by J M Gregson
DCI Peach was uncharacteristically uncertain. He was much happier exercising the rough edge of his tongue, with his juniors as well as the criminal fraternity of the town. When he had good news to dispense, praise to offer, or favours to bestow, he was much less sure of himself. He said gruffly, ‘I suppose you’d better sit down. You make me uncomfortable, prancing about like a Christmas decoration.’
Clyde Northcott glanced down at the gleaming buttons on his immaculate uniform. You got compliments for being smart on parade in one place, insults from the most respected man in CID in another. He wasn’t resentful; he had quickly grown used to the contradictions of police life and he did not question them.
It was over two years now since Clyde had finally abandoned his reservations and entered the police service. In the months before that momentous decision, he had been dabbling with cocaine and keeping the kind of company that was going to lead to trouble. It had culminated in his involvement in a murder investigation. There had been two awful days when he feared that Peach and Blake had been planning to pin the crime on him.
Instead, they had cleared him. And then, in a turn of events he still found it difficult to believe, they had suggested he consider a career in the police service. He had resisted, of course: the decision ran against everything he had thought he believed and against everything his former friends had told him. But Clyde Northcott had always been something of a loner: being six feet three inches tall, lean and intensely black had been unusual on the Brunton council estate where he grew up. Violence had not been at all unusual, and Clyde had learned to handle himself early in life.
He had found that he did not have to apologize for being tough in the police force, but rather to channel his hardness into the right areas. To his delight, the police service did not even object to his riding his Yamaha 350cc motorcycle, which had once seemed the centre of his very existence; he was just rather more careful now about the places where he broke the speed limit on it.
Clyde Northcott had found that he even enjoyed the police training. He had felt quite guilty about that, at first. He was fitter and stronger than all the others in his intake, so that the physical demands had come easily to him. And he had found to his surprise that in the area where he had thought he would be most at risk, that of dealing with the public, he was really rather effective.
When he passed from cadet policeman to probationer and finally to the real thing, Clyde enjoyed a camaraderie he had never experienced before in his sporadic working life. It was quite new and unexpected for him, and thus all the more welcome. At Brunton, he met none of the institutional racism which he had been warned about in the police service. Where he came across individual and generally unthinking examples of it, he dealt with them with an effortless and ruthless efficiency.
PC Northcott was afraid of very little. But there are limits, for all of us; and when Clyde found himself invited to sit down in the office of the fearsome Percy Peach, he felt that he had reached those limits.
Peach studied him with that dispassionate, unblinking gaze which had unnerved many a criminal. Then he said, apparently with regret, ‘You seem to be doing all right in the job. Everyone says so. Even your superintendent says so.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Clever bugger, then, aren’t you?’
‘I wouldn’t say that, sir.’
‘But I would. And it’s my opinion that counts in this.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Clyde waited for him to go on, and then, like many a man being interrogated, found that he was thrown off balance when the chief inspector remained silent. He said defensively, ‘It was you who encouraged me to apply for the police service, sir. You and DS Blake.’
‘Aye. We’ve a lot to answer for, one way and another.’
‘Yes, sir.’ PC Northcott divined for the first time that he might not after all be here for one of Percy Peach’s right royal bollockings. But he had more sense than to relax; his ebony features remained alert but impassive.
‘And the fact that you’re black gives you a head start, with the shortage of coloured officers. Better if you were female and homosexual as well, of course, but I don’t recommend you to take any steps in that direction.’
‘No, sir.’
‘Because the facts that you’re young and a big bastard and can handle yourself when the shit’s flying are also in your favour, in my book. Not that anyone works from my book, nowadays.’ Peach shook his head at the aesthetic deficiencies of his profession.
‘Yes, sir.’ Northcott finally allowed himself the ghost of a smile. Whatever this was going to be – and he still couldn’t for the life of him work out where it was going – it didn’t have the makings of a bollocking.
‘You’ve done all right, when we’ve needed a uniform man.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ This was praise indeed, from Percy Peach.
‘And hopefully you’ve learned a bit about serious crime. You’re not as stupid as you make out.’
Clyde wasn’t aware that he’d ever pretended to be stupid. ‘Perhaps you’ve mistaken my modesty for—’
‘Not mistaken owt, lad, so don’t get above yourself.’ Peach was more at ease now.
PC Northcott actually grinned, showing the regular and complete set of very white teeth which was testimony to his ability to handle himself. ‘No, sir.’
‘And because I’m soft-hearted, and because you’re a big bastard, and because I’ve got this silly suspicion that you might be a bit brighter than you look, I want to know if you’d like to join CID.’
Clyde Northcott’s brain reeled. ‘But I haven’t even been a policeman for that long, sir. I’m still playing myself in as far as most people are concerned, I’m sure, and it would cause a certain amount of—’
‘You saying you don’t want to join CID?’
‘No, sir. I’d love to join CID.’
‘Right. Leave it with me. And keep your trap shut.’
‘Yes, sir. Inspector Hughes won’t like it.’ He mentioned his uniformed chief officer.
‘No. That’s another advantage, then.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Clyde Northcott could feel the elation surging through his lean frame. He was finding it difficult not to laugh out loud now.
‘You leave Bert Hughes to me. You’ll be officially responsible to Tommy Bloody Tucker once you’re transferred, but only officially, so don’t think you can swing the lead. You’ll be working for me, which means that you’ll get away with bugger-all. Understood?’
‘Understood, sir.’
‘Once it’s arranged, you’ll be able to put that bloody uniform in the wardrobe. Save it for formal occasions.’ He looked with some distaste at Northcott’s model’s physique and immaculately pressed uniform. ‘You’ll be working in what’s laughingly called plain clothes, once you’re with us. But I don’t want any technicoloured kaftans or limbodancing.’
‘No, sir. I was born in Manchester and haven’t lived outside Lancashire at any time during my life, sir.’
‘I know you haven’t, you daft sod. You’d better go and grab a shoplifter and get out from under my feet. I’ll have you under them soon enough.’
Percy Peach allowed himself a grin. He was much happier, now that the uneasy business of communicating good news was out of the way.
Matt Hogan felt thoroughly disturbed after Peach and Blake had left him. He moved restlessly about the squalid little bed-sit, looked out of the small window at the distant view of the hospital on the skyline, and made the decision which seemed inevitable.
He thought at first there was going to be no reply; but the receiver was picked up after four rings and the familiar voice said, ‘Brunton two three five one. Heather Shields speaking.’
‘It’s Matt.’
‘Matt who?’
‘You know who! Matt Hogan.’
A little snigger. ‘This is indeed an honour. What do you want, Matt?’
‘The CID people have been to see me. Again.’
‘Lucky you.’ But she w
asn’t sniggering now. ‘So why are you ringing me?’
‘I’m going to tell them about you and Annie. I’m going to tell them you knew she was pregnant. I’ve got to, Heather.’
‘But we agreed that you wouldn’t.’
‘I know. But they’ve got me in the frame for this. They’re pressing me hard. They’ll be back, I’m sure. If I’m going to get them off my back, I’ve got to give them something.’
‘So you’re giving them me.’
‘It won’t matter.’
‘You’ll tell them that, will you?’
He could visualize her at the other end of the line, see that expression on her face which always made him quake. He was glad that she wasn’t here in the room with him. ‘I’m sorry, Heather. I don’t want to tell them, but I’ve got to. They’ll have me for withholding information if I don’t.’
‘And they’ll have me for murder if you do.’
‘No, they won’t. Not if you didn’t do it, they won’t.’
It was the first time he had ever voiced that thought to her. He could hear her breathing heavily at the end of the line. He wanted to ring off, but he knew he couldn’t, that he couldn’t just leave it like that, with what had been between them.
She said, ‘I’ve got a record, you know. A record of violence. I flew at someone with a knife. They’ve already reminded me that they know all about that. That I nearly killed someone, once before. In circumstances very like the ones in which Annie Clark died. They’ve reminded me all about that.’ Heather Shields tried not to let him know how important this was to her, but she could hear the hysteria rising in her voice as she appealed to him.
‘I’m sorry. I don’t feel I have any alternative.’ He stood by the phone, feeling his left fist clench with determination, knowing that his resolution would not hold out if she were here in the room with him.
‘You’ll destroy me if you do this. I’m begging you to keep it to yourself, Matt. It’s what we agreed. It will make both of us look like liars if you blab it out to them now.’ As soon as she said it, she wished she hadn’t used that phrase, hadn’t shown the flash of the contempt that had come between them once before. She should never have begged him to relent like that, either. Begging wasn’t her style, and no one was in a better position than Matthew Hogan to know that.
He did know it. He didn’t feel proud of himself, but her desperation made him feel stronger, more confident that this was what he must do. He said, ‘I’m sorry, Heather, but I’ve got to tell them. They’ve driven me into a corner. And you’ve nothing to fear. Telling them you knew about the pregnancy won’t make much difference, will it? Not really, not if you didn’t kill Annie.’
It was the second time he had made that provision. As he put the phone down, he wondered what she would make of that.
Nineteen
Katherine Howard ushered them into what in its Victorian heyday had been the dining room of the spacious, high-ceilinged house.
She normally took her visitors into the room at the front of the house, with its long blue velvet curtains reaching to the floor in the bow window, but these were not normal visitors. And something told her that she did not wish to speak to her CID questioners in the same room where the coven held its meetings and she held easy sway among them.
It was that little bantam cock of a chief inspector again, the one who seemed to exude energy, who seemed likely to break at any moment into a bout of shadow-boxing to relieve his tension. The man who went by the incongruous name of Peach; the man she most feared in the whole of this sorry mess. And with him that pretty but sturdy Detective Sergeant Blake, with her very striking chestnut hair, who said little but observed and noted all; a woman whom Kath now knew that she must not underestimate.
Kath had dressed in the formal grey suit she wore for important business meetings, in the hope that it would enable her to keep the initiative in this unaccustomed context. She was aware even before they had begun to speak to each other that it was not going to work, that these two would determine the agenda of what went on here.
They refused tea or coffee, but did not seem to be in any great hurry. They positioned themselves carefully in the armchairs she had planned for them and she herself sat down, rather self-conscious and upright, in the high-backed green leather armchair which had once been her husband’s. Kath became aware that they were watching her every movement.
Peach eventually said, ‘We now know a lot more about Annie Clark and her life than when we last spoke to you, Mrs Howard.’
‘Good. You probably have some idea of who killed her, then.’
He smiled. ‘If we have, Mrs Howard, you wouldn’t expect us to relay those thoughts to you. When we make an arrest, I’m sure you will learn of it very quickly.’
Kath wondered if there was an insult or even a threat in there somewhere. Was he suggesting that the Wiccans had perpetrated this and would be in contact with each other about what was happening? She returned his smile and said, ‘Of course I don’t expect you to tell me everything you’ve learned.’
‘One area which is still a little foggy for us is the nature of Annie’s relationship with you. We’re hoping to clarify that this evening.’
Kath’s first instinct was to resist. But she overcame that, thrust down the tension she felt rising at the back of her throat. ‘I’ll be as frank as I can. I don’t think it will be as exciting as you would hope.’
‘We hope for nothing, Mrs Howard. All we expect is a series of honest answers to our questions.’ Peach gave her the impression that he rather enjoyed this verbal fencing. That was not surprising, she thought, when everything was in his favour: she had no idea exactly how much they knew, how much knowledge a week of questioning had brought them about the last days of Annie Clark.
She paused, then went into the speech she had carefully prepared but had hoped not to have to deliver. ‘I suppose my public life is on the face of it very successful. I run what until a few years ago was my husband’s company and it is very prosperous. Over the last ten years or so, conditions have favoured a business like ours, which provides efficient temporary replacements across a range of fields, and we have made the most of those conditions. The people who work for me see little or nothing of my private life, and that is the way I prefer it.’
It was Lucy Blake who now said, ‘It is that private sector of your life which interests us. I am sorry that we have to intrude, but you must surely see that it is necessary.’
‘I do. It has taken me some time to accept that: I have never been involved in a murder investigation before. But I expect you hear that from people all the time.’ She made herself pause and measure her words. ‘I have only one child. My son is now twenty-nine and he lives and works in Canada. I have never had a daughter.’
Lucy Blake, sensing her difficulties in speaking about this, prompted her gently. ‘And did Annie Clark in some ways seem like a daughter to you?’
‘She might have done, with time. I think I was certainly something of a mother figure to her. She had only just left her own mother, and like a lot of women of her age she was not as confident as she pretended to be. We had our belief in witchcraft to unite us. That was a powerful bond.’
‘And you were her instructor.’
‘Instructor and protector. I was well aware that that gave me a privileged position, which I did not want to exploit. Annie was twenty-three, but she was in some respects younger than that. She was still very impressionable. But we developed a close relationship. I think she came to rely on me, and I don’t deny that in some respects I was beginning to look upon her as the daughter I had never had.’
Katherine Howard found herself touching her neat, well-cut blonde hair, as if to reassure herself that it was still in place. It was a gesture she recalled from her past, but one she had not made for years. But then it was years since she had talked to anyone about herself; now she was being made to confront the loneliness in her own life which she had always concealed from the world at large. She st
ared down at the dark-red carpet, as if afraid that eye contact with these strange confidants would break the spell of her intimacies.
‘I taught Annie about witchcraft, removed some of the misconceptions she brought to her new beliefs. She was almost pathetically grateful to me, at first. I made her laugh a bit about some of the people I met in business, to lighten things up. And the laughter brought us closer together. She used to come and ask me about the big events which had happened in my life, as well as hers. I’d never been able to talk to anyone about such stuff before, and it brought us much closer together.’
Peach said, ‘It has been suggested to us that Annie Clark was planning to leave the coven – that you resented that.’ He wouldn’t tell her that the only person who had suggested it was Tommy Bloody Tucker, superintendent in charge of CID and prize wanker.
‘That isn’t true. Of course Annie found that her contemporaries poured cold water on the Wiccans and witchcraft: both her flatmate and her new boyfriend had very silly ideas about us. But I’d warned her that that was sure to happen, and her belief was secure.’
Peach nodded slowly. ‘In view of the close relationship you have outlined, it would have been rather devastating for you, wouldn’t it, if Annie had chosen to go off with her boyfriend to pastures new and abandon the coven?’
‘It would. I’m not disputing that. But that wasn’t going to happen.’
There was a determination about the set of her mouth which made them wish once again that they could have Annie Clark’s version of these things. Peach, as usual introducing his most dangerous darts most gently, said quietly, ‘You mentioned that you were Annie’s protector. What did you mean by that?’