Brothers' Tears

by J M Gregson

  It was his last conscious action. But he felt the steel of the pistol against his temple, heard the sudden roar of the weapon as the swift and final violence of the bullet ended his life.

  TWO

  ‘You heard the news this morning?’

  It was a small hotel, allowing a friendly relationship between owner and client, and the proprietor was eager to drop his little bombshell and then talk about it. Murder was better than politics for a conversation – better than most things, better even than sport. You could get into trouble with politics: it was surprising what strong views some people had, whatever the evidence you cited. Sport was pretty safe, but even there you had to be careful; people had their favourite teams and they could be very blinkered. Even worse, the guests could sometimes be totally uninterested in sport. And then you were left at the end of the diving board, without anything to do except tumble into the pool and look silly.

  But a good juicy murder was pretty safe. Everyone enjoyed talking about death; everyone enjoyed wondering what the world was coming to. They thought the crime was terrible, but they usually wanted all the details of it with their breakfasts. The older ones often wanted to bring back hanging; he’d got used to that. And he had his reaction ready: you shook your head gravely and retreated into the illusions of how much safer a now long-departed world had been.

  These two were young. The woman was quite a looker, with that striking red-brown hair and those bright blue eyes which seemed to be taking in everything and smiling at it, not to mention that healthily curving body beneath. When you wore your white chef’s hat and asked whether they’d enjoyed the food, people thought you didn’t notice how they looked, but you did. He wondered for a few seconds how that little bald-headed bloke with the moustache had got himself a girl like that, but he’d long since ceased to give much time to such speculation. You saw all sorts of couples here, some married, some not. These two were married, he was sure of that. They were easy with each other; they had the air of amused tolerance which he saw only in long-term couples.

  They must surely have heard his question, but they gave no sign of it, seeming to be immersed in their choice of cereals from the wide range provided at the side table. The proprietor repeated a little less certainly, ‘I expect you’ve heard the news this morning, Mr Peach?’

  The man’s near-black eyes turned sudden and full upon him. ‘No, we haven’t. And we don’t want to. No offence, Mr Johnson, but it’s part of the holiday for us to get away from what’s happening in the world. No newspapers, no radio, no television. That’s been a rest in itself, these last four days.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ The owner nodded four times, which was at least two too many. ‘Very understandable. Very sensible, I’m sure. I can see the point of that.’ He went back into his kitchen, leaving the pair to breakfast in peace. They were the first ones down this morning. The others would want to talk about this killing when they came, might even broach it with him, if they’d been listening to the radios in their rooms. Took all sorts to make up a world – that was one of the clichés he loved to swap with his clients in the peculiar world of hotel-speak. He could still picture those dark eyes in that round, unrevealing face. The man had been perfectly polite, but he’d decided in that instant that he wouldn’t want Mr Peach as an enemy.

  The couple he’d left behind were deliberately friendly towards him when he served the breakfasts they’d ordered, as if they wished to emphasize that there was nothing personal in their rejection of his conversational sallies. The man must be ten years older than the girl, he thought – when you were approaching sixty and had grandchildren, all women under thirty were girls to you. She had bacon and egg and tomato. The man had the full English, which he despatched with amazing speed and obvious relish. He told the chef it was good bacon and sausage and cooked just right. It seemed he wished to compensate for his earlier brisk rejection of the news.

  They disappeared from the dining room as the first of his other guests entered it, as if they wished to preserve themselves from any further discussion of events in the vulgar world around them. Detective Chief Inspector ‘Percy’ Peach and Detective Sergeant Lucy Peach had signed into the hotel as plain Mr and Mrs Peach. In a few minutes, they would pay their bill and sign out again. Peach would put something complimentary in the visitors’ book, but they would remain Mr and Mrs Peach as they departed. There was nothing unusual in that. Police officers prefer to conceal their calling; they consider it politic to do so in our civilized twenty-first century. Most of the men and women who serve in uniform prefer to don the garb of their trade only at work; they leave it behind in the locker room when they finish the working day, shedding their work along with their clothing.

  Percy and Lucy were members of the CID, of that elite police section which operates throughout the day in plain clothes, attempting as far as possible to blend into the world around it. But they still preferred to keep the nature of their work secret, unless they were asked directly about it by innocent strangers, when both of them found it difficult to lie. As Lucy brushed her teeth vigorously in their bathroom, Percy said, ‘Our last day. Best make it a good ’un.’

  ‘If you’d let me listen to the weather forecast, we’d know better what to do now.’

  Percy eyed the small patch of blue sky he could see through their window, watched a white cloud race quickly across it. He said with all the confidence he could muster, ‘Bright. Breezy. Possibility of an occasional shower. Keep waterproofs handy in the rucksacks.’ He sought something which would add the edge of reality to his forecast. ‘Probably not warm enough for outdoor nooky.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Weatherman. That’s quite enough of that.’ She emerged from the bathroom in jeans and anorak. ‘Ready for action when you are.’ She caught an instant reaction in those dark eyes as he reached out lustful arms. ‘Walking action please, Casa-bloody-nova!’

  Three hours later, they were two thousand feet up on the slopes of Crinkle Crags, looking back at Red Tarn and the track they had climbed. No rain yet, but a brisk breeze around their ears as the sun climbed higher. Percy breathed deeply of the cool, clean air and accepted a square of chocolate as they paused to rest before the steep climb up to the crags above them. ‘All this bracing air, all this spring sunshine, all this magnificent scenery, and the finest backside in Britain moving two yards ahead of me!’ he murmured euphorically.

  ‘Don’t you ever think of anything else?’ said Lucy, shifting a little on the rock to accommodate the backside in question.

  ‘Not if I can help it,’ said Percy happily. ‘You said we had to forget all about work and your bum helps me to do that more than most things. It’s good to have such ambrosia perpetually on tap, now that we’re married. It’s like having your own real ale on draught, only better!’ He lay back with his head flat against the sloping fellside, chewing happily on the stalk of coarse moorland grass he had plucked.

  Lucy felt that she should make a feminist protest about male assumptions of ownership, but she couldn’t quite isolate the right phrase to attack. It was much better to be appreciated than ignored, her mother always reminded her. Mrs Blake was an enthusiastic and consistent admirer of Percy, when she might have been expected to reject him as a divorced man ten years older than her daughter. The elderly widow of seventy and the bouncy little detective of thirty-nine got on as no one could have predicted and it was a formidable alliance. The starting point had been Percy’s twinkle-footed prowess as a Lancashire League batsman; Agnes Blake had been a devoted cricket fan since her girlhood.

  Lucy contented herself in the end with saying firmly, ‘A mature man like you should be able to control your lust after almost a year of marriage. You can lead over the next bit. You’ll need to keep your attention off my contours and firmly on Wainwright.’

  Percy consulted the famous guidebook ostentatiously. ‘Piece of cake, for a fit youngster like you, he says. Old men like me have to watch their step on the second Crinkle.’ It was over fifty years since the gra
nd old man of Lakeland had published this book. He was long dead now, but still overwhelmingly the best guide to walking in the mountains. Percy felt that using the guide he had first handled as a boy, with its detailed drawings and helpful, humorous text, was a kind of homage to the man who had so loved these heights.

  They worked their way up the long, zigzag climb to the first Crinkle, then along the mile of magnificent scrambling, with its series of dramatic views to either side and the gradually emerging view of Bowfell to the north. The wind was strong here, at nearly three thousand feet, so that sometimes you used hands as well as feet to keep your balance. But they had anoraks zipped high and woollen bobble hats, so that the stiff breeze only made the experience of the finest ridge walk in Britain more exhilarating.

  The Easter holiday for schools was well over now, and they met only a few fellow enthusiasts in this wild place, most of them traversing the ridge in the opposite direction. They were completely alone when they reached the end of the ridge and stood looking down into Great Langdale. Percy put his arms round Lucy, with their bodies braced against the wind. They didn’t need words as he held her for a long thirty seconds. In this high, remote place, where you felt nearer to whatever gods you did or did not believe in, the moment felt like another step forward in their relationship.

  Then they retraced their steps along the ridge and began the descent. As they left the last of Crinkle Crags, the cloud dropped like a damp grey blanket around them and there was a sudden fierce shower. It seemed that nature wished to remind them that this could be a dangerous as well as an invigorating place. They were soon out of the cloud as they descended, and their clothes dried quickly in the steady breeze. They made rapid, easy progress back towards the car they had parked on Wrynose Pass.

  They grabbed a meal in Ambleside, where Percy bought Cumberland sausage as a culinary reminder of their first days in Lakeland together. Silence dropped in over tired limbs as they drove the car to the M6 and so south to Brunton and to work. They were passing Lancaster when Lucy said sleepily, ‘Alfred Wainwright came from Brunton, you know. He worked in local government there. Then he discovered the Lakes.’

  ‘As we have done all over again, together,’ said Percy dreamily. It was an uncharacteristically sentimental vein for him. As if to correct himself, he added a moment later, ‘The best backside in Britain will be even more muscular and rounded, after all that effort.’

  ‘Keep your brain alert and your eyes firmly on the road, please.’

  When they reached Percy’s ageing semi-detached house in the old cotton town, they made mugs of tea, unpacked swiftly and prepared to tumble into bed and into sleep. ‘That bathroom’s as cold as ever. I’m going to do something about it before next winter!’ said Lucy as she emerged in her nightdress and leapt breathlessly beneath the duvet.

  There was no reply from Percy. He’d been checking the messages left on his phone. The last of them was from the detective sergeant who was his bagman, now that the rules of the police service prevented him from working with his wife. He listened carefully, then pressed the repeat button. DS Northcott’s deep, dark brown voice said urgently, ‘We’ve got a murder, Guv. High profile, at Claughton Towers. Tommy Bloody Tucker’s been out to it. He’s making a right balls-up. We need you, Guv.’

  THREE

  ‘A murder, Peach.’ A prominent local businessman killed in sensational circumstances. And you weren’t there.’ Superintendent Thomas Bulstrode Tucker made it into an accusation.

  ‘No, sir. Do you think the killer chose his moment? Waited until I was safely off the premises?’

  ‘This is no time for frivolity, Peach. Murder is a very serious business.’

  This was also no time for Percy to meditate on his senior’s penchant for the blindin’ bleedin’ obvious. ‘I understand you attended the scene of crime yourself, sir. Used surprise tactics.’

  ‘Surprise tactics?’ Tucker assumed the baffled-goldfish expression which always gave Percy a dubious pleasure.

  ‘Working at the crime face, sir. You usually prefer to cogitate in your office here and provide us with your overview of the situation.’ Or sit on your idle arse in this ivory tower and produce fuck-all, if you take the alternative and majority view.

  ‘If I cannot attend the scenes of crimes as often as I once did, that is one of the crosses I have to bear, Peach. Much as I should prefer to adopt the hands-on approach, none of us can be in two places at once.’

  ‘No, sir. Not even you can manage that.’ Peach smiled bleakly, as if he had discovered some form of consolation.

  The man he had long ago named Tommy Bloody Tucker stared at him suspiciously over the tops of his rimless glasses. He said again, ‘You weren’t here, Peach.’

  ‘No, sir. I was enjoying two days of my precious leave, sir. Attaching it to the weekend to give us a blessed four days in a quiet hotel in Coniston and some walking in the high hills, sir.’

  ‘Yes. Well, as I say—’

  ‘Scafell Pike on Monday, sir. Crinkle Crags yesterday. Before returning refreshed to the fray, as you suggested.’

  ‘Me? I don’t think I—’

  ‘And in the evenings, sir, good food and drink, and then connubial bliss. I find there’s nothing like a damned good—’

  ‘Yes. There’s no need for any more detail, thank you.’

  ‘No, I’m sure there isn’t, sir. I’ve no doubt you know all about connubial bliss, sir. Enough said.’ Peach stared at the ceiling, as if he could see there an evocation of his chief in congress with his formidable wife Barbara, whose Wagnerian proportions had led Percy to christen her Brunnhilde Barbara. He shook himself violently, ridding himself of the vision with difficulty. ‘But enough of pleasure, sir. Are you near to an arrest?’

  Tucker’s jaw dropped further at this outrageous suggestion. ‘No, Peach, I am not. And even to suggest that an arrest should be possible at this stage shows how little you appreciate the complexities of this case. You should be out there beginning your belated enquiries, not wasting my time with accounts of your squalid activities in Cumbria.’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir. I understood that you had asked to see me or I should not be here. I have already visited the scene of the crime this morning. I was expecting you to brief me on the current progress of your investigation.’

  ‘Your investigation, Chief Inspector Peach. I have held the breach in your most inconvenient absence. I am now formally handing over the responsibility for this case to you. I shall maintain my overview and conduct whatever media briefings are appropriate. You will be the person with responsibility for the conduct of this enquiry. Is that clear?’

  ‘Crystal clear, sir. I seem to remember you reminding me last year that the first thirty-six hours on a case are always the most crucial. What can you report to me from this period?’

  ‘Me? Well, I . . .’

  ‘DS Northcott tells me you let people leave the scene of this death almost immediately. Is that correct?’ Peach’s black eyebrows arched impossibly high beneath the shining bald pate.

  ‘There were important people at this gathering, Peach. It was already ten o’clock when I got there. They were anxious to get away to their homes. I could foresee that they were going to become fractious.’

  ‘I see, sir. I knew you would have a good reason for letting obvious suspects leave so quickly.’

  ‘There were no obvious suspects, Peach. This was a killing in a car park, with the banqueting hall in chaos during a break before the speeches.’

  ‘Yes, sir. You didn’t think it politic to keep behind even the occupants of the top table where the victim had been sitting for a few brief questions before they left?’

  ‘No I didn’t, Peach. These are influential people. They can do the police image a lot of damage in this town, unless we handle this case sensitively.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Sensitively, you say. I’m not sure sensitivity is my forte, sir. You wouldn’t consider reversing your decision and retaining the case in your own capable hands, sir?
’

  ‘No, I wouldn’t. Get out of here and get on with it!’

  ‘Very well, sir. What have you done to date?’

  ‘Me? Well, I put house-to-house enquiries into immediate action, yesterday morning.’

  ‘I see. I wouldn’t have thought house-to-house would be the most productive line of investigation, with a crime committed amongst sixty-two people at a dinner at Claughton Towers. But that just shows how stereotyped my thinking is, I suppose. That’s where a chief superintendent’s superior intellect and imagination tells. Have you conducted any interviews, sir?’

  ‘No. I thought I’d leave that for you, Peach. You know that I don’t like to tread on people’s toes.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Your use of the first thirty-six hours after the crime has been quite subtle, sir. Low-key. Whoever did this must be baffled by your tactics.’

  ‘I’ve put you in the picture. I think you should be on your way now, Peach.’

  ‘I agree, sir. We don’t want the scents to get cold, do we?’

  Chief Superintendent Tucker stood looking out over Brunton from the window of his penthouse office after his DCI had left. He’d had this problem for years now: he’d like to put that insolent man Peach in his place, but he needed the results the man provided to bolster his position as Head of the Brunton CID section. He sighed, sat down behind his desk and shut his eyes. Two more years and he’d be rid of all this and retired on a fat pension – provided they didn’t find him out before then.

  Two floors below him, Peach brightened. He’d spotted his old friend Jack Chadwick writing his report in the CID section.

  The two had been colleagues once as detective sergeants, before Chadwick had been shot and wounded in a bungled bank robbery. His wounds had brought him much sympathy and an aborted career. He’d continued as a uniformed sergeant for several years, carving out a reputation for himself as a scene of crime officer. He was a civilian now, but still doing the same job, still the best man to conduct a thorough investigation of a crime scene that Peach had ever known.