by J M Gregson
‘No, sir. I said I wouldn’t claim that an arrest was imminent. Different thing, sir, with respect.’
‘Have you produced a prime suspect yet?’ Tucker jutted his chin aggressively.
Peach considered the question, but did not answer it directly. ‘I’ve just come from a man who’s a very good prospect, sir. Statistically, that is.’
Tucker looked at him doubtfully again. ‘Statistically? I hope you’re not going to come up with this ridiculous statistic about a Mason being more likely to commit a serious crime than other—’
‘Four times more likely, sir. In the area of East Lancashire, that is. My survey does not extend beyond our immediate environment. Not yet.’ Nor would it ever do so. Peach’s treasured statistic stemmed from the pinning of eight fraud and peculation offences on the same hapless company accountant two years ago, but if this lazy old fool couldn’t work that out for himself, why should he be enlightened?
Tucker looked at him sternly. ‘If you’re still trying to make out that David Edmonds is a leading suspect for this killing, I would have to tell you that I consider that most unlikely. He wasn’t even in that squat in 1991.’
At least he remembers something, thought Peach. He tried to sound as solemn and portentous as he could as he said, ‘But he met Sunita Akhtar in the house next door, sir. And apparently recruited her to push drugs for him.’
‘This all seems most unlikely, to anyone who knows what a fine young man David Edmonds is. And even if you are correct in your contention that he had this wild youth, the idea of him as a murderer is quite preposterous.’
‘Let’s reserve judgement on that, sir, shall we? I have to admit that there are other people who are superficially more likely candidates.’
‘Ah! This might after all be a useful discussion.’
Tucker wasn’t much good at irony. Peach looked at him impassively and said, ‘There’s a nun, sir, Sister Josephine, who’s running a hospice magnificently, according to all the reports we have. And there’s a successful businesswoman, Emily Jane Watson, who’s running an introductions agency in Bolton. A very prosperous one, apparently. Apparently you interviewed Ms Watson yourself, sir, during a previous life. When she was running a brothel.’ He was pleased by the casual way in which he managed to drop this bombshell into their exchange.
‘There was never enough evidence available. The Crown Prosecution Service would never have taken it on.’ Tucker’s reaction was swift and predictable. Ms Watson had run rings round the lazy sod: Peach had read the files in the Brunton basement.
‘Emily Watson might have recruited Sunita Akhtar to work for her on the streets. Or tried to recruit her. Or seen her off when the girl reneged on their agreement. Ruthless, I thought she was, when we spoke to her.’
‘You need to be ruthless to be successful in business, you know, Peach. You probably exaggerate her criminal proclivities. Just as you do with David Edmonds, if I may say so.’
‘You may indeed, sir. Part of your overview, that would be. What about another ruthless occupant of that squat, Walter Swift?’
‘Ah! Different kettle of fish altogether. A man who hasn’t reformed his ways. A man who was a lieutenant to Joe Johnson. A man who has built up a lucrative drugs business of his own.’
‘A man who was laying the foundations for it, even then, sir. A man who had a capacity for violence; a man whom everyone in that squat seemed to be afraid of, if we can trust what they’re saying to us now.’
Tucker jutted his jaw again. ‘You’re right. In my view we have the man who committed this murder in custody at this very moment. All that is necessary is to document the case against him. That’s your job, Peach.’
‘I thought it might be, sir.’ Percy, who thought there was a very good chance that Tommy Bloody Tucker might for once be right, was uncharacteristically at a loss for words. He said, ‘He’s wriggling hard, is Swift. Trying to implicate everyone but himself in that killing in 1991.’
‘Sure sign he’s guilty, that. I have a certain feeling for these things. You may have noticed it.’
I’ve noticed your talent for the blindin’ bleedin’ obvious, thought Percy. Repeatedly. ‘Nevertheless, we must leave no stone unturned, sir,’ he said, flinging one of his chief’s favourite clichés back at him. ‘I’m off to see Billy Warnock this afternoon, sir.’
‘Good for you, Peach, good for you!’ Tucker nodded absently, his thoughts still on Wally Swift and the announcement he would eventually make to the television cameras. Then his jaw dropped. ‘Who is Billy Warnock?’
‘Suspect, sir. The fifth person in that squat at the time of this death. Currently in charge of the youth team at Preston North End.’
‘Ah! Well, don’t waste too much time on him. I want this one wrapped up by the weekend, you know!’
‘He’s black, sir.’ Percy couldn’t resist experimenting with that gratuitous fact.
‘Ah! I suppose that puts a different complexion on it.’ Tucker was quite unaware of any pun. ‘Most of the crime in our capital city is committed by blacks, you know.’ He shook his head sadly and gazed from his penthouse window, now in elder statesman mode.
‘Yes, sir. This is Brunton, sir.’
Tucker gazed at him suspiciously, suspecting insubordination. But Peach was as inscrutable as a statue of Buddha. ‘You must do whatever you think is necessary, Peach. I never interfere with my staff, as you know. All I’m saying is that I want a person charged with the murder of Sunita Akhtar by the weekend.’
‘Yes, sir. Whether black or white, sir. I know that political correctness has no part in your thinking, sir.’
Peach left a suitably worried head of CID on that enigmatic note.
But events were moving faster than even Peach could have anticipated. Whilst he was reporting to Tucker, the CID section had a visitor. Lucy Blake called up DC Brendan Murphy and the two of them took him into Peach’s empty office.
Matthew Hayward was on edge. He looked over his shoulder nervously to make sure that the door of the room was shut, as if he feared that even here his actions might be witnessed and punished. He said, ‘I’ve been threatened. I – I thought you should know about it.’ It sounded cowardly to him, somehow. He was glad that the Chief Inspector with the piercing eyes and the aggressive manner wasn’t here to make it seem more so.
DS Blake said, ‘In that case, you’ve done the right thing to come here and tell us about it. You don’t think anyone saw you coming in?’
‘No. I’m pretty sure I wasn’t followed. Probably there’s no need to be afraid. I expect they think I’ve been frightened off and they don’t need to do anything else—’
‘Much better to take these things seriously, though. You’ll need to tell us all about it.’ She gave him an encouraging smile, and her face lit up beneath the auburn hair, so that Matt could scarcely believe that she was a police officer.
‘Well, it was on Monday. Monday lunch-time, actually. I was on my way to give a concert with the Liverpool Philharmonic.’ He still hadn’t got used to delivering statements like that as if they were run-of-the mill, and he found himself shrugging away his fame self-consciously. ‘I stopped for a light lunch in what seemed a quiet pub between Preston and Liverpool.’
Brendan Murphy was suitably unimpressed. He said, ‘And why didn’t you report this threat to us immediately, Mr Hayward? Why did you leave it for two days before you came in here?’
‘I – I don’t know. I suppose if I’m completely honest, I was scared. The man told me specifically not to speak to the police, I think.’
‘Always best to be completely honest, when you want our help,’ said Murphy dryly. He hadn’t worked for two years with Percy Peach without learning how to put a man on the back foot.
‘Yes. It’s just that nothing like this had ever happened to me before, and I was thrown off balance.’
Lucy Blake gave him that wonderful, encouraging smile again. Why couldn’t the girls who were beginning to wait for him after concerts be more li
ke this vision? She said, ‘Understandable. But as DC Murphy points out, the sooner we hear about these things, the more likely it is that we can nip any threat in the bud. Better tell us all about it now.’
He couldn’t very well tell them that he had determined to keep shtum as the man had so forcibly commanded him to, that it had taken two sleepless nights to make him come in here and ask for protection. So he told them everything he could remember about that sinister figure who had accosted him, who had gripped the collar of his shirt and snarled into his face, in that quiet pub in Rufford. ‘He had dark blue eyes. Very dark – nearly black. Dark hair, cut very short. And beetling eyebrows. He was a big man, very powerfully built, and he – well, he seemed like a man who was used to using violence. He was carrying a copy of the Daily Mail.’ Matt grinned in embarrassment at the feebleness of this last detail. ‘I’m afraid I can’t remember much else about him. He took me completely by surprise.’
‘And how did he threaten you? Try to recall for us exactly what he said.’
‘He said he didn’t give a damn whether I’d killed Sunita or not. All that mattered was that I was to keep shtum about anything I’d learned at the time. About anything she’d said to me about what had been going on in that squat.’
‘So he thought you knew something which could damage someone else who was in or around the place at the time. Something Sunita had said to you, perhaps. What would that be?’
‘That’s the puzzling thing. I haven’t been able to recall anything she said which would be damning to anyone.’
‘You know that there had been an attempt to recruit Sunita to act as a prostitute?’
‘Yes. Emmy tried to get her to do that. I think she even toyed with the idea. She might have even tried it out.’ His face was tortured with the recollection.
‘And she was pushing drugs, wasn’t she?’ Lucy’s voice was gentle as a therapist’s, encouraging him to spit out secrets he needed to be rid of.
‘Yes. I think she tried that out, as well. Tried working for this man who came into the house next door to set up his operation. She was frightened of taking proper employment in case her parents found out where she was, you know.’ He found he wanted to defend his lost love, even after all these years.
‘And what about Wally Swift? Was she working for him?’
Matt shook his head hopelessly. ‘I don’t know. She’d stopped talking to me about what she did by then. She – she was with Jo.’
‘Yes, we know that.’
‘But I think she was probably working for Wally when she died. I’m pretty sure he stopped her pushing drugs for this man next door. Billy Warnock might be able to tell you: he was pretty thick with Wally by that time. I know that Wally had Sunita in tears in a corner one day, had everything out of her about what this other man was doing.’
‘Yes.’ She gave no sign that these were new details to them, new additions to the picture of the life in that squat which had preceded a murder. ‘Mr Hayward, it’s obvious that this man who threatened you on Monday wasn’t acting on his own behalf. Who do you think it was who retained his services to try to silence you?’
He couldn’t know for certain, of course. But they had asked him what he thought. And there was only one man he could think of who would have sent a man to threaten him like that. Matt said, ‘I think it must have been Wally Swift.’
Lucy nodded slowly, then decided that she could offer this frightened man a little consolation. ‘You might like to know that Walter Swift is currently in custody. He was arrested last night in connection with serious drug offences, and will probably be charged with them in the next few hours. He has already been interviewed in connection with the murder of Sunita Akhtar, though no charges have been preferred against him as yet in connection with that crime.’
Matthew Hayward found that the sun had come out whilst he had been inside the big new police station. And the whole world felt a brighter place with the news he had just heard within it.
Twenty-Two
The snooker balls looked very bright under the brilliant white light.
Billy Warnock rolled the red in expertly with a bit of stun, then watched with satisfaction as the cue ball rolled slowly behind the black. He made thirty-four before he narrowly failed to double the last red into the middle pocket to keep the break going. It was good enough to clinch the frame from the eighteen-year-old lad with acne and an expensive haircut. You had to show these youngsters who was in charge, even when you could no longer keep up with them on the pitch.
‘Sign of a misspent youth, my dad used to say,’ said Percy Peach. ‘I expect you keep this place going, you and your football lads.’ He grinned with satisfaction at the way the startled Warnock whirled round. Then he looked round the rather depressing scene in the snooker hall, which at three in the afternoon was peopled largely by the unemployed of Preston. The brightly lit tables were rectangles of light in the long, low room. The walls were lined with bench seats, on which a few people sprawled whilst they waited their turns to play. Otherwise there were few furnishings and fewer conversations.
‘I have to come in here to keep an eye on my lads. Make sure they don’t join the drinking culture, see? It’s not like it was in your day, Mr Peach. We do our best to make sure these lads stay on the straight and narrow, now.’
He made it sound as if it was forty rather than twenty years since Percy was a teenager, but the DCI knew what he meant. You had to have the right diet and the right lifestyle, as well as the skills and the luck, to succeed in football, these days. He looked at the youths with their Diet Cokes and said, ‘Need a word, Billy. In private.’
Warnock looked for a moment as if he would resist, then caught the glint of Peach’s dark eyes in the half-light above the table. He followed the DCI without a word out into the car park. A moment later he was sitting in the passenger seat of the unmarked police Mondeo, with a blank brick wall six feet ahead of him the only thing he could see. He could not even see the top of it; it was like a prison wall, hemming him in, crushing his spirit.
As if he understood all of these things that he could not possibly know, Peach allowed the feeling of claustrophobia to build for several seconds before he spoke. ‘You weren’t completely frank with us yesterday, Mr Warnock. That was a mistake.’
Billy wasn’t used to this formal mode of address. Amidst the informality of a football club, you rarely got a ‘Mister’. It unsettled him far more than he would have expected. He said without hope, ‘I can’t think what you mean, Mr Peach.’
‘I think you can, Billy. And I think you’re going to change your tactics and tell me everything you know. Right now.’
‘There’s nothing else I can think of which—’
‘Wally Swift’s in a cell, Billy. He’s going down for quite a stretch. Whether we pin a murder on him or not.’
Billy Warnock wondered if it was all bluff, if this man with the quiet, menacing voice was spinning him a yarn to make him say things which would get him a severe beating or something much worse from Wally. He said stupidly, ‘I don’t believe it. You’ll have to give me proof of—’
‘I don’t have to give you proof of anything, Mr Warnock!’ Peach’s voice was suddenly harsh, with Billy’s title appended this time as a sardonic afterthought, as if it were a prelude to charging him. ‘Drugs Squad officers are interrogating Wally Swift at this very moment. They’ve waited a long time for the right moment to net him. Serious charges will certainly follow. And I’ve already spoken to him myself about the murder of Sunita Akhtar.’
Billy wished unexpectedly that he had been facing Peach, looking directly into those dark, hostile eyes. This strange set-up where he could not look at his interrogator, where both of them sat staring ahead at the blank brick wall, was even more unnerving than confronting the man directly. He said falteringly, ‘It’s a long time since we were in that squat. Difficult to remember things. I – I might have made the odd mistake when I spoke to you yesterday.’
‘Oh, you did,
Billy, you did! Not so much in what you said as in what you didn’t say.’ Peach stopped for a moment, as a gang of noisy youths came out to a van behind them and drove noisily out of the car park, their voices more raucous than ever in the quiet around them. Once they were through the gates and away, the silence dropped back like mist into the car park which enclosed the pair in the Mondeo. Peach’s voice began again, quiet and insidious. ‘You helped Wally Swift to set up his drugs operation, when you were in that squat in Sebastopol Terrace, didn’t you, Billy?’
This time it was Billy who paused, seeking desperately for words in which he could frame a denial. No words offered themselves. ‘I gave him a bit of help, yes. I didn’t know exactly what he was about at the time.’
‘You sold drugs for him, didn’t you?’
‘No. I’m not saying I did that.’ He could hear the desperation in his own voice.
‘You might get away with this, Billy, if you come clean now. Unless you killed the girl yourself, that is.’
‘No! No, I didn’t do that! And I didn’t see Wally kill her! I’ve not been hiding that!’
‘Lot of denials, there, Billy. You’ll need to convince me, won’t you? And the best way to do that is to come clean. I keep telling you that, don’t I? Keep giving you another chance. But my patience isn’t inexhaustible, Billy.’
‘I – I just fell into it. Really I did. I was using myself: mainly pot, but a bit of coke as well. Anyway, it wasn’t easy for me to get any sort of job when I was in that squat, being black and a user. I started running errands for Wally. Then I helped him to set up his first small ring of dealers – I knew some other users, see. Knew some who were desperate enough to become sellers. He paid me when no one else would. Not a lot, but—’
‘Paid you to put the frighteners on Sunita, I expect.’
‘No! He did his own frightening in those days, did Wally. He was good at that. Enjoyed it.’
‘I see. Enjoyed violence too, didn’t he?’