by J M Gregson
This man enjoyed secrecy. He’d lived by it for many years now – since he was fifteen, in fact. It had become a way of life for him and he would have been loath to discard it now. He pulled the baseball cap more firmly over his forehead and thrust his hands deeper into the pockets of his shabby blue anorak. His right hand gripped the butt of the pistol he always kept there; he found the feel of it reassuring, even when it was not loaded. Not many of the old terraced houses he was passing had lights visible. Most of them were occupied, but people for the most part chose to live at the back of them, as if they knew that it was politic to mind their own business and maintain an ignorance of whatever else went on around them.
The door opened almost as he knocked, so suddenly that he almost lost his balance and fell forwards. The shaft of light from within the house flashed unnaturally bright across the wet flags, and then he was in and the door was shutting behind him. The man who led him through to the shabby room at the rear of the house was old. The grey stubble on his chin was a result of a failure to shave rather than an attempt at a beard. He had been driven for years by hate, which operated like a life force within him, far more important to his being than food or drink. He was diminished since the Good Friday agreement. His life was petering out, but he kept it going by the news he gathered from his old juniors, from the evidence they brought to him that violence could still be effective. The settling of old scores renewed his faith. Death or damage to those who had frustrated the cause operated like blood transfusions on his failing body.
The man who had come here understood all of this. He had operated under this man’s command in the battles of the last century; he clung to the camaraderie of the glory days even in these less stirring times. There was a whisky poured ready for him on the table. He clinked glasses with the old man and they downed the Jameson’s to one of the old toasts. Neither of them was really a drinker; they had seen too often in the dangerous years how drink had made others vulnerable.
The man slipped off his baseball cap. Despite the drink, it was his first real evidence of relaxation. He grinned at his old commander. He wanted to prolong the giving of his good news, but that wouldn’t be fair. So he said simply, ‘Dominic O’Connor’s been seen off.’
Then he clasped the gnarled old fingers in his. The two men raised their linked hands skywards, in a hideous parody of the consecration in the Catholic Mass.
TEN
She’d been crying. That much was obvious. She had done her best to disguise it, but she was puffy around the eyes and unnaturally pale. These things are difficult to disguise, as she’d realised twenty minutes ago when she stood in front of the mirror in the cloakroom and studied her face.
But there was surely nothing wrong with a PA being upset by her employer’s death. Dominic O’Connor had been a good employer to Jean Parker. They’d worked together for over four years. These were the first things she told the detectives when they came into the office to speak to her. She was a slim, attractive woman. Her soft brown hair was cut short and her dark grey eyes were very alert. She wore a lightweight grey suit over a white blouse.
Peach watched DS Northcott note the facts Mrs Parker had given him, then said, ‘Your employer was killed methodically and very deliberately by someone. This doesn’t look to us like a spur-of-the-moment murder or an argument which spilled over into violence. We think whoever went to the house went there with homicide in mind. Have you any idea who that might have been?’
‘No. I’ve been thinking about it ever since I heard the awful news. I’m not naïve – I know you make enemies when you’re successful in business, so I’ve been thinking of possibilities since I heard he was dead. But I haven’t thought of anyone who might have hated Dominic enough to kill him.’
Both Peach and Clyde Northcott noticed the use of the first name and wondered what degree of intimacy it implied. But relationships between employers and PAs were not as formal as they had once been and nor were the titles used. ‘Mr O’Connor’s brother was shot only a few days ago. Do you think there is a connection between these two deaths?’
She allowed herself a small, bitter smile, the first one they had seen from her. ‘Shouldn’t I be asking you that? You’re the ones with the experience of murder and the sort of people who perpetrate it.’
‘Indeed we are. But you’re the one who knows the victim and his associates. We are dependent upon you and people like you for information. Apart from his wife, you probably know more about this victim’s life and the dangers it carried than anyone.’
Both of them noticed a twitch of her face when the widow was mentioned, but it came and went so quickly that it was difficult even to guess at what it might mean. Peach said quietly, ‘It is your duty to be as frank as possible with us, Ms Parker. The crime we’re investigating is murder.’
‘I’m Mrs Parker, please. Normally I wouldn’t speculate about my employer’s marriage, but in these exceptional circumstances I will tell you that I think there were problems.’
These were phrases which she had obviously prepared beforehand. Peach said, ‘You are doing the right thing. You should be aware that we are normally very discreet. Anything you tell us which proves to have nothing to do with this death will not be made public.’
She nodded impatiently, anxious to tell her tale and have done with it. ‘There’s been a little gossip around the office. Mr O’Connor apparently had what one of the women here called a roving eye. Lots of men have that. The higher up they are in the system, the more they suffer from the gossip. People love to spread rumours about the boss. How much was just innocent flirting and how much was more serious than that I really couldn’t say.’
‘Couldn’t or wouldn’t, Mrs Parker?’ Percy was quietly insistent, despite his smile.
‘Couldn’t, Mr Peach. I try to steer clear of tittle tattle. I see that as loyalty to my employer and thus part of my job. Dominic’s business life, not his private life, was my concern.’
‘Admirable, I’m sure. But a pity, nevertheless, from our standpoint, in view of what has now happened to Mr O’Connor.’
She shrugged her slim shoulders beneath the lightweight jacket. ‘If you want my opinion, I think Dominic had affairs. I think that is why he had difficulties with his marriage. But that is no more than an opinion. I cannot give you any facts or any significant detail to support that view.’
‘So he was a womaniser.’ Peach waited for her reaction to the word. She frowned but said nothing. ‘Not a good thing, from where we stand. Sex leads to passion and passion too often leads to violent and impetuous actions. But so, in our experience, does success in business. And his work is something you do know about, as you’ve already told us. Very few people succeed in business without making enemies along the way. No doubt you can identify for us some of the enemies Mr Dominic O’Connor made.’
Clyde Northcott flicked ostentatiously to a new page in his notebook and reflected once again on how his senior made bricks from however little straw was offered to him – this woman had said she knew only his working and not his private life and he’d immediately quoted that to make her speak.
But now Jean Parker picked her words carefully; Clyde couldn’t be sure whether that came from a natural caution she had developed with her job or whether she was really trying to hide something. ‘Dominic wasn’t the owner of this business. He was the successful finance manager within it.’
‘He was a partner. He became a partner two years ago. We’ve already checked that out.’
They thought in the pause which followed that she was going to say she hadn’t known about that. But she eventually said, ‘That is a tribute to his efficiency. I don’t think you will find anyone in the firm who will say that Dominic was other than highly efficient.’
Was there a tiny suggestion of bitterness in her repetition of that last word? Peach let the thought hang in the air for a moment before he said, ‘One man’s efficiency is sometimes another man’s dirty trick. Verdicts can alter with where you stand and
how actions affect you. We’d like the names of anyone who felt aggrieved by any action taken by Dominic O’Connor.’
She was a surprising woman. They would have expected evasions, after what had gone before. Instead she said abruptly, ‘Brian Jacobs. I’m not saying he had anything to do with this, mind. I haven’t seen him for years. I think he still lives in the area, but I can’t give you an address.’
‘Did he work for a rival firm?’
‘No. He worked here. He did the job that Dominic did, when the firm was smaller than it is now.’
‘And he resented the way Mr O’Connor behaved?’
‘You’d have to ask him about that. I don’t know any details. I hadn’t been here long, at the time.’
Northcott made a note of the name, then asked, ‘Is there anyone else who had a grudge against Mr O’Connor?’
‘No. There must obviously be a whole range of people in other firms who were business rivals, especially after he became a partner here, but I don’t know that any of them would admit to having a grudge against Dominic.’
She came to the door and watched them depart, a slim, composed figure, with shrewd grey eyes and an air of being in total control of her office domain. They were half a mile away in the car before Peach said, ‘Pretty formal in her attitudes, Mrs Jean Parker.’
‘Yes. Goes with the job as a PA, I suppose.’
‘Yes. But she slipped into calling her employer Dominic pretty quickly, didn’t she? I appreciate that office conventions are more relaxed than they used to be, but I wonder just how close the very composed Mrs Parker was to her late employer.’
Back in the office they had left, Jean Parker was examining her reactions to their visit. She should have felt relieved. Instead she found she felt curiously empty, now that it was over. She’d told them exactly what she’d planned to tell them and it seemed to have gone quite well. Now she wanted to ring Brian Jacobs and warn him of what she’d said.
There was really no need for that. What she’d told the CID was what they’d agreed beforehand, no more and no less. It was Brian who’d said that they’d be determined to find out about him, that it was better if they heard it from her lips than dug it up for themselves. He’d planned it and he would handle it, as they both knew he could.
But Jean Parker felt deprived. She would have liked to be at Brian’s side as he saw this through.
They didn’t have much time for reflection when they got back to the police station at Brunton. The station sergeant stopped them at the front desk as they moved towards the CID section. ‘God Squad’s waiting for you in your office, Percy. Catholic priest from St Catherine’s. What you been up to? I told you to keep away from them choir boys!’
Police humour is robust and predictable rather than subtle. Percy smiled sourly. ‘If you’ve been rifling his poor box, George, your best chance is to admit your guilt and go for mitigating circumstances. I’d like to tell him you’ve been working hard and been under stress, but they might have me for perjury.’
When he reached his office, he reflected wryly that he should have learned by now not to form clichéd premonitions about occupations. He had been expecting a red-faced and portly middle-aged cleric with an Irish accent. The man who introduced himself as Father Raymond Brice was tall and slim and no more than thirty-five. He had a tanned face and a firm chin and he spoke English with a slight Geordie inflexion. ‘I’m not sure if I should be here at all, DCI Peach. You must send me away quickly if you think I’m wasting your time.’
‘We’re glad of all the help we can get, Father.’
‘I know the family. The O’Connors, I mean.’
‘James or Dominic? They’re both murder victims.’
‘And I knew both of them. I’m here about Dominic, the younger brother. He’s the one I knew well. I know the family – well, husband and wife. They weren’t blessed with children. I suppose that might be a good thing now, with Dominic lying in the morgue.’
Percy decided to save time and take the initiative. ‘We heard earlier this morning that this was not a straightforward marriage. Perhaps you can throw more light on that for us.’
Father Brice looked troubled. He sighed and said, ‘That’s why I’m here. I’m still not sure whether I should be.’
‘You’re worried about whether you should reveal the secrets of the confessional to us?’
The priest smiled and relaxed for the first time since they had arrived. ‘No, it’s not that old chestnut. Modern Catholics don’t use the confessional as much as they used to, which may be a good or a bad thing. We priests still don’t disclose anything revealed to us in that private little cell, which is one of the strengths of the system. If people don’t believe they can trust us completely, they don’t seek absolution for their sins. And forgiveness comes from God, not from us. That’s another illusion many of the public have, that priests can forgive sins. We’re just intermediaries between man and God.’
‘Forgive me, Father, but I know all this. I began life as a Catholic.’
For a moment, it looked as if Father Brice might embark on a mission to retrieve the lost sheep, but something in Percy Peach’s countenance made him think better of it. ‘None of what I have to say here comes from the confessional. I have gathered it from other and less formal contacts. The modern pastor is expected to get to know his flock. I’ve learned quite a lot about Dominic and Ros O’Connor, both from themselves and from other people.’ He sighed. ‘We’re expected to be counsellors as much as confessors, these days.’
‘So what can you tell us?’ Peach tried not to show his impatience with this well-meaning man who had obviously found it difficult to come here.
‘It’s Ros O’Connor.’ The priest’s relief at being pushed to reveal the name was obvious. It made it seem as if the detectives and not he had taken the initiative and given him no option. ‘She’s a good woman, but a woman under stress. I’m not a psychologist and I’m not sure how they would define the word, but I think she’s unstable.’
Peach said quietly, ‘You’d better give us the details.’
Father Brice leaned forward, clasping his hands and pressing them hard together. It was obviously a gesture he made which helped him to think. He looked slightly ridiculous, as if squeezing some imaginary orange in search of juice. But priests did not have wives to tell them to abandon ridiculous gestures; Percy had a sudden vision of the loneliness of clerical evenings, of the quiet desperation of a life lived alone with problems you could not reveal. Then Brice said, ‘They’re good Catholics, the O’Connors – whatever that means nowadays. They attend Mass each Sunday and receive Communion most times. That doesn’t mean that they’re not subject to the same pressures of modern life which others feel.’
Peach felt for the priest and saw the internal struggle this was costing him, but he now wanted whatever he could get from this to be delivered quickly. He said briskly, as if he already had the information from some other source, ‘They weren’t faithful to each other, were they?’
Again Brice looked as if being led was a relief to him. ‘No. There were all sorts of rumours about Dominic.’
Clyde Northcott said eagerly, with pen poised over notebook, ‘We need the details, Father.’
Brice glanced across at him as if he had forgotten for a moment that the DS was in the room, a difficult thing to achieve with Northcott’s formidable presence. ‘I can’t give you details.’
‘I appreciate that you cannot reveal the secrets of the confessional, Father, but you should be aware that this is a murder—’
‘It’s nothing to do with the damned secrets of the confessional! I told you that!’ The near-shout showed the strain the priest was enduring. He controlled himself with a visible effort and a very deep breath. ‘Neither Dominic nor Ros confessed any sexual sins to me. It’s embarrassing to parade your defects to someone you know, as you can probably imagine. Most people prefer to go to priests who do not know them when they have serious sins to confess. They feel the need for ab
solution, but they prefer a more anonymous intermediary between themselves and Almighty God than the man they know and the man who knows them.’
Peach nodded. He felt as if he himself was now assuming the role of therapist to this troubled man. ‘But the O’Connors talked to you about this.’
He nodded eagerly. ‘But not in the confessional and not together. And Dominic scarcely at all, except in the most general terms. But Ros is a tortured soul. She was quite frank with me when she felt desperate. And you hear rumours from other people, even when you don’t want to hear them. They assume you know all sorts of things which you don’t know.’
Peach prompted him. ‘We already know from other sources that Mr O’Connor was a womaniser. He is now a murder victim and his womanising may be a factor in his death. Can you give us any information about his liaisons?’
Father Brice shook his head. ‘I’m sure they exist and perhaps there have been several of them. But my only source is Ros and she isn’t reliable when she speaks of this. She loses judgement and becomes hysterical. According to Ros, Dominic was bedding almost every woman he met, which was plainly ridiculous. I tried to point that out to her and she’d nod and agree with me, but then come up with something just as outlandish a moment later.’
‘But you have some information for us about Ros herself. That is why you came here this morning.’
‘She is a troubled soul and I fear unstable, as I said at the outset. I believe she has turned elsewhere for consolation, despite my advice. Sometimes I’m treated as a marriage guidance counsellor, when I have no training in such fields.’
‘We need names, Father Brice.’
‘Mrs O’Connor is not a promiscuous woman. She has acted rashly, under stress. I can give you one name, in strictest confidence. A man called John Alderson.’
He enunciated the syllables with obvious distaste, so that Peach said, ‘He is obviously a man of whom you don’t approve.’
