[Inspector Peach 12] - Pastures New

by J M Gregson

  PASTURES NEW

  A Chief Inspector Peach Mystery

  J M GREGSON

  This first world edition published in Great Britain 2008

  by SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  9-15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey SMI IDF.

  * * *

  This first world edition published in the USA 2008

  by SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS INC of

  595 Madison Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10022.

  * * *

  Copyright © 2008 by J. M. Gregson.

  * * *

  All rights reserved.

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  Gregson, J. M.

  Pastures new

  * * *

  1. Peach, Percy (Fictitious character) - Fiction

  2. Blake, Lucy (Fictitious character) - Fiction

  3. Police - England - Lancashire - Fiction

  4. Murder - Investigation - Fiction

  5. Detective and mystery stories

  I. Title 823.9'14[F]

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  ISBN-13:978-0-7278-6593-9

  * * *

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  To Pauline Hogan, who once had the best tennis backhand in Manchester and who remains a lady of spirit and beauty.

  One

  ‘Successful businessman. Late fifties but vigorous, well preserved and open to new ideas. N/S. Interested in the arts, theatre and local history. Seeks lady of similar interests for companionship and outings.’

  It looked entirely unremarkable in print. Unmistakably dull, in fact. When he looked at it among the scores of more attractive and ingenious offerings in the local and national papers, Geoffrey Aspin couldn’t believe that this turgid offering would excite any interest at all.

  Everyone else seemed to assert GSOH, or even VGSOH. But despite the advice of the helpful lady at the newspaper, he had chosen not to include these mystic letters. Somehow Geoffrey felt that people who had to insist in print that they had a very good sense of humour might be either cackling bores or severely deficient in the humour department.

  He hadn’t even wanted to put N/S: it seemed such a priggish assertion of virtue. But probably if you didn’t say that you were a non-smoker, all those anonymous and rather scary women out there might assume that you were a forty-a-day man, with nicotine-stained fingers and an advanced carcinogenic wheeze. In the same way, the many men who insisted that they were ‘tactile’ suggested to him sexual predators bent on the most unspeakable physical experiments.

  For the same reason, he had reluctantly crossed out the fact that he was interested in various sports. He’d looked at it for a long time, and tried various ways of re-phrasing it, but ‘sportsman’ still seemed to him to invite women to arrive with the wrong expectations, demanding all sorts of impossible sexual gymnastics, which he would be both unwilling and unable to provide.

  Even after he had settled on this singularly dull summary of his qualities and requirements, it had taken him three weeks to pluck up the courage to insert it in the Lancashire Telegraph. Advertising for female companionship, even of the most innocent kind, wasn’t the kind of thing people like him did. He’d never dared to discuss such things with his male friends at the golf club, even when they were at their most affable and sympathetic at the nineteenth hole. He’d heard a programme on the radio in which people claimed confidently that such columns attracted people from all walks of life and provided a valuable service, but he’d never known anyone who used them.

  At least he’d never been aware of anyone who used them. He made that sturdy correction to himself, told himself again that you never knew what went on behind closed doors, but he still didn’t find it convincing. For a man who had begun and developed a highly successful printing business, Geoffrey Aspin was still a touchingly naive person.

  He stared once again at his innocent and humdrum contribution, glanced through its more exotic companions, and shook his head sadly. Although he professed himself to be in touch with modem society, it still surprised Geoffrey Aspin that there was a long column of men openly seeking other men. Most of these seemed to offer ‘great personalities’; they also proclaimed variously ‘excellent equipment for all sorts of frolics’ and ‘interest in bars, pubs, theatre, horse riding and any other activity which offers fun’.

  Whilst modesty seemed conspicuously absent from the way people in the column described themselves, ‘fun’ seemed to be a favourite word: Geoffrey wondered for the hundredth time whether this word was a key cipher in some elaborate code which only those familiar with the rules of this arcane game understood. If ‘fun’ was the chosen noun, then ‘bubbly’ must surely be the favourite adjective. Even the women seeking men, in that section he had read and re-read over the months with increasing desperation, seemed to be quite determinedly bubbly.

  Geoffrey Aspin hoped he wouldn’t get one of those. He was sure that a bubbly fifty-five year old would be more than he could cope with. He found himself wishing yet again that he had not put his advert in the paper at all. It had taken several whiskies and an evening of television dominated by the inanities of Big Brother to induce the despair which had finally spurred that leap into the darkness.

  In the cold grey light of a Wednesday morning, his aspirations for female company seemed even more pathetic and ridiculous. During those long winter evenings, which had been the preludes to nights of disturbed sleep and even more disturbing dreams, his loneliness had seemed overwhelming, dominating his life like a physical pain that would not go away. Now his yearning for company seemed pathetic; a lack of perspective which should have been summarily dismissed; a defect of character which would excite first derision and then condemnation in anyone who discovered it.

  He stared yet again at his modest, unambitious, three-line entry to the columns of DATING POINT, and found comfort in its very inadequacy. Amongst all the more lurid protestations of excellence around it, his contribution must surely be dismissed by those anonymous armies of females whom he suddenly found so fearsome. He shut the paper firmly and addressed himself with relief to the realities of life.

  It was high time he was off to work and the welcome challenges which awaited him there. No doubt there were decisions to be taken, and he would act with his usual firmness and confidence. Thank goodness that Mrs Green, his friendly, efficient and unfortunately very happily married secretary, would never know anything of the agonies of his long and lonely evenings.

  It was at that moment that the phone rang. An impersonal, distinctly uninterested voice from the newspaper told him that he had four responses to his entry waiting for him on their confidential voicebox line.

  * * *

  Detective Chief Inspector ‘Percy’ Peach, scourge of the criminals of North Lancashire, was almost equally feared and respected by the team he commanded in Brunton CID. He was trying hard to be patient.

  T
he man who was testing his resolve was not one of the local thugs but his superior officer, the bland and self-satisfied Chief Superintendent Thomas Bulstrode Tucker. The man in charge of Brunton CID section, universally known among his workforce by the name allotted to him some years ago by DCI Peach, Tommy Bloody Tucker.

  Tucker was quite a handsome man, if you favoured suavity in features and expression. He was now in his mid-fifties, with one eye on the fat pension which awaited him and the other on keeping his nose clean at all costs so as not to jeopardize that end-of-career Holy Grail. He was a trifle florid and running just a little to fat now, but his full head of hair, silvering becomingly at the temples, and his regular, heavy features gave him the gravitas for set-piece occasions. Tucker regarded public relations as his forte, and he was duly trundled out in times of crisis to assure the sceptical Lancashire public that the police had the situation well in hand.

  Those above as well as those below Chief Superintendent Tucker in the hierarchy knew that in the task of solving serious crimes which was officially his job, he was hopelessly out of his depth. But rank carries its own defence, and Tucker held an elevated one. No one in the higher echelons of the police service wished to expose him as a phoney: that might raise questions as to who had promoted him to the rank at which he was so patently inefficient.

  Percy Peach understood all of this, knew how the system operated, knew that Tucker had only campaigned for his inspector’s elevation to the rank of chief inspector because solely by that means could he secure his own promotion to chief superintendent. But he knew also that Tommy Bloody Tucker depended on him, that the impressive crime clear-up rates of Brunton CID on which Tucker rode were wholly the work of Peach and the officers he had hand-picked to support him.

  Although he would never acknowledge it openly, Thomas Bulstrode Tucker knew that too. Although he intensely disliked the bouncy rubber ball of a man who was sixteen years younger than him, he had long since realized that he was dependent upon him. He knew Peach took liberties, though he was seldom quite sure when he was taking them. But Tucker had to tolerate a certain amount of insolence, because he needed Peach far more than Peach needed him.

  Percy Peach was a thief-taker, a man who worked at the crime-face and refused to be removed from it and sat behind a desk. He had no aspiration to the higher rank which would have taken him away from the squalid, sometimes violent, world where he excelled. Peach was happy in the company of working policemen and villains, where he knew exactly what he was doing. He was proof against any threats from the figurehead who needed him so desperately to see him through to his pension with a spotless proboscis. Consequently, he took liberties, and Tucker could do little about them.

  Peach was making his mid-week oral report to Tucker, who had never mastered the advantages of e-mail communication. ‘The former Mount Zion Methodist Chapel in Clitheroe has been attacked by vandals,’ Percy announced carefully.

  ‘Ah!’ said Tucker sagely, buying time to digest the implications of this.

  ‘Windows were smashed in. There was quite a lot of damage.’

  Tucker decided that he could now see how matters stood. ‘Really, you shouldn’t be bothering me with this, you know. It’s petty crime. I have much more important things to worry about.’ He gestured vaguely with his right arm over his massive but entirely empty desk.

  ‘Very good, sir. I’ll tell the newshounds that it isn’t worth a statement from you. They seemed to think the attack might be racially motivated.’

  ‘Oh, I think you can rule that out, Peach! Take it from me, the Methodists might get a passing sneer from the drinkers in our society, but they don’t excite sectarian or racial passions any more. Not in the twenty-first century.’ Tucker shook his head sadly that his DCI should be so out of touch with modem trends. ‘I should leave it to uniform - tell them it’s not a matter worthy of CID attention.’

  ‘If you say so, sir. Just so long as you’re prepared to take full responsibility with our Asian community. I’ll assure them that you see no sign of the National Front violence they’re mentioning. I expect you know best, with your overview of these things.’

  Tucker paled visibly - always a welcome phenomenon for Percy Peach. The chief superintendent was fond of claiming for himself a detached overview of the society in which they operated, which was denied to the more limited and lesser-ranked mortals beneath him. It was always a danger signal for Tucker, however, when Peach quoted this Olympian command of things back to him.

  Tucker said uncertainly, ‘Our Asian brethren have a strong affiliation with those of the Methodist persuasion?’

  ‘Former Mount Zion Methodist Chapel, I said, sir. It’s many years since our Methodist friends worshipped there. It’s been a factory in more recent years. I thought you might have remembered that, sir, with your unrivalled knowledge of our patch.’

  ‘It’s Clitheroe, Peach,’ said Tucker dismissively. He spoke as if the ancient small town, ten miles from where he sat, was Bangkok or Shanghai.

  ‘The place where the former Methodist Chapel still stands has been approved as the new site for a mosque in Clitheroe,’ said Peach, with the air of one instructing a rather dim child.

  Tucker’s face set grimly. It was time to put this upstart in his place and dismiss the matter. ‘It’s petty vandalism. Peach. There’s no more to be said about it. End of story.’

  ‘It’s very disappointing that with what seems to be a racially motivated crime, no one is prepared to conduct a dialogue with the Asian community.’ Peach stared neutrally at the ceiling.

  ‘Don’t give me that claptrap, Peach. It’s rubbish and you know it. You’re wasting my time.’

  ‘I see, sir. Sorry about that. It’s not my rubbish, though. I was quoting Mr Sheraz Akmal, Secretary of the Medina Islamic Education Centre. However, you have made things splendidly clear, in the decisive manner which is such an admirable feature of your direction. I shall be happy to relay to Mr Akmal that you think he is wasting your time.’

  ‘I didn’t say that, Peach.’

  Tucker was visibly as well as mentally deflated. He shrank to a smaller size in his huge executive chair. It was a physical process which Peach was always happy both to initiate and to study in detail.

  Peach said, ‘The local police have been dealing with it, but perhaps I’d better get over there and put this Akmal fellow in his place. Tell him that Chief Superintendent Tucker doesn’t want him wasting our time.’ He nodded his satisfaction at the prospect of such firmness.

  ‘You won’t do any such thing, Peach!’ A major public relations disaster rose like an awful vision in Tucker’s normally inactive imagination.

  ‘It would please the far-right people in the National Front Party,’ said Peach persuasively.

  ‘Of course it would! And therefore we must tread carefully.’

  ‘They’re a powerful political force in the town, since they won the Mill Hill seat in the local elections. Going from strength to strength, their spokesman says.’

  ‘You should pay a damn sight less heed to these bloody spokesmen, Peach. They’re a waste of bloody time!’ said his chief fiercely.

  ‘Ah!’ Peach frowned, as if attempting to cement a difficult new concept into his memory. ‘I should ignore Mr Akmal then, sir, shouldn’t I? As spokesman for the Muslim community in Clitheroe, he says we should have a discussion and a dialogue with him. He says that would be the British way of doing things.’

  ‘You must not ignore him, Peach. Race is a sensitive issue in these parts, in case you hadn’t noticed. We must treat this Mr Akmal with—’

  ‘Thirty-seven-year-old father of three, sir, according to the Lancashire Telegraph. He says that they’re trying to develop something for the whole community with the new mosque and youth centre in Clitheroe, whilst a few individuals are trying to damage this landmark building. Still, I’ll be happy to tell Mr Akmal that you think it’s claptrap and that he should go away and stop moaning. It’s good to hear such a firm line being taken with
these spokesmen who waste such a lot of our time. Bold, I must say, even perhaps daring, in today’s context.’

  Thomas Bulstrode Tucker sighed the heavy sigh he always sighed when he saw work coming his way. ‘I think you’d better leave this matter with me, Peach. It seems to require diplomacy.’

  ‘Not my strong suit, sir, I agree. If diplomacy and a bit of soft soap are required, the situation would be much better in the hands of someone with your overview of things.’ Peach smiled benignly at the drab Brunton world outside as he looked at it through the window on his way back downstairs. A couple of broken windows, a hundred and fifty quid’s worth of damage, and the matter already being efficiently dealt with by the beat coppers at Clitheroe. Tommy Bloody Tucker would no doubt get a flea in the ear from his opposite number in charge of the uniformed branch. But it would keep him out of Percy Peach’s hair for the rest of the day.

  * * *

  Two days later, Geoffrey Aspin sat staring at the steam rising from his untouched cup in the town’s busiest coffee house. He had never been to Starbucks before, but he hadn’t cared to confess that to the woman who had suggested this venue from the other end of the telephone line.

  His own priority as a prominent local businessman was privacy. But the women who had responded to his advert seemed to have quite different requirements for a first meeting. They apparently wanted it to be as public as possible. Geoffrey would have gone for the protection of darkness; they had insisted on the bright revealing light of day. He had thought to meet out in the country, well away from Brunton, home, and the prying eyes of those who knew him; they had insisted on the town and the crowds they seemed to think implied protection. He had suggested a quiet back-street pub; they had insisted on places like Starbucks, with its busy, brightly lit interior and its constantly changing clientele, any one of whom might be able to recognize Geoffrey Aspin.