[Inspector Peach 12] - Pastures New

by J M Gregson

  ‘It may have been. I don’t remember. In any case, the situation must have been obvious to everyone.’ She looked up, saw Brendan Murphy making a note, wondered what exact words he was using. Then she said, as if it was important that he record things correctly, ‘Dad’s death has changed all that. We’ll have the money to go ahead with things quite soon now.’

  * * *

  It was twenty minutes after Louise Hawksworth had left the station that DCI Peach had another visitor.

  A slightly built man, who looked taller than he was because of that slimness; a man with a lined face and a mouth which was framed more for sourness than smiling; a man whose small, sharp nose was topped by grey eyes which were shrewd and observant. A man with a well-worn blue anorak over his arm, even with the temperature climbing into the seventies on this English summer day.

  ‘Feel the cold, do you?’ said Percy.

  For a moment, his visitor was disconcerted. Then he looked down at the battered garment upon his arm and said, ‘Force of habit. I spend a lot of time out of doors, hanging about. You get used to protecting yourself against the cold. I didn’t realize the day would be as warm as this when I set out. Besides, I was expecting to feel the cold in Brunton. I was in Italy until last night.’

  ‘Aye. Withholding information from a CID team engaged in a murder investigation. Since last Tuesday night at least.’

  John Kirkby had expected a warmer welcome than this. He said huffily, ‘I’ve come here of my own free will to offer information which I hope might be of use to you. I explained when I made my phone call from Lake Garda that it needed to be communicated in person to the officer in charge of the investigation.’

  ‘Aye. And ’appen you thought there’d be brass in it for you, from those bastards who call themselves the fourth estate. Well, you can forget that. There’s an embargo on any sensitive press releases, at present.’

  Kirkby thought for an instant that he would assert his independence and declare pompously that he was an independent operator, not a police employee, so that no jumped-up DCI could tell him what deals he could do with the press. But only for an instant. Something about this bald-headed, pugnacious man told him that this was not a man to cross. He repeated the mantra of the private detective. ‘It was Mr Aspin who was employing me and paying me. My first duty was and still is to him.’

  ‘Your first duty is to see the law of the land observed.’ Peach relaxed a little. ‘In this case, that chimes with your duty to the man who employed you: you must surely wish to see his killer brought to justice.’

  ‘I do. And I agree that your interests and mine are now the same. I’m ex-job, DCI Peach. I know how these things work. I wanted to report in person, not read things over the phone to some sergeant I’d never met. Coppers have been known to leak things to the press boys when there’s something in it for them.’

  ‘Not my coppers. Their feet wouldn’t touch.’ But Peach knew that the man was right. When the less scrupulous sections of the media were offering large sums for confidential information, there was an increasing tendency for police personnel to sell information, especially when they knew that with a big team the chances of detection were slight. ‘So you were scared of some sod leaping in and selling what you hope to sell yourself.’

  ‘Any contact I have with the press is legitimate. I’ll only reveal what you sanction me to reveal.’

  ‘Aye. Permit me a little cynicism about that, Mr Kirkby. Nothing personal, you understand. If you’re ex-job as you say, you’ll have seen how human nature responds to filthy lucre. Let’s hear what you have to tell me about your work for Geoffrey Charles Aspin, your late employer.’

  ‘Mr Aspin had asked me to look into the activities of his son-in-law, a man called Jemal Bilic.’

  ‘Aye. We know Mr Bilic.’

  ‘Then you may know about his activities.’ Kirkby was suddenly disappointed.

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘He’s a villain. I can’t give you all the evidence and the witnesses the Crown Prosecution Service would demand, but I know he’s a villain.’

  With the mention of the CPS, there was an immediate bond between copper and ex-copper. ‘Never mind those buggers for the moment,’ Peach said grimly. ‘Tell me what you know about our friend Bilic.’

  ‘He’s bringing in illegal immigrants. Mainly young women but also a few young men from Eastern Europe.’

  Trafficking in human misery; selling dreams which turn into nightmares. ‘You can give us evidence?’

  ‘I can’t give you a court case, as I said. I haven’t the resources: I’m basically a one-man band. But I can give you times and places. And a few names. Things you can easily follow up with your own team.’

  Peach nodded. ‘Customs and Immigration are already on to Bilic. I’ll pass on your information to the senior officer involved. The situation has been complicated by the murder inquiry which has overtaken it. It’s murder which is my concern, Mr Kirkby. When did you last report to Mr Aspin?’

  ‘I last saw him six weeks before he died at his factory. But I’d been in frequent touch with him by phone in the weeks before he died. I was expecting him to phone me whilst I was in Italy. Then I read in a newspaper that he was dead and got in touch with you.’

  Percy knew how these things worked. Kirkby had turned over a stone and found dangerous things beneath it. He was one man investigating vicious and ruthless men, without the vast resources of the police service behind him. Meetings with his employer would have been perilous for him; he would have been reluctant even to put things in writing for the man who was employing him, in case they fell into the wrong hands. He found himself filled with a reluctant admiration for this seedy figure with the stained anorak resting incongruously upon his forearm. ‘Makes a change from divorce cases, I suppose.’

  Kirkby gave him no more than a wry smile by way of reply.

  ‘Do you think Bilic knew that Aspin was on to him?’

  ‘Not through me, he didn’t. I don’t know what use he made of the information I gave to him. Sometimes people are inclined to think they can sort things out within the family. I’d warned Mr Aspin that it wouldn’t work in this case. I’d told him the only safe way to handle it was to go to the police.’

  ‘Which he might have been about to do at the time of his death. You’d better give me what you have.’

  Kirkby hesitated for a moment: he felt a natural disinclination to hand over what his employer had paid him to gather to the police. It came hard to relinquish all this dangerously acquired information without any payment. But he knew that he had no choice. He was out of his league with murder and that was why he had come here. He produced a personal file from the pocket of his anorak and handed over four pages which were the only tangible evidence of months of work. The small, neat writing gave an account of dates and times and names which would be gold dust to those who were pursuing Jemal Bilic.

  Peach glanced over these details, his silent admiration increasing with each phrase penned by this shabby figure with his own kind of stubborn, unlikely courage. He said brusquely, as if recognizing a weakness in himself, ‘I’ll pass these details on to the team from Customs and Immigration. You’ll be due a payment from Aspin’s estate, but you’ll have to fight for that yourself. I’ll try to make sure you’re not eventually called as a Crown Court witness.’

  Kirkby nodded. At least this stern CID man appreciated his situation. Private detectives did not like appearing in court. Their work dictated that they should remain as anonymous as possible. Nor did they make moral pronouncements upon those who employed them.

  John Kirkby made an exception to that here. ‘Geoffrey Aspin was a good man. I hope you get the bastard who throttled him.’

  * * *

  Pamela Williams seemed to her son to be amazingly calm.

  Justin Williams had thought she would be very disturbed, in view of what he had read and what little she had told him on the phone about the murder inquiry into the death of Geoffrey Aspin. He had co
me into the house expecting to find her on edge and anxious to see him, but she appeared detached and calm.

  ‘Sorry I couldn’t get over until today. It’s been a busy week,’ he said, as he took her awkwardly into his arms.

  ‘I didn’t expect to see you. I’m surprised you’ve even come over today. I thought you’d be busy with the children on Saturday.’

  ‘You’re my priority. Mum, in a crisis,’ Justin said determinedly.

  ‘Crisis? Oh, you mean the hunt for Geoff’s murderer. I expect they’ll arrest the person responsible, eventually.’

  ‘They’re no nearer to getting him yet, then?’

  ‘Him or her, dear. The CID made it very clear to me that they thought a woman might have done this.’

  ‘They questioned you again, then?’ Justin tried not to seem too anxious, tried not to see again the image of his children watching their grandmother being taken into the Crown Court which his wife had set dramatically before him last night.

  ‘I’m a suspect. I was the last person seen with Geoff. We were having a hell of a row at the time. Of course I’m a suspect.’ Her irritation with her son led to the first real animation she had shown since he came into the house.

  ‘I understand that. But I thought they’d have cleared you by now. Mum.’

  ‘I don’t know what the police are thinking. They don’t tell you that - I suppose you wouldn’t expect them to. I had a motive. Geoff was clearing the mortgage on this place for me. He might have changed his mind about that, after the big row we had. That’s obviously what they think anyway.’

  ‘It’s not a world I understand. I didn’t think I’d ever be involved in a murder investigation.’

  ‘You’re not involved. It’s me who’s involved. You’re safely on the other side of the Pennines.’ She felt guilty with herself for her irritation with his lack of imagination; after all, he’d taken the trouble to come over those same Pennines to see her today. ‘I’m sorry. I know you mean well, Justin. It’s just that I’ve had nothing else but this to think about all week.’

  ‘Do you want me to prescribe anything, Mum? You do look a little drawn.’

  She wanted to yell at him that he should behave like a son, not a doctor, that he should just give her a real, prolonged hug and make words irrelevant. Instead, she said as calmly as she could, ‘I don’t need medication. I just need the police off my back. They know things about me from the past. They obviously think I might have been after Geoff’s money.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous, Mum.’ He tried to sound convincing. ‘They can’t seriously think you killed Geoffrey Aspin.’ He sought feverishly for reasons, wanting to convince himself as much as her. ‘Surely these people can see you wouldn’t have had the strength to do it, for a start.’

  ‘He was taken from behind and by surprise, apparently. No great strength was required. It could easily have been a woman.’

  How cold and objective she seemed about it! Justin was alarmed rather than reassured by her composure and her apparent detachment when she should have been emotional. He took a deep breath. ‘I think you should let me take you back with me. Mum. There’s room in the house and I’m sure you’d be—’

  ‘Thank you, but I shan’t do that. The police would want to be informed of any movement outside the area and I don’t want to draw attention to myself. I shall stay here until an arrest is made.’

  She drew him on to other things, showed him what she had been doing in the garden, quizzed him about the doings of his family. He spent another two hours with her, without either of them mentioning Aspin’s death again. It was she who made the conversational running, whilst he marvelled repeatedly at how laid back and unemotional she seemed.

  As he drove home over the M62, Justin found himself hoping desperately that the arrest which must surely come soon would not be that of his mother.

  * * *

  If you want a dangerous man brought in, send a hard bastard. One of Percy Peach’s axioms. Just common sense, in his view.

  Detective Constable Clyde Northcott was a hard bastard. That was not the only reason why Peach had recruited the man to his CID team, but it was certainly one of them. He called in Northcott, who had been hoping to finish his Saturday stint at about midday, and gave his instructions. ‘Take Brendan Murphy down there with you. If Jemal Bilic takes on two fit young lads like you, he’s thicker than I think he is. If he doesn’t want to come in to see Uncle Percy, arrest the bugger on suspicion of murder.’ He went to the door of his office and called an afterthought down the corridor to the rapidly disappearing DC. ‘Oh, and watch he doesn’t pull a blade on you: he looks like that sort of joker to me!’

  It wasn’t the most pleasant of thoughts to carry in your head as you drove out of Brunton at lunchtime on a Saturday.

  Northcott had once dealt a little in drugs and been a suspect in a murder case himself. Peach had spotted potential where others saw only brutishness, and had persuaded Northcott to join first the police and then, two years later, his own handpicked team in CID.

  Brendan Murphy went with him. He was softer-voiced, though he could handle himself well in any skirmish. Despite his name and his Irish ancestry, he was Brunton born and bred. He knew the history of the local-born villains better than some of them knew it themselves. He got on well with his contemporary Northcott, with whom he had a largely unspoken understanding. Despite the racial gibes which Northcott sometimes collected from drunks too far gone, he too was born in Lancashire.

  They had driven for three miles before Northcott said, ‘If he offers any resistance, we act tough. Right?’

  Murphy glanced sideways at the speaker. It seemed odd to see Clyde Northcott behind the wheel of the police Mondeo; he was more used to seeing him astride his Yamaha 350, crouching almost horizontally over the fuel tank. Indeed, Brendan remembered one or two hair-raising journeys on the pillion of the gleaming machine which was Northcott’s pride and joy.

  Murphy said, ‘You do the talking. Don’t get closer than eight feet to him. If he does pull a knife, I’ll go for it before he can even offer a threat.’

  Northcott nodded, perfectly confident that his companion could do exactly what he promised. They didn’t speak any more. The thought of a murder suspect with a knife caused a little tenseness, which they preferred to think of as concentration.

  They parked between the high gateposts of the Edwardian house. They didn’t intend to allow their quarry the chance, but if he chose to do a runner by car, he’d find their vehicle blocking his way. They stood for a moment looking up at the high, ivy-clad front elevation of the house, with its mellowed brick and York stone windows. It was the kind of house which they could never afford, from their side of the law, but there was no envy in their minds. Part of the training from Peach was to regard and treat all people as equals, whatever obeisance Tommy Bloody Tucker might pay to rank and wealth.

  These two powerful young men were merely gathering their resources for the exchange to come.

  Northcott half-expected a servant to open the big oak door above the stone steps. Instead, they were confronted by an unusually discomposed Carol Bilic, who asked them peremptorily what they wanted. They showed their warrant cards, which she inspected, as most people did not, and asked to see Mr Jemal Bilic.

  She did not speak at first, but nodded two or three times, as if certain things were now falling into place for her. Then she said, ‘He’s not here.’

  ‘Where is he, Mrs Bilic?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Northcott began to tell her patiently that she would be unwise to conceal her husband’s presence in the house from them, that he was wanted for questioning by the police on serious matters. Before he could get as far as the details of what being an accessory after the fact might imply, the woman standing above him said impatiently, ‘I don’t know where he is, you fool! He left this morning, before I was up. Look round the side of the house if you don’t believe me. You’ll see that his car’s missing! And before you ask. I�
��ve not the faintest idea where he’s gone!’

  The two big men were almost as silent on their way back to the station as they had been on their outward journey.

  It was not until they were turning into the car park that Brendan Murphy voiced the thought of both of them. ‘Peach’s not going to be pleased about this!’

  Twenty

  Agnes Blake was feeling very pleased with life. She was always delighted when Percy Peach was coming to tea. Or, as she had said when she was doing her morning shopping, when her daughter’s fiance was coming to tea.

  ‘The only thing wrong with this is that you should be out there playing cricket,’ she told Percy firmly as he came up the path to the old cottage. She gestured with a wide sweep of her arm towards the world beyond Pendle, towards the grounds of the Lancashire League towns, where Percy’s dancing feet had until recently advanced down the wickets and driven boundaries off toiling bowlers.

  ‘Anno Domini, Mrs B. It catches up with all of us,’ said Percy with a sad shake of his head.

  ‘You’re thirty-nine, not seventy,’ said Agnes with disgust. ‘You could have played on for another three or four years at least with your skills! When you get to my age, you’ll wish you had done.’

  Percy had an uncomfortable feeling that she might be right. It was on days like this, when the sun blazed down and the wickets were hard and bowlers had to work hard for everything they got, that his fingers itched to pick up the bat from the corner of his garage and the battered blue cap from the back of his wardrobe.

  ‘My eyes aren’t as quick as they used to be,’ he said sadly. Though when he saw some of the wayward bowling at a higher level on television, he still thought he could have flicked away a few fours and sixes. You were always a champion in your armchair.

  He looked automatically at the colour photograph of himself with his cap pulled down jauntily towards his right eye and his bat raised towards the crowd’s applause. It stood proudly beside the black and white one of Lucy’s dead father on the mantelpiece. He realized with a shock that the photograph of himself had been changed, though the picture of Agnes’s dead husband Bill climbing the steps with his sweater over his shoulder and looking shyly at the camera after taking six wickets was a fixed icon in this sitting room.