by J M Gregson
Eventually, Peach said grimly, ‘Mr Capstick appears to have been a man with a number of formidable enemies.’
Helen Capstick didn’t hurry her reply, even after the delay her hospitality had ensured. Her hair was an unusual colour, a bronze which shone as if it had been burnished; it was so beautifully cut and set that it was difficult to tell whether the colour was natural to her or not. She had bright blue eyes, which studied her visitors as keenly as if they and not she were the subject of investigation. She said, ‘I would expect anyone with Jim’s business ventures and successes to have enemies. I have no doubt that he fished in some fairly murky ponds at times, but I took care to know as little as possible about his businesses. He preferred it that way and I was happy to accept it.’
‘You’re saying that you can’t imagine who could possibly have killed him last night.’ Peach let a little of his irritation show even as he took his first sip of the tea provided for him.
‘No. You’re saying that Jim was murdered, then?’ She did not seem to be outraged or even surprised by the word. She seemed almost as if she was joining in a game with them, for amusement played about her lips.
Peach said stiffly, ‘We are treating this as a suspicious death. That means that the possibility of murder must be investigated.’
‘Or even the probability. Mr Peach, let’s not waste any more time. I think that someone killed Jim last night. The place where he died and the people who were there suggest to me that it was almost certainly someone with a connection with Brunton Rovers Football Club who killed him.’ The language was formal, but as Helen Capstick became more animated, there was just a trace of a Birmingham accent, which came surprisingly from these sophisticated lips.
‘There are other possibilities. As you have declared yourself, a successful man in the areas where Mr Capstick operated makes enemies. It is entirely possible that one such enemy might have employed a contract killer to kill him at Grafton Park, precisely because that environment would divert suspicion from the real source of this attack.’
‘It is entirely possible, as you say. I had not considered such an explanation before, because of the announcement which preceded Jim’s death last night. But I am sure that Wally Boyd, the man my husband chose to employ as a chauffeur, also operated as his bodyguard. He was not with him last night, of course.’
She could not prevent her dislike for the man coming out in the way she spoke, so that Peach was emboldened to add, ‘And no doubt Mr Boyd acted as a general factotum and gatherer of information for Mr Capstick.’
‘Possibly. I haven’t bothered to speculate about Wally Boyd’s duties: I doubt whether you would find all of them in his job description.’ Again her coolness, even contempt, for the man edged through the calm phrases. Peach did not expect that Mr Boyd would remain much longer on the Capstick staff; he moved him a little higher on his mental list of people to be interviewed.
‘Mrs Capstick, you have just indicated that you think your husband’s death was probably a direct result of an announcement he made last night. Please now give us your account of that announcement and the reaction of yourself and other people to it.’
She accorded him the measured, patronizing smile he had already seen. ‘I’m sure Mr Pearson has already given you his account of that.’
The manner of speech can be as revealing as the content: Peach divined in that moment that this woman had no great liking for Darren Pearson as well as Wally Boyd. ‘He has indeed, Mrs Capstick. Quite a vivid account, as a matter of fact. But now we should like to hear how you heard and saw the scene.’
She made a real effort to control her irritation and retain her coolness, well aware that this was necessary if she wanted to give as little as possible away. ‘It wasn’t the right time to do it, but Jim said that it had to be done then and he was probably right. The newspapers were on to him and were preparing their headlines; it was better that the people concerned got the news from him than from them. Everyone was full of excitement in the hospitality suite, especially after the Liverpool board members had gone and we could let our hair down a bit. It was when the noise was at its height that Jim stopped things and told us that he was planning to sell the club.’
‘Did you know about what he was going to say beforehand?’
‘No. That may seem strange to you, but it wouldn’t if you’d known Jim Capstick. My husband always played his cards very close to his chest. He was probably right to do so. The fewer people who know about these things before they have to, the better, he thought, and I’m sure he was right.’
‘I’m surprised that you didn’t know, though. I’d have thought that with you there alongside him supporting the team, he’d have given you at least a hint of what he was going to say in the evening.’
‘Well, he didn’t. And I think I’m happy that he didn’t. I’d have felt a hypocrite sitting through the match with people like Debbie Black and Edward Lanchester if I’d known that Jim was planning to sell the club.’
‘So how did these people and the others there receive the news when Mr Capstick eventually announced it?’
She paused again, measuring her reply. Peach and Blake could not tell from her manner whether she was merely considering the question or planning to conceal something from them. ‘I think the predominant feeling was one of shock. One or two people, like Darren Pearson, must have had some notion that Jim was considering a sale, but I think even they were surprised by the speed at which things had moved on.’
‘What did you say when you heard the news?’
‘I don’t remember saying anything. Oh, yes I do. I listened to several other people like Edward Lanchester and Darren Pearson voicing their concerns about the takeover. Then I asked if we could know who it was who was going to be the new owner of our club.’
‘Why did you ask that?’
Again there was the irksome little pause as she gathered her thoughts. ‘To be honest, I’m not quite sure. It wasn’t going to make a lot of difference to me. In that I was sure Jim would be selling at a profit and making a shrewd business decision, this was probably in my best interests. But we’d had a heady afternoon and a famous Brunton Rovers victory and I felt close to the people in the room. To be quite honest, I think I wanted them to be aware that I had known nothing of Jim’s decision until it was announced a few minutes earlier. It sounds stupid and immature, but I think that was why I asked my question. I was as shocked as everyone else, and I wanted everyone in the room to know that.’
‘So who do you think killed Mr Capstick?’
For the first time, she lost some of her coolness. ‘I’ve no bloody idea!’ She transferred her glittering gaze from Peach to Lucy Blake and her ball-pen poised over her notebook. ‘And for your records, young lady, I loved Jim and I want you to arrest the person who did this as quickly as possible.’
Peach spoke more quietly. ‘Mrs Capstick, I spoke earlier of contract killers and the possibility that one of them might have been hired in this instance. I was reminding myself as well as you that we have to consider all possibilities. It is a highly unlikely possibility in this case. It is neither the usual method nor a typical setting for such a killing. Hit men prefer the bullet and the anonymity of city streets. Moreover, it would be a huge coincidence if such a man chose the very moment when his victim had made an unpopular announcement and given him a collection of alternative suspects. The probability is that the person who killed Mr Capstick was someone who was in the room with you when you heard about the sale of Brunton Rovers.’
Helen Capstick too was quieter as she replied to him. She suddenly looked as drawn and strained as they would have expected at the outset. ‘I had worked out as much for myself.’
‘You knew the victim better than anyone else in that room last night. Which of them do you think it was who killed him?’
A small, weary smile. ‘I’ve been asking myself that since I heard the news from Mr Pearson this morning. I knew all about my husband, as you say. But most of the people i
n that room I hardly knew. I’ve been through them: they’re a varied bunch, but I can’t imagine any of them committing murder.’
Peach stared steadily at her, looking for further fissures in the carapace of her composure. ‘We need an account of your movements last night. We shall be asking everyone else for a similar account.’
‘And one of them will tell you lies.’
‘Perhaps more than one. They will be most unwise to do so. Secrets rarely survive a murder investigation.’
She looked at him sharply. ‘Jim left the hospitality suite shortly after his announcement. He said he was going up to his office and he obviously did that. There was a lot of discussion of the takeover and what it would mean to the present employees of the club. I felt embarrassed because I didn’t believe that I should be part of that. I tried to convince them that I’d had as little warning as they’d had of the news. But after that, I left as quickly as I decently could. I didn’t look at the clock, but I’d guess that was about half an hour after Jim.’
Lucy Blake said gently, ‘We need the details of your movements during the rest of the evening, Mrs Capstick.’
She looked at the younger woman with distaste, then deliberately away from her and past her to summon concentration. ‘I went out to my car and drove home. I stayed there for the rest of the evening.’
Peach studied her carefully and without embarrassment. ‘You didn’t come to the ground with your husband?’
‘No. I used my own car.’ A small, mirthless smile. ‘We rarely travelled together. We usually seemed to have different agendas. This occasion was patently no exception to that.’
‘You didn’t go out again during the evening?’
‘No. I’ve just told you I didn’t.’
‘Can anyone confirm this for us?’
‘I don’t think so. The domestic staff come in during the day rather than occupy the service flat. I prefer it that way.’
‘You mentioned a chauffeur. I think he was the man who let us in today.’
‘Yes. Wally Boyd. He’s my husband’s man. He has his own self-contained flat over the garage. I doubt whether he’ll be able to vouch for me. I don’t even know whether he was in or out last night. It was Jim who told him when he was required and when he could have time off.’
‘I need you to think again about the people you were with in the hospitality suite at Grafton Park. Do you recall any reaction, anything said, which now seems significant in view of what happened to your husband later?’
‘No. I’ll go on thinking and let you know if I do.’
She saw them off the premises personally, remaining at the door of the big house until their car disappeared, as if it was important to her to confirm that they had really left.
FIFTEEN
‘We can’t stay long, Mum.’
‘That’s a fine way to introduce yourselves!’ said Agnes Blake with dignity.
Lucy led the two men of such contrasting appearance into the cottage behind her and gestured to Percy Peach to take over. ‘I’m afraid she’s right, Mrs B,’ said Percy regretfully. ‘We’ve a murder on our patch and it’s all CID hands to the pumps at the moment. Well, apart from the hands of Tommy Bloody Tucker, anyway.’
‘I heard about it on the news. The owner of Brunton Rovers. This man Capstick who bought the club three years ago. They said three years on the news. It hardly seems that long ago to me.’
‘This is Clyde Northcott, Mum,’ said Lucy Blake rather desperately.
The DC held himself very erect, so that he looked even taller than his six feet three in the low-ceilinged cottage. He was wearing a polo-necked white shirt, which set off his blackness and made it even more uncompromising. His hair was cut very short, seeming to emphasize the lack of flesh on his features and make his high cheek bones even more prominent. He bent a little from the waist and offered his hand to his hostess, so that Lucy was reminded ridiculously for a moment of Jane Austen and Regency bucks in the pump room at Bath.
Clyde said, in his deep voice, with its traces of the Lancashire where he had lived the whole of his life, ‘Delighted to meet you, Mrs Blake. Lucy has told me lots about you.’
‘And I’m delighted to see you at last, young man.’ She held his big hand in her small ones and shook it vigorously.
‘Clyde Northcott is the man to have beside you if you get into a pub fight,’ explained Percy Peach helpfully. ‘That’s his function in our team, you see. He’s what we call a hard bastard. Excuse my language, Mrs B, but that’s a technical police term. Clyde will be very useful if we have any punch-ups at the reception after the wedding.’
‘Go on with you, Percy Peach!’ Agnes giggled delightedly. ‘I expect he’s a good boss to you, isn’t he?’ she asked Northcott.
It was the first time Lucy Blake had ever seen her junior colleague embarrassed. He looked at every face in the room in turn, then bent his head low towards the old lady’s ear. ‘I might be on the other side of the law without him, Mrs Blake. I was keeping bad company when he first knew me.’
‘And we can’t have hard bastards on the wrong side, you see, Mrs B,’ said Percy breezily.
‘Better to have him in your tent pissing out than outside pissing in? I believe that’s the expression. Pardon my language, but I believe it was some American President – they don’t have our standards, you know.’
There were three seconds of shocked silence which delighted Agnes Blake. Then Clyde Northcott said with a dazzling smile, ‘I think you and me’s going to get along just fine, Mrs Blake!’
‘Oh, I do hope so, Clyde. We’ll need to keep these two lovebirds in order on their big day, you see. They’ll be billing and cooing all over the place. It will be up to us to keep things moving along on schedule.’
The notion of Percy Peach billing and cooing was an appealing one to Clyde Northcott, but he took care not to catch his DCI’s eye. Instead, he nodded seriously at his diminutive new friend. ‘I’ve already gathered one or two interesting stories about the bridegroom for my speech. I might like to run them past you in private some time in the next week or two.’
‘And I can give you one or two embarrassing episodes from the bride’s childhood, if you need a few cheap laughs.’ Agnes giggled again, this time in delighted anticipation.
‘Mother, you’re not to—’
‘Time we were on our way, I’m afraid,’ said Peach hastily. ‘We have a murder to attend to, as I said.’
‘What about next Thursday night, Clyde?’ said Agnes. She looked with some disdain at the daughter and putative son-in-law who had thought she might be dismayed to have this impressive black figure as the best man. ‘I work at the supermarket until eight, but you could meet me there. I’d like to introduce you to a few of my friends.’
‘Thursday’s good, Mrs Blake. I could perhaps take you to the pub and sort out the details of the young people’s big day.’ Clyde Northcott, who was five years younger than Lucy and fifteen years younger than Percy, gazed over their heads with impressive maturity.
Agnes Blake looked up at the smooth features of her new black Adonis. ‘You don’t play cricket, do you, Clyde?’
Monday morning. The phone rang almost incessantly in Darren Pearson’s office, as journalists and broadcasters sought desperately for a quote on the sensational demise of the colourful chairman-owner of Brunton Rovers. ‘Colourful’ was the most popular epithet in the days after his passing, when death demanded a certain circumspection. James Capstick would revert again to ‘controversial’ in a week or so.
In the room Pearson had allocated to the police investigators, the club’s football manager, Robbie Black, was being interviewed by Peach and Blake.
He was nervous. They noted it, but did not as yet attach any particular significance to it. People involved in the investigation of murder were anxious for all sorts of reasons, many of them entirely innocent and understandable. Black was a man who relied for his reputation and his work principally upon his physical prowess and coaching ability ra
ther than any facility with words. He had become a household name and an international footballer through his skills in controlling and manipulating a football. As a manager and coach, his principal duties were to perceive and develop those skills in the men within his charge. Men like Robbie Black often felt at a disadvantage under questioning, feeling rightly or wrongly that their ability to frame replies did not match the questioning of experienced interviewers.
They took him through the events of the previous Saturday. He was eloquent about the game itself and the way it had evolved, still excited despite himself by his players, especially Ashley Greenhalgh, by the team’s success and his own role in achieving it. When they moved forward to Jim Capstick’s announcement in the hospitality suite and the reactions to it, he was immediately less forthcoming, more suspicious of where the CID questioning might be leading him.
‘I didna get up there until quite late, ye ken. I like to stay with my team while they wind down, whilst they shower and dress. I usually stay until most of them leave.’ He gave a grim little smile as he allowed them into an area he usually protected from the public. ‘When we’ve lost, there can be arguments, even punch-ups if you don’t control things. People think we’re all buddies together, but it’s like any other job – we don’t always get on with those we have to work with.’
‘But you didn’t have to deal with any of that on Saturday.’
‘No. Things are usually fine when we’ve won. And Saturday was our best win of the season.’ Again the professional pride in the achievement burst through the jacket of caution he had adopted.
