by J M Gregson
‘Huh! You already have a man in custody for the murder of James O’Connor. The death of his younger brother is surely a connected crime.’
‘That is what we expected to find at first, sir. It appears more certain with each passing day that the second murder has no connection with the first. Dominic O’Connor was six years younger than James and by his own declaration had not much in common with his brother. He had a different circle of friends and business acquaintances. It is possible that there is a connection between the deaths, but we now think that unlikely.’
‘But you still admit it’s possible the deaths may have a connection. My experienced nose tells me that we should explore this first.’ He jutted the sensitive proboscis aggressively towards his junior. ‘So give me your connection, and let me be the judge of the matter.’
‘Patrick Riordan, sir.’
‘Eh? Who? An Irishman, by the sound of it.’
‘You go to the heart of the matter with your usual perspicacity, sir. Mr Riordan is a former IRA killer who was released from the Maze under the general amnesty, sir. He was a known zealot who cared little for his own safety at the height of the Troubles. Because of that, the security service thought it politic to keep tabs on him, long after the Sunningdale Agreement and the peace settlement which most people on both sides accepted thankfully.’
Tucker showed unusual excitement. ‘Dominic O’Connor was Irish, you know.’
‘Yes, sir. His name and the fact that he was the younger brother of a famous Irish international rugby player rather suggested that to us. He was planning to employ professional protection at the time of his death.’
‘Was he really? Well, it looks as if this Riordan fellow got there first, doesn’t it?’
‘It was because of that thought that DS Northcott and I journeyed to Moss Side, Manchester, to interview Riordan on Tuesday, sir. Our findings were summarised in the email I sent you on Wednesday. But you were indisposed on Wednesday sir, weren’t you? As indisposed as a newt, one might say. You probably didn’t get round to reading my report.’
‘So tell me now, Peach,’ directed Tucker, between teeth which were dangerously clenched.
‘Pat Riordan is still working for the unofficial IRA. He regards himself as an avenger. I think he even uses that as an official title. It summarises the work he undertakes. He hunts down men whom the IRA regards as traitors and dispatches them. He regards this as legitimate vengeance and he claims it will encourage others to heed the message and rally to the Cause.’
‘He’s a dangerous man, Peach. You need to handle him very carefully.’
‘I shall take note of that, sir.’ The adjectives blindin’, bleedin’ and obvious flashed in quick succession through his active brain. ‘Riordan was seen in a hire car in Brunton shortly before Dominic O’Connor was killed.’
‘Then you have him, Peach! Pull him in and charge him! I’m happy to have been of service to you in this.’
‘I expect you are, sir. Unfortunately, we need evidence. The CPS would never sanction a prosecution on what we have at present.’
‘Bloody lawyers, Peach! How much simpler our job would be without bloody lawyers!’
‘It would indeed, sir. However, in this case there is also the fact that neither DS Northcott nor I were convinced of the man’s guilt. The bullet through the head is much more the approved method of terrorist dispatch than garrotting with electrical cable. People like Riordan seem to favour the bullet as being the soldier’s method. But we haven’t ruled him out. We’re still seeking evidence.’
‘I can’t think you’ve got anyone else who’s as strong a bet as this man Riordan. However, I’m a fair man.’ He looked truculently at Peach, as if expecting him to debate that. ‘I’m willing to listen to whatever other suspects you may care to parade before me.’
‘Very well, sir. As you are aware, sir, Dominic O’Connor was, on all the evidence we have, the victim of a surprise attack from the rear. Because of that, his killer could well have been a woman.’
‘Ah! A cowardly attack from behind. Could well have been a woman, as you suggest, Percy.’
Peach didn’t like the return of his forename with this anti-feminist assertion, but he bore it manfully. ‘O’Connor was a womaniser, which has the effect of increasing the female field. The widow of his elder brother, Sarah O’Connor, is a definite possibility. She’s quite a looker and she’s one of her brother-in-law’s more notable conquests. As you know, Dominic O’Connor ended their affair abruptly. Sarah O’Connor is not the kind of woman who would calmly accept being cast aside by a lover. She drives a distinctive blue BMW Z4 sports car. Such a car was seen within a mile of Dominic O’Connor’s house at eight fifty-five on Friday night.’
Tucker nodded sagely, slipping into his elder statesman mode. ‘Devious creatures, women. More devious than men, in my experience.’
Percy wondered what half the world would make of this profound philosophical proposition. ‘It’s circumstantial, sir. No more than that. Sarah O’Connor denies that her car left its garage on that night.’
‘Pull her in and break her down is my advice.’ Tucker shook his head, firmly rather than sadly. ‘Devious creatures.’
‘She denies that she was anywhere near the scene of the crime on Friday and says she has no connection with this death. The victim was a former lover and no more than that, as far as the law is concerned. Unfortunately, we don’t have the registration number of the Z4 which was seen in the area — we have to accept the possibility that this was a totally different blue BMW.’
‘I’m directing you to keep an eye on the woman. That is my official order.’
‘Right, sir. Keep an eye on Sarah O’Connor, the deceased’s sister-in-law and former lover. Your overview is every bit as useful as ever it was.’
Irony wasn’t a strong suit for Tommy Bloody Tucker. He said sagely, ‘I’ve always found that women couldn’t be trusted.’
Percy said, ‘I’ve made a note of that for the female members of the CID section, sir. There are two other women to consider. Womanisers like Dominic O’Connor tend to leave a trail of female suspects behind them. His PA might have been sweet on him at one time.’
Tucker nodded, frowning with concentration. ‘Men often leap into bed with their secretaries, you know. You should bear that in mind.’
‘What a useful piece of know-how, sir. I’ll relay it to the whole team at my next briefing. In this case, it may be the lady’s association with a different man than O’Connor which has a greater bearing on the case.’
‘Another man? This woman must be a real harlot. That makes her a promising suspect, you know.’
Percy was silent for a moment, contemplating the idea of the trim and efficient Jean Parker as a harlot. Then he roused himself and explained, ‘Mrs Parker was formerly PA to Dominic O’Connor’s predecessor as head of the financial division at Morton Industries. A man by the name of Brian Jacobs. He moved elsewhere after a bitter dispute with O’Connor, who seems to have done the dirty on him in a successful pursuit of his job. Jacobs has been eminently successful with his new firm and we believe he now plans to regain his old post and possibly a partnership at Morton Industries.’
T B Tucker leaned forward. ‘This makes him a suspect, you know. Have you considered that?’
Percy cast his eyes mentally to heaven but maintained an attentive visage for his chief. ‘In our view, it brings both Jean Parker and Brian Jacobs into the frame, sir. Either separately or in collusion. She admits to being his mistress and it seems they intend to marry. Neither of them has a satisfactory alibi for the time of death.’
Chief Superintendent Tucker wrestled for a moment with these complex possibilities. But all he produced was, ‘It’s a Jewish name, you know, Jacobs.’
Percy wondered if the man was about to add anti-Semitism to his other prejudices. He said hastily, ‘I believe it is, sir, yes. Brian Jacobs seems to have established an excellent reputation in financial matters. We’ve interviewed him and w
hat emerged strongly was his almost pathological hatred of our murder victim. It is quite logical that he should dislike him, in view of what happened at Morton’s, but his bitterness goes well beyond the bounds of logic. It’s the kind of unbalanced hatred which often drives men to murder.’
‘They sound a thoroughly unsavoury pair, these two. You’re right to have them well in the frame.’
‘I shall bear in mind your informed opinion, sir. However, Mrs Parker and Mr Jacobs are not the only pair we have to consider.’
‘Really? This is getting very complicated. I expect you to be more efficient than this, you know.’
‘I do know, sir, yes.’ Percy heaved an extravagant sigh which was wasted on Tommy Bloody Tucker. He wanted to say that the number of suspects derived from the case itself, not the man investigating it, but he didn’t have that sort of time to waste on Tucker. He said dolefully, ‘We still haven’t spoken of Dominic O’Connor’s widow.’
‘Aaah!’ A long-drawn out exhalation of satisfaction from the head of Brunton CID. ‘The spouse is often the prime suspect in domestic crime, Peach. Did you know that?’
‘Yes, sir. It was pointed out to us in our first fortnight of police training. Several years before I entered CID.’
Irony was once again wasted on Thomas Bulstrode Tucker. He nodded his satisfaction and said, ‘You would do well to remember that.’ When this produced no reaction from his junior, he stared fiercely at the wall behind Peach and said resolutely, ‘Devious creatures, women. Unpredictable, in my experience.’
Percy resisted the temptation to explore the murky pool of Tucker’s experience with women. ‘This one is certainly unpredictable, I’d say. Even a little unbalanced, perhaps. But it’s difficult to say how much is genuine and how much is an act put on for us.’
‘I told you. Devious creatures.’ Tucker nodded his satisfaction at this immediate vindication of his conviction.
Percy wanted to say that humanity, or at least that section you met of it in CID work, seemed to be generally devious, that gender scarcely entered into the equation. But he hadn’t time to explore that philosophical avenue with the dense presence which was Tucker. ‘Ros O’Connor didn’t like her husband — probably with good reason, from everything we’ve heard about Dominic O’Connor from her and others.’
‘Don’t trust everything she says, Peach. She may well be devious.’
‘Thank you, sir. That possibility had occurred to us. That is why we’ve checked out her every movement around the time of her husband’s death.’
‘Good thinking, Peach.’ Tucker drummed his fingers on the desk, happy to have given a little praise where praise was due.
‘The body was discovered on Saturday afternoon by DS Northcott and myself. Because of variations in temperature from near-freezing during the night to around ninety degrees during the day, we can deduce little about the time of death from the state of the body or the progress of rigor mortis. However, the pathologist’s analysis of stomach contents tells us that O’Connor died approximately two hours after consuming a meal of sandwiches, cake and fruit. Ros O’Connor says that she left him with this meal in his study at the back of their house. His habit would be to eat it at around half past six, whilst listening to a favourite radio programme. That would mean that he was killed at some time during the evening, most probably between eight and ten o’clock.’
‘Clever chaps, these pathologists. They’re even prepared to stand up to the lawyers in court.’
This was clearly the highest proof of competence that Tucker could envisage. Percy had never seen his chief in court, but it must have happened, earlier in his chequered career. He shuddered at the thought of Tommy Bloody Tucker under cross-examination. ‘Ros O’Connor was with her sister in Settle from teatime onwards.’
‘Settle?’
Percy sighed again. ‘It’s a pleasant market town in the Yorkshire Dales, sir. About forty miles from the scene of the crime.’
‘Yes, yes, I know where Settle is, you idiot! I used to camp there as a boy scout, many years ago.’
Percy thrust away the insistent image of Tucker in khaki shorts and shirt, looking for his good deed of the day. ‘I see, sir. Part of the youthful experience which hardened you for your police career and taught you to be always so well prepared. The point of Settle for us is that it seems to give Mrs O’Connor a cast-iron alibi for the time of death.’
‘Then why on earth have you got her still in the frame? Why on earth are you wasting my time and yours by talking about her?’ Tucker thumped his desk violently to emphasise this unusual percipience on his part.
‘Because she may be an accessory to murder, sir.’
‘Ah! I told you she might well be devious, if you remember.’
‘I do remember, sir. It is one of the more consistent of your theories. Ros O’Connor has formed a serious association over the last few months with a man called John Alderson. I believe they were fellow parishioners at their local Catholic church, though Alderson seems to be rather sceptical about what he calls Holy Mother Church.’
‘They’ll be shagging each other.’ Tucker produced the crude word with relish, as if it might restore his status as a proper policeman. ‘That’s the modern way, you know. Leap into bed at the drop of a hat.’
‘Or even other, more intimate, garments, sir. I believe your surmise is correct. However, we are assured that this is not a casual affair but a more serious and long-term passion. The two seem attached to each other and make no secret of the fact that they now intend to get married, after a decent interval.’
‘Decent interval my arse!’ Tucker seemed to have acquired a sudden taste for vulgarity. ‘You grill this Alderson fellow, Peach. I’ve a feeling in my water that he might have done this. Where was he on Friday night?’
‘He claims that he was at home, sir. But he has no one who can substantiate that.’
‘There you are then! It’s almost an admission of guilt, don’t you think?’
Percy had a sudden, awful vision of Tucker as a JP, a sudden fleeting sympathy for the petty villains of the country whom he normally pursued so vigorously. ‘John Alderson lives at home. He knew that the woman who is to become his partner was away in Settle on Friday evening, sir. It means that he cannot easily establish his innocence, but not that he is indisputably guilty.’
Tucker stared at him, then nodded sadly. ‘Tricky thing, the law. Always found that. And the lawyers are a damned sight worse than tricky!’ He paused for a moment, hoping Peach would join him in the universal police whinge about lawyers. ‘I suppose we’ve got to gather more evidence before we put away this Alderson fellow.’
Percy noted the chief’s first use of the word ‘we’ but thought it no more than a rhetorical flourish as he anticipated an arrest. ‘We do know that the victim went to Alderson’s house on the morning of his death, sir.’
‘I told you! This looks to me like our man!’ Tucker was almost as pleased as if he had discovered this meeting for himself. Percy was almost reluctant to go on damning the man, but there was no alternative. ‘According to John Alderson’s account, Dominic O’Connor went there to warn him off his wife. He told him that he would make any divorce as difficult as possible, since both he and Ros were practising Catholics. He also said that he would deny Ros as much of his wealth as was humanly possible if they split up. Alderson says that he told him in effect to get knotted. He said that whatever O’Connor did wouldn’t make any difference to the way he and Ros felt about each other.’
Tucker could hardly wait for him to finish. ‘You can surely see what this means, Peach! It gives this man Alderson an even stronger motive. He got to O’Connor and killed him that very night, before he could implement any of these threats to impoverish his wife.’
‘I can surely see, sir, yes. I put that very thought to Alderson, about an hour ago.’
‘And how did he react?’
‘He reiterated his story that he hadn’t left his house on that night, sir.’
&nb
sp; ‘He would, you know, he would.’
‘Yes, sir. I appreciate that. But we still have to find the evidence to support your view that he’s guilty, before we can arrest him.’
‘Then you should get about it, Peach. Use all the resources of your team to secure the arrest of Alderson by the end of the weekend. Or the arrest of someone else, of course.’
Covering himself with that blanket injunction, T.B. Tucker departed majestically to the pleasures of his weekend, leaving DCI Peach to gather his frayed resources for an assault upon the crime face.
SEVENTEEN
Cafferty wasn’t important. He was just the driver. His skills might mean life or death for his passenger, but he wasn’t a soldier. He wasn’t fighting glorious battles for the Cause. He wouldn’t have the glory of this latest achievement. That would rightly go to the soldier.
Patrick Riordan’s thin chest swelled automatically with the vision of glory as the car moved swiftly through the city streets. The fight would go on until the vision was fully achieved and Ireland was freed for ever from the English yoke. The whole of Ireland, not just the present Eire. Those mealy mouthed politicians on both sides might think they’d made a settlement with their Sunningdale Agreement and all the subsequent climbdowns, but this period was no more than an interlude. The real Irishmen like him felt closer now to a united, independent Ireland than they’d been for centuries, and it would be men like him who would scale the last barriers. He would be one of the real patriots who achieved the final victory. His name would go down in Irish history.
He did not realise that it is the men with the ideas, not the soldiers who force them through, who go down in history. The men who for centuries have used people like Patrick Riordan never tell them that.
Pat had known tonight’s target well, thirty years and more ago. They’d grown up in the same Belfast suburb, attended the same primary and secondary schools. Fitzpatrick was six years older than him, so they hadn’t spoken much at school. ‘Fitz’ had been a hero of the rugby team, towering above all others in the line-outs, shrugging off tackles, forcing his way over the try-line with lesser bodies clinging ineffectively around his shoulders. Schoolboys remembered that kind of picture long after others had been forgotten.
