Only a Game

by J M Gregson

  ‘I’m sure that would be useful to you. You will no doubt be speaking to the other people who were there. If I give you the facts, you can gather other people’s impressions in due course.’

  ‘The facts are always a useful starting point, I find. We shall also require your impressions, as well as those of others. The way in which people’s impressions of what happened vary is often revealing.’

  It sounded like a warning, but if he registered it as such, Pearson showed no discomfort. He embarked carefully on phrases he seemed to have prepared. ‘Mr Capstick was a powerful man, as I’m sure you already know. He was a considerate employer, so long as you operated efficiently.’ He paused for a moment. ‘He had his own agenda, which wasn’t always going to be acceptable to the people he worked with.’

  ‘You mean he was ruthless in the pursuit of his own interests.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose I do. I’m not saying that—’

  ‘It’s not unusual for successful tycoons to be ruthless. I presume you would agree that your late employer was a tycoon?’

  ‘Yes, he was certainly that.’

  ‘Then I think you should press on and tell us what recent action of his it was which seemed to you particularly ruthless.’

  Pearson was a little ruffled to be shaken out of his measured revelation, as Peach had intended him to be. He said bluntly, almost resentfully, ‘He was planning to sell the club.’

  Peach glanced at Blake, who took up the questioning smoothly but less aggressively, ‘How long had you known about this, Mr Pearson?’

  ‘Mr Capstick gave me the first intimation of it just over a week ago. I had to know that a change of ownership was in the offing, you see, because I had to give instructions for confidential information about the finances of the club to be released to the representatives of the putative purchaser.’

  ‘How many other people knew about this?’

  For the first time, Pearson did not have his reply ready. He gave every appearance of trying to be as honest and informative as possible. ‘No one except me, officially, until last night.’

  ‘Officially?’ Lucy Blake raised the eyebrows beneath the dark red hair beguilingly and brought the first, vestigial smile from her now apprehensive informant. ‘It’s almost impossible to keep these things completely confidential, once the operation of what is called “due diligence” begins. Our chairman of thirty years ago, Edward Lanchester, had picked up a rumour from somewhere and quizzed me about it. He’s a shrewd old bird, Mr Lanchester,’ Pearson added, with what seemed genuine affection.

  It was at this stage that Percy Peach, black moustache bristling suspiciously beneath the shining bald head, took up the questioning again. ‘And who else had picked up on rumours?’

  ‘Robbie Black, our manager, saw the financial men in here last week. He sensed something was in the wind, but he knew nothing definite, any more than the rest of us, until last night.’

  ‘And what happened then?’

  Pearson paused, making himself take his time, wary of making a mistake in this key revelation. He knew other people were going to be questioned about this. It was important to him that he now conveyed every impression of honesty. ‘It was a strange occasion. Everyone connected with the club was euphoric about the victory over Liverpool yesterday afternoon.’

  Percy remembered his own almost childish delight, as he had lingered in his seat after the final whistle to savour the triumph. ‘You mean even level-headed people like the chief executive of the club?’

  This time Darren Pearson’s grin was genuine, a recognition of the delight of a fellow-supporter. ‘Particularly the chief executive, Detective Chief Inspector Peach.’ He was amused for a moment by the parallel titles. ‘I am Brunton born and bred, so I’m always elated by a victory, especially over someone like Liverpool. If you want a more rational, hard-headed explanation, yesterday’s victory almost guarantees our continued participation in the Premiership, which as you know means many millions of pounds to us.’

  ‘So everyone was very excited. Hardly the right moment for Jim Capstick to throw a spanner into the works, was it?’

  Darren Pearson was silent for a moment. ‘It wasn’t, but I don’t blame Mr Capstick for that. Rumours were already circulating and in those circumstances all sorts of wild stories gain currency. It was better to have the facts out in the open, however unpalatable they might be for some of us.’

  Lucy Blake looked up from her notes. ‘You had better tell us exactly what happened. Remember that we know nothing at the moment, either about the detail of these events or the people involved.’

  ‘I’m not sure I wish to comment on other people’s feelings. I was concerned with the way the announcement was going to affect me personally at the time, not with what others thought.’

  Peach said sternly, ‘Within a few hours of revealing this news, Jim Capstick was dead. Almost certainly murdered. It must surely have occurred to you that the two events might be connected.’

  ‘I’m not sure I’ve done much thinking. I dressed and rushed down here as soon as I got the news. Since then, I’ve had to try to calm the woman who found him, accommodate your scene of crime team, provide facilities for you, and try to formulate some official statement for the media. I’ve not had much time to digest what has happened and think rationally about it.’

  ‘I accept that. But you will see that we need an account of exactly what happened last night, as a starting point for an investigation. We shan’t declare this a murder until we have the proper confirmation, but the three of us here know already that it is murder that we are dealing with. There must be a strong possibility that it was one of the people who heard Mr Capstick’s announcement that he was planning to sell the club who despatched him later in the evening.’

  Darren Pearson’s taut face had an unhealthy pallor. Tension was a natural enough reaction to the events of his morning, but Peach wondered whether there was also anxiety that he did not give away too much of himself and his own feelings. ‘I’ll tell it as accurately as I can. Other people may remember it differently.’

  ‘Of course. And the differences may well be entirely innocent. But they will be of interest to us, as we try to find how Capstick died.’

  Pearson swallowed hard; it seemed to cost him a considerable effort to do so. ‘If you were at the match, Mr Peach, you’ll realize how excited everyone was at the conclusion of it. But it’s rather a peculiar atmosphere for the directors and other people who are invited into the hospitality suite afterwards. You have the corresponding dignitaries from the visiting club to entertain, which means you have to control your natural elation.’

  ‘You mustn’t appear to crow.’

  ‘Something like that. Very British, no doubt, but it doesn’t seem sporting to be too euphoric when the people you are supposed to be entertaining are cast down by defeat. There was a sort of contained excitement, with people not wanting to show their feelings too openly.’

  ‘Whilst you waited patiently for your visitors to leave.’

  ‘Exactly that, yes. No one acknowledged it, but I think that was precisely what we were waiting for.’ Pearson allowed himself a small smile, his first for many minutes, in his relief that Peach recognized the situation. ‘Fortunately, the visitors don’t usually hang around for too long in these situations. Yesterday’s was an important defeat for Liverpool, as well as an important victory for us. We do have a reputation for good food here – our apple pie is talked of all over the country – but I think our visitors were quite anxious to get away and lick their wounds.’

  ‘And Jim Capstick dropped his bombshell as soon as they had gone?’

  ‘Yes. And bombshell is what it was. Even those who had some idea that a takeover might be a possibility had no idea that things had gone as far as they had. As a matter of fact, even Mrs Capstick seemed to be taken aback by the news. She might have been pretending that she had no prior knowledge of it, I suppose, but I don’t think so. She seemed more surprised by it than some of th
e rest of us who had an inkling of what was in the offing.’

  ‘Did anyone offer any argument against the sale of the club?’

  Pearson smiled fondly at his recollection. ‘Edmund Lanchester did. He spoke up strongly against it, tried to point out that a football club shouldn’t be treated in exactly the same way as any other business asset.’ Pearson smiled fondly as he remembered the old man’s sturdy opposition. ‘He didn’t get any change out of Capstick. You wouldn’t have expected him to, if you’d known the man.’

  ‘As you did.’

  ‘Better than most, I suppose.’

  ‘Did you say anything yourself?’

  ‘Yes. I’m not sure why, because I must have known it would have no effect. Someone – I think it was probably Debbie Black, our manager’s wife – tried to point out that the football club affected the whole town, not just the people who owned it. Capstick said that he didn’t care about them and I pointed out that we cared about them every time we needed their backing, that we expected them to come through the turnstiles and support our team. I believe I said there just wouldn’t be occasions like the memorable victory over Liverpool we’d just enjoyed without the people of the area coming into the ground to support us.’

  ‘And what was his reaction?’

  ‘It was in effect a threat to me. He said that he’d have to take account of my attitude when he considered whether to recommend the existing staff to the new owner.’ Pearson watched Lucy Blake’s ball-pen speeding over her notebook and said wryly, ‘I’ve just given myself a motive, haven’t I?’

  ‘Much better to be honest, I assure you, Mr Pearson,’ said Peach breezily. ‘No doubt someone else would have reported these things to us, if you had concealed them. And it seems to me that most people listening to Jim Capstick’s announcement had a motive. I don’t suppose the prospect of a change of ownership was welcomed by many people.’

  ‘That is correct. Even the team manager, Robbie Black, spoke up against it. He’s a Scotsman who usually thinks carefully before he chooses to speak. But he was pretty bitter about how much connection with football the new owners might have – how much knowledge of the game or what it meant to the people of Brunton. I suppose he felt threatened, like the rest of us.’

  ‘Can you recall anyone else reacting strongly to the news?’

  Pearson thought for a moment before shaking his head. ‘No. There was a hubbub of noise, and more confusion than I’ve indicated. But I can’t recall any more of what was said. Edward Lanchester was pretty vehement, but that’s what you’d expect. He’s got a lot of respect and standing in the town, having been around for such a long time and been chairman himself in a different era. And unlike most of the rest of us, he also had nothing to lose by speaking up forcefully.’

  ‘So who do you think it was who went up there and garrotted Capstick?’

  The sudden rawness of the challenge made Darren Pearson gasp. He wondered if it was a CID tactic or just a characteristic of Peach to be so forthright. He said as firmly as he could, ‘I’ve no idea. I’ve told you all I can.’

  ‘For which we thank you, Mr Pearson. If anything else, however trivial, occurs to you, please get in touch immediately.’ DCI Peach stood up and placed his card on the desk Pearson had chosen not to use. ‘Thank you for providing us with a useful beginning. We shall no doubt need to have further words with you in due course.’

  He made the routine conclusion sound like a warning.

  FOURTEEN

  It had been a long, hard winter, the worst for twenty years. But Spring had now definitely arrived. The crocus had finished, the daffodils were in full bloom, the tulips were in bud. It was a perfect early April day in north-east Lancashire. The clouds flew swift and high against blue sky over Pendle Hill and the greater heights of Ingleborough and Pen-y-Ghent away to the north. On the golf courses, the fairways had been mown and there was the first faint whiff of new-mown grass and summer promise in the air.

  Percy Peach wondered whether his chief’s colourful dress was an attempt to herald the spring or a reaction against the more sober colours he felt were demanded of him at Brunton police station. Either way, it was a mistake.

  Thomas Bulstrode Tucker was a parakeet among the dull crows of the Lancashire landscape. Indeed, a large crow was regarding the chief superintendent with some distaste when Percy located him on the twelfth hole of Brunton Golf Course at eleven o’clock on Sunday morning. Tucker wore a sweater which was the colour of bright mustard and plus twos in the brightest scarlet Peach had witnessed. The knee-length stockings which were obligatory with plus twos were in a shade of lemon which was a pale shadow of the sweater above it. They had a spectacular spattering of mud which testified to the wearer’s erratic progress on the eleven holes so far completed.

  Peach watched his leader’s club hit the ground two inches behind his ball and dispatch it a disappointing thirty yards nearer to the green. The effort soiled further the player’s muddied calves. ‘Bad luck, sir,’ Percy called sympathetically, as Tucker removed the worst deposits of mud from his person and slammed his club violently back into his golf bag. ‘Our fairways will be a bit drier at the North Lancs, I imagine.’

  It was a source of continuing frustration to Tucker that his applications to join the more prestigious and demanding North Lancashire Golf Club had been repeatedly rejected on the grounds of his lowly prowess in the game, whilst Peach’s application had been immediately successful. He whirled upon this unexpected interruption of his game. ‘What the hell do you want, Peach?’

  ‘And a good morning to you too, sir,’ returned his chief inspector cheerfully. ‘Supporting Watford are we this year, sir?’

  ‘Watford?’ Tucker assumed the air of blank incomprehension which Percy always found appealing.

  ‘The colours, sir. Very near to Watford football team’s distinctive strip, I’d say. They’re struggling a little in the Championship this year, I believe.’

  ‘Say what you’ve come to say and stop spoiling my day!’ ordered Tucker as he glared with parallel malevolence first at Peach and then at his ball, which they were rapidly approaching.

  ‘We have a murder, sir. A suspicious death, at the moment. But the SOCO officer and I are both satisfied that this is a homicide, though we await the official confirmation.’

  ‘We are treating the death as suspicious,’ Tucker muttered, rehearsing his official reply to all press and media enquiries. Then, with controlled aggression, ‘Why are you interrupting my weekend with this?’

  ‘Because you demanded that you should be informed immediately of all high-profile crime on our patch, sir,’ said Peach, with equally controlled reasonableness.

  Tucker aimed a desperate lunge at his golf ball, with predictable results: the ball sliced high and right and disappeared into a hawthorn hedge at the edge of the course. He wheeled on Peach with predictable fury. ‘What the hell do you expect me to do about it?’

  ‘Well, you could try turning your shoulders rather more and swinging more slowly,’ said Peach thoughtfully.

  ‘Not the bloody golf ball, you fool, the suspicious death!’ shouted Tucker, exciting the interest of a four-ball match on the adjoining fairway. ‘Some Saturday night brawl outside a pub, was it?’

  ‘Very perceptive about the time, sir. Yet to be firmly established, but the SOCO officer and I are already quite certain that the death took place last night, sir. I expect it’s your well-known overview of the crime scene which gives you these insights.’ Tucker was now risking further damage to his lurid apparel by thrashing a club desperately within the hawthorns in search of his ball. Peach watched with interest before saying sympathetically, ‘You might have to mount a full-scale CID operation to hunt down that one, I’d say, sir.’

  ‘Look, you’ve done what you came here for. Informed me of some low-profile death and ruined my game into the bargain! I think it’s high time you were on your way, Peach.’

  Percy pursed his lips and shook his head slowly. ‘Not low-profile, t
his one, sir. Not in my opinion. It’s the chairman and owner of Brunton Rovers, sir. One James Capstick. Thought you ought to know, sir. By the way, your ball is three yards right of where you’re looking and in the ditch, sir.’

  It was a very grand modern house, with a service flat attached and what looked like more accommodation over the garage. It had an acre of immaculately tended garden. Daffodils in full bloom flanked the winding drive to the front of the house, and the first double red blooms were opening on the camellias which climbed on each side of the door.

  Rather to their surprise, it was a man who opened the door to DCI Peach and DS Blake. He was a powerful figure, with broad shoulders and watchful, deep-set eyes in a square face. He recognized them as police before they could announce themselves and said, ‘I’m Walter Boyd, Mr Capstick’s chauffeur. Mrs Capstick is waiting for you in the drawing room.’

  It was a long, elegant room, with two large windows which looked across a sweep of lawn to the budding azaleas and laburnums in the border at the end of it. There was a grand piano in the corner of the room and what looked like a very expensive hi-fi system alongside it. The chaise longue at the other end of the room looked highly elegant but extremely uncomfortable; Lucy Blake guessed that people rarely sat upon it. There was ample and more comfortable-looking furniture in the easy chairs and sofas which sat upon a huge Persian carpet and occupied most of the rest of the room. The CID officers took two of the easy chairs at the invitation of the woman who had risen to greet them. She did not ask them if they wished for refreshment, but a moment later, a middle-aged maid brought in a silver tray with tea and cakes upon it.

  Percy Peach made his customary apologies for intruding upon a grieving widow so soon after her husband’s death, but he felt rather as though he was uttering stage lines in a comedy of manners. The air of artificiality was increased by the fact that the central figure in the scene did not seem to be devastated with grief. She poured the tea into the china cups with a steady hand and set them upon small tables beside each chair, then offered them plates and cakes. In all this time, they could not begin the questioning which was the occasion of their visit. It seemed that Helen Capstick and not Peach was dictating the pace of the action.