To Kill a Wife (Inspector Peach Series Book 3)

by J M Gregson

  Her wide, dead eyes seemed to stare accusingly at Martin as he stood transfixed in the doorway, as if they knew now what he had planned for her.

  Nine

  It was a bright Tuesday morning when Detective Inspector Denis Charles Scott Peach, known universally as ‘Percy’ to his colleagues, parked his Mondeo and prepared to resume work after a Monday off.

  He looked up at the blue sky and the high white clouds above him, then turned with distaste to the huge concrete slab which housed the new headquarters of the Brunton police force. The building seemed to soar away for ever, cutting out more and more of that splendid sky as he turned towards its entrance. “This place is like a modern cathedral,” he mused. “A cathedral erected to crime, the only millenium growth industry.”

  Peach was not often subject to flights of fancy; he regarded them as weaknesses in a policeman. Retribution for this one was swift and uncomplicated. A pigeon, launching itself from the balustrade of the Victorian Town Hall which stood defiantly at the center of municipal redevelopment, circled twice on motionless wings above the car park, wheeled a little lower, selected a target, and shat comprehensively upon the spotless windscreen of Percy’s Mondeo.

  Inspector Peach, finding his tongue in that moment as loose as the gray bird’s bowels, vented his vocabulary on the heedless departing tail as it soared effortlessly beyond his vision. An omen for the week to come? Percy turned gloomily, stamped on the wide rubber mat to open the automatic doors, and moved into the world of work.

  His interest was aroused despite himself as he went to look at the papers on his desk. For Percy Peach was a natural thief-taker, a CID man whose pulse and interest quickened instinctively with the scent of serious crime and the prospect of a hunt for the offenders.

  On this particular Tuesday morning, there was not much in his in-tray to excite him. There had been the usual senseless violence outside a couple of the town’s pubs on Sunday evening. There were three drugs arrests for possession and one for dealing, but no hint that the big boys of this lucrative industry were in any danger. There were two domestic incidents, one of which looked as if it would end with a manslaughter charge, but both of them seemed too straightforward to interest Peach. There had been a building society hold-up while he was away yesterday, but only by a couple of amateurs, stupid and desperate unemployed youths with toy guns, who were already in custody.

  It was a memo from the floor above, which made Percy’s dark eyebrows rise and brought an instinctive twist of contempt to the lips beneath his black moustache. The note asked him to see Chief Superintendent Tucker, Head of Brunton CID, as soon as he returned to his desk.

  Percy crumpled the note in his squat, immaculately manicured fist and flung it accurately into the waste-paper bin with the swift underarm throw that had run out many an unwary batsman in his years in the Lancashire League. He stood for a moment looking out at the tight rows of terraced houses and the two mill chimneys, which were the last legacy of King Cotton’s reign in the town; then he turned abruptly and marched resolutely through the door of his office.

  He stuck his head round the door of the CID section and spotted Lucy Blake, who had been assigned to him as a detective sergeant three months earlier. Against the predictions of the CID room wiseacres, Lucy had formed an effective partnership with the bristling and bouncy DI Peach. “I’m off to see Tommy Bloody Tucker,” he said. “Send in the dogs if I’m not back in ten minutes.”

  It was his way of letting her know that he was back in circulation after his day away from the coal-face of crime. When Lucy Blake first arrived, he would never have dreamed of informing her about his movements or intentions; now it was automatic to him to treat her as part of his team. The most important part, in fact. The large group of chauvinists and the smaller one of feminists who had rubbed their hands at the prospect of this confrontation had both been disappointed, not to say mystified, by the working relationship the two officers had developed.

  Human nature being what it is, the same people were now hinting at another kind of relationship between the two: baulked of one kind of gossip, they were eager to develop another. But not within earshot of the formidable Percy or his red-haired female detective sergeant: coppers, male or female, have more sense than that.

  Peach’s stocky form moved surprisingly fast on his short legs. He bounced up the stairs like a rubber ball and arrived quickly at the door marked ‘Chief Superintendent Tucker, Head of CID’. He took a deep breath, banged the button on the right of the door jamb, and watched the bulbs light up beside ‘Engaged’, ‘Wait’ and ‘Enter’ in quick sucession. Tucker was still staring at the buttons in front of him in a puzzled fashion when he found that Peach had arrived on silent feet in front of his desk.

  “Sit down, Percy,” he said hastily, gesturing to the chair opposite him, as if helping in a selection from hundreds. He remembered why he had asked Peach to come here now. This was to be an opportunity to patronize him. Tucker determined to take his time over it; usually he was glad to get rid of this irritant to his domination as fast as possible.

  “I suppose you were playing golf while we were all busy here yesterday?”

  “That’s right, sir. Felt I’d earned a break, after working all through Saturday. And of course, I wasn’t worried about things here. Knowing you had your careful hands on the wheel, I mean.”

  “Yes.”

  Hands-on management was definitely not Tucker’s style. He delegated work swiftly; or as Percy was wont to put it, he passed on awkward tasks as quickly as if they were red-hot turds. The Head of CID stared at his DI suspiciously over the half-moon glasses he wore for paperwork, the only work he was happy with nowadays, as the nirvana of pensioned retirement with his roses increasingly beckoned. A chief superintendent, whether efficient or not, could normally rely on deference from those beneath him in the system; his exalted rank ensured that. But Percy Peach was a maverick, content to rely on his own aggressive competence as his safeguard.

  Tucker was never quite sure when his DI was taking the piss. And he could never admit that he was not quite sure. “Well, it rained on Saturday. We gave up our golf after thirteen holes.”

  “Really, sir? Unlucky for some, eh? Beautiful day yesterday, sir. Played thirty-six holes, as a matter of fact. Really enjoyed it. And my golf’s improving, now I’ve given up cricket and can concentrate on it. Of course, we had the course virtually to ourselves at the North Lancs.”

  He dropped the name of the most prestigious local club into the conversation in the happy certainty that it would exasperate Tucker, who played on the much inferior course at Brunton Golf Club. Rumor had it that he had tried to join the North Lancs, but was too much of a hacker to meet the handicap requirements of that august institution. Peach’s immediate acceptance when he applied there had infuriated his chief, and Tucker’s annoyance was fueled by the fact that though both of them were aware of it, he could never publicly reveal it.

  He glared at Peach’s determinedly innocent, round face. “Yes. Well, I’m glad to hear you enjoyed yourself. Because we were busy solving crime here, while you were away on the golf course. Murder, in fact.”

  “Really, sir? Well, no one is indispensable, as I’ve often told myself when I’ve been tempted to overwork. Domestic, was it?”

  He managed to imply that the only crime Tucker could solve was the most straightforward. Four fifths of killings were within families or close relationships; in these cases, there was usually only one obvious culprit, who often gave himself or herself up. Tucker, who had planned to deliver his information slowly while gloating over the success, found he was already being hurried.

  “Yes, it was, as a matter of fact. Woman strangled by her husband. Chap called Martin Hume. Not much left for you to do, Percy. We’ve already brought him in.”

  Peach noted that ‘we’. It meant things.

  “Went out and arrested him, yourself, did you, sir? Well, I’ve often told the rest of CID: ‘One of the things that I admire about Supe
rintendent Tucker is that he’s not afraid to get his hands dirty. You won’t find him sitting behind a desk and letting other people do all the work when there’s serious crime about. Keeps himself in touch.’ That’s what I tell them, sir. I’m only sorry I wasn’t here to see the master in—”

  “DI Bancroft made the arrest, as a matter of fact.” Tucker scowled across the desk at his voluble tormentor. “On my orders. When I’d reviewed all the available facts in the case.”

  “Yes, sir. Of course. DI Bancroft, eh. Nice efficient job it sounds.” Peach paused, looked down at the dark material of his trousers, and picked off a piece of thread, which Tucker could have sworn did not exist. “Confessed to the killing, has he, sir?”

  “No. Not yet. He hadn’t when I left here last night, anyway.” Tucker could not work out why a triumph was turning into a disaster. Peach had already succeeded in raising doubts even in his own mind, when he had been so confident yesterday. “Well, you wouldn’t expect him to, would you? He’ll soon break down, when he’s interrogated. That’s your job, Percy. He won’t hold out against Hard Man Peach. Thought we’d leave you something to do, you see. Few loose ends for you to tie up. Let old Percy feel involved, I thought to myself, don’t want him feeling left out.”

  Tucker attempted a beam of triumph, but it appeared on his uncertain features as a shaky leer. Peach regarded him steadily for a moment, watching the doubt creep back into the lined face with its fringe of crinkled gray hair.

  Then he said, keeping his voice carefully neutral, “So we have a man arrested for the murder of his wife. Arrested but not so far charged. In the absence of conclusive evidence we need a confession, if we are to charge him within the hours left to us by the law.” He levered himself to his feet. “Better go and get on with it, I suppose, sir.”

  Tucker now felt that the case was anything but complete. That he might even have been precipitate in ordering the arrest of Martin Hume. That instead of smirking in the face of the egregious Peach with a fait accompli, he was after all dependent on that odious man to secure the conviction which had seemed to him so straightforward on the previous evening.

  He called after Peach’s broad back as it went through the doorway, “It’s a formality, you’ll see. When the report comes in from forensic it’ll be conclusive. But you’ll probably have a confession from him by then.”

  Peach stopped at the last words, then turned and confronted his chief from the door. “If you say so, sir, then of course it’s probably so. I have to admire your confidence – it’s an example for those of us who are less certain about these things… it’s your decision, of course, but I wouldn’t advise a press conference to announce the arrest, sir. Not just yet, perhaps.”

  He went down the stairs treasuring the look of deflation, which had collapsed Tucker’s bright features. Was it too much to hope that this Martin Hume might not have killed his wife after all?

  Ten

  Sue Thompson’s mind was reeling. When the news of the discovery of her sister’s body had been brought to her, she had taken it surprisingly calmly. The uniformed WPC reported back to the CID section that there had been no great evidence of grief in the deceased woman’s sister. But shock affects people in many different ways: her apparent callousness was not necessarily significant.

  The moment which started the nightmare for Sue came when Martin Hume used his one phone call from Brunton police station to tell her that he had been arrested for Verna’s murder. Martin followed this news with a little nervous laugh. And suddenly, she could see him at the station, standing awkwardly over the phone with the little stoop she had come to love, flanked by burly policemen waiting impatiently to lock him in a cell.

  For a moment, she could not even draw breath, let alone speak. Perhaps he took her silence as doubt, for while her mind reeled and she felt, like a blind woman, for the chair behind her to sit down, she heard Martin saying, “I didn’t do it, you know. It will all be all right. I suppose they always think it might be the husband. Especially when he has as much reason to hate his wife as I had to hate Verna.”

  She knew she must stop him, must prevent him from pouring out more words, which those watchful men beside him would record and use against him. She tried to say, ‘Of course you didn’t. I know that.’ But the words wouldn’t come, and she faltered into some guttural sound that could never be any comfort to him.

  Eventually, she managed to say, “Will they let me see you?”

  But apparently they didn’t want him to see anyone at that time, except the lawyer he was entitled to. And, as he said, she would have to get a babysitter for Toby. And he didn’t want the boy to know anything about where he was. Or why he was there.

  “I’ll see you when they let me out.” He sounded as though he was in shock. All through the darkest hours of the night, Sue wondered if he had felt as confident about his release as he had tried to sound.

  And now, in the brightness of the next day, Martin was still locked up, and the police were assembling God knew how strong a case against him. And Sue Thompson, who had hated her sister and was glad to know she was dead, felt that she too was being watched, that she must be careful of every movement she made if she was not to be arrested when they released Martin, as they surely must.

  She did not go in to work on that Tuesday after the death. Her employers were full of sympathy for her in her loss; she was grateful for their understanding, and thankful that they did not appreciate the irony of it. She had told Toby that his Aunt Verna was dead, but nothing else. She was glad to have the boy out at school and the house to herself for a few hours. It was a chance to compose herself, to adjust to the dramatic events of the last twenty-four hours.

  She did not realize quite how much she was still on edge until the phone shrilled in the hall behind her, startling her so much that she dropped the pewter tankard she had been cleaning to occupy herself. She watched it clatter noisily across the parquet floor before she picked up the phone. It was not the police station but her father in Lytham St Annes. Derek Osborne sounded strange: he had to give his name to his own daughter, because she did not at first recognize his voice. Then his tone changed and he said, “So Verna’s gone.”

  It was a strange way for a father to put things, she thought. But she had not seen father and daughter together for years now, so she had no real means of knowing how close they had been. Derek and Alice Osborne never spoke to her of Verna, and were non-committal if Sue ever mentioned her. She had been happy to leave things like that, having no wish to confess to them either her own distrust of Verna or her developing relationship with Martin.

  Now, she said simply, “Yes. I’m sorry, Dad.” She wondered if her father knew that Martin had been arrested.

  Derek Osborne, his voice still sounding strained at the other end of the line said, “She had it coming to her.”

  An even odder thing for a father to say. Yet Sue felt a bond strengthening with the words, which mirrored her own reaction. There was a pause; she could hear her father’s uneven breathing as he strove to produce his next words. Several seconds passed. Then he blurted out, all in one breath, as if he wanted to deliver his message before he could be denied, “She has to be identified. I said you might do it.”

  Her mind reeled. She should have expected this, perhaps. Her first reaction was that she couldn’t face it either. Perhaps that was a result of the feeling of guilt she was trying so hard to fight. She stuttered as far as a “But, Dad and then the phone was taken over at the other end of the line.

  “Your Dad’s really upset,” said Alice Osborne’s warm, concerned voice in her Geordie accent. “I know it’s too much to put on you, pet, but I honestly don’t think he can face it. Not seeing her lying there dead, I mean. It’s not fair to ask it of you, I know, pet, but if you—”

  “I’ll do it. Tell Dad it’s all right. It’s only a formality anyway.”

  She had not known she was going to say that. The words were out before she knew that her brain had made any decis
ion. But she was younger and stronger than her father. He had sounded much older than sixty-nine when he had spoken to her on the phone just now. She would be all right; she was more resilient. And it was, at least, something to do. She realized now how much her limbs yearned for action.

  It was only when she had agreed a time with the police and was on her way to the mortuary that she began to wonder if there were darker reasons why her father had not been able to face the task.

  *

  Percy Peach fulminated over the developing file on the death of Verna Hume.

  “Even Tommy Bloody Tucker should have known about our police doctor!” he grumbled. “That sour bugger gives out information as if it were gold cufflinks. You have to press him for it – squeeze the miserable bastard. There’s not even a suggestion here of the time of death. I can just hear that stuffy devil saying, ‘You’ll have to wait for the post mortem for details like that.’ And I can just see that moron Tucker accepting it meekly. Damn it, an informed guess from our doctor about the time of death might have put the husband right in the frame! Or right out of it.” Peach seemed to find the latter possibility the more attractive of the two.

  Lucy Blake looked over his shoulder at the sparse facts as they flashed up on the computer. He tried and failed to ignore the light, attractive fragrance which hung about her. He was not sure whether it was a touch of perfume or merely expensive soap, but it was a vast improvement on the aura carried by his previous detective sergeant, Bert Collins, whom Peach had usually referred to as ‘that long streak of discretion’. That lanky and swarthy professional had had many virtues, but fragrance had never been one of them.

  Peach glared at the screen as if the instrument had actively offended him, then swiveled away in disgust to face his detective sergeant. “Right,” he said. “Tell me how far we’ve got with Tommy Tucker’s little travesty of a case.”