by J M Gregson
Tommy Bloody Tucker’s club. Peach didn’t ask if Jacobs knew the superintendent; you shouldn’t allow yourself to be prejudiced against any suspect. ‘What time did you finish your game?’
‘It was a four-ball. It would be around six when we finished, I suppose. Then we had a round of drinks.’
Clyde Northcott recorded the names of Jacobs’ three companions in his notebook and they watched their man relaxing in his chair. Then Peach said, ‘What time did you get home in the evening, Mr Jacobs?’
He was suddenly tense again. ‘That’s when he died, isn’t it?’
‘That seems the most probable time at the moment, yes. We’d like to know when you left the golf club and when you arrived home.’
In case there is too long an interval between the two, he thought. Dominic O’Connor’s house was only a couple of miles off his route and they must surely know that. ‘I can’t be certain of the times. I didn’t know then that I was going to be questioned about them by a DCI, did I? Most people left the golf club before us, apart from a party who were eating there. I think I left at about half past seven, but I couldn’t be precise. I’m pretty certain I was home by eight o’clock.’ He tried to banish the graveness from his face with a smile, but didn’t succeed. ‘And I didn’t kill Dominic O’Connor on the way!’
‘So who do you think did kill him? If you’re innocent, it’s obviously in your interest to give us your thoughts on the matter.’
‘I agree. But I can’t help you. I’ve not been in close touch with him for the last four years.’
It was over, at last. They left him with a card, so that he could contact them if he thought of anything useful. He shut the door behind them and went and went slowly back to sit behind his desk, staring for several minutes at the chairs the CID men had lately occupied.
The young officer was studiously incurious about Colin Davies. It wasn’t her business to size him up. She was waiting at the station sergeant’s reception desk and she ushered the visitor swiftly through the labyrinth of the CID section and into DCI Peach’s office. ‘Mr Davies to see you, sir,’ she said stiffly, and then was gone.
Peach rose and shook the man’s hand, noting a firm, sinewy grip and a few grey hairs in his visitor’s short-cut crown. Probably mid-fifties, Percy thought, but fit for his age and without an ounce of surplus fat. One of those enviable men who would be the same weight when he was sixty as he had been when he was sixteen. Percy said, ‘This is Detective Sergeant Northcott, who will be as interested as I am in whatever you have to say.’
‘Your bagman.’ Davies nodded affably at the big black man and sat down in the chair which had been set ready for him.
‘You’re ex-job?’
‘No. I’ve never been in the police service. But I worked for many years in state security. I used to protect politicians and the occasional royal. I can provide proof of that, if you think you need it.’
Peach wasn’t surprised by this. Over the last thirty years, the protection of VIPs from terrorism had employed more and more people and been a greater and greater drain on the resources of the country. No one save a privileged few had any clear idea of the vast cost of this security. It was an immense burden on national finance which politicians and others chose not to publicise. He said, ‘I imagine you were eventually pensioned off. I need to know you weren’t dismissed for other reasons.’
Davies smiled bitterly. ‘You have it in one. The powers that be think you need to be as young and fit as an SAS man to look after the great and the good. In most situations, experience and judgement are more valuable qualities than youth, but people like to have clear rules: it saves them having to think.’
‘And why are you here?’
‘To give you whatever sparse information I can. It concerns Dominic O’Connor.’
‘Then thank you for coming in. You know enough about police work to realise that we’ll be glad of all the help available at this stage.’
Colin Davies wasn’t a man for small talk, which suited his listeners. ‘I haven’t retired. I operate in private security work. There’s plenty of work around for people like me, as you can no doubt appreciate from what you see. Dominic O’Connor had used my services in the past. He was about to use them again. I was due to see him today, with a view to resuming employment with him.’
‘So you’ve a good idea who killed him.’
A thin smile, a sharp shake of the head. ‘I can’t tell you who did that. I think I know why he wanted me back. I think he felt a threat, but I can’t guarantee that he was right. In other words, I can’t be sure that his death came from that source.’
‘We’ll be glad to have your information. We need your expert view on this.’ Peach wasn’t being ironic, as he might have been with some outsiders. This man knew his work and was no time-waster.
Davies relaxed a little as he realised he was being taken very seriously. ‘Any Irishman who has grown up in Eire and attained a prominent position is of interest to the provisional IRA. People here think that all danger has passed with the Sunningdale Agreement and subsequent settlements, but that isn’t so for all Irishmen. Both James and Dominic O’Connor were regarded as traitors by the extremists in the republican movement. I’d guarantee that both their deaths are being celebrated in Dublin and Belfast at this moment.’
It was Peach’s turn to shake his head. ‘Jim O’Connor was killed by a man employed by an industrial rival. We’re confident that we’ve arrested the right man.’
‘I accept that. And the same may be true of his brother. But it was my duty to inform you that action by the provisionals is at least a possibility.’
‘It was and we’re duly grateful. Can you give us any more detail?’
‘A little. The numbers of the provisionals are much diminished since the settlement. But as you would expect the ones who remain active are extremists. They haven’t forsworn violence; on the contrary, they constantly seek opportunities to use it. They argue that in taking revenge on people they think have let the Cause down, they are keeping the neutrals fearful and preparing for their final revolutionary push, which will secure a free Ireland without divisions. Dominic O’Connor was one of the people they thought had let the Cause down. He was sympathetic to their aims as a young man, but he rejected violence as a way of securing them. That meant that the more successful he became, the more prominent a target he made himself for revenge.’
‘And how exactly does this operate?’
‘They have five people, three in Ireland and two in this country, whom they actually title Avengers. Both the administrators and these men themselves seem to like that title, which they think adds drama and excitement to what many English people would see as mere terrorism, the brutal killing of innocent people.’
‘And Dominic O’Connor felt in danger from one of these men?’
‘That’s where this gets frustrating, for me and for you. I simply don’t know. I’d have found out today. When he used me a few months ago, he was protecting himself against threats from some of the people working around his brother Jim. They weren’t particularly close as brothers, as you may have discovered, and Jim operated in very shady circles. There’s evidence of that in the way he died. Four months ago, Dominic was afraid of the same sort of death. He also knew that both he and Jim were possible targets for the rump of the IRA provisionals. So he retained my services. I found out what I could for him and I stayed at his side for eight weeks. There was no threat to him during those weeks and he eventually decided that he could dispense with my services. Broadly speaking, I agreed with him. There is never no threat, but by the beginning of March it seemed minimal in this case.’
‘But he was about to re-engage you.’
‘It seems so. You may know of some threat from the people who killed his brother a few days earlier. Otherwise, I think he must have been thinking of the Irish danger.’
‘We’re investigating various other possibilities, but the one you’re talking about seems the strongest one of
all at this moment. We know the IRA people you’re talking about are fanatical killers.’
‘And trained and experienced as well. They’ve picked off seven people that we know about, over the last couple of years.’
Clyde Northcott had his notebook open. He now spoke, for the first time since he had been introduced to this slight, intense visitor. ‘You mentioned these men who style themselves avengers. Is there a particular one who operates in this area?’
‘They take turns, operating for a few months each to minimise the chances of discovery and arrest. They regard their killings as executions: they’re zealots operating on behalf of other fanatics, as you say. According to my information, the man shadowing targets in this area at the moment is a man named Patrick Riordan.’
Northcott made a note of the name and said in his deep voice, ‘Presumably he’s killed before.’
Davies nodded. ‘He’s been killing since the worst days of the conflict. That was in and around Belfast. But in recent years, he’s killed at least two people and probably more as an avenger. He’s a dangerous man with nothing to lose. You need to approach him with extreme care.’
Peach gave him a grim smile. ‘Unfortunately the system doesn’t allow us to employ you, Mr Davies. I should certainly do that, if it were possible.’
‘I can give you an address. He’ll bear no grudge against you, because you’ve no connection with the Irish conflict. That’s the theory, but men like him are volatile. He regards himself as a soldier with a right to protect himself when fighting for the Cause.’
Percy looked at the address Davies had scribbled on his desk pad. ‘Do we take an Armed Response Unit with us? That might escalate a simple interview into a major incident, putting innocent people at risk.’
‘It’s your call, but I think you’ve answered your own question. We know he’s killed, but we haven’t the evidence for an arrest. You might find that, if you can prove that he killed Dominic O’Connor. At present Riordan is officially an innocent citizen.’
They shook hands whilst Davies wished Peach luck. Two very different men were united for a moment by this danger from a man neither of them had ever seen.
The mortuary attendant had seen all kinds of reactions. This brittle control and near-giggling was unusual, but not unique.
He said, ‘Would you like a few minutes to compose yourself, Mrs O’Connor? I can rustle up a cup of tea in no time if you’d like to sit down.’
‘No. I’ll get it over with, I think. It’s only a formality, isn’t it?’
The mortuary man didn’t answer that and didn’t offer any further comment. He wasn’t the most imaginative of men; it didn’t pay him to be, in this job. He said, ‘We’ve completed all the forms now, apart from the final signature. You can go ahead whenever you’re ready, Mrs O’Connor.’
Ros nodded and moved quickly to the spot where he told her to stand. It was strange seeing the body paraded before her like this. So flat, so cold, so still. Quite solemn, but not frightening at all, really. They’d tidied him up very well; you could hardly see the line under his hair where they’d peeled the scalp back, and the sheet was well drawn up over his torso to conceal the cuts beneath it. There was still the death mark where the cable had bitten into his neck, but they’d done their best to disguise even that.
She took a long moment to look at what had once been her husband. It felt almost like an anti-climax. She found herself wishing that it could last a little longer. Then she said, ‘That’s him. That’s my late husband. That is Dominic Francis O’Connor. If you’ll show me the right place on the form, I’ll sign it now.’
Ros looked round into the solemn face of the man standing behind her and gave the little half-giggle he had already heard twice before. ‘It doesn’t take long, does it?’
THIRTEEN
Dominic O’Connor’s widow chose to meet them in the front part of the big late-Victorian house, even though the office at the rear was still cordoned off with the blue-and-white plastic ribbons which forbade entry to a scene of crime. Ros had the high red front door open as they arrived. Peach and Northcott could see down a long hall into the kitchen, where a variety of crockery and utensils lay on sink and units, waiting to be washed. They noted this, as they noted the coat flung carelessly over the banister of the stairs. CID officers acquire the habit of observation early in their careers.
Ros O’Connor saw these things also, but did not seem at all upset. ‘I’ve not got myself properly organised since this happened.’
Peach hastened to reassure her. ‘That’s entirely understandable in these circumstances. And it’s still only just after nine in the morning.’
‘That’s true and it’s nice of you to make excuses for me. Truth to tell, I’m a bit of a slut about the house. Dominic used to say that. Well, he did when we were younger and closer.’
She led them into a dining room which looked as if it had not been used for months and invited them to sit on the opposite side of the table from her. ‘There’s dust on this table, isn’t there? I really am a bit of a slut, you know. Mrs Rigby comes in to help me clean on Wednesdays, but I haven’t used her in here for ages.’ She sat down, then half stood again. ‘Do you want to see where Dominic died? It’s at the back of the house. I can easily-’
‘That isn’t necessary, thank you, Mrs O’Connor. It was Detective Sergeant Northcott and I who found him on Saturday.’
Her hand flew to her mouth. ‘Of course it was! I remember now. You must think me a very stupid woman!’
‘We don’t think anything of the sort, Mrs O’Connor. This is a time of great stress for you and we understand that. Now, I know that my wife saw you at your sister’s house in Settle on Saturday to break the news, but we need to ask you a few questions.’
‘Of course you do! I understand that. The spouse is always the first suspect, isn’t she, until you can clear her? John told me that.’
‘John?’
‘Oops! There I go again. John specifically told me he didn’t want to be involved in this, and I drag him in straight away. Well, it might be all for the best in the long run. I’m sure you’d have found out about the two of us sooner or later! You can call me Ros, by the way. I think I’d prefer you to do that.’
Peach wanted to tell her to calm down and listen quietly, but you had to be tactful in the face of what might be no more than a manifestation of grief. He slowed his own tone, hoping that she would take her rhythm from him. ‘A murder victim can’t speak for himself. We’d like to piece together Dominic’s last day, if we could.’
‘We were here in the morning. Dominic was working at home. We haven’t any children, you know. Dominic used to say that it might have kept us closer together if we’d had them, but I don’t know about that. I thought he might go up to Settle and see Jane with me, but he said he had a lot of work to do.’ She leaned forward confidentially. ‘Between you and me, I think Dominic used to find my nieces and nephew a bit of a trial. He wasn’t good with kids. Might have been different if we’d had our own, I suppose.’
Northcott opened his notebook, perhaps hoping that the gesture of formality would slow down this fluttering bird. ‘Can you tell us exactly what time you last saw him on Friday, Ros?’
She smiled at the big black man, so that Peach thought for a moment that she was going to compliment him on his appearance or his voice. Her small features were very animated, like a kitten’s when it is concentrating all its attention on playing with a ball. She frowned suddenly. ‘We had lunch together before I left. We didn’t talk a lot — I rather think Dominic read the paper for most of the time. That would be about one o’clock. I looked after him quite well as regards food, you know. So I’m not entirely a slut!’ She gave a gay little laugh which rang oddly in the unused room. ‘He said he was going to be busy, so I made him some sandwiches and left him a large orange and a flask of coffee. Oh, and a big piece of fruit cake: he was very fond of fruit cake.’
Northcott made a careful note of this, noticing how it
tallied with the pathologist’s report on the stomach contents. ‘Can you remember what time you left him during the afternoon?’
‘It must have been about three o’clock, I think. I know I was with Jane and the kids by around half past four.’
Peach tried to be as casual as he could. ‘So you finished your lunch at around half past one. When would you think Dominic would get round to eating this tempting and substantial cold meal you’d left ready for him?’
Her face creased in thought for a moment, then lit up as she felt able to help. ‘Almost certainly at around half past six, I should think. He loved sandwiches and fruit and cake — liked stuff like that much more than bigger meals, he said, because he could eat it wherever and whenever he fancied. And he liked to listen to The News Quiz, that programme on Radio Four, which is on after the six o’clock news. I reckon he’d almost certainly stop his work to listen to that and eat what I’d left for him at the same time. That was one of the ways he liked to relax.’
That would put the time of death at around nine: approximately two hours after he’d finished eating the sandwiches and fruit, the PM report had said. ‘Thank you. This is very useful for us; you’re helping us to piece together his last hours just as we hoped you would.’
‘That’s good, isn’t it? Perhaps I’m not such an airhead as I thought I was.’ She brushed a strand of blond hair away from her left eye and sat back in her chair, like a schoolgirl who has been congratulated on speaking well.
‘You mentioned John at the beginning of our conversation. Would that be John Alderson?’
Peach had thought she might bridle at the name, but she seemed quite pleased to have it set on the table between them. ‘You’ve been talking to other people, haven’t you? Who told you about John? Oh well, it doesn’t matter. I think it’s better that I tell you all about John, whatever he thinks.’
‘So do just that, please.’ Peach allowed himself a touch of acerbity. You had to make great allowances for grief, but he thought the widow might just be exploiting her position a little.
