[Inspector Peach 12] - Pastures New

by J M Gregson

  Blake gave her a small, acerbic, answering smile. ‘What I’m saying is that anything which could eliminate you from this inquiry would be useful to you and to us. The same advice I shall offer to anyone else who is closely involved in it.’

  Peach had watched the exchange between the two women with professional interest and unprofessional pleasure. With one of these unexpected switches which were part of his technique, he now said quietly, ‘How does your husband make his money, Mrs Bilic?’

  Her head spun for a moment as she tried to take in this new line of questioning and the implications of it for her. ‘He runs a successful employment agency. It specializes in providing temporary replacements for people on maternity and sickness leave.’

  ‘So we have been told. I do not think the bulk of his income comes from that source.’

  ‘Then you must take up the matter with him. I know nothing about Jemal’s work and he does not encourage me to ask questions. I cannot see that this is relevant to your investigation.’

  ‘You have just told me that Mr Bilic was out of the house at a time when your father may have died. At the moment, we are interested in everything about him.’ Peach, having been told about the antipathy between husband and wife, instinctively pursued it for whatever advantage it might afford him.

  ‘You must ask him, then. I’ve told you, I didn’t even know he’d left the house.’

  ‘It’s a pity he did, isn’t it? Otherwise the two of you could have vouched for each other at the vital time.’

  ‘In which case, you’d probably have said there was a conspiracy between us!’

  He didn’t react to that. It was true that alibis given by husbands to wives and wives to husbands were always suspected by the police, but they were always devilishly difficult to break down. These two did not seem like a couple who would look after each other. They had plainly failed to agree a version of what had happened on Saturday evening with each other.

  And each of them seemed to have the ruthlessness and nerve required to plan and execute this murder.

  * * *

  ‘I’ve been waiting to see you for two hours, DCI Peach,’ said Chief Superintendent Thomas Bulstrode Tucker petulantly.

  ‘I’ve been out and about, sir. Pursuing a murder inquiry.’

  Tucker looked at his watch. ‘I should have been home by now. I’m away for the weekend, you know. Occupied with this important new experiment of prison experience for senior police personnel.’ He tried to sound impressive and succeeded only in being plaintive: he couldn’t rid his mind of the thought of another bout of Barbara Tucker’s formidable resentment about his absence as soon as he reached the suburbs.

  ‘Yes, sir. Locked up in stir for the weekend. Still, first time for several years, I imagine.’

  ‘I am not in the mood for your pathetic attempts at humour, thank you. Peach. Give me your report and get on your way. I shall not be here tomorrow. I have things to do.’

  You mean Brünnhilde Barbara has insisted on your being around before you’re incarcerated for the weekend, Peach thought. So you’re missing from here as usual when the heat is on in a murder inquiry. Good: we’re much better off without you.

  ‘We shall miss your oversight, sir. But you have every right to savour the bosom of your family before disappearing to a celibate cell and prison rations for the weekend. Even long-term criminals get their conjugals, nowadays.’ He stared at the wall above Tucker’s head, dreamily preoccupied with a vision of his chief’s head disappearing into the formidable Wagnerian bosom of his wife.

  ‘That’s quite enough of this flippancy! Give me your assessment of the case as it stands and allow me to be on my way.’

  ‘Considerable progress has been made, sir.’

  As a man who prided himself on his PR statements. Tucker knew what that phrase in the police argot signified. ‘You mean you haven’t a bloody clue who did it.’

  ‘You put things succinctly, sir, with your usual talent for words. In fact, it’s not quite as bad as that. Almost a hundred people who were at Marton Towers for last Saturday’s celebration of Aspin’s sixtieth birthday have spoken to the twenty-five members of the murder team. We also now know the time of the death pretty accurately. As a result of these things, I am now pretty sure that this killing was conducted by someone very close to the deceased: either a member of his family or a business associate - obviously I wouldn’t want that view included in any press release.’

  ‘So you haven’t a prime suspect for this,’ said Tucker querulously.

  Percy marvelled anew at his chief’s capacity to encourage people working hard and long to enhance his own reputation.

  ‘I wouldn’t say a prime suspect sir, no. Some seem more likely than others, to me, but I’m keeping an open mind, as you always encourage us to do.’

  Tucker looked at him suspiciously and immediately demonstrated how open his own mind was. ‘You said there was a foreigner involved when last we spoke.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Jemal Bilic, son-in-law of Geoffrey Aspin. Turkish. About to split up with his wife, sir, whether he likes it or not. Dubious character. I don’t believe his considerable affluence is based on the employment agency he runs. I believe that business is merely a front.’

  ‘A villain. Peach, you mark my word.’

  ‘Yes, sir, I shall do that.’ As he had just told the man that Bilic was a villain, to have his opinion returned to him did not constitute a startling revelation. ‘One of the problems is that he is being investigated by another branch of the police service. Customs and Immigration. I know that murder takes precedence, but I don’t want to prejudice their case if I can avoid it.’

  ‘I don’t want any repercussions from senior officers elsewhere, Peach.’

  Of course you don’t, you cowardly sod. If someone of senior rank complains to you, your support for us will slide away as fast as shit off a wet shovel. ‘I shall be mindful of the need for diplomacy, as always, sir.’

  Tucker’s sceptical stare lost its effect because Peach’s eyes were again trained not upon him but on the wall behind him. ‘It sounds to me as if you should get in there and arrest this villain.’

  ‘I see, sir. There is the problem of evidence, though. We certainly wouldn’t get the Crown Prosecution Service to bring a murder case against him, on what we know at present. Of course, if you are prepared to stick your neck out and—’

  ‘I shan’t do that, Peach. Not at the moment. I shall defer to the judgement of the man on the ground, as always.’

  ‘Yes, sir. As always.’ Now he did look at Tucker: he always enjoyed the spectacle of a chief superintendent scrambling for the lifeboats. ‘It may yet be that Bilic is a villain without being a murderer, sir. We haven’t found a clear motive for him, as yet.’

  ‘Well, get out there and find one, Peach,’ said Tucker churlishly, demonstrating once again his open-minded stance.

  ‘One may very well emerge in due course,’ said Percy magisterially. ‘There’s also his wife, Carol. We already have a motive for her.’

  ‘The man’s own daughter? Seems much less likely than a foreigner who is already under investigation for other crimes.’

  This time Percy had to agree with Tucker’s prejudice. But he held in his mind the picture of the dark-haired, erect Carol Bilic, resolute as Lady Macbeth in the pursuit of her own ends.

  ‘She’s agreed that she felt threatened by the arrival of a new woman in her father’s life. Financially threatened, at a time when her marriage was breaking up: she was looking for financial support from her father for herself and her children.’

  ‘Women are unpredictable, you know.’

  Percy remained silent for a moment in the face of this latest startling insight from the head of Brunton CID. Then he said, ‘There’s another daughter, too: the younger one, Louise. Her father’s favourite, by all accounts. She’s seven years younger than her sister. She has a daughter aged six and a son aged four. The boy is a Down’s syndrome child. I think she was looking for fi
nancial support from her father with the children. She too may have felt threatened by Mr Aspin’s sudden announcement that he planned to marry a woman who had only been in his life for three months.’

  ‘Don’t assume that just because this woman was his favourite that she couldn’t have killed him. Women can be very devious, Peach, very devious indeed.’ Tucker nodded his head with satisfaction at this Delphic proclamation.

  ‘Your experience of life is an asset to us as always, sir. Her husband, Steve Hawksworth, is an accountant, sir.’ He waited for a lordly pronouncement on the profession, but Tucker was this time silent, intimidated by the mysteries of mathematics. ‘Hawksworth made the speech proposing his father-in-law’s health on Saturday. He claims that he liked Aspin, and seems generally to have got on well with the deceased. No motive thus far, other than the one I mentioned for his wife. We’re seeing him again in the morning.’

  ‘Don’t charge in there and put his back up, Peach. He’s a professional man, remember.’

  ‘Yes, sir. I seem to remember that it was an accountant we nailed on four serious fraud charges three years ago.’

  ‘An exception, Peach. I’m trying to warn you that—’

  ‘Mason, too, that chap, wasn’t he, sir? That devious bugger was a major figure in my research into the high incidence of crime amongst Freemasons.’ Peach smiled in fond recollection. In fact, the man was the sole basis of the supposed research about crime among the Fraternity with which Peach loved to taunt Tommy Bloody Tucker, but his chief had never quite worked that out.

  ‘Be careful, that’s all I’m saying. You have far stronger suspects in my view.’

  ‘Yes, sir. A foreigner and the two women I mentioned. I’m glad you’re keeping an open mind: we rely heavily upon your overview.’

  Tucker’s glare again lost its force when he could not catch the eye of his tormentor. ‘Is that it, then? Can I at last get home?’

  Now Peach did look at him and allowed himself the luxury of a small smile, which grew slowly and impressively into a huge beam. ‘There’s at least one more leading suspect, sir. Another businessman. I’m afraid.’

  Tucker sighed a long, eloquent, hopeless sigh. ‘You’d better tell me about him. Briefly.’

  Peach addressed himself conscientiously to this last word of instruction. ‘Partner of the deceased, sir. Man who built the business up with Geoffrey Aspin over thirty-odd years.’

  ‘He doesn’t sound a likely candidate.’

  ‘No, he doesn’t, sir. They were at university together. Started the business not long after graduating, I believe.’

  ‘And a very successful business they developed. Aspin and Oakley’s provides valuable local employment, you know. It really doesn’t seem likely that a professional man like Oakley would—’

  ‘Detective Constable Murphy has been out to the firm’s bank this afternoon. He’s brought back valuable information. From the manager. Another professional man, sir.’ Tucker had a familiar dilemma: he wanted to check this man’s insolence, yet needed him desperately to conduct an investigation he should have been directing himself. He contented himself with an explosive, ‘Well?’

  ‘He has financial difficulties, sir. He’s on his third wife, with rumours that his third divorce isn’t far away. He pays a fortune in alimony and yet allegedly continues to put it about around most of the northern counties. A lifestyle which honest working coppers like you and me can only dream of, sir.’ He looked heavenwards and commenced his dream.

  ‘It’s an affluent firm,’ said Tucker. ‘Can’t he pay his way from that?’

  Percy reluctantly abandoned the beguiling Rubenesque images he had conjured on to Tucker’s ceiling. ‘There is some confusion about that, sir. The bank manager has pointed out to him the distinction between company outlay and personal expenditure. It seems that Mr Aspin was worried about just this at the time of his death, and was determined to put a stop to his partner’s excesses. Mr Oakley is hoping that he will have greater autonomy with his long-standing partner out of the way. The manager thinks with regret that he probably will. Whether Oakley took steps to ensure his partner’s permanent absence remains to be established.’

  Tucker drummed his fingers impatiently upon his desk. ‘You’re telling me that you still have five suspects for this.’

  ‘Six suspects, sir. It’s possible that Mrs Pamela Williams, the woman Mr Aspin was planning to marry, enticed him back to Marton Towers that evening and killed him herself.’

  Tucker had been half out of his big leather chair. He sank back into it slowly and hopelessly. ‘And why would this woman want to kill him? Surely she had everything to gain from marrying him?’

  ‘They had a blazing row after Saturday’s beanfeast at Marton Towers, sir. Seems Mrs Williams wasn’t at all happy that Aspin should trumpet to the world at large that they were to be married, sir.’ He looked at Tucker’s uncomprehending face and added by way of explanation, ‘Modem women like to be independent, sir. She says that he hadn’t agreed any wedding plans with her at the time.’

  Tucker shook his head over the intricacies of the modem female psyche. ‘So why should she want to kill him?’

  ‘He’d signed papers to clear off the mortgage on her present house, sir. A sum of over a hundred thousand pounds, it seems. She has the papers, sir, signed by Geoffrey Aspin and dated five days before his decease. They’ll probably have legal standing. But it seemed to us possible that in the light of their fierce agreement early on Saturday evening, Mr Aspin might have been planning to rescind his decision to clear her mortgage.’

  Tommy Bloody Tucker showed a little belated and unexpected excitement at this latest suggestion of female duplicity. ‘She could have done this, you know!’ He leaned forward confidentially. ‘Women are unpredictable creatures.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. We shall bear that in mind.’

  ‘Well, get on with it, then. I expect real progress, if not an arrest, by the time I see you again on Monday.’

  ‘We shall do our best as always, sir, even without the skipper at the helm. Enjoy slopping out with the big boys over the weekend, sir.’

  There was more than one way of taking the piss, Percy reflected as he went back down the stairs.

  Eighteen

  You can do it, Michael! There! We knew you could, didn’t we?’

  The four-year-old tottered along uncertainly behind the truck of wooden bricks, held his balance precariously, and arrived delightedly in his father’s arms at the other side of the room. ‘Did it. Da!’ he said delightedly.

  That was one of the most delightful things about Down’s syndrome children, Steve Hawksworth assured himself for the hundredth time. They were always happy. They had the unselfconscious delight of a two-year-old whenever they achieved things. And whereas walking across a room without falling was routine for a normal child like Daisy, it was a major achievement for four-year-old Michael. And kids like Michael never manipulated you, never began to play one adult against another for their own ends, as other children learned to do at a surprisingly young age.

  ‘Let’s build a tower with your bricks now,’ he said to Michael. He knelt on the floor beside his son, watching the small hands moving the wooden blocks slowly, clumsily, carefully out of the truck and on to the carpet. This was the time he liked best, when Daisy had gone to school and he could give Michael his full attention, without having to attend to Daisy’s bright but often dismissive commentary upon their efforts. His big sister was good with Michael in short bursts, but she became impatient with him too quickly, being unable to understand why he was not moving beyond the playthings of a toddler.

  It was understandable, of course: Daisy was only six, after all. But Steve liked these moments when he could give his undivided attention to his son. They were precious because they were rare. Usually he would have been at work at this hour, but today he had arranged to be late because of his second meeting with the CID.

  He was so lost in his innocent enjoyment and in conjuring from
his son the few words which the boy could manage that he did not hear the bell. Louise was standing in the doorway, announcing that his visitors had arrived, before he realized that they were here. He scrambled awkwardly to his feet and said, ‘We’ll go into the kitchen, if you don’t mind. We won’t be disturbed there.’ He led them across the hall and into a spacious kitchen, with units which still served their purpose but were probably twenty years old. ‘Thank you for coming to the house. I don’t think Mr Robinson would have been overjoyed to end the working week as he began it with a second CID visit to his offices!’

  Steve Hawksworth had been hoping to see his wife’s friend, Lucy Blake, alongside this bouncy, energetic DCI Peach. Instead, he found a lithe, tall, black man, who sat down on one of the kitchen chairs and sized Steve up without any sign of embarrassment. DCI Peach introduced this man as Detective Constable Clyde Northcott and he gave Steve the briefest of nods. This must be the man Louise had found so intimidating when they had come here on Tuesday. They must be deliberately keeping Lucy Blake away from them; he wondered if that was just police routine, or whether it was a decision by this man Peach.

  ‘We’ll keep this as brief as possible. No doubt you will be anxious to get to the office,’ said Peach briskly.

  ‘That would be helpful. I’ve thought about this sad business further, as you asked me to do on Monday, but I’m afraid I haven’t come up with any thoughts which might be useful to you.’