by M. J. Trow
‘Hello, Mr Tubbs,’ the DCI said, holding up his warrant card. ‘I’ve been trying to interview you for quite a while. Do you have a moment now?’
‘I … er … I’ve never been interviewed by the police before.’ Jeremy Tubbs was sitting opposite Henry Hall in George Sheffield’s outer office. The tape was running, although Hall was aware that he had no second officer, neither had he cautioned his man. This was, for now, in the nature of a friendly chat.
‘That’s not quite true, is it, Mr Tubbs?’ Hall was at his blandest, hiding behind those blank lenses that were his stock-in-trade in interviews. ‘A little matter of under-age parties involving schoolgirls … I don’t have to cross too many t’s do I?’
‘They were not under-age,’ Tubbs protested. ‘And that was a long time ago.’
‘Indeed it was.’ Hall took in his man. Jeremy Tubbs was heavier in the flesh than he appeared from his school mugshots and he was sweating profusely. Hall didn’t need the spotlights and rubber hoses on this one. ‘All right,’ the DCI leaned back in his chair. ‘Let’s bring all this up to date, shall we? Where have you been for the last eight days, Mr Tubbs?’
‘Been?’
Hall looked bored. ‘It’s a perfectly standard past tense, Mr Tubbs,’ he said, aware that Peter Maxwell would probably be able to codify it further.
‘Well, all this,’ Tubbs whirled his arms in all directions. ‘Call me a coward if you like, but I suddenly couldn’t stand it. I felt … well, threatened …’
‘By whom, Mr Tubbs?’
‘Well, no one in particular. I mean, unless you people have caught the bastard.’
‘No, no,’ Hall shook his head. ‘No, we haven’t caught anyone yet. But I’ve been in this game a long time; You get a nose for when things are about to happen. I somehow think we’re pretty close, now.’
‘Urn … good,’ Tubbs grinned inanely. ‘That’s good.’
Hall flicked open a file on his desk. ‘Your vehicle was found at Portchester Castle last Friday. And when I go looking for a sick sixth former, I found you, hiding in a room which is not yours and, if my memory serves, attempting with some futility to escape through a window which is three storeys up.’ He leaned across the desk. ‘Bill Pardoe fell from only a few feet above that,’ he said. ‘Did you happen to see his body at all?’
‘Look, Inspector …’ Tubbs had resorted to mopping his forehead with his handkerchief.
‘That’s Chief Inspector, sir,’ Hall knew when it was time to tighten the screws. ‘Can you, above all, tell me why it is that, having felt threatened at Grimond’s, you should return here, I assume voluntarily? Or were you being kept in that room against your will, like something in Glamis castle?’
‘No, no, it was nothing like that …’
‘But of course,’ Hall interrupted, ‘what I really want to know is your relationship with the dead men, Pardoe and Robinson.’
Jeremy Tubbs had gone a very strange colour. ‘I want my solicitor present,’ he said, wiping the spittle from his lips.
‘That is your right, sir,’ Hall leaned back. ‘And don’t let it bother you that statistically, eight out of ten people who make that request have something to hide.’
It was then that the planning office door burst open and Denise McGovern stood there. She had a tape in her hand. ‘Jesus!’ she said.
‘Not exactly,’ Hall corrected her. ‘For the benefit of the tape, DS McGovern entering the room at ten-thirty-four. Meet Jeremy Tubbs,’ and he switched the tape off.
‘And where do you think you’ve been?’ Denise snarled at the man, suddenly smaller than he had been and almost cowering in his chair.
‘You can do the rolling pin bit later, Denise,’ Hall said. ‘Right now, Mr Tubbs would like to see his solicitor. Could you arrange that on your way to Selborne, please? See if DCI West wants a word with Mr Tubbs. And Denise,’ he stood up and looked the woman squarely in the face. ‘Make sure that DS Carpenter attends the interview too, would you?’
‘Of course, sir.’ She stared defiantly back.
‘What’s that?’ Hall was pointing to what was carried triumphantly in the Sergeant’s hand.
She motioned him outside. ‘Could you give us a moment, Mr Tubbs?’ he said as he closed the door.
‘Where the fuck’s he been?’ Denise hissed as Millie Taylor looked up from her typing.
‘Here, most of the time would be my guess.’
‘But why …’
‘It was inspired, really. We’ve got blokes out combing the county for him and he was right here under our noses all the time. Pretty clever. What’s that?’ he asked again.
Denise positioned herself so that she had her back to the secretary. ‘I found it in the coat pocket of Michael Helmseley, Head of Classics. I don’t know what it is yet. Some harmless languages tape. Maybe. But if that’s the case, what was it doing in his coat pocket?’
‘You found it in his study?’
‘Behind the door,’ Denise nodded.
Hall took it. ‘Okay, I’ll play it. Get Tubbs across to Selborne, Denise. Tell West … ask your DCI to play him along. Mr Tubbs has got some talking to do.’
Jeremy Tubbs’ solicitor was actually one his mummy had retained aeons before and he’d known the lad for years. He was no longer a lad of course, but a rather repellent geography teacher and he was in trouble. Over the years, the solicitor had rather come to Tubbs père’s view of his son, that he was a degenerate who deserved, in police parlance, a good smacking. He was not inclined to be too officious on his client’s behalf as he sat in the makeshift interview room at Selborne, facing DCI West and DS McGovern.
‘So … Jeremy …’ West was rolling a piece of Nicorette gum around his molars in a sporadic and vain attempt to give up smoking. ‘Where’ve you been, old lad?’ The ‘nice’ policeman bit didn’t come easy to Mark West, but looking at Denise McGovern across the table from him, Tubbs was ready to clutch at any straw.
‘Around,’ he said, glancing across at his solicitor and seeing no help there. ‘Just driving around, you know.’
‘No,’ Denise said flatly. ‘We don’t know. Suppose you tell us.’
‘Tell you what?’
‘Precisely where you’ve been,’ West said.
‘Well, now you’ve asked me …’
‘Yes,’ West nodded. ‘We have. And we’ve asked you now four times one way and another.’
‘Well, I went to Portchester, obviously …’
He’d dried up already and it wasn’t even mid-afternoon.
‘All right,’ West raised both hands and placed them behind his head. ‘We’ll get back to that. Why Grimond’s, Jeremy? Why did you come back?’
‘I was going to resign,’ Tubbs told him. ‘I’d come to pick some things up.’
‘From an empty room?’ Denise chased him. ‘A room used only by guests? That’s where DCI Hall found you, wasn’t it?’
‘Well, I …’
‘Come on, Tubbs!’ West had stopped playing nice policeman. Nicorette wasn’t doing it for him this afternoon and his was a short fuse indeed. ‘You’re giving us zip here, mate, whammo. What I want is answers.’
‘He can’t talk to me like that … can he, Gerald? Tell him.’
The solicitor rolled an eye in his client’s direction. ‘You tell him, Jeremy.’
‘All right … all right, I will. They call me Mr Tubbs,’ he said, his face scarlet, his cheeks wobbling, ‘for a start.’
Peter Maxwell would have appreciated the filmic irony; Mark West didn’t. ‘Jeremy Tubbs, I am arresting you on a charge of wilful murder …’
Gerald looked vaguely interested for the first time.
‘All right!’ Tubbs almost shrieked. ‘All right, I’ll tell you. It was never supposed to happen the way it did. Never.’
‘Would you like to caution your client, sir?’ West asked the solicitor.
Gerald leaned towards him, beaming. ‘Would you?’
‘I do have another class in a few minutes, Chi
ef Inspector.’ Michael Helmesley was checking the cut of his bow tie in the mirror. ‘Can it wait?’
‘No, sir.’ Henry Hall was stone faced. ‘I’m afraid it can’t. Do you know what this is?’
‘Looks like an audio tape,’ the Head of Classics said, rummaging through a pile of books on his study desk.
‘Is it one of yours?’ Hall asked.
‘Mine?’ Helmseley reached for it, but Hall pulled back. ‘Well, I can’t tell you if I can’t examine it, can I? Is it labelled?’
‘No, sir. It’s plain.’
Helmseley shrugged.
‘Do you know anyone called Brian?’
‘Brian? Brian?’ Helmseley was thinking. ‘There was a Brian Hedgepath who taught here a few years ago. I expect there are one or two Brians in the school now, among the student body, I mean. I’m afraid I’m the old-fashioned sort, Chief Inspector, I use their surnames. Now, I really must …’
‘Do you use their surnames when you pick them up, sir?’
Helmseley stopped in his open doorway, turning to the man, blinking. ‘I beg your pardon?’ ‘Where do you find them? Oh, I know it’s Petersfield, Petworth, Portsmouth – the three Ps. But I’m talking details here – gay pubs, public loos, parks?’
Helmseley slammed the door, horrified. ‘What the Hell are you talking about, man?’ he croaked.
‘I seem to remember from our last little chat, Mr Helmseley, you aren’t married.’
‘Neither is the Pope,’ Helmseley snapped. ‘What’s the relevance of that?’
‘May I use your cassette player, sir?’ Hall asked him.
‘All right,’ Helmseley nodded. ‘Be my guest.’
There was a machine on Helmseley’s desk and Hall flicked it into position and pressed the play button with a latex-gloved finger. There was silence for a moment, just the soft whirr of the tape coming into play, then a gravel voice, intense, calculating. ‘Ten-thirty-four,’ it said. ‘He’s reaching his front door now. Age about fifteen, possibly younger, blond. Nice looking lad. He seems pissed. This is quite promising. I’ll keep you posted on this one … I think he’s a natural.’
Hall clicked the pause button. Helmseley sat down.
‘Good God,’ the Head of Classics looked at the Chief Inspector. ‘Where did you get that?’
‘A few feet behind you,’ Hall said, pointing at the study door. ‘In the pocket of your coat.’
‘My …’
‘Perhaps you’d like to hear some more,’ Hall was pushing switches again. ‘This one’s aged fifteen. But he’s not alone. Seems to live along William Street. Can’t make out the number. He was drinking in the pub earlier. Under-age of course. May be able to use that.’
Helmseley stood up, shaking, but staring Hall in the face. ‘I have never heard this filth before in my life,’ he said solemnly. ‘That is not my voice.’
‘Oh, no, Mr Helmseley. I know that.’
‘You do?’
‘Yes,’ Hall nodded. ‘I know whose voice it is. What I want to know is what this tape was doing in your coat pocket.’
He pressed the button again. ‘Not bad,’ the voice grated. ‘Uses the handle “Janet”. Sixteen or so he claims. Seemed to like the porn. I’ll probably use him again. Not sure he’s your type, though.’
Hall released the tape. ‘There are other references,’ he said. ‘More mentions of “Janet”, some to someone called Brian. What was wrong with “Janet” then, Mr Helmseley? Why wasn’t he your type?’
‘This is appalling,’ Helmseley was sitting down again, staring at the floor. ‘Absolutely appalling.’
‘The porn that the tape refers to.’ Hall pocketed the evidence. ‘Would that be the magazines that Bill Pardoe was getting in the post? Compare notes, did you?’
Helmseley looked up at him. ‘You utter shit!’ he growled. Hall’s phone shattered the moment, vibrating in his pocket. He turned his back on the Head of Classics.
‘Sir?’
‘Jacquie. I’ve been trying to reach you. Are you at Selborne?’
‘Yes. I’m sure Denise McGovern just brought in Jeremy Tubbs.’
‘You mean you’re not in on the interview?’ Hall frowned, suddenly aware that he’d been double-crossed.
‘No. Should I be?’
‘Get in there,’ he ordered.
‘Sir, there’s something else. I tried a long shot last night. I’ve been trying to reach you too. I spoke to a lad in Petersfield, a kid on the game.’
‘Really?’ Hall straightened. ‘What’s the lad’s name?’
‘Brian,’ Jacquie told him.
‘Brian.’ Hall turned to where Helmseley was still sitting. ‘Tell me, Jacquie, did Brian mention Michael Helmseley at all?’
‘No, guv,’ Jacquie said. ‘Though he is an Old Boy of Grimond’s. What interested me more, sir, was one of his punters. Drives a big, dark car and has spiky grey hair.’
‘Oh, yes?’ Hall said. ‘And who does that sound like to you, Jacquie?’
‘Well, I know this is going to sound pretty preposterous, sir, but it sounds like … it sounds like …’
‘DCI West?’
Peter Maxwell had had a fruitless day. There was no Jacquie over breakfast. And she wasn’t answering her phone. For a while he toyed with getting a cab to Grimond’s and loitering with the paparazzi pair outside the gate. He wasn’t up to hauling himself over the wall again and anyway, was rather concerned that if George Sheffield or Maggie Shaunessy saw him, he’d be shot on sight.
So he’d loafed around in Petersfield again, chatting up barmen over Southern Comforts and picking up what tittle-tattle he could about Grimond’s. Then, having failed to raise Jacquie for the umpteenth time, hailed a cab to Selborne, partly to commune with the shade of the naturalist Gilbert White and partly to meet the ogre with whom his light o’ love now worked.
‘I told Mr Maxwell you were busy, sir,’ Denise McGovern’s hard face appeared round the door, hot on the heels of the Head of Sixth Form. ‘Come on, you,’ she barked at him. ‘Out!’
‘Maxwell,’ West had abandoned the Nicorettes as a lost cause and was back on the hard stuff, smoke wreathing around his flaring nostrils. ‘No, no, Denise. I’ve heard a great deal about Mr Maxwell one way or another over the last few days.’ He pointed to a chair. ‘I’ve got a little windowette in my schedule at the moment. Have a seat, Mr Maxwell. Tell me where you fit into all this.’
‘Oh,’ Maxwell pulled up a chair that was still faintly warm. ‘You know, just passing,’ he smiled.
‘Just bollocks,’ West was smiling too.
‘Ah, I just knew I’d enjoy meeting you,’ Maxwell winked at the DCI.
‘You arrive at Grimond’s, and people start dying, Mr Maxwell. Bill Pardoe goes off a roof. Tim Robinson falls into a lake. And old Tubbsy sends you a warning phone call to get out just after his own disappearance. Now, I understand a sixth former’s gone walkikins. Tell me, Mr Maxwell, is any of this down to you?’
‘Sir,’ the door crashed back and Jacquie Carpenter stood there.
‘Not now, sergeant!’West bellowed, ‘Your boy-friend here is about to fill in a few blanks for me.’
‘Jacquie.’ Maxwell crossed to her.
‘Look at me!’ West snarled. ‘I’ve been talking to an old friend of yours this afternoon.’ He was on his feet, confronting them both. ‘A sad bastard of a geography teacher called Jeremy Tubbs.’
‘Tubbs?’ Maxwell repeated.
‘He was most helpful,’ West smiled, before blowing smoke rings to the ceiling. ‘He’s been staying in your old room, apparently, at Grimond’s. But I’ve got a feeling he doesn’t know the half of it.’
‘Sir,’ Jacquie interrupted. ‘Mr Maxwell …’
‘Is your sugar daddy,’ West finished the sentence for her. ‘Your bit on the side. Yeah, I know. But he’s also up to his fucking neck in what’s going on at Grimond’s and I intend …’
But another voice was filling the Incident Room at Selborne. Another voice, but not another voic
e. And it was getting louder.
‘Not bad,’ it was saying. ‘Uses the handle “Janet”. Sixteen or so he claims. Seemed to like the porn. I’ll probably use him again. Not sure he’s your type, though.’
DCI West walked numbly past Maxwell and Jacquie, out of his Inner Sanctum, the cigarette trailing in his right hand. His team were out there, all of them – Sandy Berman, Steve Chapell, Pete Walters, Denise McGovern. Most of them were on their feet and he seemed to be walking in slow motion. His mouth wasn’t moving, but his own voice was filling the room, with an electronic hiss behind it. His team were all there and they were all looking at him, recognizing the voice and what it meant. Then, quite suddenly, the voice stopped in mid sentence with a click and DCI West was staring into the blank, expressionless face of DCI Hall.
‘Mark,’ he said softly. ‘Can I have a word?’
21
They met briefly in the car park as the rain began, kissing under the narrow, unforgiving eaves of the Incident Room.
‘DCI West,’ Maxwell shook his head. ‘So Henry’s got his man, then?’
‘One of them,’ Jacquie said, looking back through the Inner Sanctum windows where Hall was lowering the blinds and a shattered Mark West sat with his head in his hands.
‘You’re staying here, aren’t you?’ he squeezed her hand.
‘There are a lot of hurt people in there, Max,’ she said. ‘Some of them will have kids of their own. You work with a man for years, trust him, believe in him. Maybe, in our line of work, you put your life on the line for him, or he does the same for you. And then …’ she sighed, ‘At the very least, Henry will need help with the paperwork.’ She turned back to him. ‘What about you?’
‘Me?’ he shrugged. ‘Home, I suppose. Time I got Grimond’s out of my system. I’ve got a Sixth Form to run.’
‘Call me,’ she said, pecking him on the cheek, and she was gone.
Maxwell called a cab and waited in the lee of the Incident Room. He hated loose ends. They were like unfinished jigsaws and they irked him. And answer came there none. Patrol cars came and went, but it couldn’t be called business as usual. At Selborne a murder inquiry hung in the balance, like a film frozen in mid-frame, while the team leader’s career was being shredded. Dumpy Lynda was trying to make tea for the two DCIs locked in the Inner Sanctum, but she kept crying and her tears were wetting the sugar. Sandy Berman watched the others, numbly going about their business, avoiding eye contact, staring at the paperwork, or the VDU screen or the ground. He knew he’d have to snap them all out of it, pull the team together. But that would have to come later. He was having trouble pulling himself together first.