by J M Gregson
‘Mr George French? I am Detective Sergeant Northcott and this is Detective Chief Inspector Peach. We’d like a word with you.’
The man eyed them up and down with curiosity but without apparent fear. ‘You’d better come inside.’ He looked for a moment at the police Mondeo at his gates before he turned away from them, for all the world like a suburban householder who was worried that a police vehicle left there for any length of time would excite speculation amongst his neighbours. He led the way into a small, immaculate sitting room and gestured towards the sofa, whilst he took one of the armchairs in the comfortable, slightly old-fashioned three-piece suite.
Peach looked round unhurriedly, sizing up the lean man with the blue-grey eyes deep-sunk in his sallow cheeks. It was those deep-set eyes which made him look a little older than the highly fit man he actually was. His shoulders were narrow, but his frame was wiry and carried no surplus weight. His hair was cut quite short, but not cropped; it took a keen eye to detect the few strands of grey in it. Around thirty-six, Peach decided. And in this setting, expertly camouflaged.
Percy gave a few seconds to each of the two original art works on the wall before he said, ‘Business good, is it?’
George French looked at him steadily. An ordinary citizen in his own home would have asked them what they were about by now, but he was content to let them make the running; it was his habit to reveal nothing of himself until he chose to. ‘Business comes and goes, for a consultant engineer. But it’s good enough, yes. I have been divorced for seven years now and I have only myself to think of. I collect enough commissions to avoid working for a monthly wage. I like to be my own master.’
Peach gave him a broad smile, then rocked to and fro very thoughtfully upon the sofa, seemingly moved by some private mirth. ‘Consultant engineer, eh? Well, it’s as good a cover as any. I expect you’ve even got an engineering qualification, if we go back far enough. I expect you could even provide us with details of some of the work you’ve undertaken in the last year, if push came to shove. So I won’t waste my time and yours: you probably have plenty, but we’ve got villains to lock away, haven’t we, DS Northcott?’ Peach glanced not at his sergeant but through the wide double-glazed window at the row of neat dwellings. ‘You’re posing here as a model citizen, Mr French. Shouldn’t the pose include morning coffee and biscuits for your unexpected but welcome visitors?’
‘I don’t offer hospitality to strangers who insult me in my own home. I think you should state your business and then be on your way.’
But Peach, despite his assurance that their time was valuable, was playing this slowly. He had only one telling fact at his disposal and he would reserve it for a little while longer. Even men as cool and apparently unshakeable as this one could become nervous, if you delayed your strike. ‘You must feel honoured to have such high-ranking CID men in what you would no doubt call your humble abode. Your name and address were given to us by someone of even higher rank in the Greater Manchester police. You’ve excited their interest, you see, and they’re keeping an eye on you.’
French had known why they were here since he had seen them climbing out of the car, but he would play out his part in this preliminary charade as long as he could. Whilst you revealed nothing of yourself, it was still possible that they knew less than you suspected they did. ‘If what you are telling me is true, I can’t think why they should do that. A case of mistaken identity, perhaps. People tell me the police system is nothing like as effective as it should be.’
Peach glanced again at the paintings. ‘You collect enough commissions to live comfortably, as you say, George. But not as a consultant engineer. Work is much more rewarding for a contract killer.’
French looked from one expectant face to the other. ‘I suppose I should laugh at such a bizarre idea. Instead, I find myself both bewildered and annoyed.’
Clyde Northcott had to exercise all his powers of concentration to prevent him stealing a glance at Peach. This man seemed so genuine and unthreatening that he wondered whether they had indeed been given a bum steer, whether this was an innocent member of the public going about his business and they were about to be acutely embarrassed.
Peach was beset by no such apprehension. He was about to play his single trump card, but he would play it as if he had four others to follow. ‘A contract killer. A man who has to kill regularly to maintain his income, to pay for things like this.’ He glanced again at the paintings on the wall.
French smiled like one being patient with a recalcitrant child. ‘Engineering pays well enough, if you’re efficient. I’m quite good at costing major new projects, although I say it myself. If you ever need a new bridge or want to know the cost of clearing a site for a new supermarket, you should come to me, Mr Peach. I’ll give you my card before you go.’
‘What weapons do you use, George? Pistol and an Armalite?’
‘As it happens, you touch on a hobby of mine. I’m a member of the Rochdale Shooting Club, though I can’t attend as regularly as I should like to do. I even have the odd trophy in the spare bedroom. The weapons I use are licensed and documented.’
‘I’m sure they are, though I wouldn’t rule out totally different and undeclared armaments as well. Where were you on Saturday night?’
French took care to look surprised by this abrupt arrival of the question he had been expecting since he saw the police car at his gates. ‘Saturday? Let’s see now. Saturday was cold and clear – quite a good day for February. I dug over my little vegetable patch. Meant to do it in the autumn, really, but it was pretty wet in November. Then we had that early snow in December, which meant there was no gardening at all for nearly a month.’ He was enjoying stringing this out, talking like one of the neighbours he exchanged gardening tips with – that man was sixty-seven and retired, and George thought he was doing a pretty good imitation of him.
‘I haven’t much room for vegetables. They give you pocket-handkerchief-sized gardens with these modern properties, so it’s not a big patch. But my muscles must be out of practice. They were protesting a bit after the digging, so I allowed myself the luxury of a hot bath. Almost fell asleep in there, as a matter of fact. Then I had Thai fishcakes I’d bought from Marks and Spencers and watched an episode of Midsomer Murders I’d recorded on my Sky Plus. Followed it up with Match of the Day, where I found Arsenal particularly impressive.’
‘No witnesses. Make a note of that please, DS Northcott.’ Clyde was already doing so, with his smooth features displaying all the scepticism he could muster.
French for his part showed every sign of enjoying this strange little game. He put his hands on the arms of his chair and sat back a little. ‘I seem to remember that detective on Midsomer Murders saying that the innocent often had no alibi, because the innocent had no idea they would need one.’
‘I think you were fulfilling a contract on Saturday night, George.’
‘And I think if you are going to persist in your ridiculous fantasies I would prefer you to address me as Mr French.’
‘They aren’t fantasies, George. We have hard evidence.’
‘And I know that is a lie, because no such evidence exists. I think you should leave now.’
‘We know you received an advance payment of twenty-five thousand pounds, George. Have you had the second twenty-five k yet?’
The delay in playing the trump card was justified. French was clearly shaken. Although his face showed it for only the most fleeting of moments, both men on the sofa saw it. That was what made his words unconvincing when he said, ‘It may surprise you to know that I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about.’
‘Fifty thousand for a single killing. Good money, that, George. You don’t need many of those in a year to live in comfortable suburban obscurity.’ Peach looked out with amusement at the immaculate garden in the foreground and the bland modern housing beyond it. ‘But you probably don’t get as much as that for every killing. I can see that Oliver Ketley would justify a higher f
ee than your normal one. Still, mission achieved, with a minimum of fuss. I could admire your professionalism, if murder wasn’t involved.’
‘And I could admire the tales you spin, if they didn’t involve malicious slander.’
Peach pursed his lips. ‘We don’t do plea bargaining here – not officially. But we’d be willing to tell the judge you’d offered full cooperation, if it was true. I’d say your best policy now would be to come clean and give us all the details you can about the people who paid you to do this. Jack Burgess, was it?’
Again the pallid face with the sunken eyes was disturbed for a split second by what might have been panic. But when French spoke it was as calmly as ever. ‘I’ve no idea who this Burgess is and I haven’t the faintest notion what you’re talking about. I’ve heard of Mr Oliver Ketley because I’ve read about his death in this morning’s Telegraph. He seems to have been a prominent local benefactor and I hope you eventually arrest his killer. If your performance here this morning is anything to go by, I hold out no great hopes of that.’
‘And I hold out no great hopes of your being here to plant your spring vegetables, George. The career you’ve chosen pays well, but it doesn’t pay forever. We’ll be back for you, sooner rather than later.’
George French turned on his heel as the three stood up. He disappeared into the adjoining room and came back with the card he had promised. He said urbanely, ‘If you know anyone who is contemplating a major engineering project, you might like to ask them to—’
‘Keep it, French. Take my card, instead. And consider how you might set about reducing your sentence. The world is well rid of Ketley, but this is still murder.’
THIRTEEN
Chief Superintendent Thomas Bulstrode Tucker prided himself upon his PR talents. His skilfully coiffured hair had just enough silver at the temples to suggest maturity and calm judgement. His grey eyes gazed out confidently through the rimless spectacles he had lately adopted. His regular, firm features and immaculately cut uniform – he always preferred uniform to plain clothes for his television appearances – conveyed a man with vast experience who was still vigorous enough and adaptable enough to be a bastion against crime.
Appearances, as Percy Peach said, could be very deceptive; that was a very good thing for Tommy Bloody Tucker.
The Head of CID was giving an interview to BBC North-West television, which would be shown on that evening’s news bulletins. He sat expectantly in the background whilst his young interviewer introduced the item. ‘This is Janet Dickinson reporting from north-east Lancashire. The normally quiet and well-ordered town of Brunton has been rocked by the news of the brutal murder of one of its most prominent citizens. Oliver Ketley lived at the former stately home, Thorley Grange, which he had restored and considerably extended over the last few years.’
This was an important enough death to warrant a helicopter budget, and impressive views of the older part of the mansion, the entrance to the new building and the acres of the walled estate were fed into the item at this point. Then the young female voice resumed, ‘Mr Ketley, a relatively recent arrival upon the Brunton scene, had established himself as a prominent local benefactor, and his death has already been lamented by the Brunton hospice and several other local organizations who were recipients of his financial support. He was found shot dead in his car in a Brunton suburb on Saturday evening and the police immediately confirmed that this was a suspicious death. We are now certain that foul play was involved. In other words, this was murder. Detective Chief Superintendent Tucker is in charge of the Brunton CID department. What can you tell us about the progress of enquiries, Superintendent?’
Tucker stared frankly into the camera, as the media course had told him to do. ‘Well, Janet, you will appreciate that this shows every sign of being a complex case.’
Young faces are excellent at displaying surprise, and Janet Dickinson too had had her training, much more extensive than T.B. Tucker’s. Her eyebrows rose high beneath a puzzled frown. ‘Why would that be, Mr Tucker? A man as well-liked as Mr Ketley can surely have had very few enemies?’
‘He was a highly successful businessman, Janet. Such people usually have enemies. That is an unfortunate fact of life.’
More puzzlement. ‘You’re saying that envy was the motive? That Mr Ketley was despatched by a jealous rival?’
Tucker gave her a patronizing, elder-statesman smile. ‘It’s far too early to say anything like that. You mustn’t put words into my mouth, Janet.’
‘I wasn’t aware that I was doing that, Mr Tucker. I was merely trying to establish the present state of your enquiries.’
‘Ah! Well, it’s very early to say anything definite.’
‘No one is at present helping you with your enquiries?’
Tucker allowed himself a silent chuckle at such naivety. ‘What a strange phrase that is! A whole range of people have been helping us with our enquiries. We have a large team allocated to this crime, as you would expect, and my officers have been diligently questioning the public, the family and the staff at Thorley Grange about this.’
‘I see. With what results?’
Tucker tried not to look ruffled. ‘It is too early to say yet. I’m sure you will appreciate that much of the material we are assembling must remain confidential until we can—’
‘This seems to me like official jargon to disguise the fact that you have made little progress so far. Have you any significant leads?’
‘A whole series of items which may or may not prove significant are at present receiving our attention.’
‘Does this mean that you are scrambling desperately for clues, Superintendent Tucker?’
Those men Paxman and Humphreys had a lot to answer for. Interviews hadn’t been like this a few years ago. You’d said your piece and smiled confidently at the camera. Your interviewer had listened, nodded soberly and passed on to the next item without challenging you. Tucker wanted to slip a finger inside his collar and loosen it a little, but the media course had said that was the last thing you should do. He leaned forward and looked earnest. ‘We have various leads, as I’ve already indicated. They are being vigorously explored, but it would be quite unfair to reveal our thinking at this point. I have every confidence in my team. I am confident there will be progress over the next few days.’ Tucker jutted his chin rather desperately at the camera.
‘We all hope so, Superintendent. Indeed we do. Meantime, the public, who are naturally very concerned to know who shot dead a well-loved local resident, must wait and see. It seems a rather invidious situation.’
The last shot was of Tucker, who was not quite sure of the meaning of invidious, fingering the inside of his collar.
Chung Lee had known it would come. It would have been strange if it hadn’t. All the staff at Thorley Grange were being interviewed after the murder of its owner. Even those who only came in by day, even the cleaning lady who came for only two mornings a week, were being questioned by the police. They used the office by the front door where he had been interviewed when he was appointed assistant chef at the Grange. There were two people in uniform and most people were in and out in ten or at most twenty minutes. Many of them seemed quite excited to be involved in a murder investigation.
Chung asked the chef why they hadn’t got round to him yet.
‘They’re saving you until last because they want to give you a real grilling!’ said Michael Knight. Then, seeing dismay turning to panic on the young man’s face, he took pity on him. ‘It’s not that, you daft ha’p’orth. I reckon they don’t want to be accused of prejudice by doing the foreigners first. PCs have to be more PC than most, these days!’
Chung grinned weakly. He didn’t understand the joke and he didn’t know what a ‘daft ha’p’orth’ was. But he was relieved to hear that the chef didn’t think he was a special case for the police.
The reason he came towards the end of the interviews was in fact quite simple. The residential staff were being interviewed by CID. Those who had bee
n most recently appointed were naturally of most interest to them. So much so that they were reserved for the attention of the top brass. When Chung Lee was eventually ushered into the square room by the front entrance, he was confronted by a short, alert man who announced that he was DCI Peach and a tall, unsmiling black man who was apparently DS Northcott. The inspector wore a light-grey suit and very shiny black shoes, which seemed to mirror the small black moustache and the black fringe around the bald head at the other end of his frame. The sergeant had navy trousers and a tight-fitting black sweater which followed the lines of his muscular torso, as if he wished to convey the message that a physical beating would be the consequence of any attempt to deceive them.
They took his details, comparing them with the letter of application which Michael Knight had held in this very room on the day he was appointed here. Then, as if trying to put him at his ease, the smaller man said, ‘You speak very good English, Mr Lee.’
‘Yes. I have been here a long time, now. I pick things up quite quickly – people say I have a good ear. My written English is not so good.’
‘And yet you completed your application for work here very well. I’ve seen a few police constables who wouldn’t have done as well as you did. Did you write it yourself?’
‘Yes.’ Then his brow furrowed in his anxiety to say nothing which could be questioned later. ‘I wrote down my answers on a different piece of paper first. I might have shown it to someone to take his advice.’
‘You were careful. That is commendable. Not many younger people take such care nowadays. Tell us about your previous work, please.’
