by J M Gregson
Peach waited for her to overtake a cyclist who was wobbling perilously close to the gutter, then hastened to preserve his professional cynicism. ‘It would have been politic for her to do so ... if she was merely pretending that it hadn’t been agreed beforehand, as the family think she was.’
‘You got more out of her than we’d any right to expect about that previous legacy.’ She glanced in her rear-view mirror at the train of vehicles which always builds up behind a police car within the thirty limit. ‘You were kind to her at the end about the funeral.’
He shrugged his wide shoulders in the passenger seat. ‘Costs us nothing, does it? But she’s left us with a problem, of course. We still don’t know for certain what that blazing row she and Aspin conducted in the cloakroom was about. Suppose he’d said if that was her attitude to marriage, he was going to withdraw his offer to clear off her mortgage?’
* * *
Wednesday night. A brilliant purple sky over the coast twenty miles to the west, where the sun had set hours earlier at the end of a perfect day of high summer. Midnight was the best time of all, on a day when there had been not a cloud in the sky and the temperature had climbed towards eighty.
Even the grimy old Lancashire cotton town was invested with a certain glamour on an evening like this. People always spoke of Lowry when they thought of art in contexts like this, but it was half a century and more since Lowry. At ten o’clock on such a July evening, Brunton now had a different kind of charm. Most of the mills had long since closed; the few which remained were manned by a workforce very different from Lowry’s gaunt matchstick people.
In the twenty-first century, there were new and taller buildings and different industries. Where once the town had boasted a hundred tall mill chimneys, the two or three which remained were now dwarfed by tower blocks. As the lights came on and darkness disguised the few remaining narrow streets of terraced houses, the skyline of the town could have been that of any one of a thousand towns and cities round the world.
The children were long since in bed, deep in the innocent sleep which they could enjoy. The world left to the darker designs of their elders. The murderer of Geoffrey Aspin looked down at the silhouette of the town for five minutes and then got back into the car.
The killer had always liked this road, which ran along the ridge above the recently restored Victorian public park; liked the height of it and the way you could survey the town from up here. Somehow, it gave you a feeling of power, to see the whole town set out below you. The murderer mused through quiet minutes on what the scene showed and what it concealed, and then drove thoughtfully away.
Five days now since the death of Geoffrey Aspin. The police had bustled about and caused a lot of disturbance, but they didn’t seem to have made much progress. They’d caused a stir with their house-to-house inquiries, but they hadn’t learned anything that was going to help them. They’d know when Aspin had died by now, for sure, but that wasn’t going to help them much.
Aspin’s killer drove carefully until out of the town; it would be the ultimate irony to be pulled in by the traffic police for a speeding offence, when you were baffling their CID colleagues over a much bigger crime.
Alone with your own thoughts, that was always a happy place to be. You needed silence and isolation to get your ideas in order, to make your estimates of the enemy’s progress, and to plan your next moves. You grew more alone, when you’d done something like this, because you couldn’t talk about it, even to those closest to you. That didn’t matter. It was good having a big secret like this: you felt you could do almost anything.
It did not seem as dark once you moved away from the lights of the town. Without any conscious attempt to go there, the garrotter of Geoffrey Aspin found the long, low mound of Pendle Hill rising high above the car, black and sinister beneath the bright stars of a sky darkening towards navy. This was the country of the Pendle witches. On a night like this, with the darkness dropping in and a thin sliver of moon yet to rise, you could picture dark deeds, and imagine Satanic forces quietly watching from the folds of the hill.
The murderer parked the car on the side of the hill, where the summit towered above and made men and women and their concerns seem petty and unimportant. In daylight you could see Blackpool Tower from here, but now all that was visible over the flatness of the distant Fylde coast were the last indigo streaks of the day that had gone.
Ten, twenty, thirty minutes passed without a single car disturbing the silence. The murderer slid down the window of the car: it was pleasant to feel the cool night air upon your face after the heat of the day; it seemed to help you to think. You were more than ever a loner, once you had committed murder. It set you apart from other men and women. You against the world. You with a feeling of power which you’d never had before.
It was good to feel that you were winning against the odds. Five days now. A high proportion of murders that weren’t solved within a week remained unsolved. It would be good to add to those statistics.
Sixteen
Jemal Bilic was on his own patch, but he was restless.
Peach found that very interesting. He looked round the sparsely furnished office and found it curiously spartan. In his experience, businessmen who had made it wanted to surround themselves with the trappings of success to impress visitors. This room had a ‘Director’ sign on its door, but it was unexpectedly shabby. The walls were without pictures or any form of ornamentation, which only served to emphasize that the place needed decorating. There was only a single chair behind the cheap desk. Percy considered the contrast with Chief Superintendent Thomas Bulstrode Tucker’s opulent desk and penthouse office and permitted himself a private smile.
‘We don’t need expensive premises. That’s one of the advantages of this business,’ Bilic explained as he dragged in two chairs to accommodate his visitors. The Northgate Employment Agency supplied temporary replacements for office staff. ‘We have a lot of clerical workers on our books. A lot of married women who only want part-time or occasional work; we even have one or two housefathers. They don’t need to come in here once they’ve registered with us. Neither do our clients, the people who employ them. It’s the lack of overheads which enables us to make good profits in a business like this.’
The only other person they had seen as they came into the place was a middle-aged woman in the outer office whom Bilic had introduced as both his personal assistant and the person who took incoming phone calls. Perhaps business hotted up as the day proceeded: they had not heard the phone ring since they had come into the place ten minutes ago.
‘It’s a quiet time, this, for us,’ said Jemal Bilic, as if he had followed Peach’s thoughts.
Percy looked out to where the police Mondeo was parked beside Bilic’s sleek new Mercedes, then glanced at his watch: it was a minute past nine o’clock on Thursday morning. Just the time when office managers who found themselves understaffed because of sickness or other factors would be phoning in for temps, thought Peach. Interesting, again.
Jemal was almost relieved when his visitors turned to the business which had brought them here. Peach introduced the man who sat watchfully beside him as Detective Constable Clyde Northcott and Jemal took the opportunity to appraise him. A tall, lean man, with a hard expression. A man whose eyes had not left his quarry from the moment he entered the room. The kind of man he might have employed himself, when he needed muscle to enforce his wishes. Not the man to have against you in a fight. A hard bastard, this.
Bilic would have been surprised to know that that was exactly the phrase Percy Peach used to describe the man he had recruited three years ago into the police service and two years later into his CID team.
Jemal decided that he would rather deal with this man than with the woman officer who had accompanied Peach when he had been interviewed at home on Sunday. He was not used to women in authority; her watchful, note-taking presence had unnerved him more than he would have expected, disturbing his concentration upon the matter in hand.
&
nbsp; Concentration was certainly what he needed here. These people couldn’t pin anything on him, if he concentrated hard and gave them nothing. Jemal Bilic was used to dictating situations, rather than leaving the initiative in the hands of others. These men were probably not among those policemen who could be bought: though such creatures existed everywhere, there were not many of them nowadays in England. Jemal knew that he would have to accept that he was not the man in charge here and behave accordingly. However unnaturally it came to him, he must let others call the shots. He folded his arms and determined to remain still.
Peach said, ‘The team has talked to a lot of people since I spoke to you on Sunday. Quite a few things have become clearer.’
But you don’t know who killed Aspin, thought Jemal. So that’s all right. Do a little careful fencing and don’t give anything away.
Jemal said, ‘I’m sure that you’ve found the family anxious to give you all the help they can.’
‘Some have been more helpful than others. Mr Bilic, please give us an account of your movements on Saturday evening.’ Jemal had been expecting this, waiting for it from the moment they had arrived here. ‘The children were away from home. Stopping over with some friends of theirs. We’d made that arrangement because we didn’t know quite when we would be back from Marton Towers. My wife thought the family celebration of Geoffrey’s sixtieth birthday might go on, after other people had left. Or perhaps we might all have adjourned to someone’s home. What he said in his speech about marrying that woman ended all that.’ He wondered if it sounded too glib, too much like the prepared statement which it was. It wasn’t always easy, using a language which wasn’t your own. Even though he was by now fluent in it, the English tongue seemed to have more nuances than could ever be mastered.
‘You told us on Sunday that you did not leave the Towers with your wife. What time did you get home?’
Jemal tried to look at Peach and ignore the other officer who was watching his every move and making notes on what he said. ‘I think I was home by about half past seven. I couldn’t be precise.’
‘Did you go out again during the evening?’
If that bloody wife of his had only agreed to co-operate, he could have lied about this. But there was no knowing what Carol was going to say, or even what she had already said. ‘I did go out for a short time. I had to see a business associate. A client of ours.’
‘Even though you had made no arrangements for that evening, because you thought the family party might be going on?’ Peach gave him the smile of innocent enquiry which anyone at Brunton nick would have told Bilic was his most ominous expression of all.
Jemal found his fingers twitching, but he kept his hands resolutely upon his folded arms. He had an answer ready for this; he might even enjoy the man’s discomfort. ‘I believe I told you on Sunday that in the turmoil after my father-in-law’s speech I spoke to business acquaintances. I arranged then to meet one of them later in the evening at his house.’ Northcott looked up from his notes and said, ‘We’ll need the name of this person.’ It was almost as though he didn’t believe the man, Percy Peach noted with approval.
Jemal gave the note-taker a name and address, apparently unruffled. He knew the man would bear out what he’d said: he’d already arranged that. Then he said, ‘We met for half an hour or so. Not more - it was probably from about nine forty-five to ten fifteen, though I couldn’t be absolutely sure about that.’ A mirthless smile crossed his dark features at this combination of precision and declared uncertainty. ‘I must have been back home by ten thirty or thereabouts.’
Peach nodded, as if the man had spoken as he expected. ‘You told us a little on Sunday about your relationship with your father-in-law. You said that you weren’t close, that you got on because you needed to, because Mr Aspin was your wife’s father and the grandfather of your children, that you didn’t talk to each other a lot.’
Jemal shrugged his shoulders heavily and then nodded a surly acceptance; any movement was a relief from the tension he felt. This man Peach seemed to remember what he had said very exactly; it was another reminder that he must proceed with caution. ‘He was different kind of businessman from me. I not understand some of your British ways.’
Peach noted how although the man spoke very good English, his accent seemed to thicken and his syntax to degenerate when he was under pressure. ‘And what do you think Mr Aspin thought of you, Mr Bilic?’
Another, even more elaborate shrug of those slim but powerful shoulders. There was something feral about this man; Peach felt that at any moment he might abandon self- restraint and erupt into violent physical action. But the control held as Bilic said guardedly, ‘I don’t think he liked me very much, Aspin. We were from different backgrounds. I like to do things quickly, he like to take his time.’
Peach nodded. ‘Did he like what you do? Did he approve of the way you make your money?’
The man started forward, almost out of his chair, then forced himself back into it. He snarled, ‘It wasn’t Aspin’s place to approve or to disapprove.’ Then, hearing his own voice, he pressed his shoulders hard against the back of his chair and said more quietly, ‘There is nothing to find fault with in the way I make my money. Providing staff for offices is legitimate business.’
‘Indeed it is. Though perhaps not a very lucrative one, in your case.’
‘How you mean? How can you—?’
‘Mr Bilic, I have not heard a phone ring in this place since we set foot in here half an hour ago.’
‘I told you, it’s a slack time. Business comes in fits and starts.’ He was pleased to be able to produce that very English phrase.
‘Maybe.’ Peach looked round the shabby room which had so few signs of regular use. ‘This place doesn’t look as though it supports the style in which you live your life.’ Jemal fought down the panic which threatened for a moment to overwhelm him. He was a natural bully and like most bullies he panicked when exposed. How much did they know? ‘I have other sources of income. Private sources.’ Most British people shut up as soon as you talked about money, as if it embarrassed them to pry into your personal circumstances.
Policemen did not. Peach said, ‘Very private, I’m sure. Would you care to enlarge upon exactly where your real money comes from, Mr Bilic?’
They couldn’t know. They’d have marched in here and arrested him, if they’d had the evidence. But it was a good thing he’d told his team to lie low for a while, whilst this lot were sniffing about like pigs after truffles. ‘I have some private money of my own. Family money, Mr Peach. The details of that will remain private. The rest comes from this agency. This has nothing to do with you. You told me that you were coming here to investigate the murder of my father- in-law.’
‘Indeed we did. And that is exactly what we are doing. So I repeat the question I asked you a few minutes ago. Did Geoffrey Aspin approve of the way you made your money?’
‘I assume he did. He saw his eldest daughter and his grandchildren being well provided for.’ He shrugged again, attempting to be dismissive. ‘This has nothing to do with his death.’
‘I hope it hasn’t, Mr Bilic. But I need to be convinced. If Mr Aspin was inquiring into areas where you didn’t want him to go, it would provide a murder motive, you see. A motive for a man who has just told me that he was out of his house at the time when Mr Aspin was killed. Good day to you.’
As they left the director’s room and nodded affably to the woman working in the outer office, the phone rang belatedly behind them and was answered by Jemal Bilic. They had no means of knowing whether the call had to do with the employment agency or something more obscure and sinister.
* * *
Whilst Peach and Northcott were concluding their business with Jemal Bilic, Denis Oakley was giving the bank manager his polished, professional smile. The manager answered in kind: even in the world of finance, where everything is carefully priced, courtesy costs nothing.
Denis glanced at his watch. ‘I don’t wish to be
rude, Mr Baker, but you will understand that with the death of my partner this is a very busy time for Aspin and Oakley’s. I’m having to take on a lot of functions which are quite strange to me, until we can make a new appointment.’
‘I appreciate that. This needn’t take long, if you can provide us with the answers we need.’ The bank manager knew it was always safest to retreat behind the professional, ‘we’ when you had tricky ground to negotiate.
‘The firm is in a healthy state, as you must know. Geoffrey’s death is a setback, of course, but I’m hopeful that the profits for the year will be very little affected. We have a healthy order book, and in due course—’
‘The bank is not worried about the firm’s health. It is your personal overdraft which concerns us, Mr Oakley.’
‘My own finances are very much tied up with the firm. Inseparable, in fact.’
‘That was not the view of Mr Aspin, I’m afraid. He told me specifically a fortnight ago not to honour any cheques presented by you on behalf of the firm without his specific authority. No doubt he informed you of his views. That is why I asked to see you after his unexpected demise.’
‘We have always been partners. Either of us is able to sign cheques.’
‘Company cheques, yes. Not cheques for personal benefit.’
‘It’s impossible to distinguish between the two.’
‘Mr Aspin plainly thought that it was possible. He was disturbed by some of the cheques which you have written and some of the banking transactions you have conducted over the last year. Knowing Mr Aspin as I did for many years, I should be surprised if he had not spoken to you about the matter.’
Of course he had, repeatedly and latterly at length. Denis Oakley had always treated bank managers and accountants as dutiful dullards over the years, men who were no doubt necessary, but lacking in the cavalier touch which made life interesting. Now it seemed that this calm, grey-haired, immaculately dressed man was to be his Nemesis. Except that with Geoff gone, he could surely be overruled. Denis forced out a little burst of the confidence he used for customers, even though he knew that this man possessed knowledge they could never have. ‘It’s a cash-flow problem, that’s all.’
