by J M Gregson
‘I couldn’t approve any association outside marriage, could I? I haven’t heard much that’s good about Alderson from other people, but it’s hardly fair for me to condemn a man I hardly know. But I can’t approve his relationship with Ros O’Connor and I’ve told her that several times.’
‘You said she isn’t promiscuous. But is there any other person connected with her whom you think you should name here? Bear in mind that we are looking for a murderer.’
They could see him relaxing. Plainly he had rid himself of the burden he had brought here with him when he named John Alderson. He gave full attention to their question, but he was not wrestling with his conscience as he had been until now. ‘There’s no one else I know who is close to Ros. I’m sure there are several people who had reasons to wish Dominic O’Connor ill, in his private as well as his business life. But I cannot name any of them for you, because Dominic didn’t confide in me as Ros did.’
It was a measured statement which he’d obviously thought about before he came to the station. Peach looked at him hard, but eventually believed him. He didn’t give undue weight to the cloth clergymen wore any more, but Father Brice was patently sincere and genuine, a man who had found it hard to come here and had done so from a sense of duty, not personal interest. Percy thanked him for his help and then, with their meeting all but concluded, pointed out, ‘You’ve twice used the word “unstable” about Mrs O’Connor. You clearly have an incident or incidents in mind.’
Raymond Brice nodded, regretful and relieved at the same time. He wanted this out. It was what he had come here for, to pass the burden of knowledge on to the appropriate temporal authority whilst he wrestled with its spiritual implications. ‘Ros said she could kill her husband.’
Peach smiled. ‘It’s the kind of thing many wives say under stress. I think I’ve even heard it said about someone as innocent as me, in moments of wifely stress.’
Father Brice smiled back automatically, but then his mouth wrinkled with irritation. ‘Give me credit for a little understanding of the way people think and talk, DCI Peach. Killing Dominic was mentioned several times over a period of months and it wasn’t humorous. On the last occasion, Ros O’Connor said she was fearful of what she might do.’
Peach was on his way out of the station when the summons came. He considered ignoring it, but he had always chosen to face bad things quickly rather than put them off. Ogres always grew more fearful with anticipation. And there was no greater ogre in Peach’s world than Chief Superintendent Thomas Bulstrode Tucker. He climbed the stairs to the penthouse office of Brunton’s Head of CID with a steadily sinking heart.
Tucker regarded him balefully over his rimless glasses, as if waiting for the abject apology which was not Percy’s forte. ‘So,’ he said eventually. ‘We have an arrest for the murder of James O’Connor.’
‘Peter Coleman has been arrested, charged and remanded in custody this morning, sir. Be good to see one of our least savoury residents put behind bars for a very long time, don’t you think? Even the CPS wankers are happy with the case we have delivered to them.’
When you mentioned lawyers, one of the banes of police life, you could usually rely on a moment of agreement even with Tommy Bloody Tucker. A moment for the mutual casting of eyebrows to heaven would certainly have been in order. This would have been followed by congratulations from the chief on a swift success in a high-profile case, if there had been any justice.
But this was T.B. Tucker and there wasn’t. He shook his head vigorously and said, ‘It won’t do, Peach.’
Percy strove to keep a check on his blood pressure. Tucker in bollocking mode was one of life’s more stringent trials. ‘What won’t do, sir?’
‘What’s happening on our patch won’t do! I call a media conference and trumpet our success in solving the murder of a popular local businessman and former rugby international. I tell television, radio and press how efficient we have been. Good PR, Peach! Something you know very little about. But the next thing I hear is that you’ve landed me with another murder, before I can even catch my breath. It won’t do!’
‘Is that me or the CID unit as a whole that’s landed you with another murder, sir?’
‘Don’t be impertinent, Peach. I’m not in the mood for it.’
‘Then perhaps you will explain to me how we are responsible for the death of Dominic O’Connor, sir.’
Tucker’s hands rose and fell at his sides. He repeated the gesture, reminding Percy of a portly young blackbird who had but lately left the nest and had not yet learned the full secrets of flight. ‘Detection is not merely about reacting to crime, Peach. You should anticipate things and nip them in the bud.’ His face brightened as a phrase surfaced suddenly in the heaving swamp of his mind. ‘A decent Detective Chief Inspector needs to be proactive, not reactive.’
He drummed his fingers on the shining desert of his desktop to emphasise his point, whilst his junior wondered which management course had provided him with this phrase. Percy’s face brightened as if illuminated by an unexpected gem of thought. ‘Perhaps your comprehensive overview of crime in the area should have revealed the prospect of a second O’Connor killing to us, sir.’ Percy beamed his satisfaction at that idea.
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Peach. What is the connection between the killing of these two brothers?’
‘There may not be one, sir.’
‘May not be one? But surely . . .’ Tucker passed appealingly into goldfish mode.
‘Or on the other hand, there might.’ Percy nodded gnomically, as if the weight of philosophy involved in this observation pressed heavy upon his noble brow.
‘Now look here, Peach! We need facts, not speculation.’
‘Enquiries are proceeding, sir. I’ve already had the local Catholic priest who claims to be their pastor in here and given him a thorough grilling.’
He forbore to smile at the thought of earnest Father Brice and his genuine desire to help. Tommy Bloody Tucker’s reaction was as predictable as he had expected. ‘You must tread very carefully whenever religion is involved, Peach. How many times do I have to tell you that?’
‘You don’t, sir. The man came here himself. Presented himself for our inspection. A bold move, I think you’ll agree. I wondered if I should give him a bit of the third degree treatment over sexual assaults on minors, in view of his church’s deplorable record over the last few years.’
‘You’ll do no such thing, Peach! I expressly forbid it!’
Peach’s face fell as he abandoned his enthusiasm. ‘Very well, sir. I hear you. Perhaps that line of questioning would be better left to you. I’m sure your overview will enable you to put any local clerical assaults in the context of a more national picture.’
‘Who killed Dominic O’Connor, Peach?’
Percy’s eyes widened as his eyebrows rose impossibly high beneath the bald pate. Then he allowed a slow chuckle to spread through his torso. ‘You don’t lose your sense of humour, do you, sir? Enquiries are proceeding, as you would no doubt tell the media. No stone is being left unturned. That is the official line. In private police parlance, I haven’t a fucking clue, sir. Not as yet.’
Percy didn’t swear anything like as often as most modern police officers, male or female. But he found as he descended the stairs that this particular lapse had given him disproportionate pleasure.
What DCI Peach had said to his chief was quite true: he didn’t yet know whether the deaths of the two O’Connor brothers were connected. It seemed an almost impossible coincidence that they wouldn’t be, but what he had heard from Dominic O’Connor’s PA and from Father Brice suggested that the second death might be a more complex mystery than the first one had proved.
Clyde Northcott still hoped the same man might have dispatched both brothers. He voiced that thought as they journeyed to Strangeways to interview Peter Coleman, who had been remanded in custody after being charged with the murder of James O’Connor. ‘Let’s hope it’s him. Be nice and simple, that would. Help our clear-up rat
es. It would even please Tommy Bloody Tucker.’
‘There’s no pleasing Tommy Bloody Tucker,’ said Peach gloomily. ‘You might as well try to please a camel with indigestion. But I know what you mean. It would make life a lot simpler if we could get Coleman to admit this one as well and save us chasing our tails around.’
Peter Coleman looked a different proposition from the truculent hard man they had seen when they’d interviewed him three days earlier. He’d been confident then, defying them to arrest him; now he looked every inch the criminal he was. The warder set him in his chair and stood impassively behind his man, but there seemed little chance now of this powerfully built man offering any physical aggression. His hair was cut close, emphasising the size of his head and his neck, but the anonymous prison garb made him look smaller and less formidable than when they had confronted him in the hut on the building site.
When Peach did not speak but merely stared at him and assessed him, Coleman could not withstand the silence. ‘I’ve nothing to say to you, Peach. I’ll deal with you when I get out of here.’
‘We could both be old men by then. DS Northcott might still enjoy knocking you about, though. He might still be a hard bastard, if he keeps himself in trim.’ He glanced appreciatively at the formidable black presence beside him.
‘I’ve got a good lawyer, Peach. We’ll see you in the Crown Court.’
Peach’s grin suffused his whole countenance, a frightening sight for any criminal, let alone one accused of the most serious crime of all. ‘I shall look forward to it. Especially as we have witnesses and evidence that are proof against even the best defence counsel. When he sees the prosecution case, he’ll be telling you to plead guilty and scratch together some sort of mitigating circumstance – though what that might be, I can’t imagine.’ He hit Coleman with the confident smile of a man with three aces in his hand and a spare one up his sleeve.
‘It’s circumstantial. It won’t stand up. Not when Patterson gets to work on it.’ He threw in the name of the man who had conducted numerous complex and lucrative defence cases over the last ten years. Then he tried to trump Peach’s smile with one of his own. In that contest, he failed abjectly, as many had done before him.
Percy said abruptly. ‘You were seen parking your car and slipping over the wall of Claughton Towers twenty minutes before the killing. You were seen scrambling into it and driving away five minutes after it. You were in charge of Lennon’s muscle and you’re known to have killed before. We’ll produce people who worked for you to send you down. Rats desert sinking ships very fast, Pete. You’ll go down on the vermin vote.’
‘We’ll bloody see about that,’ said Coleman. But it was a ritual defiance. His voice carried no conviction and his coarse face was pale.
Peach judged that he’d done enough softening up to move now to the reason for their visit. ‘We’re here about your second murder. When we add the death of Dominic O’Connor to that of James, they’ll be able to throw away the key.’
‘I didn’t kill Dominic. You’re not pinning that one on me.’
‘Be easy to do that, I should think, after they’ve nailed you for Jim. Jury’s going to be well set to have you for Dominic as well, after they’ve heard about Jim.’
‘But I didn’t do it. I couldn’t have done it. Your lot arrested me on Saturday. Burst in on me whilst I was still in bed with Linda, the way you pigs like to do. Your boss was telling anyone who’d listen that you’d arrested me for murder by Saturday lunch time.’
‘Heard about that, have you? He does a good line in boasting, our boss does.’ Peach’s voice hardened. ‘But it doesn’t get you off the hook, Pete boy. Dominic O’Connor was murdered on Friday night, when you were still at large and obeying your latest orders.’
‘But I didn’t do it. What happened to innocent until proved guilty, Peach?’
‘Nothing at all, Pete boy. It remains a basic principle of the English law. And an admirable one, no doubt about that, despite what frustrated coppers might say. But it doesn’t always operate in practice. I’m no lawyer, thank God, but my guess is that when we’ve got you banged to rights for one murder, the jury and everyone else in court will be more inclined to think you guilty of another. Especially when they’re looking at a man who’s made his living by violence for years, like you.’ Percy nodded two or three times, then let a smile steal slowly over his round face at his happiness in that thought.
‘I was with my wife on Friday night.’
‘Ah, the old wife alibi. Suspicious but difficult to disprove.’
‘You ask Linda. She’ll tell you.’
‘She might. Unfortunately for you, she might be in clink herself by the time your case comes to court. We know all about her involvement in the procurement of minors for prostitution and worse. We’ll be delighted to put her away. That won’t make her a very reliable witness for you, though, will it?’
‘I didn’t kill Dominic O’Connor. I’m not worried what you do.’
‘Ah, the joys of a clear conscience! But it must be a long time since you knew anything about that, Mr Coleman. Best thing you could do about this second murder is admit it and put in a plea for mercy, I should think. The court might appreciate your honesty if you did that, but I wouldn’t rely on it. We’ll leave you to think about it. Lot of time for thought in here, I expect.’
It was a relief to move through the old prison entrance and out into the bright sunlight of the May day. They were well on the way back to Brunton when Clyde Northcott, who was driving, said, ‘You gave him a fair going over in there.’
‘Yes. Quite enjoyed it. I don’t feel any obligations towards scum like Coleman. Or his wife, for that matter; you can’t get lower than pushing kids from care homes into prostitution and making them victims of gang rape.’
‘Peter Coleman won’t come out for a long time. We’ve got a safe case on the murder of James O’Connor.’
‘Yes.’ Peach looked away thoughtfully over the moors as they slid by on his left. ‘He didn’t kill Dominic O’Connor, though, did he? We’ve got a whole new can of worms to deal with there.’
ELEVEN
The widow of the elder O’Connor brother was coping well with his death. It was a week now since James had died. Sarah had coped with the pressures of sympathy from those around her and those at a distance. She had composed a standard letter of thanks for the messages of condolence which had poured in from England and Ireland – Jim’s death at Claughton Towers had been too dramatic and well-publicised for people to miss it.
The most difficult thing for her to handle had been her daughter’s grief. Clare had been the person in the world hit hardest by Jim’s killing. She had been close to her father as she grew up, in the way that daughters are. He had been away from home a lot when she was young, but he had been able to indulge her when he appeared, in the manner which was customary for doting dads.
Clare had taken Jim’s death hard and the fact that she was an intelligent girl had made it more difficult for her mother. Her daughter had seen through Sarah’s conventional protestations of grief, been sceptical about the prayers and the trappings of religion behind which she had tried to retreat. ‘You didn’t feel like I did about Dad. I’m sure you had your reasons. But, Mum, don’t pretend you’re devastated by this when you aren’t. That would make it much worse for me to bear.’
They’d had an uneasy weekend, but Clare had gone back to university now. No doubt she would find her consolation with the thin and pimply youth who had been with her at Claughton Towers on that fatal Monday night. Jim had been baffled by what his daughter saw in that tongue-tied youth who was in so many ways still a boy; he’d been unable to divine what it was that attracted Clare. Probably the lad was good in bed; Sarah certainly hoped he was. She hoped he would provide consolation and diversion for Clare, rather than allowing her thoughts to dwell on the mother who seemed so little affected by her husband’s death.
No one knew the full story of their marriage and she had every intenti
on of keeping it that way. These things were private and it was much better for all concerned if they stayed private. It was the same with grief. Sarah had a greater grief than Clare thought she had for Jim. But her mourning for him was for times long gone and what might have been, not for the man he had been at his death. Her task now was to keep control of herself until the world resumed its normal rhythms.
She decided on Tuesday morning that she would tidy the bathroom and remove all Jim’s stuff from it. It had to be done and she needed a task to occupy her. She took the waste bin with her and began to pitch male toiletries into it. She had scarcely begun when the phone rang. For the last few days, she’d been letting it ring and waiting until the evening to listen to whatever messages people left. But normal service must be resumed at some time. She went into the bedroom and picked up the receiver there.
An impassive female voice told her that Detective Chief Inspector Peach would like to speak to her as soon as possible. She told the woman that he should come to the house now. Best get it over with, she told herself as she put the phone down. But she could feel the pulse in her temple beginning to race.
The post-mortem and forensics reports on Dominic O’Connor didn’t offer the CID team anything they hadn’t expected.
He had died quickly, throttled within seconds by means of a cable thrown round his neck, almost certainly from behind him as he sat at his desk. The victim had lifted his hands in an attempt to drag the cable from his neck, but had not reached as far as his attacker, for there was nothing useful found on his hands or beneath his fingernails. The death weapon was available but uninformative. Forensics had already examined the cable which had been embedded in the corpse’s neck and found it to be the sort of electrical cable attached to millions of household machines around the country. The assailant had probably brought it with him, but even if he hadn’t the five-feet length applied would have been readily available on appliances within the house.
The report pointed out that the criminal could possibly have been a woman; the victim appeared to have been taken by surprise, in which case no great physical strength would have been required. The ends of the cable bore signs of being twisted hard and fast between someone’s hands, but there was nothing useful in the way of fingerprints: the attacker had almost certainly worn gloves.