, ‘Tell us about your relationship with Adam Cassidy, please.’
Dean was more intimidated by the big black man than he cared to acknowledge, even to himself. Perhaps that made him give them more than he had intended. ‘As I say, I’d known Adam since he started in the business. I was only five years older than him, but I fancy it felt much more than that to both of us then. Once I’d got him his first part, I helped him through his first months in a theatre. They can be pretty hard when you’re the new boy.’
‘Was Cassidy gay?’
‘No.’ His face set again, but as the seconds stretched, it was he who had to speak. ‘All right, I sounded him out. He was quite a looker, and even more so when he was twenty-two.’ For a moment, he pictured Adam’s brusque late-night rejection of the pass he had made, when they were the last ones left in the green room after a performance. Such incidents seemed to him now that he had Keith in his life to belong to a different and more tawdry world. ‘It didn’t upset Adam – there are lots of gays in the profession and I’m sure he’d choked off plenty of others before me.’
Peach came in again now; Dean was sure that they were working as a partnership against him, but he couldn’t work out quite how. ‘You’re telling us that you went on helping Adam Cassidy, despite finding he wasn’t of your sexual persuasion.’
Dean forced a smile. ‘You work all the time with people who are not “of your sexual persuasion”, as you put it. Work is probably easier when you haven’t got emotional attachments. It didn’t stop me giving Adam all the help I could, in his early years.’
‘But only in those early years?’
Dean smiled ruefully. ‘Not at all, Mr Peach. It’s no use trying to trip me up that way. We remained close friends, but after those first few years, Adam had little further need of my assistance. The work was there for him, the parts got bigger. I gave him advice when he asked for it, but he didn’t need me to speak up for him to get work any more.’