Backhand Smash

by J M Gregson

  ‘We’ve collected some of Jason Fitton’s files. We got there before you.’

  ‘Nothing of Mr Fitton’s would have been of any great interest to me.’

  ‘Except his prostitution and his gambling and his loan-shark rackets, and the employees you have elected to take over from him. I told you at our previous meeting that we knew about that. We were moving in on Fitton, and we shall eventually have the evidence to convict you.’

  He was shaken, despite his contempt for them. But the olive skin on his forehead did not crease and his smooth features kept their sardonic smile. ‘I have no interest in such things: they are illegal. If it pleases you to stretch your imaginations, I shall not deny you that much-needed exercise.’

  ‘Your English is very good, Mr Hafeez. A great contrast to your morals.’

  ‘This is being recorded, CDI Peach, at your request. I should hate you to get into trouble with my lawyers.’

  ‘Those lawyers are going to have other concerns in the coming months. They are going to be busy and they will need to be very good indeed. They will fail you, however skilled and unscrupulous they are.’

  They were both exuding confidence, each trying to outmuscle the other mentally. Yet it was no more than a preliminary skirmish. It had a purpose, as far as Peach was concerned: he was trying to soften up his adversary and make him more vulnerable in the real exchanges that were imminent. ‘There were two more arrests in Derby last night. It’s only a matter of time before the special unit assembled for this investigation comes for you. The men arrested in Derby will talk, once they realize that they are cornered. They won’t save themselves, in the face of the evidence against them. But they’ll sell you to try to cut down their years inside. Their sentences will take into account the extent of their cooperation, as you know. Rats deserting a sinking ship aren’t noted for their loyalty, Mr Hafeez.’

  Younis maintained his smile with stiff lips and great effort. ‘I seem to remember you telling me a year or so ago that the police don’t do deals.’

  ‘We don’t. Especially not with the likes of you and where helpless children are involved. The evidence has accumulated and is now overwhelming: there is no need for deals. It’s taken far too long, but the lot of you are going down. We’d have got Fitton for his part and we’re going to have you for yours.’

  ‘Empty threats, DCI Peach. Arrest me, if you think you have a case.’

  ‘I shan’t have that pleasure, Mr Hafeez. That is the province of the Vice Squad and the Serious Crimes Unit, who are closing several different nets at this very hour. I have nothing but contempt for the things you have done, but you’re here this morning because I have narrower and very different priorities. I am investigating a brutal murder and you are one of the people with motive and opportunity and no alibi.’ He gave his first real smile of the morning to exhibit his relish for that thought.

  It was true and Younis Hafeez knew it. He didn’t know what other suspects they had: perhaps none. He forced his practised urbanity back into his face. ‘You have no proof of that and you won’t be able to find any, because it doesn’t exist. I didn’t kill my respected business colleague and acquaintance Jason Fitton.’

  ‘You’d be behind bars at this moment if we had that evidence, Mr Hafeez. But we’re patient people. Sometimes it takes us rather too long, but I hope that won’t be the case here. It is still only four days since the discovery of Fitton’s corpse and we are making rapid progress. We have eliminated from suspicion almost all of the people who were around at the time of this crime. I am happy to tell you that you remain in the frame. You might even be what we often call the prime suspect. Would you agree with that, Detective Sergeant Northcott?’

  ‘I would heartily agree, sir. We mustn’t make the mistake of rushing towards the conclusion all of us would like to see, but I think it would be fair to describe Mr Hafeez as our prime suspect. He has many more things to worry about than this single death, as you have indicated, and justice is going to come to him from another quarter if not from us. But it would be highly satisfying to us and a feather in the cap of Brunton CID if we could arrest him for the murder of Jason Fitton. There would be a kind of symmetry if we could arrest one major criminal on our patch for the murder of another.’

  The smile was gone now. Hafeez viewed the confident black man with open hostility. ‘You’d better be able to substantiate these things, Clyde.’ He delivered the forename as if it were an obscenity. ‘I shouldn’t like to be in your shoes when they’re shown up as the fictions they are. The tennis club is not going to take it kindly, and neither am I.’

  Peach said grimly, ‘Did you tighten that cord around Fitton’s neck in the car park of the club on Sunday morning?’

  ‘I did not. I want that to be recorded formally, since you seem unable to get it into your thick heads.’

  ‘You have others available to do your dirty work, as Jason did when he was alive. Did your men wait for Fitton in that car park?’

  ‘I do not employ such people. End of story.’

  ‘On the contrary, you’ve just increased the number of your bully boys. Not wise, that. Men like Abe Lockhart always talk about their employers once they realize the game is up. As it will be very shortly for you, Mr Hafeez.’

  He was shaken by the fact that they knew the name of the man he had just taken over with Fitton’s empire. He said as firmly as he could, ‘Since you do not wish to hear what I keep telling you, I shall resort to the standard “no comment”. I begin to see why policemen who will not see reason hear that phrase so often.’

  ‘You had a dispute with Fitton two days before he died. A major dispute, with raised voices.’

  There had been more than one. He couldn’t be certain whether they meant the one at the tennis club or the one in Fitton’s car. Probably the one at the tennis club: there was a greater possibility of them having secured a witness to that. He summoned his dismissive smile. ‘You shouldn’t believe everything you hear, Peach, especially if it’s from women. They build up a normal exchange of views between friends into a major dispute.’

  Peach arched his black eyebrows. The dark eyes beneath them seemed to Hafeez to glitter in the harsh artificial light of the interview room. ‘That jacket you’re wearing today. The one you’ve slipped off and put on the back of your chair. Were you wearing that at Birch Fields on Saturday night?’

  ‘I may have done. I can’t remember now.’

  If he didn’t deny it, he’d been wearing it: both the men watching him from the other side of the small, square table knew the score. Peach walked round behind the man, took the lightweight woollen jacket between finger and thumb, and removed a single fibre from it. He walked back to his chair, pulled a small plastic envelope from his pocket and put his almost invisible trophy carefully inside it. ‘You don’t mind volunteering us a sample from your jacket, do you, Mr Hafeez? An innocent man wouldn’t.’

  ‘An innocent man doesn’t.’ Younis was pleased with his snappy reply, but more fearful than he wished to show beneath the surface calm he still maintained. He knew that he was at liberty to refuse them, but he couldn’t do that without seeming guilty. He wanted to be away from here and making his own enquiries. He was more disturbed than he could afford to show by what they had said earlier about the arrests in Derby. The dangerous, lucrative trade which had so excited him and brought him so much profit seemed now to be collapsing around him. ‘Why on earth are you picking bits off my jacket? Is this an attempt to fit me up?’

  ‘We don’t fit people up, Mr Hafeez, not even people like you. Our forensic teams have examined certain fibres taken from the passenger and rear seats of Jason Fitton’s car. From the murder scene, in other words. If we find a match with the fibres you have just volunteered to us, I have no doubt that a court would find that significant.’

  ‘I have certainly been in Jason’s Bentley on occasions. I wasn’t there on Saturday night or Sunday morning.’

  ‘That is a contention you may have to justify in c
ourt, in due course. In the meantime, have you any other candidates to offer us for this crime?’

  ‘Anyone who was at the summer ball at Birch Fields on Saturday night, as far as I’m concerned. You should by now know much more than I do about this. I gather from the confusion you have exhibited this morning that you have made little progress.’

  ‘You are at liberty to go whenever you wish. Please don’t leave the Brunton area without informing us of your movements.’

  Once Hafeez was gone, Peach sat looking in silence at the small plastic envelope and the sample he had secured. ‘I think we’ll find a match between this and fibres extracted from the Bentley.’

  Clyde looked at Peach’s almost invisible trophy, willing it to give them more than it possibly could. ‘We know now that the car was thoroughly valeted on the Tuesday before Fitton died. This could prove that Hafeez was there after that, but not necessarily after the dance was over.’

  ‘True. It will be up to Hafeez to show that his presence in Fitton’s car pre-dates the death hour.’

  ‘Innocent until proved guilty. The onus of proof will be on the prosecuting counsel.’

  Peach nodded almost gleefully. ‘There are all kinds of other things mounting in the case against Younis Hafeez. I hope this will add to the pile.’

  Lucy Peach’s own GP wasn’t immediately available, so she took the only doctor available: a man who had officially retired but still did one day a week in the practice. Lucy had never realized how vulnerable you were when you were pregnant. She lay flat on her back on the table with her tiny bump feeling enormous and stared up at the male doctor. It wasn’t much fun lying half naked and being prodded and asked intimate questions about the behaviour of your anatomy. It was, she supposed, preparation for being old and ill. Her thoughts flashed suddenly to her mother, Agnes, when she knew she should be concentrating hard upon the present. This was the moment to ask questions, to acquire answers to all the queries she and Percy had discussed.

  Yet it was this overweight man with the cigar-smoker’s breath and the air of impatience who seemed to be asking all the questions. He’d been brisk and dismissive, even rude, to her. But when you were lying on a hard surface it wasn’t easy to be aggressive. She said, ‘The morning sickness has been quite bad. That’s OK, isn’t it?’

  ‘It’s not abnormal. Some people say that means it’s probably a boy, but that’s an old wives’ tale.’ Like most medical men, Doctor Tierney was very strong on old wives’ tales. He summoned them up at every opportunity so that he could dismiss them.

  Lucy tried to show a little spirit and humour. ‘Awkward little sods, boys. We call this one Horace – not that we know that it’s a boy, of course.’

  ‘Not many kids are called Horace nowadays, are they? Still, it’s your own choice, I suppose.’

  ‘No, I don’t really intend to call him that. It’s just that you have to call your bump something, don’t you?’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘Well, we do. “Horace” seems better than “it” to us.’

  ‘Does it really? There’s no accounting for tastes, I suppose. One meets all sorts of women in this job.’ The great man spoke as if that were a definite disadvantage. ‘You troubled much with flatulence?’

  Lucy wondered if she had made some embarrassing emission since she had stripped off and climbed on to this unyielding surface. She didn’t think so, but Horace was making all sorts of assaults upon her dignity. She was tempted for a wild moment to say, ‘No, I rather enjoy it!’ but this man didn’t look as if he would welcome humorous rejoinders, and she was still stretched out on her back and at his mercy. So she said only, ‘Not much, no. Nothing I can’t cope with.’

  Dr Tierney seemed rather disappointed. ‘It’s your first, of course. You may find things become a little looser, with the passage of time.’ He did not enlarge on what seemed to his patient a vague and wholly alarming prospect. He looked at her notes, as he should have done before he saw her. Medics always did that: Lucy thought it was a very inefficient way of going about things. But she was literally in no position to criticize him. He said accusingly, ‘You’re a police officer.’

  ‘Yes. A sergeant in CID, actually.’

  That usually seemed to impress people, but he frowned at her over her file. ‘Do you spend much time on your feet?’

  She was ready for that one, because her own doctor had already raised it with her. ‘It varies from day to day. I’ve found the exercise has been good for me, so far.’

  He frowned and shook his head, but offered no comment. ‘Are you intending to go back to work after your baby? To just take maternity leave?’

  ‘Probably I shall, yes, if everything goes smoothly. We haven’t made a final decision.’

  She had discussed it with Percy, but aborted the conversation when it had become an argument. Tierney didn’t say anything, but he nodded his disapproval. The only other person she knew who could nod disapproval was Percy, who used it as part of his interviewing technique with seasoned criminals. Most people shook their heads to indicate disapproval, but Dr Tierney and Percy Peach could do it with a nod.

  He now said almost reluctantly, ‘Everything appears to be proceeding satisfactorily.’ It was what she most wanted to hear, and he had kept it until the end. She had begun to think whilst his cold hands prodded at her nether regions that Horace was misbehaving. Tierney said, ‘You can get dressed now. You’ll need to make appointments to see the midwife. In due course, you’ll be able to see the sex of your baby and report it to your partner.’ He sighed on that word: you’d had to say ‘partner’ for twenty years now, but the word still occasionally stuck in his throat.

  ‘We don’t want to know the sex. We’ve decided to take whatever arrives when the time comes,’ she added nervously. ‘I suppose that sounds a bit old-fashioned.’

  ‘It’s your choice, Mrs Peach. If you choose to ignore what modern science has worked hard to produce, that is entirely your choice.’ He peered at her notes again. ‘I see that your husband is a Denis Charles Scott Peach. A detective chief inspector.’

  ‘Yes. I used to work with him before we were married, but nowadays I’m—’

  ‘I’ve played golf with a Percy Peach. I think he’s a policeman.’

  ‘That’s my husband. Everyone calls him Percy.’

  ‘Used to be a good cricketer, this one. Played for East Lancs.’

  Her mother would have liked that, Lucy thought. ‘That’s the one.’

  ‘He’s a very promising golfer. Only needs to play more to be very good indeed, in my opinion. I hope you won’t restrict his appearances at the club when you have a family.’

  ‘I shan’t do that. I might even take up the game myself, in due course.’

  He looked at her sternly over his glasses, as if he needed to check how serious this aspiration was. ‘I expect you’ll find you have very little time to yourself when Horace makes his appearance.’

  He’d remembered that name and he’d smiled upon it. It was his first hint of humour or humanity. Lucy felt that she should congratulate him upon it for the sake of others. But she was too happy to climb stiffly down from that cold, hard base where he had examined her. As he sprayed his hands with cleanser, Lucy said meekly, ‘Thank you, Doctor Tierney.’

  The morning had gone well, Anne Grice thought. Like all good PAs, she judged its success by the performance of her boss and the results he had achieved.

  Robert Walmsley had been at his very best during the meeting that had taken place in the managing director’s office during the morning. Representatives from all sections of the company had been pleased with what they heard. The firm was going to have a new lease of life. The new owners wanted to see it run as it had been run in the old days, with a generous proportion of the profits being ploughed back into the new technology that would ensure continuing success. They were happy to entrust all but the largest policy decisions to their managing director and his senior staff, and Walmsley would keep them in touch with developm
ents through a weekly verbal report.

  Bob’s own relief and delight had shone through the exchanges with his senior staff. He had looked a good five years younger today, Anne thought, and his renewed drive and enthusiasm had been communicated to the people in the meeting, all of whom he had known for many years. They had gone away imbued with optimism and energy, and Anne had no doubt that was now being passed on to staff down the line. The week had begun with tragedy and crisis. It looked as though it would end with the beginning of a new and more successful era at Fitton’s Metals.

  Anne Grice was alone in her office, feeling something very near euphoria, when the CID men arrived. She said breezily, ‘Mr Walmsley won’t be available for the rest of today. He has an important meeting with the firm’s solicitors which he anticipates will take all of this afternoon. I can probably squeeze you in for an appointment some time tomorrow.’ She reached for her desk diary.

  Peach sat down without being asked on the chair in front of her desk. Without taking his eyes off her, he gestured to Clyde Northcott, who brought another chair from the corner of the room and sat down beside him. ‘His absence is really quite opportune, Ms Grice. We wished to speak with you alone.’

  ‘Really? That is flattering, I suppose, but mistaken. I can tell you very little about the late Mr Fitton and still less about the history and structure of Fitton’s Metals. Perhaps you forget that I have still only been here for a few weeks.’

  ‘No, Ms Grice, we do not. I am aware of exactly how long you have been here. More pertinently, I am now aware of exactly how well you knew the late Jason Fitton.’ Peach’s normally mobile face was stony: he did not even accord her one of his vast array of smiles.

  She knew now what was coming, but she brazened it out for a little while longer, buying herself time to organize her mind, to determine just how much she must give them and how she should deliver it. Better to be questioned than to roll out a long prepared speech of her own, she thought. If she drew the questions from them and made her answers, she’d discover just how much and how little they knew. She wouldn’t need to reveal any more than was absolutely necessary.