A Necessary End

by J M Gregson

  ‘Ah! You’re a teacher yourself, so you would be aware of these things.’

  She smiled, a little more at ease now. ‘It’s a ploy I’ve used myself, when I’ve had a class who were unwilling to offer thoughts of their own on a particular author or a particular book.’

  ‘I see. At the University of Central Lancashire, that would be, I suppose.’

  ‘Yes.’ She should have known that this man would have explored her background before he came here, but it felt like another intrusion into her privacy. ‘I’ve been teaching there for the last year.’

  ‘In Preston. Quite a coincidence, that. With your name being Preston, I mean.’

  Jane smiled. ‘Coincidences occur. They aren’t always sinister.’

  ‘No indeed. I wasn’t suggesting there was anything sinister in this one. Interesting, though. You moved there from a similar post in Birmingham. Promotion was it?’

  She wanted desperately to say that it was. But they’d check. They’d check everything, when they were following up a murder. She tried to speak as casually as she could. ‘No, it wasn’t a promotion. It was more interesting work. I specialise in the literature of the nineteenth century, and the post at the University of Central Lancashire offered me that. I’m a single woman without family. Finance wasn’t my first consideration.’

  She was tight-lipped and dismissive. Peach studied her for a few seconds, registering just that. ‘I believe that you were born and bred in Penrith.’ He glanced round the room. ‘I’m surprised you haven’t got pictures of the fells in here. Great county, Cumbria.’

  ‘I grew up there, yes. But when you’re a lonely child, you don’t seem to make the circle of friends who take you back there. I’ve scarcely been back since I completed my university studies. Like lots of other graduates, I go where the work is and where the work seems interesting. I can’t think that is of any relevance to your case.’

  ‘Can’t you, Ms Preston? Well, you may be right. But we have to have magpie minds. We have to pick up all sorts of things. We have to consider lots of details about the people involved. Most of them have not the remotest connection. But we turn up the occasional gem and that justifies the effort and all the other irrelevances we have to discard. We do study people’s backgrounds and what they do in their normal working lives outside the case. You’d be surprised how often that throws up things which prove significant in our investigation.’

  ‘I see. Well, in that case your magpie minds will also wish to collect the information that I teach an evening class in Brunton on the nineteenth-century novel.’

  It was meant as a rather petty assertion of her independence, as a claim that she did other things of which he would not know, but Peach merely nodded, lowered his eyebrows and said, ‘And this is where you met Mrs Burgess, one of the moving spirits behind the formation of the book club.’

  Jane tried not to be disconcerted by how much he already knew of her. ‘It was Sharon Burgess who in fact invited me to be a member of the book club.’

  ‘Yes. How did she react to Mr Norbury’s posturings?’

  She wondered for a moment whether she should object to his use of that word, then decided that it might be justified from her description. ‘I can’t remember that she seemed anything other than mildly amused. I got the impression that she and Enid Frott knew Alfred from way back and knew what to expect. I think it was probably Enid who had invited him to join the group.’

  ‘You think correctly.’

  It was another reminder to her that they had spoken to others before her and that she needed to be careful with what she told them now. ‘The two older women seemed to expect Norbury to behave in the way he did. I think they were amused by it, but I could be wrong. It’s just an impression: they didn’t say much.’

  ‘And Dick Fosdyke? What impression did you form of his relationship with the man who is now deceased?’

  Jane didn’t like the way he’d picked up her word ‘impression’ and put just the slightest ironic emphasis upon it as he delivered it. Or was she being unduly sensitive? She mustn’t go looking for trouble, not with experienced people like these two. ‘I hadn’t met Mr Fosdyke before. He seems an interesting man. Very bright, I’d say, though he didn’t say much. I thought he was studying the other people in the group and making up his mind whether to proceed with it, but that might be quite wrong. He didn’t say a lot, but he might have been taciturn for other reasons.’

  Jane waited for a moment, watching Northcott making a note in his notebook, hoping that Peach would ask the question she wanted to give her the cue for what she now proposed to add. But he said nothing, watching her as though he was waiting for her to make a wrong move. She was forced to go on without prompting. ‘For what it’s worth, I got the impression that he didn’t much like Alfred Norbury. He seemed irritated by the way Alfred threw out his opinions and tried to hog the attention, when we talked a little about books and what we proposed to do. I might be quite wrong and quite unfair, because I didn’t know either of them well, but I thought there might be some previous history between the two of them.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure you’re not wrong, Ms Preston. I’m sure you are very shrewd in matters like this. And thank you for your speculation. It is something we can only encourage, during a murder enquiry. It will remain confidential, unless it proves material to the case.’

  ‘Thank you. I don’t think there is much else I can add to this.’

  The eyebrows shot upwards with alarming speed. ‘Ah, but there is, Ms Preston! We need to know your own reaction to these events. We gather from what others tell us that you were the central figure in all this. That Mr Norbury turned the spotlight of his attention upon you, as if he regarded you as some sort of challenge.’

  Jane fought down a feeling of panic. How fully had he questioned the other four and what had they offered to him about her and Norbury? She tried very hard to speak calmly. ‘I suppose it might have been like that. When you’re at the centre of things, you don’t always see it as clearly as the people on the sidelines. Yes, I suppose it’s possible that Mr Norbury turned his attention principally towards me, when he was showing off his knowledge and his opinions on literature and on books. I was perhaps the person in the room with the best formal qualifications, as well as the only one making a living from the teaching of literature. I suppose I was the natural target for his more controversial remarks. I don’t think there was anything more sinister in it than that.’

  ‘You were also the most attractive woman in the room. That might also have been a challenge to a mischievous man like Mr Norbury. Wouldn’t you say so, DS Northcott?’

  ‘I would indeed, sir. I would of course be speaking in a wholly objective, non-sexist way. But I think a red-blooded male of Mr Norbury’s age would be very likely to see a woman like Ms Preston as a sort of challenge, sir.’

  His smile was quite different from that of DCI Peach, she thought; less threatening, more genuine, and even broader. His teeth looked large and very white. She said as coldly as she could, ‘I understand that his tastes were not for blonde young ladies.’

  Peach nodded sagely. ‘We have received that suggestion from a person well placed to know. But we have also had the suggestion from one of your fellow book club members that Alfred Norbury “leered” at you in the course of these exchanges. We have to follow these things up.’

  He spoke apologetically whilst he was thoroughly enjoying himself, she thought. ‘I was not aware of anything sexual in his approach. If there was, there was certainly no response on my part.’ She felt like an ageing spinster. She had a maiden great-aunt of eighty who would have spoken in just her tone.

  ‘You will be aware that it is not entirely unknown for people to exhibit bisexual tendencies and tastes. It has always seemed to me inordinately greedy and selfish, but it’s a fact of life. Thank you for clarifying the matter for us. What do you think was the nature of Mr Norbury’s relationship with Jamie Norris?’

  Another startling switch, as
if it was the most natural progression in the world. As she supposed it was, after what they just been saying. She was forced to admit that to herself. She said stiffly, ‘You would need to ask Mr Norris about it yourselves.’

  ‘As we have done, Ms Preston. We are now asking you for your thoughts on the matter. As a confidante of Mr Norris, if you prefer to see it that way.’

  They knew that she’d met Jamie; they knew that the two of them had compared notes. They seemed to know everything, these two. But there was a huge team on a murder case, and no doubt they made it their business to know everything which was going on between suspects. Suspects! She was admitting now that she was a suspect. They’d won that battle. ‘My impression – and please accept that it is no more than an impression – is that Mr Norbury was interested in taking things further, in conducting a sexual relationship with Jamie, but that Jamie was not. Alfred had been very generous to Jamie in giving him advice and furthering his progress in his own writing. Jamie says his advice has been really useful and practical. He didn’t mind being a protégé of Alfred’s as far as his work went. But he was anxious that it shouldn’t go further than friendship. He didn’t want a sexual relationship with Norbury.’

  ‘Or he says he didn’t.’

  ‘He says he didn’t and that there wasn’t. And I believe him on both counts.’

  She let her annoyance out in saying it. But there surely couldn’t be any harm in that. He was being intrusive and she was defending a friend. And anything that took their attention away from her and what she had thought of Alfred Norbury must be a good thing. Jane wondered if he would press her about how she knew that and whether Norris had pursued an association with her, but he seemed prepared to accept what she said. He told her again that all of this was useful in building up a picture of a murder victim and ‘those closest to him at the time of his death’, of which she was plainly one. Then he asked her to go on thinking about this murder and to communicate any other information she discovered about the other people involved – a plain invitation to investigate Jamie Norris and report on him, she thought.

  She cleared away the coffee cups and the biscuits when they had gone. That black detective sergeant had been quite a dish, she thought with a smile. He carried an air of power and danger behind that calm exterior which gave so little away. In other circumstances …

  But she mustn’t think like that. When this was all over, everything might be different. In the meantime, things had gone reasonably well this morning, despite the intense and demanding attention she had received from that man Peach. It hadn’t been pleasant, but they hadn’t discovered much more than she’d intended to tell them. So far so good.

  The murder victim’s computer software proved more difficult to enter than the police had anticipated.

  Harry Mercer was the police expert who had never been beaten by a laptop. It took him two days and much ingenuity to solve the problems left behind for him by the intricate mind of Alfred Norbury. But Harry cracked the password problems eventually and what he then revealed was quite startling.

  Norbury had detailed computer files on his finances and share-holdings, which showed that he was a rich man, who could well afford to behave as independently and even eccentrically as he had done sometimes. He had also compiled files on other matters, which were much more interesting to the team assembled to investigate his murder. There were many files with individual names; these contained information which could be best described as ‘very private’.

  Certainly the individuals concerned would be aghast if much of the information they contained was ever made public. A quick scan of what they contained set the pulses of CID officers racing. There was information here about several noteworthy Brunton figures. Some of the information and thinking here needed to be followed up, which would lead to embarrassment and perhaps even some prosecutions.

  It was now late Saturday morning and most of the team had been stood down for the weekend. DCI Peach called DS Northcott and DC Murphy into his office to discuss the implications of Mercer’s treasure trove. ‘Do you think Norbury was blackmailing people?’ was DS Northcott’s first question after he had been apprised of the findings.

  Peach shook his head sadly. ‘You always seem to want to think the worst of people, Clyde,’ he said sententiously.

  ‘I never used to be like that. It must be a result of working continually with you,’ said Northcott with an impeccably straight face.

  Murphy grinned. ‘This looks like a hoard of material built up by a blackmailer to me too. Sins great and small, strengths and weaknesses – particularly weaknesses.’

  Percy grinned. ‘Pity there aren’t files on you two in there. There’d be infinite possibilities for a resourceful chap like me. But there’s no evidence that Norbury was blackmailing anyone. Some of his personal files show that he had ample private means and plenty of good investments. He didn’t need the money he might have made from blackmail. And everything we’re learning about him shows that, whilst he was no angel, he wasn’t the kind of underhand character who goes in for blackmail.’

  ‘Why all these files on individuals, then?’ said Northcott.

  ‘Because he was the kind of man who liked to be well-informed about his acquaintances. Or to put it in less flattering terms, the kind of man who liked to build up a store of information which would give him a hold over people, if he ever wanted to exercise it. From what we’ve heard so far, he liked power, and power over people in particular. The fact that he knew these things would give him control, even if he used his knowledge only judiciously and infrequently.’

  Murphy nodded. ‘I haven’t seen this stuff yet. Is there anything on the people we’ve been questioning this week?’

  Percy smiled approvingly on the big fresh-faced Lancastrian with the Irish name. ‘Indeed there is. There are files on three of the people who attended what seems to have been Norbury’s last meeting with other people on Monday night. These are people who were to be members of the book club. Those three are Sharon Burgess and Enid Frott, the two people who set up the whole thing, and Dick Fosdyke, the man who claimed to us that he hardly knew our murder victim.’

  Northcott licked his lips. ‘We already possess Norbury’s old-fashioned manual file on Enid Frott. That presumably dates from his pre-computer days. It was Enid Frott who invited Norbury to join the group. It sounds as if we now have the material for further interviews.’

  ‘Exactly so. An unexpected gift from the gods for deserving and persevering coppers. There is also a fourth file, but I haven’t included that, because it’s on Jamie Norris and there’s nothing in it, except for the details of where he works and when he started there. That was obviously just the beginning, as far as Norbury was concerned. It shows that he had serious intentions of some sort about Norris. I doubt whether he saw him as merely a literary protégé.’

  Brendan Murphy checked on his notes. It was he who had been feeding the mass of accumulating information on the Norbury case into the police computer. ‘But there were five people who were at that Monday night inaugural meeting for the proposed book club. You’ve seen all of them this week.’

  ‘Yes. The fifth one was Jane Preston, whom Clyde and I saw earlier this morning. There’s no file on her.’

  The night of Saturday the 25th of January was clear and starlit. There would be a hard frost by morning. The Rovers had managed to win their home match and Brunton wrapped itself up and prepared for the winter night. The young folk were out, but not many others. The restaurants had been busy as usual, but people had eaten early and left early. Even the pubs in the town centre were much less crowded than they usually were on Saturday nights The Scots in the town were saving themselves for the delights of Burns night on the morrow.

  Sharon Burgess had not expected a visitor at this hour, though any sort of company was welcome enough. There had been much sympathy for her after Frank died, but widows are not invited out very much. She was finding her social life much diminished since Frank’s deat
h. She hadn’t realized until now how much she would resent that.

  Dick Fosdyke had said he would bring a bottle of wine when he rang to invite himself, but she had vetoed that. Wine implied a prolonged stay and she wanted to feel free to terminate this meeting whenever it suited her. In fact, he put himself out to be pleasant and she found after an awkward beginning that she was enjoying the evening.

  They drank a couple of glasses of Merlot: her wine on her terms, she told herself. She must have got the temperature just right; the rich red wine tasted more smooth and mellow than she could ever remember it before. And Dick seemed to appreciate the nuts and the crisps she had set out for him. Men who lived alone usually ate meals from containers and drank alone in front of the telly, she thought. A little pampering brought more appreciation from men like Fosdyke than from men who lived with wives in comfortable middle-class homes.

  It was over half an hour before he felt able to broach the real reason for his visit. ‘I expect the police have spoken to you about Alfred.’

  ‘Yes. Just routine, they said. But they gave me more of a grilling than I’d expected. They came here: the detective chief inspector in charge of the case and a big black chap who didn’t say much but watched me all the way through as if I might be trying to steal his watch. I suppose it’s their job and they weren’t doing much more than going through the motions. But I felt wrung out and stretched out to dry by the time they left.’ She smiled, trying to lighten her effect. ‘I must be getting old and sensitive.’

  Dick grinned and prepared to flatter her shamelessly. ‘Old and perceptive, I’d say. A woman running a business as big as yours is more than a match for a couple of plods.’

  ‘Oh, I’m not running Burgess Electronics. Even Frank wasn’t doing as much as he used to do, by the time he died. He was fourteen years older than me, you know.’ She was annoyed with herself for asserting that yet again: she seemed to be saying it wherever she went. Was it mere vanity, or was it a reminder to others that she was still vigorous enough to be a force in the firm and in life in general? She frowned after another sip of her wine. ‘I don’t think you should underestimate those plods. Not if you got the two I had.’