by Gregson, J M
‘I see. Well, we shall be asking other people about this, in due course. In the meantime, can you confirm which members of the Lodge were with you for the whole of this time? That would clear them, you see. And enable them to vouch for you, no doubt, when we see them.’
John Whiteman furrowed his brow. ‘I’m sure some of the people were there all the time. But I wasn’t checking that, of course. And I talked to a variety of people. I’ll go on thinking about it, but at this moment I don’t think I could say for certain that any of the people who were there when the body was found had been there for the whole of that period.’
‘A pity, that. But understandable, I suppose.’ Peach sounded as though he was reluctant to admit it.
John Whiteman leaned forward and put his hands on the scarred leather top of the desk which had sat in this room for a hundred years. ‘Inspector, please don’t think I’m telling you how to do your job. But isn’t it probable that whoever killed Eric wasn’t in that group at all? If I’d waited for a man in his car and then killed him like that, I wouldn’t have had the nerve to go back into the hotel and fraternize with other people. I’d have driven off in a hurry.’
‘Would you, sir? That’s interesting, isn’t it, DC Murphy? And entirely possible, of course. That’s why the team has been busy all morning taking statements from the people who weren’t in your group in the bar but left after eleven twenty. They make up a distressingly large group. Or a pleasingly large group for the person who did this, of course.’
‘And isn’t it entirely possible that someone came in from outside and waited in the car for him? Someone who was quite unconnected with the Masonic Ladies’ Night?’
‘Entirely possible, as you say. You should have been a detective, Mr Whiteman. Must be your legal background. We haven’t turned up any outsider like that yet. He would need a lot of nerve to go into a closed car park and wait like that. Most professionals don’t like going into areas with only one exit: it makes them feel like rats in a trap. And he’d have to have known exactly what Mr Walsh was about that evening and when he was likely to leave the gathering and come out to his car. Do you know of any such person?’
The abruptness of the question caught John off guard. He had thought he was steering the discussion into safer waters. ‘Well, no, I don’t. I was just speculating about how this might have happened. But there must be such people.’
‘With a grievance fierce enough to make Walsh a murder victim? How well did you know Eric Walsh, Mr Whiteman?’ Again the suddenness with which the focus had been switched back to himself shook John. The answer he had prepared for this question wouldn’t come to him, and he stumbled over the words a little as he said, ‘Fairly well, I suppose. We’d been fellow members of the Lodge for fifteen years or so. But Eric wasn’t an intimate friend.’
‘He wouldn’t have visited your house, for instance? Or you his?’
‘No. Is this relevant?’
Peach shrugged the broad inspectorial shoulders. ‘Who knows, Mr Whiteman? I’m just trying to build up a picture in my mind. Eventually we shall arrive at some fairly clear impression of the network of relationships which surrounded Mr Walsh. Later still we shall know which of them were the significant ones. Only then will I be able to tell you what is relevant. Most of it won’t be, of course, but at this time we need to be like a sponge, absorbing all the information we can. Had you any reason to dislike Mr Walsh?’
Again that abrupt, aggressive question, at the end of a passage where he had seemed to be merely explaining the workings of the system. John forced himself to think before he replied. ‘No. He was a pleasant man, Eric. A good singer, you know.’
‘So I’ve heard. Does that make him a pleasant man? I’ve known some pretty dodgy tenors in my time.’
John managed a smile at what he took to be a small joke. ‘Singing in.public wins you a certain admiration, because most of us can’t do it. Eric was a rich baritone, of course, not a tenor.’
‘Buggers they are, in opera, you know. Most of them villains, if you believe Verdi and Puccini and that lot. Was Eric Walsh a villain?’
John smiled, forcing himself to take his time. What he said now might be important in the future. ‘No. Not a villain, in my view. Some people would say it depends how you define a villain. I think I once heard Eric referred to as a likeable rogue.’
This time he had delivered almost exactly the words he had prepared. But it sounded curiously stilted. He had thought it would have been drawn from him phrase by phrase, as if he was reluctant to speak even so much that was derogatory of a dead man. But Peach had let him go on, all the while studying him carefully, as if he was more interested in him than the words he was delivering about Walsh.
Peach paused for what seemed a long time after John had delivered himself of this, as if he wanted to be sure that he was not going to commit himself further. Then he said, ‘And which of these terms would you use yourself, Mr Whiteman?’
John took a long breath. ‘I’m not sure I’d want to commit myself. I didn’t know Eric that well.’
‘Fifteen years in the same Masonic Lodge? Fifteen years of looking out for each other’s interests? Fifteen years of interchange between your wife and whatever partners Mr Walsh had in that time? You must have some opinion of him. I wouldn’t like to go away thinking you were withholding information from policemen investigating a murder case.’
The two men glared at each other and DC Murphy looked up from his notes to emphasize, ‘This is the most serious crime of all, Mr Whiteman. It is no time for social niceties or respecting confidences.’
John glanced at the large fresh face beneath the tousled hair for a moment. In the intensity of his concentration upon those mesmeric black eyes of Peach’s, he had almost forgotten the man who was quietly recording his replies. He said, ‘You’re right to remind me of that. I was trying to be discreet about a dead man, to protect his reputation in the normal way. I can only say that I’ve never had to speak about a murder victim before.’
Peach didn’t trouble to acknowledge the apology. ‘So was Eric Walsh a rogue, then? Likeable or otherwise.’
John said, ‘He wasn’t a rogue at all, not in your sense. He didn’t steal money or beat people up. Not as far as I know, anyway.’ He smiled, but the feebleness of his joke was emphasized by his interlocutor’s stony face. He went on hastily, ‘His only crime, if you could call it that, was that he was rather too fond of the ladies.’
‘Randy bugger, you mean.’
‘Yes, I suppose I do.’
‘And he didn't control it, I suppose. Made his decisions with his dick rather than his head.’ Peach nodded sadly. ‘We see a lot of that in this job.’
John managed a smile. ‘I think Eric would have preferred to say that his heart ruled his head, but broadly speaking, you’re right.’
‘So there’ll be a few jealous husbands in the North Brunton Lodge who won’t be bemoaning his death today.’
‘Inside and outside the Lodge, I’d say.’
Peach nodded. ‘Dicks aren’t exclusive in their tastes, that’s true. More’s the pity.’ He shook his head sadly, contemplating the serried ranks of cuckolds who stretched before him as suspects. ‘So who was Eric Walsh knocking off at the time of his demise, then?’
‘I don’t know! I’ve really no idea!’ The denial had come a little too promptly, but John was thrown by the methods of this odious little inspector. ‘I told you. I wasn’t an intimate friend of Eric’s. I didn’t know what he was up to from day to day, and I didn’t wish to know.’
Peach looked at him in mock astonishment. ‘Didn’t want to know what this fellow member of your Lodge was up to? Didn’t have the natural curiosity to wonder who was the latest conquest of a man who must have been the talk of the Lodge? Not to say the envy of the Lodge! You’re not telling me that there wasn’t a healthy interest in the doings — if you’ll pardon the expression — of the Lodge lecher. Wouldn’t be natural, that.’
John Whiteman summoned
his starchiest legal demeanour. ‘I have better things to pursue than petty gossip, Inspector Peach.’
‘But you invited him to sing at the Lodge Ladies’ Night. Surely you would want to know who was the latest of your ladies to drop her drawers before the Lodge Lothario? It would only be prudent.’
It made a weird sort of sense. John said haughtily, ‘These things are arranged months in advance. And you seem to have the impression that Eric Walsh was knocking … pursuing all the married women in the Lodge. May I remind you that I have already told you that his interests were not confined to the Lodge? Nor was he exclusively interested in married women. He divorced many years ago, and was a free agent in these things.’
Peach looked for a moment at the flustered Master of the North Brunton Lodge, then sighed with the air of a man who had had his fun and must return to business. ‘This is a murder enquiry, Mr Whiteman. I need hardly remind you that it’s your duty to provide us with any information which we may think relevant. I’m not asking you to tell me who killed Eric Walsh; I’m assuming you don’t know that. But it’s time you told me about anyone who had a grievance against him.’
‘I’m sure no one hated Eric enough to kill him. Not like that.’ He gave a little shudder of recollected horror at the memory of how the man had died.
Brendan Murphy said, ‘We’ll be the judges of that, Mr Whiteman. It’s our job.’
No it’s not, thought John. It’s your job to uphold the law, not to be judge and jury of who’s guilty. Give you a good suspect and you won’t look any further. He looked into Peach’s unblinking eyes and decided not to argue that point. ‘I’m afraid I can’t help you with anything more specific, Inspector. I know that Eric had, well, a certain reputation as a ladies’ man. No doubt other people will be able to provide you with more detail, if you decide it’s relevant to his death. I would remind you that I am helping you in an entirely voluntary capacity, acting —’
‘Acting as a good citizen should. Yes, I’m well aware of that, Mr Whiteman. We’d have to arrest you and take you to the station if we wanted to question you and you appeared to be obstructing us.’ He looked wistful for a moment, as if the arrest of the Master of a Lodge would be the stuff of his dreams. ‘But of course, as a representative of the noble profession of the law, you are anxious to give us all the help you can.’
This time he didn’t disguise the irony. John tried not to show how rattled he felt. ‘There are other people who can tell you a lot more about Eric Walsh than I can, I’m sure.’
Peach stood up abruptly. The conclusion of the interview was as startling as the way he had acted throughout it. ‘We’d better go off and talk to them then, hadn’t we, DC Murphy? And when we’ve got a fuller picture of who dropped her drawers and when, we’ll be back to compare notes. In the meantime, Mr Whiteman, when you remember anything which might have a bearing on this death, we’ll expect to hear from you. Good afternoon.’
He was gone almost before John had concluded a formal goodbye. He was left flustered and not a little confused. But as he went over the uneven course of the exchanges in his mind, he decided that he had kept his nerve under fire. He hadn’t revealed anything he hadn’t intended to reveal.
And he had certainly kept quiet about the one thing he was determined to conceal.
Nine
Wasim Afzaal had a nervous Saturday.
After the discovery of the murder at the White Bull, he had given his statement to a constable with a round white face and startled eyes who had seemed scarcely older than himself and much less versed in the evil ways of the world. It had apparently been accepted at face value: no one had asked him any questions about his account or sought for other witnesses to verify it. But then at between one and two in the morning, they hadn’t been probing anyone’s account. They had been anxious to get what they called ‘preliminary statements’ from everyone. The police had seemed to want to get whatever they could quickly and get everyone off home to bed, now he came to think about it.
And Wasim Afzaal did think about it, for most of that long Saturday. He wasn’t working again until the evening shift, and he had little else to do but think as he sat alone in his flat. He had seen that bugger Peach coming into the White Bull last night, had been relieved that the man hadn’t made a beeline for him. Compared with Peach, that moon-faced constable hardly seemed like police at all.
Wasim wondered what the police were doing as the hours dragged by. They’d have put quite a big team on a murder enquiry, he knew that much. Would they have found themselves a chief suspect, be harrying him even at this moment? Would they be checking out his own statement against those of other employees? Would someone be denying even now that what he had told that constable was true, thus throwing him into the spotlight, like a moth fluttering hopelessly against the odds?
He thought hard about his own situation without finding anything that he could do to alleviate it. He would just have to brazen it out, to defy them to turn up anything which could prove him a liar. What he needed was someone to bear out his statement, but he hadn’t got anyone. As the hours dragged by, he found himself looking out of the wide window of his sitting room at the car park of the flats and the road which led into it, but throughout the day there was no advent of the garish police car that he feared.
He was due in at the White Bull at six o’clock. At five to six he was parked in the staff section of the car park, wishing for once that his green MG two-seater looked a little less distinctive. At two minutes to six, the man he was waiting for arrived. Afzaal slid quietly from behind the wheel of his car and followed him into the cloakroom.
They were alone in the basement room, with its uneven, tiled floor and the hisses of trickling water in high, ageing cisterns. This was the oldest part of the building, far removed from the eyes of the paying public. Wasim noted the nervous young face above the white overalls the man was donning for his evening’s toil in the kitchen and took heart from it.
‘Fancy a spliff, Tom?’ he asked casually.
Tom Cook darted an anxious glance towards the door. ‘Not in here. You never know who’s around.’
Wasim smiled a superior smile which said that he knew far more about this dangerous world than his young friend. He slid his slender arms into the jacket of the evening suit he would wear in the dining room, as if to emphasize his superior status in their working environment. ‘You could be right there. Take one for later, then.’ He slid his hand inside the white overalls, found the breast pocket in the shirt beneath, and left the spliff there.
Tom Cook’s hand rose automatically to his chest, checking that the spliff of cannabis was safely stowed, wanting to refuse the gift but not knowing how. He said uncertainly, striving hard to bolster himself, ‘They don’t bother about recreational use now, the police.’
‘That’s right, Tom. It’s me, as a supplier, who would be taking the risk.’ Wasim smiled a thin smile which was meant to be reassuring. He failed in that; to Tom Cook the handsome olive face looked predatory. Tom knew that there was something behind this exchange, that Afzaal was striving to put him under some kind of obligation.
Sure enough, there was a veiled menace in Wasim’s tone as he said, ‘All the same, I don’t think the management of this place would like to know that you indulged. Against their rules, isn’t it? I believe that they tell everyone about that at the time of hiring. Of course, I’m just here on a university placement, so I’m not an employee.’
Tom didn’t respond to the question, except to say, ‘I don’t smoke pot on the premises. It would be more than my job’s worth.’
Wasim smiled again and nodded. ‘Very wise, that. Gives you a kick though, doesn’t it, the odd spliff? Plenty more where that came from.’ He nodded at Tom’s chest, reminding him that he had provided such comforts not only now but in the past, and that this young white-faced man with his acne and his inexperience was under an obligation to him.
Tom wished now that someone would come into the basement changing room, th
at someone would interrupt this colloquy before Afzaal could say anything more. But no one came, and there was no sound of movement outside, only the trickle of that unseen leaking cistern, unnaturally loud in the silence. He said, ‘Well, I must get up to the kitchen or that chef will be having my guts for garters!’
Wasim smiled at the cliché, as if it was an evidence of weakness in this man he must use. He said, ‘There was something I wanted to discuss with you, Tom. Only a little thing.’
Tom Cook had known it: there was a bleak comfort to him that he had spotted this coming. How oddly the Lancashire accent sat upon the soft Asian lilt of Afzaal’s delivery. Tom tried to be firm as he said, ‘I’m not interested in drugs, Wasim. I don’t want to become a pusher, not even for soft drugs. I’m not planning to use them myself for much —’
Wasim’s laugh interrupted him, killing the words in his throat and the thought in his brain. ‘It’s nothing to do with drugs, soft or otherwise, Tom. Surprising as it may seem, you’re in a position to do me a favour. A very small favour. One which would cost you nothing at all.’
Cook’s relief made him incautious. ‘A favour? Of course, Wasim. Anything I can do. We’re friends, after all, aren’t we?’
‘Indeed we are, Tom. And it’s something and nothing, really. Just what you might call a precautionary measure.’ He smiled, as if savouring a phrase which suited his purpose well.
‘Sure. Though I can’t quite think how —’
‘Last night, Tom. That poor bugger who bought it in the car park. The police took statements from us. Said they’d be back in due course. And I expect they will. Suspicious lot, the pigs.’ He sighed and shook his head sadly, taking in the injustice of the world at large and the police in particular.
‘You don't mean you told them a … a …’
‘A lie? Oh, no, nothing like that, Tom. I wouldn’t get you involved in anything like that, would I? No, it’s just that they’re suspicious bastards, the police, and I’ve had a little minor trouble with them recently.’
