Dusty Death

by J M Gregson

  On Monday morning, he would tell the staff in the office to stir things up a little, to let these people know that there were other people interested in buying these houses, whether that was actually the case or not. It wasn’t strictly ethical, but it was what you had to do to hurry things along, to clinch sales. The younger people who worked for him needed to understand that, to learn how the world of property operates. But he’d remind them of it tomorrow, rather than include it in the memos: it wasn’t sensible to put things like that in writing.

  In fact, business overall was pretty quiet at this time of the year. No doubt it would pick up as usual around Easter, as he had told his father-in-law when arranging his fortnight away from the place. In not much more than an hour, he had cleared his desk and was wondering what else he could do to show his industry.

  He made a phone call to an elderly couple who were threatening to take their Edwardian house off the market because they had not been able to find the bungalow they wanted. ‘I understand your position, Mr Robinson, of course I do. This is probably the most important single decision you will make in the rest of your life.’ He mouthed the words he had used so often before, forced the concern into his voice.

  Flicking through the list of properties available, he half-listened to the frail voice telling him of sleepless nights, of how the situation was making this senior citizen’s wife ill. Then he launched into his spiel. ‘It’s your decision, of course. But it’s my duty to offer you the benefit of my experience in these things, which now stretches to many years. That’s part of the service we offer. And I have to tell you, Mr Robinson, that I think you would be very foolish to withdraw from the sale at this stage. Very foolish indeed, in fact. We have secured a sale for you at very nearly the full asking price, and I would be less than honest if I did not state my opinion that you would be most unwise to turn away from that now.’

  ‘I suppose we could fit into that bungalow we saw on Friday, if we got rid of most of our furniture,’ the old man said uncertainly.

  ‘It’s an attractive place. Pleasant garden,’ said David, reading from the details in front of him: he had never seen the property himself.

  ‘Yes. It’s rather overlooked, compared with the privacy we’re used to here. But I suppose one has to make certain sacrifices, if—’

  ‘Moving is all about compromises, Mr Robinson. Take my word for that!’ David assured him confidently. ‘No one gets exactly what he wants, unless he has millions to spend.’

  ‘Well, I’ll have another word with Edith, then. Tell her we ought to go ahead with the sale whilst we have the chance.’

  ‘That would certainly be my advice, based on years of experience. I’ve seen too many people regret losing the courage of their convictions, believe me!’

  ‘It’s very good of you to take the trouble to ring us on a Sunday morning.’

  ‘Not at all, Mr Robinson. I just thought I’d like to give you my full attention, whilst things were quiet here and there were no distractions.’

  He smiled slowly as he put down the phone. With a bit of luck, he’d have the lucrative sale of their big house confirmed and the Robinsons lined up to buy that bungalow before he disappeared for two weeks on Friday. Nothing like leaving a tidy ship behind when you went away.

  He was locking the door of the office when the voice behind him said interrogatively, ‘Mr David Edmonds?’

  He turned to look up into the fresh face of a man perhaps ten years or more younger than he was. ‘I’m afraid we’re closed for the day now. The office will be open from nine o’clock tomorrow morning, if you—’

  ‘I’m Detective Constable Murphy. We’d like you to answer some questions for us, in connection with the investigation of a serious crime.’

  David Edmonds was not the only man at work on this last Sunday in February. Thomas Bulstrode Tucker had put in an unprecedented appearance at the Brunton Police Station. He was dressed in bright plus twos and a garish yellow sweater which his wife had given him for Christmas, which you could hardly call plain clothes. The Head of CID had been on his way to Brunton Golf Club, but had felt the impulse to pop into the station for half an hour, leave a memo for the absent Peach to show he had been there, and depart swiftly for his afternoon of golf.

  The plan went wrong from the start. DCI Peach was already in the station when Tucker arrived there. And he came up to brief him on the Sunita Akhtar case, pinning his chief in his peacock garb behind the big desk.

  ‘You don’t know who was in charge of CID work in this particular district in 1991, do you, sir?’ Percy Peach knew very well that it was Tucker, then a humble Detective Inspector, but it might be as well to remind his Chief Superintendent that he knew.

  ‘Oh, I don’t think there’s any mileage in going back thirteen years, do you? Probably Harrison, I should think: he was the CID Superintendent at that time.’ Tucker thought it was pretty safe to name a man who had been dead and buried for three years.

  ‘Just curiosity, sir. One of the necessary attributes of the successful CID man, my first boss used to say. No one in the police seems to have paid much attention to the occupation of twenty-six Sebastopol Terrace by squatters at the time. An occupation which seems to have resulted in murder.’ Peach shook his head sadly on the thought of this grave omission.

  ‘I hope you’re not trying to divert me, Peach. I hope you’re not trying to disguise the fact that you’re not making the progress on this case that you promised me when I went public to the media about it.’

  Peach recalled no such promise. But that was par for the course; Peach consoled himself with a metaphor which reminded him that Tucker was a very poor golfer indeed. ‘We’re making steady progress, sir. But there’s a lot more evidence to be unearthed yet! I say, that’s rather good, isn’t it, considering this case concerns a body buried for all those years?’

  ‘Abandon the schoolboy humour and give me your report, please. I’m a busy man, you know!’

  Peach stared pointedly at the empty desk in front of Tucker for a moment. ‘We’ve found another of the people who were in that squat, sir. Another suspect, you’d have to say.’

  ‘Indeed I would! And I hope a rather more likely one than the eminent concert pianist you produced for me on Thursday.’

  ‘Matter of opinion, that, sir. Like to keep an open mind on these things. It’s a woman, sir, this one.’

  ‘Ah! Much more promising, I’d say.’

  Peach wondered what the feminists who were now rampant in the police service would make of that. ‘She seems to have been in the squat for the whole time that Sunita Akhtar was there, sir. Left a month or so after the girl disappeared.’

  ‘Promising, Peach. A gut feeling tells me you may have chanced upon a prime suspect here. It may well be that—’

  ‘She’s a nun, sir.’ Peach was rather proud of the timing of his deadpan delivery.

  ‘A what?’

  ‘A nun, sir. A Roman Catholic religious. They traditionally dress in—’

  ‘Yes, yes! I know very well what a nun is, you fool. Do you take me for an idiot?’

  Frequently, thought Percy grimly. It’s one of the things which helps to keep me sane. ‘This nun works in a hospice, sir. Very highly regarded, very dedicated and efficient, apparently. The secretary says the place couldn’t exist without her. I made certain enquiries about her when she’d been in to see me, sir. Just as well I did, if you think she’s now emerged as our prime suspect.’ He kept his countenance studiously blank and fixed his gaze intently upon the white wall behind Tucker’s head.

  Tucker was already regretting his impulsive decision to come into the station. ‘Have you any reason at all to think that this lady killed that Pakistani girl?’

  ‘Not yet, sir. But I’m keeping an open mind, as I said. And now that I have the benefit of your overview, now that I know you consider her our prime suspect, I feel bolder about the situation.’

  ‘Bolder? In what way?’

  ‘Well, I thought I might roug
h her up a bit, sir. Give her a touch of the old third degree. Not exactly the Spanish Inquisition; no thumbscrews or—’

  ‘You’ll do no such thing, Peach!’ Tucker’s panic rang loud and clear through the almost deserted station.

  ‘Not even the strong light shone straight into her face, sir?’ Peach’s disappointment was exquisite to behold.

  ‘YOU WILL HANDLE THIS WITH KID GLOVES, PEACH! Is that absolutely clear?’ Tucker gripped the edge of the desk in front of him and half-rose from his chair.

  ‘Yes, sir. If you say so, sir. But it’s difficult to get the information we need, playing things strictly by the book, isn’t it?’ Peach shook his head sadly at the restraints which were inflicted upon the modern policeman.

  ‘If that’s all you have to offer, I shan’t waste any more of my time.’ Tucker was already suspecting that the man was sending him up, that he had reacted to these suggestions about interrogating the nun in exactly the way that he had been intended to. But the wretched man kept such a scrupulously blank face that his chief was never quite sure of him. And you couldn’t take any chances with public relations these days, especially where a sensitive area like religion was concerned.

  ‘Sister Josephine did point the way to another suspect, sir,’ said Peach tentatively.

  Tucker settled back into his chair with a sigh. ‘What have you produced this time? A bishop? A judge?’

  ‘Very droll, sir. I like it!’ Peach chuckled appreciatively. ‘No, nothing like that. Rather a nuisance, actually, but it’s got to be investigated. Another suspect, this time from outside the squat itself. A man called Dave, who held drug parties in the empty house next door.’

  Tucker thought this was promising, but having risen once to Peach’s bait, he was going to be more cautious this time. He nodded sagely. ‘Drugs, eh! He could have been dealing, you know, this man.’

  Good to see you haven’t lost your talent for the blindin’ bleedin’ obvious, Tommy Bloody Tucker. Peach said stiffly, ‘Yes, sir. That seems entirely possible. And diligent research has unearthed the fact that this man is still operating in Brunton today, sir.’

  Tucker almost said that this sounded like a much more promising suspect. But once bitten, twice shy. ‘We’d better have him in for questioning, then. Petty criminal, is he? Or has he gone on to larger scale villainy in the last ten years?’

  ‘You could say that, sir, I suppose.’

  ‘Dealing, is he?’

  ‘Not in drugs, sir. He’s an estate agent.’

  ‘An estate agent?’ Tucker’s jaw dropped appealingly, in the reaction which Percy always thought denoted a small triumph for him.

  He let go the chance to instruct his dumbfounded chief in what an estate agent did. ‘Partner in Ormerod’s Estate Agency and Auctioneers, apparently. Of course, he’s no longer just Dave. The man now calls himself David Edmonds, Managing Director.’

  ‘David Edmonds?’

  ‘That’s the chap, sir.’ Peach brightened, his emotions moving in inverse ratio to Tucker’s distress. ‘You don’t happen to know him, do you, sir?’

  Tucker said dully, as if he had wandered into a nightmare, ‘He was initiated into my Lodge last month.’

  Peach allowed his delight to spread in a slow smile over his face. ‘I didn’t know that, sir.’

  Tucker glared at him suspiciously. ‘You didn’t?’

  ‘No, sir. I haven’t even seen the rogue yet. DC Murphy has just brought him into the station.’ Peach mounted his smile all over again, developing it into a growing excitement. ‘But you realize what this means, sir? You’re aware of my research which demonstrates that a Freemason is four times more likely to commit a serious crime in this area than an ordinary citizen. The fact that this Edmonds is a Freemason means that statistically there is an excellent chance that—’

  ‘PEACH! Of course I am aware of this ridiculous so-called research of yours! I could hardly be otherwise, when you thrust it at me at every opportunity. And I have to tell you that I am sure that David Edmonds will prove to be a young man of complete integrity. He was proposed for membership by his father-in-law, Stanley Ormerod, who is a former Master of the Lodge.’

  ‘By Jove, sir! The owner of Ormerod’s himself. The oldest established property dealers in Brunton, as they call themselves! This would make the local headlines, if Edmonds did prove to be our man! Give us some very useful publicity that would, if we were able to make an arrest. We need good publicity, as you’re always reminding us, sir.’

  ‘Now listen to me, Peach. Listen very carefully. You have so far provided me as suspects with an eminent pianist, a compassionate nun, and a leading and well-respected local businessman. It’s not an impressive list, is it?’

  ‘Impresses me, sir. Intriguing, I’d say. And I must remind you that they were all in or around that squat in Sebastopol Terrace in 1991. That squat which no one in Brunton CID seemed to be interested in, at the time.’

  Tucker breathed deeply, trying to still his annoyance. ‘Take it from me that your killer will not be found among these three. You will need to look much further.’

  ‘Yes, sir. You don’t think it’s worth my talking to this David Edmonds, then?’

  Tucker attempted not to speak through clenched teeth. ‘Of course you must speak to him. If he was really there at that time, which I find it difficult to believe, he may be able to throw some light on this crime.’

  ‘Yes, sir. You wouldn’t like to interview him yourself? Exercise your usual diplomacy, keep me from putting my foot in—’

  ‘Of course not!’ It was Tucker’s automatic reaction to any suggestion that he might be involved at the crime-face. Then he thought of a rationalization. ‘It wouldn’t be appropriate for me to be involved directly, as a friend of David Edmonds. Or an acquaintance, I should say.’ Better distance himself, just in case of the incredible possibility that this pleasant young man might be a killer.

  ‘Very well, sir. I shall see him myself. Immediately, in fact.’

  That announcement did not reassure Tucker, but he thought the best option was to be out of the place quickly. He cursed again his decision to show his face at the station on a Sunday. ‘Yes. Well, you’d better be about your business,’ he said.

  He waited until a safe interval had elapsed after Peach’s departure, then crept quietly to his door and opened it cautiously. He was feeling very conspicuous, in his yellow sweater, bright tartan plus twos and green stockings. But with luck, he should be able to slip out quietly: there was no more than a skeleton staff in the place on Sunday morning.

  The coast seemed to be clear. He crept quietly down four flights of stairs and took the side door into the car park without encountering a single officer.

  He had the door open, was about to slide his garishly clad frame into the driving seat, when a voice from above him said, ‘Enjoy your golf, sir!’

  Percy Peach was leaning out of the window of his office, wearing the widest and blandest of his vast range of smiles.

  Thirteen

  ‘I hope this won’t take very long. I’m willing to help, of course, but I can’t think what I can possibly have to tell you.’

  David Edmonds had spoken as soon as they came into the interview room, before they had even introduced themselves. That meant he was nervous.

  Percy Peach liked that. He gave the man a thin smile and studied him unhurriedly. Good suit; formal shirt and tie, even on a Sunday morning. Tallish, with well-groomed brown hair above a long head. Slim build, with just a little flab at the paunch and beneath the chin, probably from comfortable living.

  He put a new tape into the cassette recorder, glanced at his watch, and announced, ‘Interview with David Edmonds begins at 12.31. Present, Chief Detective Inspector Peach and Detective Sergeant Blake.’

  There was no need for the tape: the man hadn’t been cautioned, hadn’t even been brought here under arrest. Officially, he was helping the police with their enquiries, of his own free will. But Percy found that being taped added a l
ittle pressure for interviewees, and he wasn’t averse to that.

  As if he read these thoughts, David Edmonds nodded at the recorder and said, ‘Is there really any need for this?’

  ‘Probably not, sir. But we find that people are less inclined to change what they have said to us when they are asked to sign a written statement, when it has been recorded. Do you have a problem with being taped?’ He allowed his mobile black eyebrows to rise in surprise above the smile.

  ‘No. No, of course I don’t. I’ve nothing to hide, have I?’ David cursed himself for the nervous giggle which came unbidden on the end of his words.

  ‘Remains to be seen, sir. I do hope not.’

  David made an extravagant show of looking at his watch. ‘I really should be home by now. My wife will no doubt be wondering where I’ve got to. I trust this won’t take long.’

  ‘Not very long, sir, if you co-operate fully. If it takes longer than we expect, you can always give Mrs Edmonds a ring. Let her know you’re in the nick.’

  Edmonds licked his lips, looked from this grim figure to the shapely girl with the chestnut hair beside him, and folded his arms. He had surprisingly big hands, with long, slender fingers. He said as firmly as he could, ‘You’d better get on with it, whatever it is.’

  ‘Much the best idea, I agree, sir. We’d like to talk to you about a house in Sebastopol Terrace. Number twenty-six, to be precise.’

  ‘Did we sell this property? I’m afraid I don’t recall it. I’m only in overall charge, you know, and we now have three branches at Ormerod’s.’

  It was a good reply, an expert bit of fencing. But Peach had seen the apprehension flash into the man’s eyes when he had mentioned the name of the street and the number. ‘You didn’t sell the property, Mr Edmonds. It was condemned, eighteen years ago. The last legitimate residents were moved out of the house in 1989. It is the first few months of 1991 that we are concerned with.’