More Than Meets the Eye

by J M Gregson

‘Easy, Alex, easy. I wouldn’t have you sitting in my own front room if I didn’t want to speak to you, would I?’

  Fraser looked round the small room he had hardly registered before, with its family photographs, its prints of the Alps, and in pride of place its picture of Ken on the Matterhorn. In his preoccupation with his own concerns, he’d forgotten how keen Jackson was on mountaineering. ‘No, you wouldn’t. Thank you for bringing me here.’

  ‘That’s all right. Alex, if you had anything to do with this murder at Westbourne, if you know anything at all about it, you should tell me now.’

  ‘I don’t. I didn’t kill him and I don’t know who did.’

  Ken Jackson tried not to show his immense relief. ‘Of course you didn’t. You wouldn’t let yourself down like that. Not after what you’ve achieved in the last few years.’

  ‘I have done something stupid, though. That’s why I’m here.’

  ‘I thought it might be. Let’s have it.’

  ‘It’s over a week ago, now. I don’t know what’s going to happen.’ For a moment, the tough little Scot looked perilously close to tears. But he pulled himself together and said, ‘I went to a party in Cheltenham with two of the lads I work with. It was a last-minute invitation. I wish I’d never gone.’

  ‘Violence?’

  ‘Yes. I didn’t start it.’

  Jackson sighed. His parting advice to Fraser at their last meeting a few months ago had been to stay away from trouble, to keep his nose clean as he got on with his new life. He said automatically, ‘You can’t afford that, with your record.’

  ‘I bloody know that!’ For a moment, Fraser was the feral animal he’d been last week in Cheltenham, eyes ablaze and limbs triggered ready for the fight. ‘I didn’t ride all bloody night to have you tell it to me!’

  ‘Easy, Alex, easy!’ As he repeated the phrase, Jackson held up the palm of his hand. ‘I’m on your side. I always was. You’d better tell me what happened and we’ll see what we can do about it.’

  Alex liked that ‘we’. He had no father and a mother who’d willingly consigned him to the home at fourteen. At this moment, the man sitting opposite him was the only one in the world who might take up his cause. He now spoke in a monotone, as if he could scarcely believe the facts he was carefully announcing. ‘It was a good party. We had our own room in the pub. There was plenty of drink, but no drugs that I saw. That’s until I went outside for a pee and a break.’

  ‘You don’t do drugs. I hope that hasn’t changed.’

  Alex shook his head angrily, like a man beset by a troublesome fly. He didn’t want interruptions. He just wanted the unwelcome facts out. ‘I still don’t do drugs. I was asked to pass on a package to one of my friends by a small-time dealer. No money changed hands.’

  ‘Who was the friend?’

  ‘One of the lads who works with me in the gardens at Westbourne. The ones who’d invited me to the rave.’

  ‘And the police caught you with drugs, before you could pass them on.’

  This time Alex Fraser flicked his hand in front of his face at the imaginary fly. ‘No. Well, not straight away. It’s worse than that. I’ll tell you, if you’ll let me bloody finish.’

  Ken Jackson’s heart sank; he felt that he knew what was coming. He waited till Fraser looked him in the eye, then said, ‘I won’t speak again until you’ve told me everything. But it needs to be everything, if I’m to be of any help.’

  ‘Aye. We left our room at the pub together. I suppose it would be about half past eleven. There was a gang waiting for us outside. You’re going to say I shouldn’t have got involved, but there was no choice.’

  No, not with alpha males baying for blood and you and your mates full of drink. You should have turned round and gone back into the pub, gone anywhere rather than forward into a gang fight. But that was never going to happen. Jackson nodded, but held his silence as he had promised he would.

  Fraser concluded his tale in the same dull tone. ‘We did some damage. We’d have won the fight, if the filth hadn’t stopped it.’

  Jackson waited for more, but the dull, exhausted face told him it needed his questions now. ‘You say you did some damage. What sort of damage?’

  ‘They said a broken jaw and stitches. Perhaps a couple of ribs. I haven’t heard any more. Not yet.’

  ‘But you were arrested and questioned, or you wouldn’t be here.’

  A quick, tortured nod; a refusal now to look into his mentor’s face.

  ‘Have you been charged?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Did you have the drugs on you when they took you in?’

  ‘Yes. But they’re not going to charge me with dealing. They haven’t said so, but I think they believe that I just accepted them for someone else.’

  ‘No previous drug convictions. That must have helped you. But you’re lucky.’

  ‘That’s not the worst of it. There may be a GBH charge. I’m still waiting to hear.’

  ‘For a street fight? When the other lot were the aggressors and you defended yourselves? I’d say that was unlikely. Unless you kicked—’

  ‘I didn’t kick anyone. I had knuckledusters on. That’s why they held me. That’s what did the damage. That’s why they’ll charge me.’

  ‘You bloody fool, Alex!’ It was fierce, short, and no more than a ritual. He’d put a lot of work into this lad, almost won through, and now the cretin had thrown it away.

  Except that he wasn’t a cretin. He was an intelligent young man who’d had the odds stacked against him in the urban jungle that was downtown Glasgow and had come through it. Almost come through it. And now, when success and a new life had been within his grasp, he’d thrown it all away. But Fraser knew all that, or he wouldn’t be here. No use screaming out your own frustration at him. Jackson said dully, ‘Were you the only one with those things on?’

  ‘I don’t know. I think so. They’re bloody amateurs down there, when it comes to street warfare.’ A little flash of contempt, a small, warped assertion of Scottish superiority. ‘There were knives, though. I’d be sure of that. Every bugger has a knife, these days.’ He spoke not like a twenty-year-old in deep trouble but like a veteran warrior recalling earlier and cleaner days.

  Jackson said quietly. ‘Forget about the others. Were you the only one with the steel mittens?’

  ‘Yes. I didn’t see anyone else with them. Not on our side, anyway. We were attacked, Ken. They were waiting for us and they set upon us. The pigs know that.’

  ‘They also know that anyone who goes out to a party with knuckledusters in his pocket is looking for trouble. Premeditated violence, they’ll say in court. Alex, what do you want me to do? When you were in trouble up here, I knew some of the police and one or two of the magistrates. I don’t know anyone down there. I can come down there and give you a character reference, if the court will allow it, but I can’t do much more.’

  Fraser shook his head hopelessly. He’d hoped for more, but he’d known in his heart that there was nothing to be done. ‘I suppose I just wanted to feel someone was on my side. It’s been pretty lonely down there, since this happened.’

  ‘I’ll bet it has! But—’

  ‘I know I was a fool to take those things with me. I’m prepared to take whatever they do to me. But I don’t want to lose my job at Westbourne. It’s what I want to do and I know I can be good at it. I want to stay on permanently at the end of my apprenticeship.’

  ‘If they bring charges, you’re pretty sure to be found guilty. You might get away without a prison sentence, if they accept that the other group were the aggressors.’

  ‘With my record? I’ve got previous. They’ll take that into account.’

  ‘I’ll put it in writing that they shouldn’t, if it comes to it. They’ll have to give some weight to that. The judge at least will be aware of it, when he’s passing sentence.’

  ‘Is there any chance of a suspended sentence?’

  ‘I don’t know, Alex. I’m not a lawyer and I haven’t
heard all the evidence, have I? You’ll need your brief to do a good job on the mitigating circumstances.’ Ken Jackson mustered a grin, but he wasn’t happy about even that. He didn’t believe in false optimism and he always tried to be realistic with young men and women he was trying to help. He forced out the words he knew Fraser least wanted to hear. ‘You need to get back there, with a murder hunt going on. This isn’t the time to go AWOL.’

  ‘No. It was a mistake to come here. I’ll get straight back now.’

  Jackson looked at him. The thin face looked even paler and more hunted beneath the short-cut red hair. He’d known Fraser since he was sixteen and Alex had always looked like this when in trouble. He felt a huge surge of sympathy; the strength of it took him by surprise. He felt much older – almost like a father to this boy who was but seven years younger than himself. ‘You’d better sleep here. The spare bed’s always made up. You can go back tomorrow. I’ll ring Westbourne and tell them where you are. I don’t suppose you told anyone where you were going?’

  ‘No.’ Alex wanted to protest, say he’d get straight back. But his weary body was this time stronger than his mind. ‘I’ll go to bed for a few hours now. I’ll ride back tonight. The bike and me both like it better at night, when it’s quieter. Start in daylight, be back by three or four tomorrow morning.’

  Ken Jackson went into the hall. ‘Eleanor? Alex is going to try to sleep for a few hours, then set off back. He’ll get washed and sleep in the spare room.’

  His wife appeared at the door of the kitchen, cast her eyes to heaven and mouthed the words ‘Soft touch!’ fiercely at him down the hall. She went back into the kitchen and firmly shut the door. She was fed up with encouraging Ken’s lame ducks.

  Alex Fraser now showered and laid his stained leathers carefully not on the chair beside the bed but on the floor. He wanted to cause as little trouble as possible. His brain told him that he should not have come here at all, that the rigours of the journey were absurdly out of balance with what he had achieved. But his heart was cheered by this contact with the man who he thought was his one true friend in an uncaring world.

  He put his underpants back on, ignoring the clean pyjamas Ken had left on the bed for him. He savoured the bliss of cool, clean sheets for a few seconds before he fell into a deep sleep, totally undisturbed by the noises of the household.

  In his study, Ken Jackson rang through to Westbourne Park, said he wanted to speak to someone who was dealing with the Cooper murder case, and was put through to a DS Hook. Jackson explained who he was, then said, ‘One of the men you will want to talk to is Alex Fraser.’

  ‘Indeed he is. He’s disappeared without informing anyone where he’s gone.’

  ‘He’s with me. I used to be his probation officer. He drove through the night to get to me, because of the trouble he was in last week.’

  A pause. Then a voice sounding more understanding than he’d expected said, ‘Fraser’s not done himself any good, disappearing like this. He’s attracted attention to himself. That’s not a good idea, when we’re establishing murder suspects.’

  ‘I appreciate that. But he’s a lad trying to make something of himself, after a bad start. He hasn’t any family to turn to. I helped him to get the apprenticeship at Westbourne. He fled to me because I’m the nearest thing he’s got to a friend. He’s asleep here now. He’s insisting that he’ll ride back through the night.’

  The gruff voice sounded almost conciliatory as it said, ‘That’s good. The sooner he’s here, the better that will be for him.’

  Jackson was emboldened to say, ‘I’m sure he had nothing to do with your murder, DS Hook. He came here because he’s worried stiff about the gang violence he was involved in last week. He’s scared that he’ll lose his job at Westbourne. It means a lot to him. It’s his way out of a life of crime.’

  ‘I can’t comment on that, I’m afraid. The team here is concerned solely with a murder case. We shall take note of your view that he is unlikely to be involved in that. Thank you for your call and your concern.’

  Jackson understood from this sudden formality that someone else had come into the room where this DS Hook was speaking from. He felt cheered by the reception his call had received. He went upstairs and slid the door of the spare room open a couple of inches. The short hair looked startlingly red on the white pillow. The features beneath it looked as relaxed and unlined as those of a sleeping child.

  He was surely right that Alex Fraser couldn’t be involved in anything as vile and serious as murder?

  At twilight Alex Fraser donned his leathers and his helmet and addressed the long return journey south. The lights of Glasgow blazed around him, but above the lights and over the Clyde, there was daylight still in the quiet summer sky.

  At Westbourne Park, over three hundred miles to the south, darkness had all but fallen. Only a long line of purple in the western sky showed where the sun had vanished. Around the great garden, most of nature slept. There were exceptions, as always. A muntjac deer which should have settled for the night looked at the garden’s walls, decided they were too high even for its greatest leap, and bounded away towards its mate and rest. A hungry vixen with cubs to feed crept towards the bank where rabbits burrowed. The first hoots of the owl announced that day was gone and his time was at hand.

  Within the walls of Westbourne, the lights were on in all of the cottages and houses. Over the next three hours, they were switched off one by one, save for the security lights around the main house. Wednesday tomorrow: the busiest day for visitors, outside the weekends. In their very different ways, gardeners, catering staff, administrators must be ready for the enthusiastic hordes. A good night’s sleep was a healthy preparation.

  One person, however, was not asleep but active. One person had been waiting impatiently for the lights to go off and people to be in their beds for the night. One pair of eyes was still intensely alert to everything around it, one pair of feet trod securely over familiar paths. The murder room and the anteroom outside it were securely locked, as the stealthy mover had expected.

  The small package in its neat white envelope slipped into the receptacle at the administrative centre near the main gates, where the morning post would arrive seven hours later. Mission accomplished.

  Westbourne Park slept on.

  THIRTEEN

  Detective Inspector Christopher Rushton was not happy. He liked things tidy and this case was sprawling and untidy. He wanted the parameters of it defined.

  Parameters was one of DI Rushton’s favourite words. He liked to set limits and work within them. He was a natural bureaucrat, but a highly efficient one. As such, he was an integral member of Lambert’s team. It was Rushton’s presence at the centre of things, his ability to co-ordinate the huge amount of information which accumulates around a murder hunt, which allowed Lambert to be out and about among suspects rather than sitting behind a desk at headquarters.

  Early on the morning of Wednesday, the sixth of July, Rushton was sitting with Lambert and Hook and trying desperately to define the parameters of this investigation. He reported rather querulously, ‘Everyone resident on the site has now been interviewed. So have almost all of the people who come in daily. That’s a hell of a lot of people, when you include all the part-time helpers. I’ve filed everything, but so far I can’t see a clear pattern emerging. We usually have a list of suspects by now. That’s if we haven’t already got someone arrested and charged.’

  Lambert nodded and said with heavy irony, ‘Not every serious crime matches your exacting standards, Chris. Murder in particular can be either very straightforward or very untidy. This is one of the untidy ones. A lot of people interviewed by the team are hardly suspects at all – they’re seen just because they might have important information, perhaps without even recognizing it.’

  Hook said with a trace of satisfaction, ‘You’re not quite right about all residents having been interviewed, Chris. There’s one resident we haven’t seen as yet. That should be remedied today.
The Scots lad who went missing. He should be back on site by now.’

  ‘Alex Fraser.’ Chris Rushton was annoyed that he’d forgotten him. ‘A man with a history of violence, who was involved in a serious gang fight less than a fortnight ago. A leading suspect, I’d say. I’ve already got a file with the details of his past. The sooner I get your input the better.’

  ‘You shall have it by the end of the day,’ promised Lambert with a smile. ‘I hope our input will help to make your parameters clearer.’

  Rushton, who was thirty-two, was aware that the older men enjoyed taking the piss. Or in his terms, treating serious issues as lightweight items. He said gloomily, ‘The post-mortem report doesn’t tell us much. I didn’t think it would.’

  The three men looked down at the copies which had lately arrived in front of them. Lambert said, ‘Any signs that the victim put up a struggle?’

  ‘Nothing obvious. No skin under the nails or anything useful like that. There are indications that he made a desperate attempt to claw whatever was throttling him away from his neck.’

  Lambert nodded, looking at the sheet. ‘A few scratches on the front of his neck from his own nails. It looks to me as if he was taken by surprise, possibly as he turned away from whoever killed him. Still no murder weapon?’

  ‘No. Probably something wider than a rope or a wire, because it didn’t cut into the neck. Perhaps a belt from trousers or a dress. I don’t suppose we’ll ever see it.’

  Hook pointed out, ‘We now have a time of death, for what it’s worth. The pathologist thinks he consumed a major meal two to three hours before death. His wife says they ate at about seven and took around forty minutes. Which means that he probably died between nine and eleven.’

  Lambert concluded his perusal of the report. ‘What hasn’t emerged is any trace of that “exchange” we’re always told is inevitable at a murder scene. The killer is supposed to leave something of himself behind; some fibres from his clothes, some hair from his head. Neither the PM or forensic have come up with anything. It rained heavily during the night after the death; that can’t have helped.’ Killers are always ‘he’ to CID men. That is no more than statistics; women murderers are simply much less common than male ones.