Brothers ip-17

by J M Gregson

  ‘No, of course not. But you’d better be damned sure he’s broken the law before you move against him, or you’ll have me to deal with.’ Tucker jutted the chin which he had lately stroked in what he had decided from ancient photographs was his Churchillian mode.

  ‘Very well, sir. Just for the record, I have no reason to think at this point that Dominic O’Connor is anything other than the most upright of citizens.’

  Peach thought as he descended the stairs from Tommy Bloody Tucker’s penthouse office that life dealt the cards in a very random fashion. Simply because of the insufferable T.B. Tucker, he would now be delighted if he could dig some dirt on the unsuspecting Dominic O’Connor.

  SEVEN

  You wore plain clothes when you joined the exalted ranks of the CID. It was supposed to make you less conspicuous. In some cases the idea didn’t work. One of these cases was Detective Sergeant Clyde Northcott.

  When you were a lean six feet three inches and very black, people tended to remember you, whatever you wore. Most of the time Clyde didn’t mind that. His formidable physical presence made him feared. Clyde had grown used to that and secretly rather enjoyed it. He’d learned to survive in a harsh world before he became a policeman and it pleased him that people were nervous about what he might do to them. The police rules were strict and Clyde observed them. But people didn’t always know that, did they? There was nothing wrong with a little bluff, if it produced the right results. The fact that DCI Peach referred to his sidekick as a ‘hard bastard’ whenever the opportunity arose also pleased Clyde, who played up to the image whenever he felt it useful to him.

  But you couldn’t be at once a hard bastard and unnoticeable, as the job sometimes demanded you should be. When Clyde Northcott spotted something which interested him on that Thursday evening, he slid swiftly behind the wheel of his car. You weren’t as obvious in a car, especially when it was a routine silver Ford Focus. You might need to slide the driver’s seat as far back as it would go, but six and a quarter feet of muscle and bone was still less noticeable in a vehicle than on the street.

  Clyde hesitated about what to do next, because he’d had a hard and boring day which hadn’t produced anything significant. Days like that were always the worst; he didn’t notice the time passing or count the hours he was putting in when there was progress. But when you spent long hours getting nowhere, you always ended up fatigued as well as frustrated. He wondered for a moment whether he should follow the woman or not, then decided with a sigh that he would need to postpone his takeaway and his tin of lager.

  He was trained to observe. He saw things which other people would have missed without any conscious effort. In truth, that was not all police training. He had been a drug dealer, even a suspect in a murder case, before Percy Peach had rescued him, persuaded him to become a copper, and then recruited him into CID a couple of years later. Northcott had learned early in life to watch his back and keep his eyes and ears open. It was a quality very useful to him, even now that he had joined the right side of the law.

  The woman might be going somewhere entirely innocent — statistically she probably was. But he’d been lucky to spot her as she turned onto the main road at the T-junction and he was pretty sure she hadn’t seen him. He hesitated for but a moment, then eased the Focus out into the traffic, two cars behind the blue BMW, and kept it in view as they moved out of Brunton and into the countryside.

  This might be a wild goose chase, but it would be interesting to see where the widow of James O’Connor was heading.

  She was alone in the sports car and he was confident she hadn’t spotted him. She drove north, out along the A59, accelerating as the traffic thinned, so that at one stage he was afraid of losing her. But he saw her indicating a left turn and followed her at a safe distance as she eased the sleek blue car on to a much narrower lane. Clyde knew this road; he’d roared over it many times on the Yamaha 350 motorcycle which was his preferred mode of transport. The lane climbed upwards over the flank of Pendle Hill, the height which rose towards two thousand feet and dominated the softer country of the Ribble Valley beneath it.

  It was past nine o’clock now and the cars all had their lights on. Clyde kept a discreet distance behind the BMW, watching the red of its rear lights appearing and disappearing as it climbed the hill ahead of him. He thought he knew where it was heading. There was a pub on the side of the hill, busy at weekends but dependent on people who drove out on summer evenings for much trade beyond that. It was still spring and still quite cool up here by this time of night. Clyde guessed correctly that the pub would not have much custom tonight, despite the handwritten notice advertising food at the bar. As Sarah O’Connor turned the blue BMW into the car park, there were only two other cars parked there. Clyde waited until she had hurried into the pub before he eased the Focus gently into the car park. He chose the opposite end of the parking area and reversed the Ford in so as to be ready for a swift exit.

  The other two vehicles were a battered Ford Transit van and a green Honda Civic. Clyde wondered whether Sarah O’Connor was meeting the driver of one of these or someone yet to arrive. He would wait ten minutes and then decide whether to venture into the hostelry. He couldn’t hope to preserve his anonymity if he did that.

  It was very quiet on the hillside as the sky darkened above him. Because of the silence, he heard the car when it was still a long way away. He watched its headlights appearing and disappearing as it wound its way along the lane and climbed closer, felt a thrill of anticipation as it indicated and then swung swiftly into the car park and drew up next to the blue BMW Z4. Clyde slid down in his seat, but the man who emerged from the red Jaguar did not even glance towards him in the semi-darkness.

  Dominic O’Connor strode swiftly into the pub and his meeting with his brother’s widow.

  Northcott reported his Thursday-night journey to Peach as they rode out on the following morning to their next interview in this sprawling case. ‘Interesting,’ said Percy. ‘You’re sure neither of them saw you?’

  ‘Absolutely sure. I decided there wasn’t much point in hanging around in the pub car park, so I don’t know how long they were in there. It could have been a completely innocent social meeting, of course.’

  ‘And Tommy Bloody Tucker could win the final of Mastermind. Meetings like that are suspicious until proved otherwise, to cynical fuzz like us. You showed initiative surprising in a man recruited to be a hard bastard.’

  ‘I’ve told you before: I’m not just a pretty face.’

  Peach appeared to think this even more amusing than Clyde had expected. But there was no time for further discussion. They were outside the high electronic gates of the house they were visiting. Much to Percy’s disgust, they had to announce themselves into the speaker in the tall brick gatepost. The gates swung silently open thirty seconds later.

  It was a modern house, but a large one and set in extensive grounds. Between two and three million pounds, Peach estimated; you got a feeling for prices when you moved around the area. The maid led them into a huge lounge, where the woman who waited for them was as well-groomed as the lawns and gardens around her house. She was a phenomenon which was still rare in north-east Lancashire: a rich and powerful woman who had made her money almost entirely by her own efforts. It was even rarer to find a woman who reputedly had used criminal activities to underpin her success.

  Linda Coleman seated them on the sofa opposite her armchair, with the light directly into their faces. Then she ordered that coffee should be served, without asking them whether they wanted it. Mrs Coleman had the air of a woman who was used to being obeyed; no doubt that was exactly the impression she wished to convey. She said, ‘I shall give you all the help I can in the matter of James O’Connor’s death. It will be very little.’

  She was a woman at ease with herself and her surroundings. Her dark green dress was in a smooth fabric which neither of the men could identify. ‘Expensive’ was as accurate as Clyde Northcott could get. He wondered how much
she had paid to get soft leather shoes which exactly matched the shade of her dress. They knew from research before they came here that the face beneath the golden, short-cut hair was forty-four years old, otherwise they would have assessed it as younger. The clear blue eyes looked these two contrasting men up and down as they sat awkwardly on the deep-seated sofa. Those cold eyes announced that she was in charge here and that they would do well to remember that.

  Peach was not a man who took kindly to such subordination. He said without preamble, ‘Why do you think you were invited to Monday night’s celebration at Claughton Towers, Mrs Coleman?’

  ‘That is surely a question you should ask of the man who invited me. As he is no longer here to answer it, perhaps his PA or his wife could provide your answer.’

  ‘But I am asking you. It is surely a question you must have asked yourself when you received the invitation.’

  She stared at him for a moment before deciding to answer the question after all. ‘We were business rivals who had become business partners. Jim was recognising that by asking me to sit with the people who’d been working for him for years.’ The answer came clearly and without hesitation, as if she had dispensed with the idea of deceit.

  ‘James O’Connor had taken over some of your enterprises.’

  ‘If you care to put it like that, yes. I prefer to regard it as a profitable merging of mutual interests. I’d hardly have been placed on the table immediately below his if Jim hadn’t regarded me as an important player.’

  Peach gave her a sour smile. ‘An important player in what particular game, Mrs Coleman?’

  ‘Retail interests, principally. I own a town-centre woollens shop, one of the few independent traders left outside the big chains. We also have a men’s outfitters, which supplies most of the school uniforms in the town.’

  ‘And makes surprising profits.’

  ‘We do all right.’

  ‘Profits which are out of all proportion to the turnover in these shops.’

  ‘I didn’t realise you claimed to be an expert in retail merchandising. The modern police service must be amazingly tolerant, if you are encouraged to develop such interests.’

  ‘Did James O’Connor also take over the prostitution rings for which these shops are a front?’

  She looked at him steadily. It seemed she had expected what he had planned to drop as a bombshell. ‘Highly imaginative. But also rather dangerous for you, Detective Chief Inspector Peach. I’m sure my lawyers would be interested to hear you repeat these views in a more formal context.’

  Peach’s smile contrived to express distaste rather than amusement. ‘Lawyers, eh? A single legal expert not enough for you, when all that is involved is two or three dull and successful shops?’ His fierce revulsion burst out suddenly against the wall of her calmness. ‘All the lawyers in England won’t help you, when we finally expose the rape and prostitution of minors which has been happening in this town.’

  Both he and his unlikely looking adversary in the armchair knew what he referred to. Young white girls in the area, many of them still children and most of them from care homes, were being lured into prostitution by Asian men, who selected them carefully and set up rings they could control. The money to initiate this and the ultimate control of the rings came from sources further up the hierarchy. Money from drugs was being used to finance this lucrative colony in a growing criminal empire.

  Linda Coleman weighed Peach’s words carefully before she chose to reply. ‘I know nothing of this. It is ludicrous that you should try to connect me with such things.’ The coffee arrived, served with biscuits on a wide metal tray by a slim and elegant Asian girl. Not a word was spoken whilst she was in the room. Their hostess watched the door close behind her before she picked up the coffee pot and poured. ‘I did hear that your wife had been questioning some of our Asian friends about these allegations. I doubt if there is anything in them, but I should hate it if DS Peach came to grief. I’m told she’s a pretty and enthusiastic officer. It would be a pity if anything changed that.’

  Percy felt his pulses racing. This wasn’t right for him; this was the kind of apprehension he had intended that Coleman should feel. He had not known that this woman was even aware that Lucy was an officer, let alone that she knew his wife was involved in the prostitution enquiries. He spoke as steadily as he could. ‘That sounded very like a threat to me, Mrs Coleman. Note it down, please, DS Northcott.’

  She glanced at Northcott, whose notebook looked tiny in his very large hands. ‘It was nothing of the sort, DCI Peach. It was no more than well-meant concern for a police officer who might move out of her depth and into dangerous waters.’

  ‘Who killed James O’Connor?’

  She appeared not at all shaken by his abrupt switch. ‘I’ve no idea. I should have come forward with the information as a good citizen if I had.’

  ‘Was your husband involved?’

  She smiled. ‘Peter wasn’t even there.’

  ‘I know that. Was he involved?’

  ‘What a preposterous idea! Of course Peter wasn’t involved. He scarcely knew Jim O’Connor.’

  ‘He handles what he calls security for the Lennon group of enterprises. We all know what that means: Peter Coleman deals in violence and sometimes in death. As the Lennon organisation is now planning to control the group of criminal enterprises formerly run by James O’Connor, it is perfectly logical that he should have eliminated the former owner. Or arranged his elimination.’

  ‘He did neither. Place that on record, please, DS Northcott.’ She savoured echoing Peach’s direction to his bagman, then turned back to him. ‘You have an over-developed imagination, DCI Peach.’

  ‘My imagination is fine. What I at present lack is the evidence to support it. That will come, in time. So who did kill James O’Connor?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. I never left the banqueting hall during that comfort break; my neighbours at the table will confirm that for you. I’ve always had a strong bladder, among other things. For the record, I hope the creaking police machine gets a result on this one. I liked Jim.’

  Clyde Northcott drove the car down the drive between the immaculate lawns and back to the station at Brunton. He had the good sense to say nothing to Peach, who stared straight ahead with a face like thunder. Eventually Percy said, ‘She’s a dangerous woman, that one. And we made no impression on her. Linda Coleman is going to be a dire influence on Brunton, unless we can nobble her.’

  Clyde braked sharply to avoid a Brunton cat which seemed bent on suicide, then waited his moment to pass a learner driver who was exercising extreme care. Only then did he say, ‘She was very determined to let us know that she never left the banqueting hall during that ten minutes when the murder took place.’

  ‘Indeed she was. And if we check it out with other statements, I’m sure we’ll find it was exactly as she says. She wouldn’t have drawn our attention to it otherwise.’

  ‘No. Cast-iron alibi. It’s almost as if she knew something was going to happen in those ten minutes.’

  ‘Good thinking, Clyde. That’s why you’re a DS and not just a DC nowadays. I’ve always said you were more than just a hard bastard.’

  It was only Percy Peach who’d ever called him that, but Clyde was much too astute to remind him of it now.

  DS Lucy Peach was well aware of the dangers she ran. There was a heavy irony to them, in her view. The police regulations stated firmly that husband and wife should not work together, which meant that since her marriage she had needed perforce to undertake other duties in the CID section.

  The nature of these meant that she felt in far more danger than she ever had felt whilst working alongside Percy. Brunton had an Asian population which now constituted almost thirty per cent of the whole. Amongst the tiny lunatic fringe of the Muslim fraternity, there lurked fanatical young men and a few ruthless older ones who directed them. Lucy Peach was ever more heavily involved in the campaign to frustrate these most dangerous forces. The anti-terrorism u
nit gathered more and more information and made itself more and more effective. Knowledge was power, but it was also a highly dangerous commodity, in this context.

  There were also decisions which called for the most delicate of judgements. The policy was to let plots against the state and its citizens proceed as far as possible, as long as they did not risk injury or death to the public. Lucy and the officers who worked with her were aware at this moment of several embryo plots, over which they maintained a watching brief. They wouldn’t move in to frustrate them unless it was felt that the safety of the public was in jeopardy. The reason for this was that they wanted to capture not merely the rabid young males who were prepared to sacrifice their own lives in pursuit of mistaken ideals, but the subtle and even more sinister men behind them who plotted the continuous ‘war against the infidel’ in which these were merely incidents.

  It was a delicate balance. You wanted to intervene decisively, but at as late a stage as possible, in order to catch the generals as well as the advanced troops in this malevolent army. Lucy was too junior to take such decisions, but she felt her responsibility keenly. When you were front-line in these operations, it was often you who had to advise on when terrorist planning would actually explode into action. Wrong advice could result in the deaths of innocent people who might otherwise have been saved.

  It was almost a relief today to be involved in a different type of operation. Yet she was quickly changing her view about that. The people she was now investigating were almost more hateful than the terrorists, who were at least driven by a mistaken idealism. These people were preying on the young, selecting for their targets perhaps the most vulnerable of all people in a damaged society.

  Lucy stared with undisguised distaste into the dark brown eyes on the other side of the square table. ‘You were seen, Mr Atwal. One of our officers was watching you.’

  Hostility flashed across the narrow face. He hated being questioned by a woman. He wouldn’t underestimate her because of her sex, but something deep in his breeding said that he should not be forced to answer questions from her, that at least his adversary should be a man.