by J M Gregson
A local vicar, a pillar of the established Church, and chaplain at the university as well? And Percy Peach trampling all over delicate clerical sensibilities? Tucker said faintly, ‘Why on earth are you questioning him? He surely can’t be involved in anything like murder.’
‘Possibly not, sir. But the Reverend Matthews is an ex-army padre, and apparently an expert in small arms. And Claptrap Carter was killed with a Smith and Wesson .357 revolver.’
‘I do wish you’d stop calling him that, Peach. Show some respect for the dead. And surely the fact that this clergyman is a bit of a dab hand with a revolver doesn’t make him a murderer?’
‘Certainly not, sir. But he has his chaplaincy on the site of the UEL. And he knew the Carters. And he’s been sniffing around Ruth Carter, ever since old Claptrap — since she became a widow.’ Percy thought he might chance his arm so far, on the strength of the brief report on Tom Matthews he had received from Lucy Blake at lunchtime.
‘Well, for God’s sake go carefully with him.’
‘Am doing so, sir. That’s why I sent DS Blake up there on her own this morning.’
‘You sent a woman to interview him?’ Tucker gasped as if Peach had said he’d dispatched Crippen to do the job.
‘Yes, sir. No hard stuff, as you said. But he’s not married, the Reverend Matthews. I thought she could show him a bit of thigh, maybe cross and uncross her legs a few times, flash him a bit of this, that and the other, and then —’
‘Peach! I trust you gave her no such orders!’
‘Oh no, sir! Nothing as crude as that.’ Peach leant forward confidentially, a mirror image of Tucker’s effort on the same lines a few minutes earlier. ‘I just told her to get up there and use her initiative. And to go in there on her own.’ He tapped the side of his nose and gave his chief a grotesque wink.
This time Tucker’s groan was audible. This odious man was surely pulling his leg. But once again, he felt he could not be absolutely sure of that. And he certainly wasn’t going to take over the direct control of the case himself. He said faintly, ‘For God’s sake, be careful! Sometimes I wish I’d never assigned that woman to you as your detective sergeant.’
‘DS Blake, sir? Very competent officer. Very pleased with her, I am.’ Percy noted delightedly that the man still wasn’t on to their special relationship.
Tucker felt as if he’d been interrogated himself, when he had merely wanted a report from Peach to prepare him for a media conference. He said, ‘Look you’ll need to sort this lot out. Come here with something more definite than all this speculative nonsense and —’
‘There’s another one, sir.’
‘Another what?’
‘Another leading suspect, sir. You said you wanted to know about all the main ones.’
‘Well? Who is this one. Some other minority figure we’ll be accused of harassing? A one-legged Asian homosexual, is it?’
‘Oh, very good, sir, I must remember that!’ It was quite good, except that Percy knew it had been lifted directly from a speech of the Chief Constable’s about the difficulties of modern police work. ‘No, sir, nothing like that.’ He leaned forward again and spoke confidentially. ‘But between you and me, sir, I’ve got hopes that this might be the one.’
‘The one? You think this is a prime suspect?’
‘Statistically, sir, he has to be a strong bet.’
Tucker was suspicious by now, but he could not resist the possibility that Peach had saved the prime suspect until last: he had done that sort of thing before. ‘I’m a believer in statistical trends. They can be very helpful.’
‘Yes, sir. And the pleasing thing about this is that it’s my own research that has thrown it up. I can’t resist a little personal pleasure in that: I’m only human.’ Peach put on his modest choirboy’s smile and looked at the ceiling.
You couldn’t glare with any effect at a man who focused on the ceiling; Tucker had tried it before. He said irritably, ‘Stop being so smug about it and give me the facts. Don’t tell me this man is another lecturer at the UEL.’
‘Yes he is, sir. But the really interesting thing is that a few discreet preliminary enquiries have revealed to me that this man is a Freemason. And as I said to you yesterday, my own private piece of research has shown that last year a Mason was four times as likely to commit a Brunton crime as your ordinary citizen. So it seems that there is four times the possibility of Malcolm McLean being our man than there would be if the same fellow was not a Mason. It’s interesting how research can have practical implications which we might otherwise —’
‘McLean, did you say? Malcolm McLean?’
‘That’s the cove, sir. I must say I never —’
‘He’s a member of my Lodge,’ said Tucker dully. He looked like a man who had been hit over the head with a sock full of wet sand.
‘Really, sir?’ Peach concealed his delight. ‘Well, as I was saying, he looks a most promising candidate for —’
‘He can’t possibly be a criminal. He’ll be candidate for Master of the Lodge, in a year or two.’
‘I see, sir. Does that mean I don’t see him?’
‘What on earth makes you think he could have killed Dr Carter?’
‘He’s involved in drugs, sir. In controlling and manipulating the supply of drugs on the campus of the UEL.’
‘Malcolm McLean is?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Tucker buried his face in his hands. Just when he had thought the afternoon could not get any worse, it had gone completely dark. He said hoarsely through his fingers, ‘I introduced him to the Lodge.’
‘Oh dear, sir.’
Tucker groaned. He said between his fingers, ‘Even if you can prove the drugs connection, what makes you think Malcolm McLean might have killed Dr Carter?’
‘Well, there’s often a connection between hard drugs and murder, sir. Another statistic, that. National, not local, that one.’
‘But you haven’t got a connection between Malcolm McLean and Dr Carter.’
‘Not yet, sir.’ Peach watched the Superintendent’s face emerge slowly from behind his fingers and then said, ‘But I haven’t seen him yet, you see.’
Tucker twitched. ‘There is probably no connection whatsoever.’
Peach appeared not to hear this. He said excitedly, ‘Old Claptrap might have been on to him. Might have been about to expose him. McLean would have found it easy to get a Smith and Wesson, from his drugs hierarchy. Might have gone in there on Saturday night and blown the Director’s head apart, to preserve his empire.’
Peach seemed as excited as a schoolboy as Thomas Bulstrode Tucker sent him on his way. The Superintendent sat looking miserably out of the window when he had gone. Eventually, he buzzed his secretary.
There would be no media conference, after all.
Sixteen
Malcolm McLean was a lecturer in organic chemistry at the University of East Lancashire. That didn’t convey very much to Percy Peach, hut he was determined to see him on his own patch and without prior warning. This was Drugs Squad business really, but a murder investigation took precedence over even that dark industry. McLean would be interrogated and investigated by the Drugs Squad officers in due course, but Percy had persuaded them that he needed to be certain first that there was no connection between the drugs traffic on the UEL campus and the murder of its Director.
A call to the faculty office elicited the information that Mr McLean had a laboratory session with second-year students which would finish at 4 p.m. Peach arrived with Lucy Blake at 3.55 and watched the students coming out of the chemistry laboratory in ones and twos. Catch him off guard at the end of a busy working day, thought Percy: you didn’t give any consideration to a man who might be distributing enough drugs to ruin the life of untold numbers of young people.
They went through the laboratory and found McLean in the small room behind it. He tried to dismiss them brusquely. ‘If you’re reps, you’re wasting your time. We buy all our laboratory equipment and sup
plies on official requisition forms through the faculty office.’
Peach flashed his identification, introduced himself and Lucy Blake, and said, ‘We’d like to have an informal exchange with you, Mr McLean. Here or at the station.’
McLean did not seem either threatened or irritated by Peach’s uncompromising opening. He was a man in his late thirties, with deep-set, watchful brown eyes. He had a square face which was lengthened a little by a luxuriant but neatly trimmed beard, silvered with the first touches of grey. He looked from one to the other of his visitors, then said, ‘I don’t see how I can possibly help you, but I suppose you’d better sit down.’
There was a semicircle of six chairs, tightly crammed into the small room, which looked as though they were arranged to accommodate a small tutorial group. McLean pulled two of these forward towards his desk, then sat down in his own chair on the other side of it. He said, ‘Is this in connection with the murder of our respected Director?’
Peach noticed the edge of contempt in the last phrase, noting again how that traditionally hostile figure, the mother-in-law, was still the only person they had encountered who had shown any real affection for Dr George Andrew Carter. More importantly, he noted how McLean had immediately gone boldly for the murder as the reason for their presence. A diversionary tactic, to deflect them from the drugs connection he wanted to hide? The safe raising of a crime of which he knew he was wholly innocent? Or a bluff, hoping that his very boldness would diminish any suspicions they held about his connection with the death of the Director?
Peach smiled grimly. ‘We may wish to question you about the murder of Dr Carter. Eventually.’
‘Eventually?’ McLean’s eyebrows arched theatrically. A cool customer, this. Peach thought he held a reasonable hand, but recognized that he would need to play his cards skilfully against such an opponent.
He said evenly, ‘Mr McLean, we are here to question you about the possession and the supply of illegal drugs.’
Beyond a raising of the eyebrows again, McLean did not react facially. He said, ‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about. And I hope you have some reason for making such wild statements. I’m sure some of my colleagues in our Faculty of Law would be most interested in the legal implications.’
Flannel, thought Percy. This bugger’s playing for time while he thinks. But he doesn’t know how much information we’ve got, and he won’t, until I tell him. He said, ‘I should get yourself a practising lawyer, if I were you. One well versed in criminal law. I’ve no doubt the other, non-university, organization which employs you will come up with one.’
‘I’ve told you. I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’ McLean gave them a mirthless smile, but Lucy Blake was sure as she made a note of his denial that the brain behind those deep-set brown eyes was racing.
Peach did not smile. He said carefully, ‘On Monday evening, a nineteen-year-old UEL student from the Faculty of Humanities, Peter Tiler, was arrested in central Brunton. He was carrying quantities of cannabis and Ecstasy.’
‘Silly young fool. Deserves all he gets, if you ask me.’
‘I don’t, Mr McLean. Tiler was unable to identify his supplier, but he gave us details of the time and the place where this man regularly sold drugs to UEL students.’
‘Very interesting, I’m sure. But I don’t know why you should think —’
‘As a result of this information, an arrest was subsequently made. The man was eventually identified as a Kevin Allcock.’
This time there was a reaction to the name, a tiny start of alarm which McLean controlled but could not quite eliminate. The tip of his tongue moved over the lips within the beard, like the beak of a fledgling bird seeking nourishment. He said, ‘As I said, this is all very interesting. What on earth it has to do with me is quite —’
‘Kevin Allcock remains in custody, and will do so after he has been charged whilst awaiting trial. That way he will be safe from anyone higher up the chain who would like to prevent him giving evidence.’
‘Very efficient. But not —’
‘As a result of this and other information gathered through our enquiries, we are quite sure that a certain Malcolm McLean is controlling and developing a lucrative, evil and highly illegal business on the residential campus of this university.’
McLean had been leaning back in his chair whilst he affected a disdain for Peach’s earlier revelations. Now he dropped any pretence of disinterest in the matter. He leaned forward on his chair, put his hands on the edge of his desk, looked from the Inspector’s intense face to the softer oval of the female one beside it, and rasped, ‘Prove it! If you can!’
‘Oh, I think we can, Mr McLean. Fortunately, that won’t be my concern. I’m here to discuss the link between the drug-dealing on the campus and the death of its Director.’
Perhaps it was the sudden switch which made this seemingly most impassive man gasp; or perhaps it was the sudden mention of murder, with the charnel-house allure and fear that word still held, even in an increasingly violent world. But they had seen the first sudden flash of fear on the pale, bearded face before there came the ritual denial, ‘I can’t think that you’re now trying to connect me with the unfortunate death of Dr Carter.’
Peach grinned, exulting in the first real sign of alarm he had seen in his quarry. ‘Oh, I’d be delighted to do that, Mr McLean, if it’s possible: I don’t like people who make money out of the misery hard drugs bring. Where were you last Saturday night?’
The suddenness of the question cracked like an accusation across the table at Malcolm McLean. He was almost equal to it, however. There was a tiny, electric pause before he said, ‘I was at home, Inspector Peach. Not that it’s any concern of yours.’
‘Oh, I think you’ll find that it is, Mr McLean. With the wife and family, were you?’
‘I don’t have a wife and family, Inspector. I did have a wife, but we’re now divorced.’
‘All alone, were you?’
‘No. I had someone with me, for most of the evening. And before you ask, I’m not prepared to reveal his or her identity.’ He looked straight into Peach’s dark eyes and allowed himself the first smile he had ventured for several minutes.
He’s trying to imply he had a woman with him, thought Percy. He wants me to think he’s too gallant to give away the identity of some married woman. But I don’t buy that: this man is far too ruthless to keep her name concealed if he thought he could save his skin by revealing it. If he did have someone with him on Saturday, it was more likely someone from higher up in this drugs empire which is operating so lucratively for him.
What was interesting was that this cool opponent had clearly been shaken when he mentioned Carter’s death. Perhaps there was a connection, after all. Peach said, ‘It would be in your interest to provide us with a witness to your whereabouts on Saturday night and in the early hours of Sunday. Mr McLean, how well did you know George Andrew Carter?’
Again that tongue-tip appeared briefly amidst the nest of beard. ‘Scarcely at all.’
‘But you had worked under his direction for some years. You were on the staff of the old college of higher education, before the foundation of this university.’
‘Yes. All right: I knew old Claptrap Carter, and he knew me. But we weren’t on first-name terms. And I didn’t kill him.’
‘I didn’t really think you would have. If someone gets in the way of the drug industry, the barons usually employ a contract killer.’
They both knew that was true, and McLean didn’t bother with any denials. There was fear in those deep-set brown eyes for a moment before he said, ‘I didn’t kill Dr Carter. And I’ve no idea who did.’
Peach’s departure was as abrupt and unexpected to Malcolm McLean as his arrival and the conduct of the interview itself. He stood up and said, ‘That’s it, Mr McLean. For the moment, that is.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘My colleagues in the Drugs Squad will be along to question you within the next few minutes. Here or at the station, as you
prefer. We like to offer our clients a choice of venue, whenever possible. Come on, DS Blake, let’s go and continue our enquiries into the death of Mr McLean’s Director.’
They walked out from the chemistry laboratory and back onto the main drive, looking up towards the old mansion, ignoring Malcolm McLean’s anxious face at the window behind them. Peach almost wished the man could still hear him as he said, ‘I think we’ll check Mr McLean in the staff files in the Bursar’s office. We know he hasn’t a criminal record, but there may be things in his previous career which could interest us.’
The files were kept under lock and key and were highly confidential, but all security gives way to a murder inquiry. The Bursar himself unlocked the cabinet and flicked through the files, which were in alphabetical order and clearly labelled. He came to the ‘M’s’, then frowned and extracted a short typewritten note.
Malcolm McLean’s file was missing. It had been sent downstairs to the Director, three days before Dr Carter’s death.
*
There was a cold north-east wind blowing through the darkness of the November evening. Walter Culpepper zipped up his coat, went to the door, then turned back and put on a woollen bobble hat to protect the balding dome of his cranium. ‘I shan’t be more than half an hour,’ he called back to his wife as he emerged. Poking his red nose tentatively through the wide yellow doorway of the steeply roofed Senior Tutor’s cottage, he looked more than ever like a weather-house figure or a garden gnome.
He walked rapidly through the familiar trees towards the centre of the campus, wishing he had a little more flesh on his thin limbs to protect him against the cold. Suddenly he stopped dead, waiting until the figures moving towards the old mansion passed under one of the lights beside the drive to confirm his suspicion. He was right: it was that crafty, unexpectedly well-read Inspector Peach and his voluptuous female side-kick.
They were still about the place, then, still turning over stones. He had thought they would come back to him before now; they surely would, in due course. He stood quite still until they disappeared into the old house. Then he looked at his watch and hurried on. The man hadn’t really wanted to meet him at all; he had been able to detect his reluctance from his tone on the phone. If he was late, the fellow might very well be gone.
