Close Call

by J M Gregson

  Bert had visited hospitals often enough, in his younger days, following up road accidents and serious incidents of assault, waiting for statements from victims, statements which sometimes never came. He had witnessed far too often the moment when life was pronounced extinct, when the relatives were escorted from the scene and the curtains were drawn around the bed by the professionals.

  People had told him then that you never believed that it was happening to you.

  He shook his head and went forward, divesting himself of the conceit that this was tragedy being played out in some other family. Eleanor looked up at him, and he saw the blankness in her eyes which told him that she was so involved with the closed world within three feet of her that he, too, was an interloper.

  She spoke reluctantly and very slowly, as if she were loth to admit anyone else into her private drama. She said dully, ‘He’s holding his own, they say. It’s still on a knife-edge.’

  In the leafy suburb of Birmingham, the man was perfectly relaxed.

  It was part of the training: when you were not on a job, you relaxed. Not that there was any training available for the work he did; he was thinking merely of the training he had devised for himself and steadily imposed upon himself as he became a specialist. You could scarcely think of it as a calling, and he did not do so. But he knew he was working in one of the most exclusive of occupations.

  Even in a more violent age than the country had ever known, there were still very few contract killers.

  His commissions were sporadic, though they had increased steadily over the five years in which he had operated. But he was never impatient. He knew now that other jobs would come along before too long: his efficiency and his anonymity had ensured that for him. And he had no problems with money: liquidation was expensive. His remuneration was such that he could afford to be patient between jobs.

  The people who used him knew his rates and his terms of business; the word got around quickly along the dubious grapevines of the underworld. A third up front when he was commissioned, two thirds when the death was achieved, safely and anonymously. Watson knew that some of his rivals operated on a half and half basis, but he thought it showed his confidence in his abilities that he only asked for a third in advance.

  And one of the benefits of working in a dangerous field was that the people who used your services were always reliable. You didn’t have to worry about credit ratings with people like this: Watson’s thin lips widened into one of his rare smiles on that thought. He never pressed for payment, because he knew that it would come.

  The e-mail had been in his in-box for several hours before he read it. It said simply, ‘The River Wye has reached the sea.’ He looked at it for a few seconds, then deleted the simple seven words of code.

  The money was now in his account. It had never come to him more easily.

  Eleven

  Lambert was glad to have Bert Hook back at his side as they visited Gurney Close in the early evening.

  Pressing a bereaved widow for information is never easy. It is vital to establish facts as early as possible in an investigation, but families often feel that police officers are being crass and insensitive during what, for them, is an agonizing period.

  At least there were no children involved here. And Alison Durkin appeared to be perfectly composed as they made their apologies for intruding at such a time. ‘You have your job to do. I understand that. I hope to get back to my own job later this week. They told me to take the week off, but I think the best remedy for brooding is to get back to work. And I’ve no funeral to organize. Not for the moment: not until you are able to release the body.’

  It sounded almost heartless, but they had seen grief in too many forms to draw any conclusions from her demeanour; brave faces were sometimes put upon the most painful private sufferings. Lambert said, ‘One or two things have emerged about your husband’s business dealings which we cannot explain. We hope that you might be able to help us.’

  The smooth face beneath the dark hair clouded, then turned blank. She was very pale, but appeared perfectly composed. Alison Durkin wore elegant black trousers and sandals with a crisp, white, sleeved blouse. She said, ‘I know very little about how Robin conducted his business. The money came in, and I was happy about that. And he was the kind of man who didn’t take kindly to questions.’

  ‘Even from his wife?’ said Hook gently.

  ‘Even from his wife,’ she said firmly, almost as if she were resisting interrogation. She looked at the brown-eyed, observant Hook and found that he was waiting for her to enlarge upon her denial. Hook was good at waiting, and surprisingly often people responded to his quiet, unthreatening expectancy. Alison Durkin said, ‘He provided me with anything I needed. I’m afraid I didn’t ask him too many questions about how things were going at the garage. He was really very generous.’

  But her tone made what should have been a routine wifely compliment to the dead man sound almost like a complaint. Hook said, ‘We have been investigating his finances. It’s standard practice with a murder victim. It sometimes throws up interesting statistics.’

  ‘Shows up people who might have had a good reason to kill him, I suppose.’ She nodded thoughtfully, when they would have expected her to bridle at this intrusion into her husband’s private affairs. For a woman who had been widowed less than three days earlier, Alison Durkin was remarkably controlled. ‘Have you found anyone like that?’

  ‘Not yet. But we have found some interesting information. Some unusual and very obscure sources of income. And some expenditure that needs explanation.’

  ‘I won’t be able to help you there.’ It was a very prompt assertion, as if she wished to sever all connection with the enquiries into her husband’s finances. Then, almost unwillingly, she said, ‘Tell me about these payments Robin made.’

  Did she suspect that the dead man had been spending on things she knew nothing about and of which she would not have approved? On other women, perhaps? Lambert, who had been watching her keenly during her exchanges with Hook, said, ‘At present, we’re more interested in where some large sums came from. We’re already certain they weren’t from the garage business. Can you help us with this?’

  ‘No.’ Again the negative was blunt and very prompt. As if she wished to mitigate the severity of it, she added, ‘I deliberately kept out of his affairs. I’m sorry if that means that I can’t help you now, but he preferred it that way, and it suited me as well.’

  Hook said quietly, ‘Was that because you preferred not to know, Mrs Durkin? Was it because you suspected that not everything was above board in his activities?’

  She looked from his unthreatening, weather-beaten face to Lambert’s thinner and more intense one, wondering how much she should say, how secretive she could be without them deciding she was uncooperative and therefore becoming more hostile to her. ‘I sometimes thought that I wouldn’t approve of some of the things he was doing, if I knew the full story. Perhaps that was one reason why I was quite content that I didn’t know.’

  Lambert studied her alert face, trying to let the tension build in her, marvelling silently at her composure. Eventually he said, ‘Would it surprise you to know that we have unearthed a sum of over eight hundred thousand pounds, in another bank account entirely from the one he used for the garage business and your domestic accounts?’

  She gasped. ‘Eight hundred thousand?’

  She sounded appropriately incredulous. But the size of the sum might have ensured that, even if she had suspected her husband had some more shady source of income. Lambert watched her closely, keeping his own face carefully impassive. ‘This didn’t come from buying and selling cars. We’re sure of that. Have you any idea what other activities your husband was engaged in?’

  She looked as if she was still astounded by the size of the sum. She sounded quite dazed as she said slowly, ‘You should call me Ally. Other people do: short for Alison, you see.’ She paused, looking past them and out of the window at the innocent wor
ld outside, where the sun shone and small birds fluttered among the trees at the end of the garden. She took a deep breath, gathering her resources for what lay ahead. ‘It wasn’t legal, this other activity you’re thinking of, was it?’

  Lambert gave her a small smile of encouragement. ‘You think like a cynical policeman, Mrs Durkin. And we agree with you: it’s difficult to see how a sum like that could have been acquired legally.’

  She said slowly, ‘I don’t know how Robin got that money. Really I don’t. And I want you to believe me.’

  Hook leaned forward. ‘But you must have some ideas. Some thoughts on the matter, at least. You lived with him as his wife, for eight years. You’re in a better position to speculate about this than anyone in the CID team.’

  It looked for a moment as if she would descend into anger. But all she said was, ‘I don’t know. He didn’t talk to me about it.’

  ‘And you want us to find out who killed Robin, don’t you?’ Hook went on as if he had not heard her denial. ‘There’s a strong possibility that the people who are connected with this money are also connected with Robin’s death. You must see that.’

  She nodded. ‘I do. And I want you to arrest them. But I feel helpless, because I know so little.’ She looked down at her hands, clasped still and unmoving in her lap. ‘He knew things, Robin. Took a delight in knowing things.’

  ‘What kind of things, Ally?’

  ‘Things about people. He made a point of finding out things that people didn’t want him to know.’

  It wasn’t what they had been expecting. Their thought was that Durkin had probably been involved in the supply of illegal drugs, that she might have been prepared to tell them whatever she knew about that. But Hook knew better than to appear surprised by what she was now suggesting. It was much better to imply that this is what they had been expecting, that what she said was no more than a confirmation of what police enquiries had already thrown up.

  Bert gave her an encouraging, complicitous smile. ‘You think he used this information, don’t you, Ally? You think he used it to blackmail people.’

  He had voiced the word she hadn’t wanted to use herself. Somehow, that made it easier for her to go on. ‘I think he might have done, yes. If he was getting money of that sort, he must have been doing something illegal, mustn’t he?’

  Indeed he must. But he would have needed to be a blackmailer on a massive scale to amass eight hundred thousand pounds. Nevertheless, the information was useful, perhaps even crucial. Blackmail is one of the most despicable of crimes, and also one of the crimes which most often lead to violence. Blackmailers almost always come back for more, despite repeated assurances to their victims that this is their final demand. Those victims become desperate, and desperation triggers wild reactions, including murder.

  Hook said gravely, ‘I know this isn’t easy for you, Ally, but we need to know facts. We need you to tell us the sort of information Robin had and the people against whom he was using it.’

  ‘I don’t know that. I’d tell you if I did. But I didn’t want to know about what he was doing. I was a coward, if you like, turning a blind eye to it. Content to live off the proceeds, I suppose, without asking too many questions. It doesn’t reflect very well on me, does it? But I loved him, you know. Alot of the time I wished I didn’t, but I loved him.’

  There was something desperate about her avowal, something febrile in her manner, as if she was nearer to breaking point than she had revealed in the earlier part of the interview, when she had appeared unnaturally composed. It seemed that this declaration of her feelings for the dead man had brought back the reality of his death.

  Lambert took up the questioning, but they could get nothing more useful out of her, beyond what they already knew: that Durkin and his former partner in the garage, Mark Gregory, had parted on bad terms. It seemed probable that she had told them all she knew, that Robin Durkin, like most blackmailers, had hugged his dangerous knowledge to himself and kept his own counsel about his activities.

  She promised to get in touch immediately if the names of any possible victims occurred to her, and they went quietly out to the car and reversed it out of the drive. They were conscious as they drove away of other eyes in Gurney Close watching their actions, wondering what progress they were making in finding the killer of their neighbour, a man who was proving a more sinister figure than most of them had ever imagined him to be. Except one of them, perhaps.

  They had driven over a mile before Hook said, ‘You didn’t raise her criminal record.’

  ‘It didn’t seem the right time. It’s still only two days since she found her husband’s body. I wanted to talk about Durkin and his activities, to find out how much she knew about what our victim had been up to. If she murdered him, she’s not going on to more killing. No one else will be in danger.’ Then, lest Bert thought he was becoming softer with the passing years, he added, ‘We shall be seeing her again, in the next few days. She’s still holding things back from us.’

  In the bedroom of her new home, Alison Durkin stood and looked at herself in the full-length mirror of the new wardrobe. She didn’t think her visitors would have found it strange that she was wearing a sleeved blouse, even on such a stifling day: the white cotton still looked crisp and cool, even after the ordeal of the interview. Men wouldn’t have thought it strange that she had full-length sleeves, as a woman who knew her might have. Men were like that: they would think it no more than the present fashion.

  She took off the blouse, wincing a little as she slid it from her shoulders, noting with approval how her new bra made the most of her small bust without any vulgar redistribution. She moved a little closer to the mirror, looking at the discoloration at the top of her left arm. The bruising was turning from black to green and yellow now. In a few days, it might be gone.

  Lisa Holt was finding, like millions of others before her, that divorce is a strange thing to have in your life. It was an experience which no one could anticipate, she decided: you would never have taken on marriage if you had envisaged even the possibility of divorce. Divorce was a horrible, messy business. And even when it was over and you were picking up the pieces, it was a thing which stirred you with unexpected emotions; they hit you when you least expected them and least wanted them.

  As her ex-husband stooped under the low doorway of the room at the back of the pub in Gloucester, she found herself experiencing an unexpected spurt of affection for him. He looked so vulnerable, so beaten down by life. And she was a part of the life which had beaten him down.

  He wore the brown sweater with the fawn diamonds, which she knew he had bought at least six years ago. That was the kind of stupid, unwelcome knowledge which would only be available to an ex-wife. Martin glanced at her drink, asked her if she wanted another.

  She refused. She didn’t want to prolong this any more than was necessary. And Martin wouldn’t have much money, after the divorce settlement. She didn’t want to thrust him back into the things which had driven her away from him: that would be the worst of all legacies from a failed marriage. Of course, if he’d been more considerate, he wouldn’t have left her sitting here on her own in the pub for ten minutes before he arrived, a target for any man looking for an easy pull. He knew that she hated being first into a pub on her own, but he had never taken any account of it in his actions.

  Martin Pearce came and sat down with her at the small round table, awkward as a stranger. But that was what he was going to become, she told herself: that was why she had gone back to her maiden name and changed the name of their child. Nevertheless, she was pleased to see that he had bought himself only half a pint of bitter, that he was clean-shaven, that his shirt was clean. It was a curious and unnatural business, sharing your bed and the most intimate moments of your life with someone for years, and then not seeing them at all. She didn’t want to think of Martin going downhill, even though she wouldn’t be seeing him from now on.

  She said, ‘The lawyers seemed to have agreed on the det
ails of your access to George. Are they all right for you, the arrangements they’ve suggested?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so. They’re more or less the standard thing, my man says. I’ll have to think what to do with him on those weekends, won’t I?’

  ‘You’ll have to make sure you don’t spoil him. Access and how to cope with it are problems lots of fathers have, and lots of kids have to cope with. It shouldn’t be too difficult.’ She sounded cold, deliberately so. She didn’t want Martin back in her life, didn’t want him bringing his problems to her, as he always had. She ran a well-manicured nail around the edge of her glass. ‘What was it you wanted to see me about?’

  ‘You can guess that, can’t you? Robin bloody Durkin!’

  ‘And what can I do about Robin? He’s been murdered, for God’s sake. A little charity wouldn’t come amiss, surely?’

  He looked at her closely, a small smile touching the corners of his mouth. ‘You didn’t kill him, did you?’

  She thought that he couldn’t be serious. But then she saw how he was looking at her, with real curiosity, sizing up her reactions to his question. Probably he had always planned that question. Probably he had planned how he would come out with it abruptly, as soon as he had arrived, to see how she reacted to it. Lisa found herself hoping that the police didn’t get to Martin, an eventuality she had never considered before.

  She said firmly, ‘Of course I didn’t kill him!’

  ‘You’d have had ample motive.’

  ‘And so would you!’

  He smiled, then took a pull at his bitter and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, that old mannerism she had always found annoying. ‘But I was at a dinner party in Bristol on Saturday night. Getting myself together after our divorce, the way you told me to do.’ Martin delivered the last phrase with relish, enjoying the waspishness of the reminder. ‘So, unlike you, I’ve got seven people who can swear to the police that I was nowhere near the scene of the crime.’