by J M Gregson
Peach asked, “What time was this, sir?”
“I’m not sure of the exact time. About nine o’clock, I should think.”
“The night sister says it was five to ten,” said Lucy Blake. Johnson smiled, caressing this attractive, earnest young woman with the warmth of his approval. “Then I’m sure she’s right; no doubt she made a note of the visit in the patient’s record at the time. I did say I wasn’t sure, you know.”
“Indeed you did, sir,” said Peach. He stood up. “If anything occurs to you which you think might help us, please get in touch right away. No doubt you are as anxious as we are to know who killed a woman for whom you had such a great affection.”
Johnson glanced at him sharply, but there was no trace of irony in the inspector’s impassive features. They left him then, and he stood at the big window for a few moments, until he saw the police Mondeo glide into view. He watched it turn onto the main road which ran by the canal and back into town. It was as if he needed confirmation that they had really left the place before he could resume his normal day.
In the car, Peach said, “We have two men who claim they were the current boyfriend, Hugh Pearson and Richard Johnson. God knows how many others there’ve been in the past few months, all of whom who might have done it. Dangerous women, drawer-droppers. Cause a lot of trouble.”
“They still have a right to life, sir. And a right to have their killers brought to justice.”
“I know, Lucy. We’ll find out who did it.” Where a few months ago, he would have bridled at her reminder, he now put his broad hand for a moment on top of the more slender one, which rested on top of the gear lever. “We’ll need to check out with the wife that Johnson was at home on Saturday night as he says, of course. As delicately as possible. You’d better do that: it’s a job for a woman, if you agree there is still such a thing.”
She didn’t argue, as he had expected her to do.
Back in the quiet of his consulting room, Richard Johnson was wondering whether he had been detected in the most important lie of all.
Twenty-One
The coroner was brisk and businesslike in his conduct of the proceedings, but not unkind.
The death of a woman of thirty-four was always distressing. When the deceased was a victim not of a road accident or a deadly disease but of murder, you had to be prepared for even more distress than usual among the relatives and friends. They sat before him grim-faced and darkly dressed.
But the coroner’s experience and his legal background, the talk he had had with his coroner’s officer on the previous day, made him fully aware that on this day there was drama as well as tragedy in his courtroom. Somewhere among the quiet ranks of attentive faces, there might be sitting the person who had killed Verna Hume.
Sue Thompson gave her evidence of identification in a clear, low voice. She looked to Martin Hume a little older than her thirty-one years. He had never seen her so formally dressed before: the gray worsted two-piece suit, a little out of fashion because she had had it so long and worn it so seldom, seemed almost like a uniform. She stood sturdily erect; with her dark blonde hair and blue eyes, her light make-up concealing any hint of girlish freckles, she seemed to him more attractive than ever.
But they did not look at each other in court, observing their pact to be careful until any hint of police suspicion of Martin had died. They were behaving, he thought, as if he had really killed her, instead of merely planning that he might. It was an enormous relief to him that someone else had stilled Verna’s taunting mouth for ever, but he was weighed down by the enormous, inescapable fact of her death. The feeling of guilt was as strong as if he had done the deed himself.
For the first time since Verna’s death, Martin felt that his head was clear and his brain beginning to work in its normal rational way. He began to speculate about who had done this thing.
The proceedings were almost over now. The pathologist was giving the evidence from his post mortem examination about the cause of death. The coroner listened in silence to the steady recital of medical terms. Then he asked the single, vital question. No, the pathologist replied in a clear, steady voice, it was not possible that this asphyxiation could have been accidental. Not in his considered, professional opinion. The traces of saliva on the pillow beside the corpse’s head suggested that this was almost certainly the instrument of the abrupt ending of this life. And that pillow had been deliberately applied to the face of a woman who lay on her back at the time.
The proceedings were over surprisingly quickly. Martin had not expected that there would be a jury in this court, but there was. They brought in a verdict of murder, by person or persons unknown. As yet.
When the coroner expressed his sympathy for the bereaved husband, Martin took a second or two to realize that the remarks were addressed to him. He bowed his head in embarrassed acknowledgement. Then he looked up to see whether the policemen present were watching his reaction. He found that Detective Inspector Peach was studying not him but the people further along the row.
Peach ran his eyes rapidly over the faces in the front seats of the quiet courtroom. The face of the younger sister, Susan Thompson, who had been so composed in her evidence of identification; of the father and stepmother, Derek and Alice Osborne, sitting close together with gray, strained faces; of Barbara Harris, the business partner, leaning forward in rapt attention; of Hugh Pearson, who even in this assembly could not rid himself of that slight, supercilious smile, which was perhaps by now his normal expression.
Peach noted also that Richard Johnson’s dark, handsome face was not here. You wouldn’t have expected him to attend, really. Johnson was a man with a busy hospital schedule, and sick people depending upon his efforts. Moreover, cynics would remember that he was anxious that Mrs Johnson should know nothing of his connection with the dead woman. And CID men were professional cynics.
*
It was almost like standing outside the church after a funeral service. The relatives stood in a little knot together, with other interested parties a little way further off, as if anxious not to intrude upon the family mourning.
The Osbornes talked with Martin Hume and Sue Thompson, relieved that the proceedings in court had not been as harrowing as they had feared. After the preliminary remarks, an embarrassed silence fell upon the group, punctuated only by meaningless comments about the weather. They should have been commiserating with Martin in his loss, as the coroner had indicated they might, but each of the four knew that he was glad to be rid of the wife who had died.
With sidelong, surreptitious glances, all four of them recorded the movements of Barbara Harris and Hugh Pearson, who obviously knew each other a little. The pair exchanged a few sentences twenty yards further down the pavement, then made for their respective cars. It was impossible to be certain if anything other than polite small talk had passed between them.
Eventually, Alice Osborne seized eagerly upon Sue’s son as a safe topic of conversation, and Sue talked happily of Toby’s progress at school, her eyes lighting up and her face clearing of the cloud of caution which had shadowed it.
“You must bring him over to see us again,” said Alice. “He’ll be old enough now really to enjoy the seaside.”
Sue promised that she would. She liked her father and his new wife and felt guilty that she did not visit them more often. It had not been easy during her divorce and the years that followed to make the journey to Lytham St Annes; it wasn’t much more than thirty miles, but nothing was easy without your own transport these days. She wanted to assure them that it was genuine when she promised to visit them now.
“I’m sure Martin will bring me over, once all this is finished with,” she said impulsively, waving her hand vaguely at the court they had just left.
“I’ll be delighted to!” he said quickly, smiling his pleasure. It was time to begin acknowledging the connection between the two of them, he thought, especially within the family. “I’m sure Derek would like to see more of his grandson.�
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“And so would Alice,” said Derek Osborne, asserting the right of his second wife to the family circle, as he had grown used to doing with the sisters over the years. Both he and Alice noticed that Sue and Martin were still avoiding eye contact with each other. It was as if each of them knew something they were determined to withhold, even as they moved closer to the older couple.
Sue Thompson smiled at the anxious, lined faces of her father and her stepmother, thinking how the death of her sister had released all four of this group to a new and happier life. She did not see the stocky man, who had stolen almost unnoticed to her side.
“I’d like a few words with you, Mrs Thompson,” said Percy Peach. “At the station or wherever you like. But as soon as possible, please.” He gave her his neutral smile.
*
Back at Brunton nick, DI Charlie Bancroft was beavering away in the CID Section.
He was a man to toe the line and keep his nose clean, was DI Bancroft; he never pretended otherwise. It was the standard way to make progress in the police force, and it had already taken him as far as inspector. Covering up Chief Superintendent Tucker’s blunders made even a determinedly unimaginative man like Bancroft grind his teeth at times. But reliability is a huge virtue in the police bureaucracy, and no one was betting against it carrying Charlie even further up the hierarchy in due course.
And his methods had their virtues. Bancroft was solid and thorough, more at home with documents and paperwork than people. As part of a team rather than as a leader, he could be a strength. He was happy to to beaver away at his computer, entering and cross-referencing all the material that gathered so quickly around a murder case. Although neither would have admitted it, and each professed a hearty contempt for the methods of the other, he and Peach were complementary to each other as the senior members of a team. Percy, with his determination to be out and about and his penchant for taking chances and following his insights, needed an organizer back at the station to cover his back and keep control of the accumulating detail of a serious crime case.
Now, in the quiet of the murder room, while he sorted the documents on his desk and made his entries on the computer files, DI Bancroft permitted himself a quiet smile. What he had spotted in the sheets, which had come in from the bank, might or might not be significant in the end. He would need to follow it up with old Muirhead, the manager.
But it was most interesting. Even that arrogant sod Peach would be forced to admit that.
*
Barbara Harris had never liked Hugh Pearson. She had not seen him more than three times while Verna had been alive, but he had always struck her as a man on the make. A man not to be trusted in business or in the rest of life. Sex had made Verna blind to his danger. It was ironic that her infatuation should have upset her judgment, when she had so often used her charms to lead men into rashness and bad decisions.
Now, in a context where she would least have expected it, Barbara’s impression of Hugh Pearson was suddenly and dramatically confirmed as correct. The conversation in low voices, which the group of Verna’s relatives had witnessed but not overheard had not been a desultory exchange of pleasantries.
Hugh Pearson had communicated one vital piece of information to Mrs Harris in those two short minutes outside the Coroner’s Court. Then he had gone away, with his silly smile a little wider, and Barbara had decided that he was not just smug and untrustworthy but a thorough going bastard.
She drove slowly to the quiet of her house, not back to work as she had planned. She was shaken: she admitted as much to herself. It was not a normal feeling for someone whose life revolved around cool efficiency and foresight, but she had experienced it often during the events of the last week. From the moment when she had endured that blazing row with Verna over the partnership, life had not been normal. This development, when the worst had seemed to be over, was something she had never foreseen.
And she could not see what she was to do about the vile Mr Pearson. Sitting with a forgotten cup of coffee going cold on the table in front of her, Barbara Harris, now sole owner of Osborne Employment, ran both hands through her chestnut hair in something very near panic.
Twenty-Two
“The last few days must have been very upsetting for you,” said Lucy Blake.
“Yes. They haven’t been pleasant. I’m glad the inquest is over,” said Sue Thompson.
This was just the conventional opening, she thought, the ritual exchange of the first pawns in the game. Considering it was a game she had never played in her life, she felt surprisingly calm. She took her time and looked round the small room, with its harsh green windowless walls, its single square table with the cassette recorder, its spartan upright chairs, its stark and shadowless fluorescent light.
And she looked last of all at the two people who were to be her adversaries here. The woman who had spoken the polite and orthodox opening words was younger than her, attractive in the unconscious way which energetic people so often carry with them. She had a slightly square, attentive face and a lock of dark-red hair which strayed over the left-hand side of her unlined forehead.
The man beside her was like a medieval jailer, she decided, with his short, powerful frame; his fierce, almost black eyes; his bald dome with its fringe of jet-black hair; his small mouth partly hidden by the toothbrush moustache; his air of muscular watchfulness.
They looked a more formidable pair in this enclosed space than they had done in the coroner’s spacious courtroom. Sue determined that she would keep calm, would not be intimidated. “Do we have to have that thing turning?” she said, pointing at the tape recorder.
It was the man who replied, as she had somehow known it would be. “Not if you don’t want it, love. You’re just helping us with our inquiries. We shall want you to sign a statement in due course, though. This could form the basis of it for our stenographer.”
Sue knew women who would have told him that they certainly weren’t his ‘love’. But it had fallen naturally enough from his lips, no more than a northern form of friendly address, and she did not resent it. It was a long time since she had heard anyone use the word stenographer. She nodded, accepting the explanation without relinquishing any ground, maintaining the formalities. “I have no objection.”
Lucy Blake said, “So you now know officially that your sister’s death was not accidental.”
“Yes. But I didn’t need an inquest for that. I’ve known from the start that Verna was murdered. You arrested her husband as soon as he reported finding her body.”
“Martin Hume was detained for a while, yes. We are now satisfied that he had nothing to do with this killing.”
“No. He was in Oxford at the time.” Sue allowed herself a smile.
Peach silently cursed Tommy Bloody Tucker and his talent for getting the wrong end of any criminal stick. He said quietly, “Many a jealous husband has employed someone else to do his dirty work, Mrs Thompson. But we don’t think that happened in this case. We’re beginning to get a picture of the victim now… but you can help us to put in more detail. We need to know about your own relationship with your sister. Were you close?”
“No. We never had been very close. And we grew further apart over the last few years.”
“I see. How much do you know of her life in the year before her death?”
Sue wondered how much they already knew about Martin and her. Were they trying to trap her? She said, as calmly as she could, “I know that her marriage had failed. That she spent very little time at home. That there were numerous other men. I don’t know any details.”
“That’s a pity. It’s detail we need, if we’re to find out who killed her. I’m sure you appreciate that.”
Sue shrugged, aware that they were studying her, handling their scrutiny better than she had thought she would. In the ninety minutes between the inquest and this meeting, she had changed into the blouse and skirt which she had brought, and the summer breeze had disturbed the formality of her dark-blonde hair. She loo
ked younger, more vulnerable than she had when giving her evidence of identification so calmly in the high room where the coroner held his court.
She smiled at them, holding Peach’s formidable eyes for a moment with her own bright-blue ones. “Other people can give you more detail than I can, Inspector. For instance, they have probably already told you that Martin Hume and I have grown very close over the last few months.”
“How close?”
She smiled again, apparently completely calm. “We are planning to marry. We should have done so even if Verna had still been around. But it’s simpler now.”
She was telling herself to be careful, to say nothing that would incriminate her, but she was finding the confession of her love for Martin an unexpected relief. Living with a young child has its conversational drawbacks as well as its joys; Toby was the only person close to her, and you could not talk to a five-year-old about a developing sexual love.
Peach studied her demeanor; his assessment was so open that it was almost insolent. Then he said, “Making difficulties was she, your sister?”
“She made difficulties about anything that would have made other people happy!”
The words came vehemently, a selfjustification which sprang out before she could stop herself. Sue was not calm now; she could hear her own breathing, see beneath her eyes how her breasts rose and fell as she gasped. Damn Verna, she thought, she’s a menace to me even when she should be safely dead. Well, they would have prised this out of me anyway, she consoled herself, soon enough. She hadn’t done any real harm by volunteering it.
Lucy Blake said softly, encouragingly, “Yes. Other people have told us much the same thing. She stood in the way of your happiness, then?”
“Her enjoyment was to stop other people’s happiness. That’s the way it seemed, anyway, most of the time. She certainly enjoyed torturing Martin. She threw her own affairs in his face, but that didn’t stop her taunting him about me, I’m sure. I know her of old, you see.”
