by J M Gregson
The murderer switched the set off and smiled slowly. They knew nothing.
***
Superintendent Tucker, front man and prize wanker (in Percy Peach’s disloyal assessment) was making his television broad-cast.
By six o’clock on that Tuesday evening, the identity of the victim had been established. It was dental records which gave them the information they would otherwise have arrived at by other and more circuitous routes. And without the need for a national trawl: the victim had been a client of a Brunton dentist. Forensic came up with the details very quickly, and within hours a local dental assistant, delighted to be drawn into the melodrama, found a match in her patients’ records. Peach whistled his surprise at the news. “Are you sure? Yes, of course you are. We can’t argue with the evidence of the mouth.” He glanced down at the sheet in his hands, with its account of fillings and extractions. “Bit of a turn-up, though, isn’t it? Has anyone told Wanker Willy upstairs?”
The young constable flinched at such nomenclature, glanced apprehensively towards the door of Peach’s office. “No, sir. Superintendent Tucker said he was not to be disturbed after he’d gone into make-up for the television interview.”
“Good. I’ll tell him myself in due course.” Percy glanced down at the sheet again. “Lovely set of choppers our friend had. Had he been reported missing?”
“No, sir. We checked the MISPERs again on the computer after this came in, but no one had been in to report anything.”
“Hmm. Sad, that. Your mum would soon be in here bleating about you if you went missing, wouldn’t she?”
The young man grinned. “My wife would, sir. Wouldn’t leave it ten days, anyway.”
Peach eyed the young face with disapproval. Married, and scarcely old enough to direct traffic or pinch shoplifters. “Aye, your wife would, for sure. Think you were off rogering a suspect, if you didn’t report every twelve hours, I expect.” Peach had no very high opinion of wives, his views being coloured by an experience which had been terminated eight years ago but was still vivid in his memory. “Has anyone checked why he wasn’t reported missing?”
“Someone’s been round to the home address, sir. Apparently he was on holiday.”
“Holiday? You mean these buggers get holidays? I thought their life was one long holiday!” Percy’s prejudices ran deep, in this case right back to his childhood. “I’ll get round there myself, I think. Only way, if you want a job done properly.” He sighed, theatrically but not unkindly. “Better get off home now, lad. Before that wife of yours reports you missing.”
***
Superintendent Tucker congratulated himself that the interview had gone surprisingly well.
He had slipped out to the hairdresser that morning (nothing as crude as a barber for a man who dealt with the media), in anticipation of a request from the television people. Planning ahead, as he constantly told his staff, was vital in modern police work. His hair would have come out well under the lights, he thought, well groomed but with just that touch of grey at the temples which gave gravitas to his persona. He had rung home, so with luck his wife would have recorded the relevant two minutes — he made the excuse that he wanted to study his technique for future occasions.
Considering that he had had nothing to give them to add to the dramatic news of a body not as yet identified, the exchange with the young female presenter had gone well. He had managed to give her the impression of care and concern without in any way suggesting panic. Of course, unlike that oaf Peach, he respected women, knew how to handle these things. He couldn’t quite see how they could rise to the higher ranks in the police force, but in other walks of life there was no reason why they should not play a full and useful part.
“Ah, thought I might just catch you, sir. Winding down after the rigours of performance, were you?” Tucker’s musings as he put on his coat and prepared for his journey home were rudely shattered by the arrival of DI Peach, meeting him head-on in the doorway of his office.
“Won’t it wait, Peach? I’ve had a trying day already.”
“Yes, sir. Of course it will. Silly of me not to consider the stresses a man like you operates under. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Tucker peered at him suspiciously. It was unlike this bouncing ball of insubordination to be so co-operative. “All right. First thing in the morning, we’ll—”
“It’s just that we have an identification on the victim. I thought you might want to know as soon as possible. Before I briefed the rest of the team. But of course I should have realised…”
Tucker turned heavily, hopelessly, back into his office, slumping into his chair, wanting only to stem the flow of words from that relentlessly bright and energetic voice. “All right, Percy. You’d better tell me. Here and now.”
“Yes, sir. Conscientious to a fault, as usual. Sorry to burden you with it, when I see you were away to a well-earned rest at home.”
“Out with it, Percy. Don’t bugger about!”
A rare departure from his mandarin’s pose into the language of the station. A warning to Percy that even Tucker could be pushed too far. But Peach would make him hop about a bit, even now. “Well, sir, it turns out it isn’t a vagrant, after all.”
“Not a vagrant?” Tucker looked blank for a moment, then remembered his ill-advised conjecture of the morning about the background of this victim. “I see. Well, who the hell is it, then?”
“It’s a Roman Catholic priest, sir. Cause a bit of a furore that will, I shouldn’t wonder, when we get the investigation under way.”
Percy smiled at the wall above his chief’s head in happy anticipation.
Four
“I‘m Detective Inspector Peach and this is Detective Sergeant Blake.” Percy was at his least intimidating, and Lucy smiled encouragement and sympathy at the elderly woman.
It mattered little. Martha Hargreaves had built her life round the service of men, and a special breed of men at that, and she scarcely noticed the young woman as she stood in the doorway of the presbytery of the Sacred Heart RC Church. She nodded an acknowledgement to Peach and led the way to the high Victorian room into which she had conducted so many visitors in the past. She had heard of feminism and knew something of its aims, but she invariably sniffed derisively at the mention of the word. She was a good sniffer, Martha, able to convey a wealth of derision by the briefest use of her well-trained nasal organ.
But on the morning after the revelation of the corpse’s identity, she compelled nothing but sympathy. Her eyes were red with grief, hollowed into black circles; plainly she had slept little in the night which had passed since she heard the news. She had found a black dress, long out of fashion, in which to clothe her grief. A double row of jet beads sat at her throat; her hand strayed to them in the conversation which followed, almost as if her fingers were counting off the beads of a rosary. She would not sit until they had done so, standing over them for a moment as they subsided into the depths of the ancient tapestries of the long settee. She had a slight stoop, as if years of carrying trays for her master and his visitors had shaped her posture into permanent obeisance.
Peach said, “We understand you were the housekeeper of Father John Bickerstaffe.”
She nodded, snatching at her sleeve, relieved when she eventually found the handkerchief she needed. It was a large, practical, man’s handkerchief: this woman had lived for years in an environment where female vanities were discouraged. She blew her nose noisily, then said with a shuddering breath which only just kept a sob at bay, “I suppose there’s no chance…? I mean, you’re sure it really is…?”
“Yes, we’re sure now, Miss Hargreaves. I’m afraid it really is Father Bickerstaffe. He was formally identified last night.” Lucy wondered if she should offer to make a cup of tea, then understood immediately the outrage which would be caused by any attempt to breach the walls of this woman’s kitchen.
Martha Hargreaves nodded, dabbing briefly at the red eyes with the big handkerchief. “His brother identifi
ed him, I suppose.” She felt relieved that she had been spared that ordeal at least, and yet obscurely deprived. It seemed wrong that the man her priest had seen so seldom should be accorded this final, intimate duty ahead of her.
Lucy Blake said, “Yes, it was Father Bickerstaffe’s brother who did the identification; it’s usually a close relative who has to do it. It was no more than a formality, really, but the law demands these things. Miss Hargreaves, I’m afraid I have to tell you that we think Father Bickerstaffe’s death was a suspicious one. You understand what that means?”
“Yes. You mean somebody killed him.” Surprisingly, the idea that he had died in this way did not seem to shock or appal her as they had expected: her grief was all for the man’s death, not for the manner of it. Perhaps she was going to be more help to them than they had anticipated when they arranged this routine meeting. The tears Martha Hargreaves thought she had exhausted during the night ran anew now as she confronted the nature of this death, and she dabbed hastily at her face with the handkerchief.
Lucy Blake glanced at Peach, then went into the form of words which had become familiar in cases like this. It made her realise what a lonely life the celibate priest’s can be, for this was a routine usually reserved for grieving relatives, not housekeepers. “When we think that someone has been unlawfully killed, we have to try to build up a picture of the life he led, of the people who surrounded him. It’s the only sort of crime where the victim isn’t available for questioning, you see. It makes people like you very important to us, Miss Hargreaves.”
The housekeeper nodded, drawing herself a little more erect within the wooden arms of the upright armchair she had chosen for herself. “He was a good man, Father was. A kind man. Always available to people when there was trouble. Always very good when there was a death in the family.” Her breath caught at that, as she thought again of her employer’s own death. “Everybody says that about him. A great comfort when there was a death, Father Bickerstaffe was. Thoughtful about people. Understanding. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. Don’t let them take that away from him.”
There was something here, some unexpected reservation about the man of whom she spoke so fondly. Others, she was hinting, would not be so kind in their memories of Father Bickerstaffe. But she was too upset for them to go straight to it. It would come out, in due course, if they let her talk, Lucy Blake decided. You had to be like a doctor, sometimes, listening and waiting, paying regard to what was unsaid as well as the straightforward revelations. It was one of the few aspects of interviewing in which she felt superior to Percy Peach. Lucy said, “Tell us about the life Father Bickerstaffe lived here, Martha, about the work he did and the work you did to keep the place running smoothly.”
The last phrase brought a small, unexpected smile to the housekeeper’s lips. “That’s what I tried to do, you know. Keep the place running smoothly while Father went about his work. They’re only men, after all, aren’t they, even if they’re rather special men?”
For a moment the old housekeeper was a conspirator in her gender with the pretty, green-blue eyed young woman who had come into her kingdom to question her. Lucy sensed in that instant that this woman had endured a hard life, of unremitting toil and service, with no regular hours and no union to plead her case.
But it was Inspector Peach who took things forward. Percy had been brought up a Catholic, but had discarded the religion when he was eighteen and exploring the delights of girls. He now said with uncharacteristic gentleness, “Tell us a little about Father Bickerstaffe’s life. He said Mass every morning, I expect.”
“Yes. Seven thirty every morning, nine and ten thirty on Sundays. There’s an evening mass on Sundays as well, but usually Father Arkwright comes down from St Mary’s to say that. I go to the morning mass, most weekdays. There aren’t more than ten or twelve of us, most times.”
“You live on the premises?”
“Yes. I have my own little flat upstairs. My own bathroom and sitting room.” She sounded defiant as she said it. She might be out of touch with the world and its wicked ways, but she wasn’t blind enough to have missed all the speculation about priests and their housekeepers. Well, you couldn’t accuse her of anything in that line, not at any time during the thirty years she’d worked in this presbytery with three different parish priests. Nor poor Father Bickerstaffe, for that matter. No one had muttered about anything of that kind. Perhaps if he’d had someone like this open-faced, attractive girl to share his bed, all might have been well… Martha surprised herself with that daring liberal thought; she certainly couldn’t claim to be an expert in such matters.
Lucy said, “Can you give us some idea of the rest of his day after Mass, please?”
“Well, he’d have breakfast at about nine, or just before. He’d been settling for this muesli stuff and toast, lately; I always made him a cooked breakfast when he first came here.”
“And when would that be, Miss Hargreaves?”
“Eight years ago.” The answer came very promptly. “He’d been a curate over in Preston, but I think they thought he deserved his own parish, even though he was still young. He was only thirty-two when he came here, you know.” She said it as proudly as if he had been her son. Then her face clouded a little, as if she wondered whether she should have revealed anything as intimate as a priest’s age to these strangers.
“And he was the only priest working here on a regular basis?”
“Yes. We could get help from St Mary’s when we wanted it — they have four priests there. But it wasn’t often that Father asked them to help out. We’re still quite a small parish, in spite of the new building. But it’s a busy one, with the school and the youth club.”
“Yes, it must be. Busy life for you too, I expect.”
“Well, I made tea for all Father’s visitors, if he asked me to. And some of my sponge cake or scones, for most of them. I bake two or three times a week.”
“When did these visitors come here?”
“In the mornings, those of them that could. And the rest in the evenings — mainly those who were working and couldn’t come during the day. Father liked to clear the decks so that he had most of the day to himself for other things.”
“What other things, Martha?” Peach came in a fraction too quickly as he sensed the possibility of contacts which might be important.
Martha Hargreaves looked at him with suspicion, then gave one of her disapproving sniffs. “Visiting the sick. Comforting the bereaved. Mostly things like that. He went into our little school too, about once a week, to see if he could help the headmistress with any of the problems there.”
Peach, who thirty years ago had had his seven-year-old calves smacked regularly with a ruler in a Catholic junior school by a woman who looked not unlike Miss Hargreaves, considered this impeccable catalogue of moral services dolefully. Not much chance of a murderer among such contacts, though he made a mental note to interview the headmistress personally. “What about the youth club? Presumably most of the activities there were conducted in the evenings?”
“Yes. You’d have to ask others about that. I never set foot in the place.”
Something very strange had happened to the housekeeper of the late Father John Bickerstaffe, Peach noticed. A curtain had dropped over the grief-stricken face, a curtain which carried upon it the message that no information would be given about this area, however fervently it might be sought. Something here then, thought Percy, in his suspicious policeman’s way.
An area worth digging over, with or without the help of this guardian of the late priest’s reputation. “Went across to the club on most evenings, did he?”
“Father Bickerstaffe put in an appearance there on most evenings, yes. It was his idea to open the place, and I’m sure it was most successful.”
“Really. And how many nights a week was it open?” Peach, encountering resistance and feeling as a result that a rather more aggressive style was justified, was much more at home.
“Four
nights. Wednesdays to Saturdays. Father heard confession until seven thirty on Wednesdays and Saturdays, and some of the other evenings he had visitors, as I said, but he liked to get into the club for the last hour whenever he could.”
“Which was?”
“Nine to ten.” Martha found she was being made to talk more about the place than she had ever intended, but you couldn’t refuse them straight facts like this. And they were trying to find out who had killed poor gentle Father Bickerstaffe, weren’t they? You had to help them where you could.
“Bit early for a youth club to shut, isn’t it?”
“I don’t know about that.” Her lips set for a moment into the thin line they’d formed when the club was first mentioned. “They’re only young, you know, the kids who use it. Most of these teenagers seem to want to drink and go to these disco places when they’re not much more than children, nowadays.”
If not worse, the two CID people thought. “About eleven to fourteen, would you say, the ages in the youth club?”
“I couldn’t say, I’m sure.” Then, when they didn’t comment and she felt her own recalcitrance weighing upon her, she said, “They were allowed to join at eleven, when they left our junior school and went on to the secondary. Father said it would mark their growing up but help to keep them together as a group.” She brought out the words carefully, pleased with herself for remembering the phrase she had heard her employer use so many months before. “I don’t know what age they are when they leave, but I know Father was upset because so many of them stopped coming when they were still quite young.”
“What kind of activities went on over there?”
“I don’t know, I’m sure. Table tennis and darts, I believe. And I think they use the school hall for badminton sometimes. But you’ll have to ask someone else, if you think it’s important. I never go into the place.” They’d made her talk more about it than she’d intended, after all. But she couldn’t think she’d said anything really important.
