Peach felt fear in the room like a tangible presence. He fed on it as instinctively as the men opposite him felt it. He looked at them for a long moment, as still as they were mobile, exuding distaste even as he kept his face carefully expressionless. Part of his shortness stemmed from the fact that he had almost no neck. Now his shoulders, broad and square, seemed almost on the level of the lobes of those too-perfect ears.
“Fred Hogan,” he said. It was a statement, not a question, and Fred accepted automatically that a man he had never seen before should identify him without effort. “Where were you when the late Mr Harrison fell to his death?”
“In my room.” The tenseness made his voice hoarse; he had not the confidence to clear his throat.
“Witnesses?” Peach was putting Hogan back where he had been a hundred times before, under interrogation with his every word distrusted. Both of them fell into the roles they had played so often without even a full awareness of what was happening.
“There aren’t any.”
Harry Bradshaw, without looking at the man next to him, said, “We each have our own rooms on the top floor.”
Without taking his eyes off Hogan, Peach said evenly, “I see. Lucky lads. How soon did you know about this then, Fred?”
Hogan licked his lips. He had rehearsed what he was going to say, but he felt now it would come out with an overtone of guilt. He was right. “I heard the crash. I think we all did.” He looked round the faces in the room, hostile and friendly, but found little help there. “I got up and came down —”
“Naked? In your pyjamas?”
Peach rapped out the words as though these were key questions, and Fred felt as if he had been tripped already in his account. “No. I put on my old gaberdine mack. And the slippers Mrs Harrison gave me.” He glanced at her and she gave him an encouraging smile, but by then his attention was back with Peach.
“So how long was it before you reached the scene of the death?” This came unexpectedly from Sergeant Collins, pen poised above the page of his notebook to record the information. They were the first words he had spoken since he had come into this room; his voice was unexpectedly high, a tenor where a basso profundo should have reverberated.
To Hogan, it only sounded an attack from a new quarter. He said, “I — I don’t know. I was the first there, after Mrs Harrison.” He looked at her in mute appeal.
She said calmly, “I was roused by the crash like the others. We sleep — slept — on the same floor as my father-in-law, but at the other end of the house. I think I was beside him within sixty seconds. Mr Hogan was the first person to arrive from the upper floor, as he says. Perhaps another sixty seconds after me. It’s difficult to be precise.”
“Of course. We have to get a picture, that’s all.” To Mrs Harrison, Peach troubled to give explanations: she had no criminal record. He turned to her husband. “And where were you during all this?” he said. If this stiff liberal insisted on the questioning being conducted in a group, it would be his own fault if it turned out to be embarrassing.
“I — I don’t think I was awake quite as instantly as my wife.” Trevor smiled weakly round the room, but no one smiled supportively back at him. “I got up and put on my dressing gown…”
“But you didn’t go immediately to the spot where your father lay?” Peach allowed the hint of surprise to be apparent to all. He enjoyed suggesting a deficiency in filial affection in Harrison.
“No. I suppose I was afraid of what I would find in the hall. I stood on the landing, unable to move for a moment. But when I realised that this was something serious, I went and rang for an ambulance from the phone in our bedroom.” He made it sound like his own initiative, wished now that Ros was not here for both of them to recall silently how she had screamed at him to galvanise him into action.
Peach looked at him coolly for a moment, waiting for Collins beside him to finish recording the details of this. His eyes were still on Harrison when he said, “And where were you while all this was going on, Mr Bradshaw?” He gave the title an ironic ring, as if to suggest that both he and Bradshaw knew that in a more private setting it would not be accorded. Then he eased his whole trunk round to face Bradshaw directly, reinforcing the illusion that he had no neck to allow him to turn merely his head.
Bradshaw said, “I was in my own room on the top floor. I heard the crash and wondered what it was. Then I heard Fred come out of his room and go downstairs. By the time I had got up and put my dressing gown on, I realised what had happened from the conversations downstairs. I heard Mr Harrison ringing for the ambulance, as he said.”
The series of statements came in a monotone. He was back in court again, defending himself with the prepared statement agreed with his brief. Defending rather some other person entirely.
Peach said, “You didn’t feel called upon to go down and offer your assistance?”
Bradshaw looked him in the face for the first time, wondering whether to tell him that it was men like him who had taught him to keep out of other people’s crises. Instead he said, “Things seemed to be well in hand. I’d only have been in the way. I was wondering what I could do to help when Trevor — Mr Harrison — came upstairs.”
“It seems a little strange that you should not rush straight to the scene of the tragedy. Especially when you heard Mr Hogan doing just that.” Peach’s tone implied that if the lowest of the low like Hogan could do it, then it was surely suspicious that slightly higher forms of life like Bradshaw should fail to follow.
Bradshaw seemed to consider his own behaviour for a moment. “I suppose I was nerving myself to go down when Trevor arrived to say there was no point. Contrary to police opinion, I’m rather squeamish about violent death. Even when it’s accidental.” He paused, waiting for a reaction from the two policemen to this mild insolence, but they were too practised to acknowledge that his record had any part in their thinking. “I had also grown rather fond of old Mr Harrison. I was nerving myself to face his broken body.”
It was the first time anyone had expressed open affection for the dead man. There was a little relief, a slight easing of the tension for everyone in the room. A small omission in humanity had been remedied.
Peach seemed to think it offered a fitting conclusion. He stood up and said, “There is a final question I must ask all of you. I should ask it individually, but we are not acting by the rules of a criminal investigation.” He looked around the room, affording them that professional smile which was more disturbing than a scowl. “Has anyone here any reason to think that Mr Harrison’s death was anything other than an accident? If you have any doubt at all, it is your duty to voice it now.” There was the silence he had anticipated, heavy and breathless as they considered the weight of what he had suggested. He nodded to Collins, who had already pocketed his notebook. “Thank you all for your co-operation. I shall be back this evening to talk to the other two adult residents of the house.”
It was almost a surprise when he had gone to find that the sun shone brilliantly around the old house and the town beyond it.
Chapter Fourteen
“Good boss, is he?”
“All right. You could have worse.”
Dick Courtney studied the girl hard over the top of the glossy pamphlet he was pretending to read. She had long, carefully varnished nails and a bottle of Tippex fluid for correcting typing errors ready to her hand. Two details which argued she had been employed for her decorative qualities rather than her efficiency as a typist. He supposed that was fair enough: the punters were suckers for a pretty, unthreatening face.
He said, “He’s got an excellent taste in receptionists, anyway. That’s a good start.”
It was surely too crude and obvious to work, but it did. She simpered a little, looking as if she would like to blush but couldn’t. “If you get on with your job, he doesn’t bother you too much.”
“I’m sure he doesn’t have to bother you much, then. I expect he’s got a soft spot for you.” He almost went on to say �
��if not a hard one”, but it was too early yet for such bawdry. He crossed his legs, picking a tiny thread off the dark material as it stretched across his thigh.
“I can see you’re a flirt. I’ll have to watch you!” She giggled delightedly, abandoning all pretence of work now and leaning back in her chair to look at him.
He supposed that was meant to pass for repartee. He caught a scent of heavy, sweet perfume across the desk. How cheap and obvious such girls were! He told himself he must welcome the fact; it suited his purpose. “Hot on time-keeping, is he?”
She glanced automatically at the closed door behind her before she leaned forward. “Not bad. Quite reasonable, really. But then, I’m quite good on punctuality myself.”
“I’ll bet you are!” He delivered this in a low growl, as if the view carried scarcely hidden sexual connotations. Then he said loftily, “Punctuality is the politeness of princes, and you’re certainly a princess.”
She smiled uncertainly, not understanding him, uneasy as usual whenever anyone quoted anything in her presence. She herself never quoted, being unable to remember accurately even what pop stars actually said. She was already hoping he would get the job. This sharp, handsome young man, with his dark good looks, his swift, almost black pupils, his neat-limbed alertness, could only be an asset about the showroom. She fancied him rotten, already.
Dick Courtney knew it, though he was careful not to register it. How straightforward, how easy these girls were. She was a match for him neither in intelligence nor in will. It was all easier, of course, when one’s sexual interest was merely pretended. The absence of it now made him feel immeasurably superior to her.
He leaned towards her, daringly conspiratorial, letting just a hint of his native Black Country into the edge of his carefully enunciated speech, so as not to threaten this rather dim specimen with class as well as intellect. “Pay reasonably, do they? Don’t expect miracles of their salesmen in the first few months?”
She smiled at him, enjoying his nearness. “No, they’re all right. Half the time, I think they don’t know what’s going on. They’ve had it easy, you see, the two brothers. Their dad built up the business, and garages have been easy money since the war.” She said it with an air of immense wisdom, but he realised immediately that she was quoting someone else. Ironically, she who never quoted now used an older woman’s words without even realising it. “We don’t see much of Walter Frankland here; he runs the main branch in Stafford, you see.”
Dick nodded his thanks. This girl was a liability in the hands of strangers, and in a position to pick up a lot of what went on in the place. If he stayed here and prospered, he had already decided that she would have to go in due course. He smiled at her. The small, even, white teeth which might eventually devour her flashed a brilliant white, and she thought of touching them with her tongue. He said, “I’m sure we could handle them, together.” His dark pupils glittered with what she thought was fun.
She was so absorbed in him that she jumped when the intercom on her desk buzzed harshly. The distorted voice told her to bring in Mr Courtney. He rose unhurriedly to his feet, pushing the dark blue cuff marginally back, checking on his expensive watch that the interview was just six minutes late. She led him in to the partner’s office as though she were producing a treasure that must in some way reflect credit upon herself.
“Mr Courtney? Denis Frankland. Do sit down.” The hand he extended was soft, though the handshake was firm enough, even exploratory. Frankland was a little above average height, with eyebrows that threatened to run out of control and a broad, fleshy nose. He was not plump, but was covered everywhere with that thin extra layer of flesh which sometimes goes with affluence. A fat cat, Dick decided, registering the type without difficulty after the lean men of prison.
Frankland looked down at the neat writing of the application form, actually reading as his eyes ran down it. So he had not looked at it since his initial scanning. Good. If he was underprepared, that was in Dick’s favour, for his experience and qualifications for the post were thin. When you were twenty-four and had spent four years in prison, they were bound to be.
Frankland said, “We’re a family firm. Like to think we treat our employees well, and they seem to reward us with loyalty and good service. We have a pension scheme and quite good holiday arrangements. And if you need to have an hour off for something special, we’re usually quite understanding.” It was a long time since he had interviewed anyone who was much more than a school leaver: he was embarrassed, stumbling, realising too late that he should have put more preparation into this.
Dick Courtney, who had been hanging on the man’s words with an exaggerated interest, now said, “I wouldn’t anticipate asking for any time off in that way, except in the direst emergency. In the first months, I should expect to be putting in a lot of time, getting to know the firm and its customers. And, of course, looking for new ones.” He smiled his most dazzling smile at the man opposite him, exuding the confidence that the interviewer rather than he himself should have been feeling in this situation.
And then a strange thing happened. Courtney caught and held Denis Frankland’s eye, and realised that the unthinkable was true. This man was weighing him up, wishing hungrily that he might be gay. The blue, moist eyes were both hungry and irresolute. He let his own dark ones play on them for a moment, making sure the rest of his features remained deadpan. Enigmatic was the line to plug now; no need to rush things. He had learned more things in prison than were offered in the official education programme.
Frankland, his mind thrown by sexual disturbance, said uncertainly, “I need to ask you about — about your —”
“About my time in prison, yes. I’m glad you raised it so frankly, Mr Frankland. It’s a relief, I can tell you, after the way some people pussyfoot around.” He was all brisk confidence. Sharp-featured, unlined, his limbs gracefully but respectfully disposed, he leaned eagerly forward, becoming within seconds intensely desirable to a man who had not prepared himself for his own weakness. “I was a fool, easily led by hard men much older than I was. But that’s no excuse, and I wouldn’t offer it as one.”
Frankland, drawn into deeper waters despite himself in pursuit of the flashing scales of this fascinating fish, said, “Why did you get such a long sentence?”
“My counsel asked that at the time.” Dick smiled deprecatingly, as if he would never have pleaded thus on his own behalf. “The others were carrying guns, you see. I was only the driver, drawn into it by the glamour of driving fast in a Jaguar, but we were all charged with armed robbery.”
“Harsh,” said Denis Frankland. He was already making excuses for the man, in the area where he had determined to press severely.
Courtney shrugged his elegant shoulders. “It’s the law. Can’t expect them to make exceptions for twenty-year-olds drawn into crime while they’re still wet behind the ears.” He wouldn’t say he had been on probation at the time: there was no mention of that on his application form; nor of the man his companions had clubbed so hard that he would never work again. “Anyway, I learned things in prison.”
Frankland looked at him sharply before he was able to control the action, excited by something in the younger man’s tone of voice. “What kind of things?”
“Oh, all manner of things. Principally, that I’m never going back there.” He looked full into the face of his prospective employer, knowing it was necessary to convince him of the sentiment; it rang true enough, for it was genuine. No more exercise yards and stoppings out for Dick Courtney. “And other things, too. More intangible things.”
Frankland, drawn like a bird to a lure in the pause which followed this, said again, “What kind of things?” His voice was too breathy, failing to conceal an interest that was too personal for the matter in hand.
“How to survive when the going was tough. How to look after myself with hard men.” He leaned forward, almost as conspiratorial now with his prospective employer as he had been with that vapid girl outside,
excited by his own daring and the power of his sexuality. “How to compromise when it might be necessary. Even how to get on with people I liked.” Dick looked at the expensive flesh on the other side of the desk. It would be no great hardship to be stroked by those soft hands, to surrender his firm young body to the caresses of that older, more vulnerable one. If, of course, the returns were going to be worthwhile.
Frankland asked him the few questions about his suitability for the post that he had been able to assemble and explained the set up in the firm, mentioning the older man to whom he would be responsible. He felt he had recovered his equilibrium, but when he said, “If we decided to offer you the post, Mr Courtney, when would you be able to start?” he found that his voice was uneven.
“Just as soon as you would like to have me. I like what I’ve seen and I can’t wait to get started. I hope this isn’t being too presumptuous, but I’m sure I could get on with people here.” He dropped his voice on this, making it sound almost like an improper suggestion, but his face remained open and winning.
Frankland said clumsily, “Perhaps you would need to talk it over with your wife or — companion?”
Dick smiled as though the suggestion were outlandish. He had so nearly reversed the positions of interviewee and interviewer that he was aware of the danger of overplaying his hand. He said, “Oh, I’ve no wife or encumbrance of that kind to consider. I’m my own man now, free to do what I please.” He did not react to the relief on Frankland’s face: for the moment, this had gone far enough.
Who Saw Him Die? (Inspector Peach Series Book 1) Page 9
