by J M Gregson
It was almost casual, but Olive felt that they knew. She wondered which of the three major public spats she’d had with Fitton Peach knew about; perhaps it was all three. These CID people didn’t miss much. Nor did they help her now, as the silence stretched. She said dully, ‘I think sometimes that Jason Fitton started what you’ve just seen.’
It was Clyde Northcott, daringly using her forename for the first time, who said eventually, ‘You’ll need to enlarge on that for us, Olive.’
She glanced at them, then fixed her eyes on the Pre-Raphaelite print on the wall behind them as she spoke in the most even tone she could muster. ‘Jason was scathing about our schools in Brunton when we met at the tennis club because he knew it annoyed me. But a few years ago he went more public. He told the local press that he employed all sorts of people at Fitton’s Metals, “including even the scruffs from that grubby comprehensive down the road”. The paper grabbed the quote and made the most of it, as you’d expect.’
Clyde glanced at Peach and then back at the strained woman in front of them. ‘I can see how that would annoy you, Olive. But it wasn’t personal, was it?’
‘It was very personal indeed. Eric was the headmaster of that “grubby little comprehensive”. He’d worked all the hours God sent to make it a good school and he’d succeeded, against the odds. The papers came to him and he responded to what Fitton had said, as he had to. It would have been taken as an acceptance of the insult if he’d refused to comment. He quoted some of the school’s many successes, stressing his work with those academically less gifted as well as the Oxbridge entrants. The press set what he said against Fitton’s comments and made him sound defensive. Fitton had funds and he used them. The dispute made the nationals and brought the sort of publicity you never want when you’re working with young people.’
‘And you think it prompted the troubles your husband has now?’
She sighed, forcing herself to be fair where she least wanted to be fair. ‘It might be my imagination, but to my mind Eric never looked the same after that. He was getting near retirement. He was until that time a highly respected figure in the town. He’s a shy man and he didn’t like publicity anyway, even good publicity. He struggled to cope with all the press attention and journalists pursuing him into the school each morning, looking for statements. They even got quotes from the kids in the school, and they made the most of them. It’s always the discontented and the troublemakers who are most anxious to speak up in situations like that.’
Clyde said daringly, ‘It isn’t your way to let people like that get away with things. You must have taken Fitton to task.’
She grinned bitterly. ‘I always have to be head-on, don’t I? I knew I couldn’t win with a man like Fitton, but when he taunted me publicly one day at the tennis club, I told him exactly what I thought of him. I told him that he was a womanizer and a crook and a hypocrite. I told him that Eric had done more for the Brunton community than he would ever do. I think that was when I told him that his overall influence was a baleful rather than a beneficial one, but I can’t be certain of that.’
Peach spoke again now, softly but insistently. ‘You said all of that and more, according to what people have told us. And please don’t now seek out these people. They told us what they had to tell us, and their sympathies were all with you.’
‘Thank you for that. I don’t think you would lie about such things. Whatever else you are, Mr Peach, I don’t have you down as a hypocrite.’ She allowed herself a grim smile as she reflected on that thought.
‘Thank you. That is a compliment from one as clear-sighted as you. As you are such a realist, you will see that this increases your motive for getting rid of Jason Fitton.’
‘Drastically increases it, I should think. I’m glad he’s gone. I shall never succeed in proving it, or even in convincing those close to me about it, but I remain convinced that Fitton began what you saw next door.’ She stopped for a moment, her head on one side, listening to the strains of the opening music for Bargain Hunt, allowing her face to drop into the affection she felt for the damaged man she knew she was going to nurse. ‘I’m heartily glad that Jason Fitton is dead. I didn’t kill him, but I know you can’t simply accept that and that I must be high on your list of suspects. In view of the character of the victim and the things he represented, I regard that almost as a compliment.’
‘Have you come up with anyone who can confirm your whereabouts between one and three on Sunday morning?’
‘No. I expect I’m not the only one. It isn’t the easiest time to account for: there aren’t many people abroad and observant in the small hours.’
‘You must have thought about this since we last spoke. Have you any suggestions as to who might have committed this crime? Whatever you think of the victim, I must remind you that this was murder.’
‘I don’t need reminding that the law of the land must be upheld. It’s one of our cornerstones. I still think that there are a lot of good things about this country, despite the flaws we hear so much about. If I’d done this, I should confess.’
Peach thought for a moment that that was probably true. Then he remembered the stricken man in the next room, and Olive Crawshaw’s obvious desire to love and care for him. She needed to stay around, for Eric if not for herself. He said gently, ‘You still haven’t given me your thoughts on who could have done this.’
‘I’ve thought about it a lot. I was in shock when you saw me on Sunday, but it’s hardly been out of my mind since then. I know who I’d like it to be, but I haven’t a scrap of evidence to offer you to connect him with this, so that’s not much use to you.’
‘Perhaps not. Tell us nevertheless.’
‘Younis Hafeez. He’s capable of murder, I’m sure. And he’s creepy. He’s not safe near young women and still less near young girls. I try to prevent my juniors in the club from getting anywhere near him. And before you say it, I know that doesn’t make him a murderer.’
‘It doesn’t, indeed. But you are an intelligent woman and a long-time member of Birch Fields. You have seen Hafeez and others at close quarters for years. We appreciate your confidential views. Anyone else?’
She grimaced. ‘I suppose you’d expect me to say Arthur Swarbrick, because we’ve been enemies for years. I chatted with him yesterday. Curiously enough, a murder at the club seems to have brought us closer together than we’ve ever been before. I’m aware from what Arthur said that he was around at the time and that he has no one to substantiate his alibi – he’s like me in that, I suppose. We’ll never be bosom pals, but I don’t see Arthur as a murderer.’
Peach nodded. ‘I’ve seen quite a few murders now, Mrs Crawshaw. In ninety per cent of the cases, the perpetrator was someone whom no one had seen as a murderer before the event.’
As they prepared to leave, the man in the sitting room looked up at them as if he had never seen them before. ‘Hope the Rovers can pull it off on Saturday,’ said Peach.
‘You must come again,’ said Eric with a smile.
Arthur Swarbrick might have been amused to hear what Olive Crawshaw said to the CID about him, but he was far away and he had other things on his mind. He had caught the ten past eight train from Brunton to London. Only his wife knew that.
It was bright and calm when he reached Euston. The Underground wasn’t crowded at this hour. He didn’t enjoy the journey, but he reached Harrow quite quickly. She was locked in the flat when he arrived. He smiled weakly at the eye that was distorted enough to seem scarcely human as it viewed him through the spyhole. It took her several seconds to turn the two locks and release the chain to allow him entry. He stood for a moment assessing her and then took her into his arms.
She did not resist him, but nor did she respond. She merely stood inert within his hug. He clasped her tight against him, running his large hands over the thin, sharp shoulder blades, willing her to give him some sort of encouragement. Eventually, she lifted her arms and set her hands briefly upon his back, but it was no more tha
n a token response, an acknowledgement of the fact that if she wanted to be free of his clasp, she must offer him something.
She said, ‘You shouldn’t have come. There was no need.’
He wanted to say that he’d been up since six and thinking of her most of the time. He wanted to tell her that this was a cold greeting. Instead, Arthur Swarbrick said simply, ‘You’re my daughter, Clare. You weren’t answering your phone. I felt I had to come.’
‘I’m all right. I’ll get through this.’
‘But Jason’s death has been all over the national press. I knew it would upset you.’
‘It’s strange, that’s all. I suppose you’d say he had it coming to him.’
‘I would. But that doesn’t mean I don’t feel upset for you.’
‘You’d have killed him yourself years ago, if you’d felt you could.’
‘I’m not sure I’d have done that. But I’ve only got one daughter, and I didn’t like what he did to you. I hated him for it.’
There was a tiny pause, whilst both of them considered the question Clare did not dare to ask about how Fitton had died. Then she said, ‘There are men like him doing the same thing to women all over the country. He’s not unique.’
‘Not many of them are as cruel as he was. Not many lead girls on to think they’re going to be wives, and then simply laugh in their faces and tell them that they were fools for not knowing that would never happen.’
‘Other men do it, and probably some women as well. I told you, Jason’s not unique.’
She was speaking of him still in the present tense and Arthur didn’t like that. ‘He was unique to me, Clare. He was the only one who did that to my daughter.’
‘I’m all right, Dad.’
‘But you’re not, are you? You’re not at work, for a start.’
‘I’m not off sick and I’m not pretending I’m bereaved. I’ve taken a couple of days of my annual leave.’
‘But you wouldn’t have done that unless you were upset.’
‘I just didn’t feel able to face people. I’m not even sure I’m upset, Dad. I’m not sure what I feel. I’m not pleased and I’m not sad. I just feel that my emotions have been deadened as far as Jason is concerned.’ She got up and moved swiftly to where Arthur sat on the edge of his armchair. She bent and took him clumsily in her arms, kissing him and then pulling him against her. ‘I’m sorry I gave you such a cold welcome, Dad. It was good of you to come. Quite unnecessary, but good of you.’
He smiled at her, feeling the same emotions as he had when he had been young and vigorous and she had been eight and had come home from school in tears. You never escaped from your children. He looked past her, across the tidy, rather sterile room and into the kitchen beyond it. ‘I’ll get us a sandwich, love. I’m not as good as your mother at food, but I’m not entirely helpless.’
She pushed him back into his armchair. ‘I’ll get us something, Dad. I’m not an invalid. I’m sorry, I should have realized sooner that you must be hungry. It’s a long time since you had breakfast.’
‘I didn’t have much. I was too anxious about my daughter.’ He called the words into the kitchen after her, happy that she should be working there, feeling that she would find a release in action.
She made them cheese on toast. It was surprisingly tasty. He was happy to see her eating the same quantities as he did himself. He suspected that it was the first food she had eaten in the day. She smiled at him, mocking his anxiety. ‘Welsh rarebit was the first cooked thing I ever made, when I was eight, the first time I was allowed to use the stove and the grill at home. Mum was out and you stood over me from start to finish.’
‘I remember now. I wouldn’t have wanted to face her if you’d burned yourself, would I? That must be thirty years ago, now.’
‘And it’s seven years since Jason. Quite time enough for me to have got over it.’
‘I suppose so. But it hit you hard at the time.’ Clare had attempted an overdose, spent two separate periods in the mental wards of different hospitals. He was here because he didn’t want any repetition of that. Both of them knew that, but neither of them felt able to voice the thought.
But they were easy with each other now and Arthur could see that she was much more relaxed than when he had arrived. They walked in her local park for a little while in the afternoon, enjoying the sun on their faces as they strolled between the flower beds and sat by the lake.
He said quietly, ‘It’s over now.’
‘It was over a long time ago, Dad.’
‘Yes. But perhaps your mind wouldn’t accept that, until now. You’re still a young woman. You need to get on with the rest of your life.’
He meant boyfriends, she supposed. She wanted to be able to tell him that she had moved on, that she had a new man, that things were beginning to come together for her. But she’d never been able to lie to him. He’d always seen through her and laughed at her when others had believed her girlish fictions. She watched a duck land, flap its wings, preen itself a little before it settled. Then she said, ‘People talk a lot about closure, Dad. It’s an overused word. But this death is a kind of closure for me.’
He nodded slowly, watching the now stationary duck, not daring to look at Clare. ‘You’ll need to work hard to make sure it really is closure, love.’
‘And I will, Dad. Promise!’ She clasped his arm and edged close to him, as she used to do as a girl and had not done throughout her teens, when small disputes that now seemed supremely petty had been ridiculously important to her.
The skies darkened quickly and there was thunder in the air. She put the lights on in her flat when they returned. Arthur thought it looked cosier in artificial light than in the natural light that had filled it when she had let him in three hours ago. Perhaps that was his imagination. As if she read his thoughts, she brought a photograph of her parents and herself when she was ten and put it in pride of place on the mantelpiece. In the picture, she had the serious smile of a child to whom the world is a mysterious and exciting place. ‘I always liked that one,’ Arthur said.
The rain fell from near-black skies as his train left Euston. He slept now, as he had not slept on the previous night or on the journey south. He woke as the train was running into Lancashire. It was dusk, but the skies were clear and blue here. He watched the western sky getting ever more crimson as the wheels took him towards home. Despite his sleep, he felt physically exhausted as they neared Brunton. But it was a pleasant lassitude, the kind he had felt as a boy after long Sunday walks with his father.
His wife heard his key turn in the lock and was waiting for him in the hall. Arthur Swarbrick said, ‘I think she’s going to be all right now. I think she’s finally rid of Jason Fitton.’
‘You look exhausted. There was no need for you to go, really.’
‘There was, Shirley. I’m glad I went.’ For me as well as for her, he thought.
Two hundred miles south, Clare Swarbrick too was glad that her father had come to see her. She had resented his intrusion for about a minute, but after that the visit had been first therapeutic and then pure joy. Perhaps she would sleep without the pill tonight.
She just hoped that her father hadn’t made the ultimate sacrifice on her behalf.
FIFTEEN
When he was told that they wished to interview him for a second time, Younis Hafeez elected to meet the CID men at the police station. He didn’t want them coming to his penthouse suite in the office block again. Word got around and it didn’t do for the men you worked with in the underworld to divine that you were receiving police attention.
He knew how the police operated and he wouldn’t let it get to him. He’d be left alone for five minutes or so within the claustrophobic walls of a police interview room. The idea was that he’d feel the pressure and become anxious. This he would obviously refuse to do. He maintained the supercilious smile he had worn ever since he entered the station as the uniformed constable ushered him into interview room number three and told him that
DCI Peach would be with him very shortly.
They were peasants, these English policemen. And policewomen: they would never have employed women for this work in his country; women were for other things entirely. But the English were effete, in this as in other things. He’d seen one of the women officers as he’d passed through the reception area. Probably no more than twenty; she’d strip off quite nicely, he thought. But Younis didn’t allow uniforms to turn him on, as they did some men. Except schoolgirls’ uniforms, of course: they were a different matter entirely.
He gazed at the sage green walls and the square table and the single light high in the ceiling above him. The absence of any natural light after the brightness of the day outside would have unnerved some people, but it didn’t disturb him, because he had prepared himself for it. Peach and that big, stupid black sergeant of his arrived at exactly the moment he had predicted. The fact that he had forecast all of this so accurately gave him extra confidence.
He said coolly, ‘I’ve nothing further to offer you, Detective Chief Inspector. The fact that you have asked me to come here suggests to me that you must be now quite desperate.’
‘We didn’t ask you to come here, Mr Hafeez. It was your suggestion. And you might be surprised to know how helpful you’ve already been. People are sometimes at their most helpful when they think they’re being obstructive.’
Peach had played poker in his time, quite successfully, though never for stakes as high as this. ‘If you’ve no objection, I think we’ll record this conversation. You’re not under arrest as yet, but we find that people sometimes recall things quite differently from the way they actually happened.’ He flicked on the recorder switch and watched the cassette begin to turn. Rather old-fashioned, these days, but some subjects found the silent movement of the circling cassettes mesmeric, even disturbing.
Hafeez merely shrugged the expensive cloth on his shoulders. ‘As you wish. Any playback will be desperately boring. But perhaps you may use it to study and refine your interview techniques.’
