Brothers ip-17

by J M Gregson

  O’Connor looked for a moment as if he would refuse to answer. Then he folded his arms and said deliberately, ‘I suppose I decided I wanted to make my own way in life. It was easy enough for me to do that. My Dad had made money by the time I was ten or eleven. I wasn’t educated in Ireland, like Jim. I was sent to Stonyhurst College in England as a boarder. I grew up with the Jesuits.’

  He jutted his chin a little, as if challenging Peach now to follow this up. Instead the DCI said quietly, ‘You’ve made it clear that you hadn’t much in common with James. It sounds almost as if you didn’t like him.’

  This time his man did react. O’Connor said irritably, ‘This isn’t relevant. You’re supposed to be finding out who killed Jim, not running a lonely hearts column. You appear pretty baffled, so far.’

  Peach was not at all put out. He gave Dominic O’Connor one of the more enigmatic of his vast range of smiles. ‘When I was a young copper, my first inspector said to me, “If you can’t find a solution, always come back to the family”. You’d be surprised how often he’s been right over the years. I can assure you that the sort of relationship you enjoyed with your brother is extremely relevant to this enquiry.’

  ‘You mean that if I wasn’t close to Jim I become a suspect.’

  ‘I mean that your complete frankness would not only be appreciated but would be much the best policy for you. Any attempt at deception in a murder enquiry would be ill-advised; it would excite suspicion. That much will be obvious to an intelligent man with a Jesuit education.’ This time Peach’s smile had a hint of impish enjoyment.

  Dominic O’Connor ran a hand swiftly through his rather untidy fair hair. His brown eyes glittered, but he spoke evenly enough. ‘Jim and I were never close. I could have worked with him — for him — but I had other options. He thought I was a Puritan, I thought he was too much of a Cavalier.’

  ‘You mean he took short cuts in his business affairs.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have put it like that. But yes, he was a little too free and easy for my tastes. He made rapid progress, but to my mind he was a chancer. We had different temperaments, I suppose. But he could laugh at me and what he called my caution. He expanded quickly. As you say, he diversified.’ This time it was Dominic O’Connor who gave the word a slight ironic emphasis.

  ‘You’re an accountant, I believe.’

  ‘I’m a financial manager in a smallish firm. But the basis of that is accountancy, yes.’

  ‘But you don’t believe in cutting corners.’

  ‘I believe in operating within the law. I may not have moved as far or as fast as Jim, but I’m successful in my own way.’

  ‘I imagine these different attitudes must have led to a lot of tension between the two of you.’

  ‘You shouldn’t imagine, DCI Peach. You should confine yourself to facts. And the fact of this matter is that Jim and I got on perfectly well with each other. We’d agreed to go our separate ways and we didn’t spend much time in each other’s houses. But our wives got on perfectly well — probably better than Jim and I did. We’ve met up mainly on family occasions, over the last few years, but we got on quite adequately with each other.’

  ‘“Quite adequately”. That is a strange phrase for brothers.’

  ‘But well chosen, I think. It implies a lack of passion. You need passion to kill a man the way my brother was killed.’

  ‘Or a good reason.’

  ‘All right, or a good reason. As I had neither of these, you can conclude that I did not kill my brother.’

  ‘So who did, Mr O’Connor?’

  ‘Surely that’s for you to discover. With the vast range of resources available to the police service.’

  ‘And the full and intelligent cooperation of those civilians in a position to help us. That’s why I’m asking you who you think killed your brother.’

  ‘I’ve no idea. I’ve given it plenty of thought, but I’m no nearer to an answer than I was when it happened on Monday night. And before you say that I must have some ideas, I would remind you that we’ve spent some time establishing that I was no longer in close touch with either Jim or his associates.’

  Peach gave the tiniest nod to Northcott. The detective sergeant cleared his throat and said formally, ‘Where were you at the time of this death, Mr O’Connor?’

  Dominic looked at the dark, unrevealing features as if he suspected a trap. ‘As I understand it, no one knows the precise moment of death. When the interval was announced, I left my chair and moved across the room to speak with my niece, my sister’s daughter. Even you may well conclude that was an innocent mission, since Alison is thirteen.’

  Clyde Northcott made a note and remained impassive. ‘And did you then return to your seat?’

  Dominic O’Connor regarded him steadily for a moment, his brown eyes alert, assessing. Then he said sardonically, ‘Not immediately, no. I moved around, chatted to one or two people I knew. Then I went to the Gents’ and did the same thing in there. I also had a pee.’

  ‘How long were you missing from the main banqueting hall?’

  ‘You mean did I have the opportunity to creep outside and commit fratricide, don’t you? That’s the word for it, you know, in case coppers don’t have a Jesuit education.’ In his wish to score a meaningless point, he’d almost said ‘black coppers’. That showed how carefully you needed to watch your words, that did, he told himself.

  Northcott said calmly, ‘It’s a question our team will be asking of everyone who was present on Monday night. Unless we make an arrest before the process is completed, of course. Do you own a firearm, Mr O’Connor?’

  ‘No. I don’t need one in the sort of work I do.’

  ‘But you imply that your brother did. Did he carry a pistol?’

  ‘I don’t know. I think he might have done. I think I would have done, if I’d moved among the people he associated with and the rivals he dealt with.’ For a moment, his distaste for the dead man flared about Dominic’s lips. It was instantly dismissed.

  Peach stood up. ‘In the meantime, we’d like you to go on thinking, Mr O’Connor. You’re a shrewd and intelligent man. You also know a lot of the people who were at that function better than any detective. If you have any thoughts, please ring this number: whatever you say will of course be treated in the strictest confidence.’

  They’d arranged to meet and this is where it had to be. Steve Tracey didn’t like it, but he wasn’t in a position to call the shots.

  The big Toyota saloon drew up alongside the murdered man’s head of security on the top of the multi-storey car park. He’d specified the spot himself. The woman on the other end of the line had gone away to consult, then returned to the phone and agreed to it. They’d determined on the multi-storey, but he’d said it must be on the top floor. Somehow, he felt more public up here; with the open air around him and the sky above him, he must surely be safer. Now he wondered whether that was so.

  The window beside the driver slid slowly down. ‘Hop into the back, Mr Tracey,’ the face said with false cheerfulness.

  ‘No way. You get out and we talk here.’

  The big face beamed like that of a man with four aces in his hand. ‘You don’t have a choice, Steve.’ He grinned sideways at the invisible muscle beside him, then repeated, ‘Hop into the back, Mr Tracey.’

  Steve opened the door, slid his bulk swiftly over the leather of the rear seat. One down already. But with his employer dead, he didn’t see how he could call the shots.

  ‘Boss wants to see you. You could be a fortunate man.’

  They were the only words spoken in fourteen miles. They drove fast, over the moors on the A666 to Bolton, through the town and into the urban sprawl where it merged into greater Manchester. Tracey didn’t know this area and he was correspondingly more nervous. If they beat him up and pitched him out here, he wouldn’t know where to turn for help. If they shot him, there were plenty of places beneath water or concrete where they could dump his corpse so that it would never be seen again. Str
ange roads and strange buildings brought the sort of wild fears which you did not feel on your own patch.

  He said nothing. They wouldn’t answer his questions and he wasn’t going to attempt any other sort of talk with men like this. They were alien, yet strangely like himself. They were acting under orders and they had no interest in him, unless he prevented those orders being carried out. He knew one of these men and that told him a lot. He thought he knew who they worked for. He wondered whether it was one of the two close-shaven, squat men he could see in front of him who had shot his boss. And then he wondered as he moved off his own patch and on to theirs whether they were going to shoot him.

  It was a hut on a building site where they finally stopped. A strange, deserted, sinister place. Silent when it should have been noisy, quiet and motionless when it should have been busy with activity. The gorilla got out of the driving seat and looked at Tracey curiously. Strangely, his thickset shape and unintelligent features gave Steve reason to hope. This was low-level security, the kind of loyal, unquestioning thug he would have used himself for enforcement work, for scaring small people into a resentful obedience. If they’d been licensed to kill him or even rough him up, they’d have done it in a dark alley somewhere, not brought him here.

  The man motioned towards the door of the hut, but he remained outside as Tracey entered and shut it carefully behind him. The man behind the desk inside the shed was as alert and watchful as he was, but he had affected the trappings of respectability. He was probably from Jamaica, in Steve’s view. He wore a three-piece suit, with a thin gold watch-chain stretched across his bulging chest. He clasped his well-manicured hands in front of him, as if anxious to show off his perfect nails to the man instructed to sit on the other side of the desk. Steve wondered if he would complete the parody by lighting a cigar, but he merely sat back and looked at the new arrival with a smile, relishing the situation.

  He was a strange figure in a strange environment. Apart from his colour, he was a caricature of a nineteenth-century industrial baron in this dingy twenty-first-century setting. There was a chart on the wall with what seemed to be a plan of foundations for the buildings to be erected here. It had words scribbled across it which were illegible from where Steve Tracey sat. Lumps of drying mud from people’s boots littered the floor; a week-old tabloid newspaper lay in the corner of the shed. There was something ludicrous about the overdressed central figure which gave Tracey a sudden, unexpected spurt of confidence.

  It wasn’t the big boss, as those idiots outside had said it would be. It was their boss, the man in charge of security for some organisation. A big concern, by the look of it. A well-organised business: this was a suitably anonymous place for a meet, whatever the dress affectations of the man conducting it. Tracey sat motionless and waited; he wasn’t going to let the man with the watch-chain know that he was nervous.

  The man sat back, steepled his fingers, continued his impersonation of a different kind of executive. ‘Well, Mr Tracey. So your boss is dead. And your job was to protect him. Didn’t do a very good job there, did you?’

  ‘I offered to stay with him on Monday night. He said it wasn’t necessary.’

  ‘You didn’t kill him yourself, did you, Steve?’

  ‘Of course I didn’t! He’d be alive now if he’d allowed me to stay with him when he went outside Claughton Towers on Monday night.’

  Watch-chain smiled. ‘I wouldn’t be too sure of that. You might have been dead meat yourself, Steve, instead of enjoying this conversation. You don’t mind me calling you Steve, do you?’

  ‘You can call me what you like. You’re in the box seat. You and your gorillas outside.’

  ‘Box seat. Yes, I suppose that’s so.’ He smiled contentedly, his teeth looking very large and very white in this ill-lit place. ‘But I have good news for you, Steve. I have been empowered to offer you employment. Generous thinking, that, after you failed in your last assignment. But then I work for a generous man.’

  ‘Lennon.’ Steve had been thinking furiously, trying to work out who could be behind his virtual kidnap.

  Watch-chain looked a little surprised, even for a moment discomfited. ‘Best not to speculate at this stage, Steve. But I suppose you have a right to know who’ll be paying your wages. So yes, Mr Lennon. He’s prepared to take you on. He’s taking over most of your organisation following the unfortunate demise of James O’Connor. And he wants as smooth a transition as possible. So he’s prepared to take on you and whichever two of your staff you recommend. You’d be deputy to me, of course.’ He ran his hand lightly over the front of his waistcoat, fingering the watch-chain as if it offered him reassurance. ‘But you’d be second in line in our security department. It’s a very generous offer, if you ask me.’

  Steve wanted to say that he didn’t ask him, that he’d had quite enough of this patronising nonsense. But this fellow was making a generous offer on behalf of his employer, offering a job to a rival in the same trade of violence. He was going to have to work with the Jamaican. If the man was vain enough to indulge in silly charades like this, he might even take over from him, in due course.

  Tracey took a deep breath and stood up. There was no possibility of refusal. He knew too much about the empire of James O’Connor for that. If he opted out of work for the new ownership, he might well be eliminated. He thrust out his hand and said, ‘I accept, subject to proper remuneration. I’m sure I can rely on Mr Lennon for that.’

  The man in the waistcoat winced again at Tracey’s mention of that name. He had planned to reveal it himself at this stage to this man who would operate in his shadow. But he stood up and thrust his hand forward. ‘Peter Coleman. Here’s to a long and successful working relationship.’

  Middle management making a new appointment. Steve completed the bizarre playlet by shaking the big hand firmly, then closing his left hand over the right as the two big men came together. He wondered how many victims these hands had dispatched in the last ten years.

  FIVE

  There had been a mill here once. It had been built in bright-red brick, with a square tower at one end, like that of a great church. A chimney had risen high at the other, dwarfing everything else around. The long terraces of low houses had been built in meaner brick, but they had been homes to many hundreds of people. The streets here had once reverberated with the sound of clogs clattering to work, hastening to beat the morning whistle at the factory gates, to shut their wearers in with the greater clatter of the steam-driven machines within the smooth brick walls.

  All that was long gone. Percy Peach didn’t remember it, but he’d seen pictures and been instructed in his primary school on the proud industrial heritage of the area. Manchester had been not only the workshop of the world but also Cottonopolis, and Brunton had been one of the great cotton-spinning towns. Now all was changed, changed utterly. That expression came back to Percy from some point in his chequered school career.

  The area was now part of an industrial estate. There were bright new buildings with big windows. Volkswagens and Audis and Toyotas dominated the car parks, as if to remind people that the world had moved on. The headquarters of O’Connor Industries was a surprisingly small building near the entrance to the estate. It had ample parking and a much more impressive entrance than any of the utilitarian buildings which predominated here. Dark red wooden doors opened between a pair of high granite pillars, a style determinedly out of fashion with more muted modern styles.

  Jan Derkson rose automatically to greet them, as she had greeted so many hundreds of visitors here before. She said, ‘We can go through into Mr O’Connor’s room if you like. We won’t be disturbed there.’

  ‘Then let’s go there. We certainly don’t want to be disturbed,’ said the bald-headed man in the trim grey suit. ‘I’m DCI Peach and this is Detective Sergeant Northcott.’

  It didn’t feel right to Jan to be taking this room over. She realised now that she had always adopted a deferential air when she brought in the boss’s visitors. N
ow she forced herself to take charge, inviting the very tall black man to sit in one of the two luxurious armchairs, seating herself carefully on the edge of the matching but smaller armchair alongside him. She invited Peach to take the swivel chair behind the big desk, but he declined and came and sat in the armchair which matched Northcott’s and was directly opposite to her.

  He smiled briefly and she felt him assessing her, with his head tilted fractionally to one side. It wasn’t the sort of sexual review to which she had accustomed herself and learned to deal with over the years, but rather a cool estimation of her usefulness, of how much she might be able and willing to give them in the way of information. She found it disconcerting. It felt as if she was being interviewed without warning for a job, as she had not been for many years now.

  She was relieved when Peach eventually smiled and spoke. ‘We have great hopes of you, Ms Derkson. As James O’Connor’s personal assistant, you can probably tell us more about him than anyone we have seen so far.’

  ‘I doubt that. I understand that you have already seen his widow.’

  ‘And how do you know that, Ms Derkson?’

  ‘I’m Mrs Derkson and I have no objection to your calling me that. I would prefer it, in fact. And I had occasion to be in touch with Mrs O’Connor yesterday, about a business decision. I imagine there will be many other such occasions in the weeks to come.’

  Her voice faltered a fraction on that last thought, but then she was instantly her business self again. Her watchful, intelligent grey eyes were exactly the colour of her straight skirt. The paleness of her cheeks was accentuated by the whiteness of the perfectly laundered blouse beneath them. The heels on her black shoes were precisely the right height to combine elegance with efficient movement. Yet Peach noted that she was clearly uneasy. Perhaps she was unused to sitting in an armchair in this room, where she had deposited so many people who had come here to see her employer. Or perhaps some deeper malaise was troubling her.