The moist blue eyes stared at him, widening in outrage, rather than the fear Peach wished to see in them. “When he left my house. I saw him off at the door. You can’t think —”
“You didn’t follow him into the town for any reason?”
“No, of course not. Why should I? I loved Dick!”
The last phrase rose to a shout. Collins looked up apprehensively from his notebook, towards the office beyond the partition, but his chief chose not even to register the hysteria.
He said calmly, “Are there witnesses to the fact that you parted at the door? That after that you were in your own house for the rest of the night?”
“No. I live alone.”
“Pity, that. From your point of view, I mean.” He stood up with a sigh. “Don’t leave the area without letting us know, Mr Frankland.”
They left without another word, though Collins nodded as he hastened out behind his chief. Frankland buried his face in his hands.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Dick Courtney had been a disruptive influence at Westhaven when he was alive. After his death, he remained so.
To be strictly accurate, it was the manner of his death which ensured that he remained a disturbing factor. For his murder brought the CID to the quiet Edwardian house in its spacious grounds. And as the CID’s prime representative, it brought Detective Inspector “Percy” Peach, who regarded disturbance as a necessary preliminary to investigation.
The house residents were still reeling from the news of the death when the Inspector descended upon them to begin his investigation. They assembled in the conservatory; he already had two junior officers searching the rooms inside the house. He had no warrant, but the Harrisons were too well brought up to obstruct the police, and the other three as ex-convicts knew exactly where they stood.
“I shall need to interview you all individually,” Peach said. “Now that we know for certain that this is a murder investigation.” He beamed round at them, as if the news were a personal triumph.
It had not quite the effect he had anticipated. All the people in the group knew somehow that Dick had been murdered, just as none of them was sorry that he was gone. There was none of that searing sorrow, still less any of that astonishment that anyone should have wanted to kill the victim, which sometimes hold up the early stages of an investigation. Trevor Harrison merely said, “How was he killed?”
“Shoved into the canal. Held under when he came up. Poor sod didn’t have a chance.” Peach’s robust bad taste was not there for its own sake: he was watching his audience carefully through the small, porcine eyes. “He was also pissed at the time. But someone here knows all this.”
At last he had managed to shock them. He almost felt the collective intake of breath, as they sat in the battered basketwork chairs around him. A strange place to begin a murder enquiry: he couldn’t recall anywhere quite so unlikely before. At least under glass everyone’s face, every passing expression, was perfectly illuminated. He must point out his cleverness in securing this venue to Collins when they left. Meanwhile, he hoped that long streak of discretion was watching these buggers as carefully as he was.
It was Ros Harrison, to whom this was quite a new experience, who said bemusedly, “What do you mean, ‘Someone here knows all this’?”
Peach smiled at her benevolently; it was good to have a straight man, even when it turned out to be a woman. “Simply that it is almost certain that someone in this room —” he looked around him uncertainly, then brightened “— this glasshouse — is the killer of young Mister Courtney.”
Michael Ashby said, “That’s not necessarily so, surely?” And collected a look which might have been turned on a child who had not been asked to speak.
“No, it’s not. That is why I said ‘almost certain’. It’s possible it could be an outsider, and of course we shall extend our investigation as far as is necessary.” He stopped for a moment, thinking of that pathetic old queen Frankland in tears behind his desk, then pressed resolutely on. “But I have to tell you that statistically, the overwhelming probability is that this was a domestic crime.”
Trevor wanted to say that the arguments about domestic crime could scarcely encompass the other three men in the room, but he sensed by now that he should not argue with the inspector in full flow; even the socially insensitive learned quickly with Percy Peach.
From the upper storeys of the high red-brick house on their right, they heard the muffled sound of large feet moving around, of drawers being opened and shut. Even a housewife as unfussy as Ros Harrison was perhaps disturbed by this invasion of her province, for she said as if she were about to resist, “Do you intend to make this house the centre of your operations?”
Peach shook his head, smiling at her thinly beneath the small black moustache. “No. The Murder Room’s at the station. We’ve already bagged up the clothing. The lads upstairs will be giving his room the once-over for anything significant.” He dwelt a little on the word, examining the faces around him for traces of alarm. “And there’ll be other things coming in now, from around the canal. Killers always leave something of themselves behind. The scene-of-crime boys will bring it in, presently.”
He let that hang in the air for a moment, searching for who might be most menaced by the thought. To him, they all looked equally uncomfortable. “But I’ll need to interview you all individually, of course. See what each of you can tell me about his own movements, and those of the rest.” He smiled happily at the thought of setting them against each other. “Can’t handle murder with kid gloves, you see, can we?”
Ros said, “If it’s necessary, we can probably find you a room here.”
“Thank you, Mrs Harrison. That would be more convenient for all of us than going to the station, I think.” He made it sound like a threat, though he knew they could refuse to go there if they wished. “But I don’t need to put you out. Sergeant Collins and I could manage perfectly well in here, I think. We should be finished before the light goes.”
He looked round the group. Fred Hogan looked quite terrified at the prospect of being left alone with the CID, but that is what he would have expected, even if the crime had been the theft of a bag of sweets. Coppers had that effect on old lags, thank God. The others looked unhappy in varying degrees: it was really quite gratifying.
And he had still to throw his last stone into this murky pool. “Incidentally,” he looked around them all, making sure the word got its due effect, “this may give a new dimension to that other death in this house, a few weeks ago. That of Thomas Harrison.” He always enjoyed the resonant solemnity of a full forename.
Trevor said stiffly, “I must remind you that my father’s death has already been confirmed as Accidental Death.”
“Even coroners can err on occasions, Mr Harrison, as you must be aware. Indeed, even policemen can be wrong.” His magnanimity was appalling. He smiled, baring white teeth that looked as though they were seeking flesh. “On the evidence then available, it did seem that your father’s fatal fall was purely accidental. And indeed, it is still possible that it was. But a second violent death among the same group of people within six weeks would be an unhappy coincidence.”
He leaned his squat head forward. He had so little neck that his whole trunk moved towards them a little. He gave his next words the menace they would have carried in the smaller confines of an interview room at the station. “And we CID men don’t like coincidences. To us, they smell. And we have sensitive noses.”
Harry Bradshaw said, “But what possible connection could there be between the two deaths?” He did not sound as astonished as he would have wished. He felt like a bad actor feeding cues to the star.
Peach said, “That is for us to establish, Mr Bradshaw. Or one of you to tell us.” He was glad he had come up so instantly with the name of this man who had killed already: no harm in showing them he had done his work on their files. “Let me give you an example of how the deaths might be connected. Pure hypothesis, of course, at the
moment, but we like to take the public into our thoughts whenever we can. I’m sure you all want to help us — well, except for one, of course.” He gave them again that awful beam, registering that Ros Harrison looked surprisingly calm. Be nice to bring a woman in for this one, if he could. Novelty got one noticed.
“Just suppose for a moment that the fall of Mr Harrison Senior was — er, shall we say, assisted. That leaves someone in the house — I’m sure we would all agree in that case that it was someone in the house — feeling he’s got away with murder. Now, let’s suppose this purely hypothetical murder was discovered by someone in the house. Not to put too fine a point on it, by the late Richard Courtney.”
Only in death was Dick given the dignity of the name his mother had rolled off her tongue when she had him christened. Even now, Peach gave the syllables a ring that was just too sonorous, so that it had the same tinge of sarcasm he had accorded to the “Mister” he had just conveyed on Harry Bradshaw. “Would any of you say that the late, seemingly unlamented, Mr Courtney was the kind who might acquire information like that?”
They looked at each other, each unwilling to be the one who confirmed it. Eventually, Trevor took the responsibility upon himself. “I’m afraid it’s true that Dick did like to gather snippets of knowledge whenever he could.” He looked round at the others.
“Yes. He even told us you were called Percy,” said Michael Ashby. He felt it was time this insufferable man was checked. The look he received from Peach made him think he might have made a mistake. “He certainly pried into our private affairs whenever he could.”
“He was a right shit,” said Fred Hogan with conviction, drawn in where he had been determined to say nothing by the corporate condemnation of the man he had hated. He looked guiltily at Ros, but she seemed amused rather than shocked by his vocabulary.
“Well, there you are then,” said Peach triumphantly. “A right shit, as you so succinctly put it, Hogan my old friend. And right shits tend to get their comeuppance, especially when they get too close to someone who has killed already.”
Harry Bradshaw said, “You mean Dick found out that someone had killed old Tom, but was murdered himself so that he could not reveal it?” He could see Dick now in the House Conference on the Sunday evening before his death, saying with feigned naivety, “I suppose we’re all satisfied that the old boy’s death was an accident?” He wondered how clearly the others recalled that moment. “I suppose it’s possible,” he said grudgingly. He brushed a hand nervously across his forehead and through his unruly greying hair. The contact made it only more untidy.
Peach shrugged his bull-like shoulders, making his minimal neck disappear, so that for an instant he looked almost deformed. He was trying not to look too satisfied with the way things were going. “It’s a hypothesis, that’s all,” he said. “I shall know better whether there’s anything in it when I’ve talked to you all individually. Found out just what secrets it was that the dubious Mr Courtney was digging out about all of you.” He grinned in happy anticipation. Michael Ashby resolved too late not to open his mouth again.
Trevor said doggedly, “I don’t believe a word of it. My father’s death was an accident.” No one came in to support that view now.
“You may well be right, Mister Harrison. We’ve hardly started on this yet, after all. All I’m saying is that it would provide one reason for killing Courtney. But there are others.” Peach dangled his bait speculatively before them.
“Such as?” Trevor was drawn on despite himself, wanting to expose this insufferable man as no more than a bluffer and a bully.
Peach bluffed occasionally, and bullied all the time, but he was more than a match for this feeble opposition. He leaned forward on his chair, as if he had been invited to debate a proposition of absorbing interest. “Well, let’s suppose your father had been killed by Dick himself. If someone who had been close to the old man discovered that, he or she might have been driven to exact their own revenge, when the law seemed to have failed them.” He sat back then with a bland smile, as if he had offered Trevor an idea which might be profitable, if he chose to exploit it.
“A son, perhaps,” said Trevor harshly.
“Or a daughter-in-law.” Peach did not even look at Ros, though he noted Fred Hogan’s startled outrage. “Or anyone in the house who resented the old man’s murder.”
Having rather neatly included all of them in both the theories he had put forward, he decided to air one more idea in this general setting before he grilled them individually. He looked round the circle of anxious faces and said very deliberately, “There’s another thing you might be able to help me with. While we’re all together like this, I mean. Presumably you all knew Courtney was queer?”
There was a long pause before Trevor Harrison said tensely, “You’re sure of that, Inspector?” He was working hard against reacting as though it were a horrific revelation, trying to formulate a laid-back liberal reception of such sexual preference.
“Bent as a hairpin, it seems.” Peach firmly blotted out the phrases Trevor had been summoning. “Did anyone here form a liaison with him?” He had decided upon that word before he came and was rather proud of the way he produced it.
The men around him looked suitably outraged. Peach noticed that Ros Harrison was looking for any signs of an admission from them as keenly as he was himself. None came. Trevor said, “Is this really relevant to your investigation?”
“Could be highly relevant. I cannot yet reveal all, but I can tell you that Courtney had a thing going with someone in the town. That he was on his way back here, bedded, buggered, and tight as a tick, when he was shoved into the canal and held under.” He looked round the room, searching for any man who was outraged by his crudity, looking for a tell-tale flash of temper. There was none. Even Ros Harrison, who should have shown a ladylike repugnance for his terms, showed no more than a lively interest.
Peach tried not to show his disappointment. “So you see,” he said, with what he hoped sounded a truculent logic, “we have yet another possible scenario. Jealous lover, rejected and driven beyond endurance, sees off the object of his affections.” This was too long for a headline, but he had had no time to polish it.
Harry said, “As a suggestion, it has more appeal than your previous ones. Your hypothetical jealous lover could come from outside this house, you see. He might be someone we didn’t even know. Or she, of course: it’s not unknown for young men to be ambivalent in their tastes these days, I’m told. Must make things difficult for you at times, that.” Suddenly the only man who they all knew had killed before seemed the coolest man in the glass-walled room.
“Yes, well. All these things will have to be explored, in due course,” said Peach. He was not going to stray on to ground where his suspects might be better informed than he was. “There are all kinds of interesting and suggestive facts. Both Thomas Harrison and Richard Courtney had drunk quite a lot, for instance, when they died. Yet neither of them were heavy drinkers by habit.”
He stood up, taking advantage of the moment the group took to digest his latest snippet. While they were still seated, he reasserted the control which Harry had for a moment almost abrogated, making his next words seem like a threat. “Now, it’s high time we got on to individual interviews and information. Like where you all were in the small hours of Tuesday morning. I’ll need to see all five of you in turn.”
Bradshaw said, “I’m afraid there’s a snag for me, Inspector. I have an evening class this evening. I really can’t leave over twenty people wondering why the tutor hasn’t arrived. But perhaps you could deal with me first and let me —”
“No problem. I’ll catch up with you later. There’s plenty for me to be going on with here.” Peach was not going to have his arrangements dictated by the man in the group who seemed most in control of himself. He looked round the conservatory, seeking a figure with which to re-establish the dominance he had felt until a few minutes earlier. His basilisk eye lit upon the cringing form of Fred
Hogan, trying as ineffectually he had done in school forty years earlier to avoid the teacher’s notice. “I’ll start with you, Hogan,” said Peach.
There was no need to afford the little man a title.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Harry Bradshaw conducted his WEA class on the English Civil War in a Methodist Sunday school. It was an annexe of the local further education college; the arrangement provided much-needed income for a church fallen on hard times and much-needed space for a college bursting at the seams. The WEA branch was happy to take a couple of rooms there in the evenings.
Here the lively middle-aged crammed themselves into desks covered with the blue-black ink of long ago, where earnest young ladies had once taught restless children passages from the Bible and interpreted the meanings of its stories for the nonconformist poor. Most of the WEA’s latter-day occupants emerged as agnostics during their discussion about the doctrine of the divine right of kings. The original elders of the high stone church, with its rigorous rebuttal of Victorian ornamentation, would not have approved. But needs must when inflation drives, whatever the benefits of charitable status.
Harry knew as soon as the class began that they were aware of Dick’s murder. Moreover, they had learned of the set-up at Westhaven and his own part in it. He could not have analysed how he deduced all this from what was no more than a slight reserve in their responses to his opening words, a marginal holding-back as he attempted to draw them into the material he had prepared for the night’s session. But he was certain of it, nonetheless.
It was like teaching at one remove, as if they were in a different room and his face and his talk came to them only by means of a video link. It broke down over twenty minutes or so as they became more absorbed in his material. Now they are like children who are being filmed, he thought, gradually forgetting the whirring of the cameras as they become engrossed in what they are doing. He wondered if they knew that they were being taught by a murderer. He couldn’t think that Peach had instructed his team to be particularly discreet about the backgrounds of ex-convicts who had become murder suspects.
Who Saw Him Die? (Inspector Peach Series Book 1) Page 16
