He said, almost as though he were reading from a newspaper, “Celia Bradshaw. She took frequent lovers. Taunted Harry with it when she came back one night. He got hold of her by the neck and shook her. Said he didn’t know he was killing her, just wanted to stop her voice. Her eyes were still open, staring at him, when he stopped.” Fred paused, viewing with his listeners the appalling image he had created, accentuating with an unconscious timing the picture he had drawn. “His counsel said he wasn’t naturally a violent man. But they didn’t accept a plea of diminished responsibility.”
Ashby said, “I see. I didn’t know the detail.” His high forehead glistened a little in the warm room. He was hoping he did not look too satisfied with himself. If he had wanted to draw the group’s attention to Harry’s situation, he could scarcely have done it more effectively.
For Fred, Ashby’s words broke the spell. He started and looked guiltily at Ros, at the column of her white neck. He felt as if by his graphic account of Harry’s crime he had set his fingers upon that inviolate flesh. He felt a sudden rush of the tenderness which troubled him all the time now. He wanted to tell Ros how he would never hurt a hair of her head, would not allow anyone to affect her and her children. Fortunately for everyone, he did not feel articulate enough to make the attempt.
All of them felt Harry’s presence in this room now, overhanging their discussion, more strongly than if that quiet man had been here with them. It was Ros who asked with her eyes on the table, “Was anyone able to give Harry an alibi for Dick’s murder?”
They glanced from one to another, shaking their heads slowly. Trevor said, “I wonder who among us does have an alibi, as far as Peach is concerned? He keeps his cards very close to his chest. Not a pleasant man, as far as I’m concerned.” No one felt able to deny that.
It was Michael Ashby, perhaps trying to alleviate the tension, who said, “Well, I shall have to get back to the treadmill soon.”
He walked over to the old transistor radio on the sideboard and switched it on, as if an access to the wider world outside might dissipate their collective unease. The radio was tuned to their local station; the strident jingle brought a summary of the national news, with spokesmen from two sides arguing about the latest unemployment figures. Both Trevor and Michael were standing up as the first gesture towards departure when the switch to local news came. There was as usual nothing of great moment.
Until the closing announcement told them that: “Police now feel that they are close to an arrest in the Courtney murder case.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
They told Harry about the news broadcast when he came home in the late afternoon.
“Peach will have told them that about being close to an arrest,” added Fred. “He’s probably just bluffing.”
“Or of course he may be planning to arrest someone we do not even know,” said Michael, falsely bright as the con-man he had once attempted to be.
Harry said nothing. They had hoped he would agree with one of them, at least.
He went up to his room and tried to read. The print danced before him after a while, and he found himself on the same page after twenty minutes. On either side of him, Hogan and Ashby sat in their own rooms. Each of the three wondered what the other two were thinking, and concealing. From below them, they heard the high chatter of children’s voices, with the occasional interjection from their mother. There was no sound from Trevor Harrison, the fifth occupant of this house of suspicion and speculation.
The phone call came as they were finishing their evening meal. Peach would like to see them urgently. All of them. He would be round in half an hour. He was uncharacteristically polite to Trevor on the phone, but his requirements had the ring of a royal command.
Ros said, “We mustn’t let him upset us more than is absolutely necessary. I’m going to make coffee for us all before he comes.” Usually they went away to their own quarters and made their own drinks, but tonight they sat together round the table, drinking the coffee that two of them at least would not have chosen, and making stilted conversation. The last supper, thought Harry Bradshaw.
Trevor as usual was the least adept at the small talk which would have side-stepped the impending ordeal. He listened absently to the desultory conversation, then said abruptly, “If we don’t help him, he’ll find it difficult to make trouble for any of us.”
There was a heavy silence, as if he had broken some unwritten rule by speaking of what was to come. Eventually Ros said, “If he’s coming here to arrest a murderer, perhaps we should help him.” She sounded impatient with Trevor, as if she had put up with his refusal to confront reality for quite long enough. “If he isn’t, we’ve nothing to fear and we shouldn’t behave as if we have.”
Trevor plucked at his beard and smiled weakly round the table. “You’re right of course, Ros. As usual. I suppose it’s just that I’m sure that no one here is guilty of killing anyone.”
He’s like a primary teacher with his charges, thought Ros. Does he really believe that, or does he just want to believe it? For the first time, she thought about the impact on the work they were doing of a murder in the house. The first death at Westhaven had seemed to ensure the future of their work, the security of their small kingdom. This second death, she thought grimly, might have undermined that future.
The neighbours had never been happy about prisoners coming straight from prison to the area. They would make life unbearable if it emerged that there had been a serious crime in the house. The most serious of all seemed now a possibility — more than that, even. Perhaps Trevor had thought further ahead than she had.
She had never for a moment entertained the thought that her husband might be guilty: she was glad about that at least. But it was a bleak thought that that negative satisfaction was all she could offer herself. And like everyone else, she was less sure of her own judgments after Peach’s aggressive assault on them.
On the other side of the table, Harry Bradshaw watched his own fingers fiddling with his coffee spoon and was amazed that they were as steady as they were. He felt the net closing around him as securely, as stiflingly, as when he had killed Celia and confessed his crime. Denials would surely be as futile as howlings in the desert air. His palms were sweating, yet a clammy cold seemed to suffuse his whole being. He had been here before; suddenly he knew he would not survive again what he had already been through.
Tonight he had been going to meet Sarah, for the first time since she had fled after the arrival of Peach at this evening class. Pretty, undemanding Sarah, with the soft hazel eyes that had seemed to understand so much and demand so little, and the strong nose which was that intriguing fraction too long. He wondered now if he would ever see her again, and tried without effect to fight down the panic that thought induced.
It might have helped him to know that beside him Michael Ashby was struggling with a panic just as deep. Peach had seemed to know how much Michael had desired Dick Courtney’s death, how exultantly he had rejoiced in that passing. He had put on quite a good performance at the funeral, but Peach had not been there to see that. If he had, Michael doubted if he could have been so effective under those steely, porcine eyes.
Peach had broken him down quickly enough about his conduct at the time of that earlier death, simply by refusing to believe that he had slept through all the noise. And no one had vouched for his presence in the house at the time when Courtney was drowned: the insufferable inspector had made that clear enough. He wondered how he would conduct himself, whether he would be able to remain calm, if Peach accused him tonight. For the first time, he began to think about lawyers.
As Fred Hogan began to gather the dishes together, he wondered if the company noticed that his normally deft hands made more noise than usual tonight. The physical activity was a release for him, as it always had been in times of danger. He was frightened of the inspector, but no more frightened than he had been many times before, when pulled in for lesser crimes. Fear was a part of life for Fred, such a freq
uent companion that its arrival disturbed him less than the others. Indeed, the two deaths in the house seemed to have added to his nerve: he was proud of the fact that for once he seemed less apprehensive than the others.
He looked anxiously at Ros’s pallid profile as he gathered in her cup and saucer. She was showing the strain of all this, but that was understandable. Perhaps he could cushion her from the investigation in the weeks to come. He felt more confident of his own powers in this house than he had anywhere else in his life; that had been the case for weeks now, but the realisation of it had only formed itself tonight.
If Peach accused Ros, he simply would not stand for that. He had no idea what he would do, but he would take some action, do something which would show her quite how much he cared. For a moment, he toyed like a schoolboy with the delicious thought of his chivalry. Fortunately, he could not see himself as he hugged the notion to himself. Thin-faced, narrow-shouldered, greasy grey hair thinning towards baldness, he made an unlikely Galahad.
Alone in the kitchen, depositing his pile of dishes in the sink, Fred wondered for a moment if they would accuse Trevor. It seemed possible: he had certainly behaved very oddly when his father died, and Fred had had to tell the police about that. And Trevor had been up and about on the night when Dick was killed: Fred had heard him moving around the house quite late. He had told the police about that too.
Trevor had been good to him here, he acknowledged that. Fred did not understand him, but he was grateful. No other people had ever given him as much support as he and Ros. But if Trevor was taken away, Fred would be left here with Ros, and she would need him more than ever. There was no knowing what might happen in time…
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Peach arrived in exactly thirty minutes. He came most carefully upon his hour, like the ghost of Hamlet’s father, thought Harry, as he licked his dry lips. And maybe his visit was just as portentous.
Yet the inspector was more relaxed than they had ever seen him, smiling round at the group and allowing Sergeant Collins to make the dispositions for what he called “their little discussion”. They met together in the residents’ lounge, the furthest point in the house from the children’s bedroom: Ros was determined to insulate them from this. The teenage girl from next door who was training for nursery work was reading them a story, but no sound penetrated here from their distant bedroom.
There was no sign in Peach’s bearing that he was under pressure from the chief superintendent who was in overall charge of the case. No one was too worried about his methods so long as he produced results, which he generally did. But he badly needed a result now, if they were to continue to give him his head.
Peach had not yet assembled the evidence and lined up the witnesses to his own satisfaction: one had to allow these days for the villains having the best briefs. What he needed to clinch the case was a confession, and he had come here tonight to force one.
He began quietly enough. This lot had only seen the stick so far, and the carrot might catch them off-guard. “Thank you all for your co-operation and understanding. I thought we should do this in as civilised a way as possible. Not that these things can ever be exactly civilised. Has anyone anything to add to what I have been told already? Have any small recollections come back? Is there any impression you gave me which now needs to be corrected?”
He was at his most silky, affording them what he thought of as his public manner. No one spoke. Collins had placed them at the other end of the large room, so that they sat mostly in armchairs, though Trevor and Fred Hogan were on stand chairs which had been pulled back from the table, where the CID men now spread their papers. Peach took heart as he always did when he saw apprehension in the faces opposite him.
He pushed the tips of his stubby fingers together, put his elbows lightly on the table, and dropped his first bombshell quietly into the expectant room. “There were two murders here, not one. I let the first one go too easily. It seemed a straightforward enough death at the time.” He sounded apologetic about it; indeed, he felt keenly about what he said, for he knew he could have avoided a second murder by the detection of the first one. That thought would gall any policeman, and Peach was a policeman through and through.
Trevor said stupidly, “You mean my father’s death was not an accident?” He looked like a man in shock, unaware of what his reaction should be.
“Indeed I do, Mr Harrison.” Peach watched him hard, totally unembarrassed to be studying the next of kin in this way. “Old Mr Harrison did not fall: he was pushed down those stairs. The post mortem showed a small bruise in the middle of the back, between the shoulder blades. We thought at the time that it was probably one of the multiple injuries sustained in the fall. I am now certain that it was not.”
Ros said, “But he was dead when I got to him. I was there in less than a minute and —” Then she stopped, flinging a hand suddenly across her open mouth. Fred Hogan, sitting next to her, could see the glint of her wedding ring in the darkening room. He resisted an impulse to reach out and cover it consolingly with his own thin hand. Ros’s voice was scarcely more than a whisper as she said, “But you may not believe me, of course.”
Peach looked at her steadily. “I believe you, Mrs Harrison. Less than a minute, you said. That is ample time for the man who had pushed Thomas Harrison down the staircase to check that he was in fact dead. I think that man probably observed your discovery of the body.” She looked at him with eyes widening in horror, but he was intent on developing his theme. “In due course, he behaved exactly as he might have been expected to do in more innocent circumstances.”
The four men in the room were silent, each reviewing his own conduct on that fatal night, each feverishly recalling what he had told Peach. It was Fred Hogan who said uncertainly. “Do you mean that Dick was the man who killed old Mr Harrison?” He sounded hopeful, and at that moment Dick was probably the killer all of them would have wished to see confirmed.
Peach looked at him steadily and said nothing. Perhaps he hoped someone else would speak, but the silence stretched unbearably. Peach, who was the only one happy with it, was curious to see who would break first. It was in fact Trevor who eventually said, “But why a second murder? Presumably you are trying to connect the two?”
Peach did not speak for a further few seconds, which seemed to Harry to stretch towards an eternity. Then he said, “Courtney was killed for the most obvious possible reason. To shut him up. You’ve all told me in your different ways that Courtney was a nosy little sod and nasty with it. He set about acquiring information and then used it. It didn’t take a lot of intelligence to work out who wasn’t where he should have been after that fatal fall. Perhaps any of you could have deduced it.” He looked along the row of apprehensive faces at the other end of the big table. “If you had been prepared to consider the possibility that it was murder. If you had had nasty, suspicious minds, like that young man.”
“Might have made a good policeman,” said Michael Ashby. His nervousness made sure that the words came out almost as they were formed, before he could suppress them. His nervous laugh drew in no one to join him; least of all the two CID men.
“Except that we’re old-fashioned, you see. We still don’t take kindly to woofters in the force.” Peach almost snarled this aside. Then, with an effort that was visible, he recovered his icy calm. He mustn’t allow his prejudices to divert him now. “It is always dangerous to lie to the CID, Ashby. Especially during a murder enquiry. We don’t like it. Makes you an accessory after the fact, if not worse, you see.”
“All I did was pretend to be asleep when I heard the crash of the falling body. You can’t prove more than that.” There was an edge of hysteria to Ashby’s voice in the quiet room.
Peach ignored him completely, and enjoyed doing it. “Courtney worked out who killed old Mr Harrison, then told the murderer he knew. I suppose he couldn’t bear not to have a hold like that. But he wasn’t quite as clever as he thought he was: he signed his death warrant when he
spoke.” The squat little detective looked round the row of white faces, timing his pause perfectly before he asked quietly, “Didn’t he, Fred?”
Most of the people in the room did not at first recognise the question as an accusation. There were twenty seconds which seemed much longer before Hogan managed to rasp out the words none of them believed, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, but you do, Fred. I’m saying that you killed two people. That you began by killing an old, defenceless man who had done you no harm.”
Whether or not there was a collective gasp from his end of the room, Harry Bradshaw certainly felt that there had been one. It was he who recovered his tongue first. He said dully, “But you can’t think Fred Hogan killed old Tom. He’s just a thief, not a killer.” The classifications of prison life ran deep: he had not even entertained the idea of the little man as a murderer. Then, selfishly, his heart leapt at the thought of his own release. He suddenly wanted Peach to go on and on, convincing them all of the little man’s guilt.
Peach said quietly, “He killed him all right. And Courtney too.” He confirmed it almost absently, as though Harry’s objection were an irritating diversion. His eyes had never left Hogan; he was like a dog waiting for a rabbit to make a desperate, hopeless move.
Hogan said eventually, “You can’t prove a thing. I ain’t saying nothing.” But his whining voice held no hope; he was back in the situation that had begun forty years ago with a succession of schoolteachers, who always seemed to be possessed of information they could not possibly have acquired.
“I can prove it, Fred. And I will. In court, in due course. We’ve got the report from forensic now on old Mr Harrison’s bathroom. The one you said you’d never been in. The one you hid in after you’d sent him plunging to his death. There are some beautifully clear prints from you on the porcelain. And a couple of threads from that old mack you use as a dressing gown on the door jamb. Nipped in there in a bit of a hurry, did you?”
Who Saw Him Die? (Inspector Peach Series Book 1) Page 19
