Least of Evils (16 page)

Peach paused whilst the tasks of the day were allotted and there were a few muffled groans. ‘Most of you will know the reputation of Oliver Ketley. I probably know more than any of you. I consider it one of the blackest days in the many years I have spent in Brunton when Ketley decided to move on to our patch. He was a villain: a blacker villain than most of you will ever have encountered. I believe the full extent of his vicious career will only be revealed over the next few years.

‘But the man's character must not influence you and the way you go about your work. As far as all of us are concerned, Ketley is now a victim. If we start picking and choosing among our victims, we might as well all give up this job. We need an arrest and a prosecution, to show that no one can murder on our patch and get away with it. Our mission is to uphold the law and murder is the worst affront of all to the law. We want a result here, as fervently as we would want a result in any other murder investigation.'

It was a long speech for Percy Peach. The team filed away in sober mood, with many fewer words than usual. They accepted what he said, but they understood also what he hadn't needed to say. If this was a gangland killing, the removal of one big villain by a rival, this was going to be time-consuming, difficult and possibly dangerous. And the nearer they got to an arrest, the more dangerous it would become.

Peach's own arrangement of his day was disrupted by the phone call he received two minutes after he had briefed the team. It came from a superintendent in Manchester whom he had never met.

‘DCI Peach? I was referred to you by Chief Superintendent Tucker.'

‘Yes, you would be.'

‘He said that you were the man in touch with the detail of the case.'

‘Yes, he would do.'

There was a tiny pause whilst the man at the other end of the call translated this police-speak and divined that Tucker was a wanker. ‘It's about Oliver Ketley. A suspicious death?'

‘A murder. That will become official by lunch time.'

‘Yes. I may have a candidate for you. Nothing I can prove. Information from a snout.'

‘A reliable snout?'

‘A very reliable snout. Otherwise I wouldn't be ringing you.' The first touch of acerbity in the tone. Every CID officer has his snouts – usually small-time crooks or ex-crooks who move about in the underworld and keep their ears open. They are almost always men and they deal with men; it is much more difficult for the growing number of female officers reaching the higher CID ranks to build up a network of informers.

‘I'm sorry. Thanks for the information. What next?'

The Manchester superintendent passed on the one significant piece of information his snout had brought to him, then said, ‘It's your case. We don't want crossed wires, do we? I think you should do the interview. I'll give you what we know. It's significant, but it isn't a lot.'

Not enough for you to clear up a murder and take the credit, then. But fair play to the super: the fact and the name he passed over were significant. Peach said. ‘I'm grateful for the information. Can you give me an address?'

‘Twenty-four Egerton Gardens, Oldham. I know it's thirty miles or so from Brunton, but if I were you, I wouldn't try to make an appointment in advance. He wouldn't be there, probably wouldn't be within a hundred miles. He's inclined to shirk publicity, George French.'

Greta Ketley wanted desperately to speak to Martin Price. Speaking to your lover seemed so much the natural thing to do, after the ordeal of the police interview. She wanted to tell her man about the strangeness of the CID pairing – that your initial reaction was to be scared of the powerful black man who looked so formidable and never smiled, whereas it was the bouncy little chief inspector with the bald head and the black moustache who was the real threat. He asked most of the questions, then seemed to weigh every answer as if you might be lying. She wanted to warn Martin about that; but then if all went well Martin might not even need to speak to the police, lucky man!

He had told her that it made sense not to contact each other for a few days. She could see the logic in that, though at this moment she resented it. She needed to talk to someone, because she felt very isolated. There were staff all around her, but she had no idea what they were saying among themselves, what was the gossip below stairs about Oliver's death. She saw Mrs Johnson arranging flowers in the hall and called her into the drawing room where she sat, trying ridiculously to read a book.

‘I'm sorry, I don't remember your first name.'

A small, embarrassed smile crept into the pretty, serious face beneath the dark hair. ‘It's Jane, ma'am. Most people call me Janey.'

‘Then I shall do that also. And you should call me Greta.'

‘Please do call me Janey if you wish to. But I do not think that I should call you Greta. I don't think Mrs Frobisher would approve of it. And it would make life difficult for me with the other staff.'

The English system for employers and employees was a strange one: she doubted if she would ever work out all its subtleties. You paid these people, but you still couldn't arrange things as you wished. ‘I see. Well, I shall call you Janey. And I shall ask Mrs Frobisher that you shall be my personal maid – my dresser when I need one, and things like that.' She threw in the last phrase rather desperately. What she really needed was a friend, but a confidante such as she had seen in old-fashioned plays might be the nearest she could have to a friend.

‘Thank you.' Janey was not sure she welcomed this new intimacy, but she could hardly reject it and it might well be a good thing. It wouldn't make her popular with the other staff, but it might in due course mean more money.

‘How did you think it went yesterday?'

Janey looked a little blank for a moment before she understood the question. ‘When the CID people came here, you mean?'

‘Yes. Do you think they were satisfied?'

‘Yes, I think so.' She looked at Greta for a moment with her head a little on one side. ‘They said it was just routine, didn't they? They said they always saw the spouses of dead persons first, because they knew most about the person who had died.'

‘Yes, that's what they said.' Greta smiled with relief. She was glad she'd asked this sensible woman to be her friend. Janey seemed so innocent, to have things so much in perspective. She herself had lived for so long in the shadow of Oliver Ketley that she had forgotten how ordinary people looked at the world. The police interview was probably as straightforward a matter as Janey thought it was. Greta said almost apologetically, ‘The police always regard the wife or husband of a murder victim as the first suspect, you see.'

‘Do they? Well, I'm sure they don't in this case. I'm sure they're satisfied you're completely innocent, after speaking to you yesterday.'

‘Well, that's good to hear, from someone who was present at that meeting.' Greta looked more relaxed as she smiled again. ‘I'm glad we've become friends, Janey. I was feeling very lonely.'

‘That's natural enough, when you've lost your husband. I felt very lonely indeed, when my Sam died.'

‘Yes. It helps to talk to someone who's been through the same experience.' Greta wanted to ask how Sam had died and how long ago it had been, but she sensed that for the present she had pushed far enough into the life of this slightly reluctant new friend.

Janey Johnson took her silence as an indication that she could get back to her household duties. As she vigorously polished the silver punchbowl in the dining room, she wondered if Greta Ketley's anxiety meant that she had rather more to hide than Janey had hitherto assumed.

Twenty-four Egerton Gardens Oldham was not at all the sort of residence DCI Peach had expected.

It was a small detached bungalow, no more than five years old, with a neat garden at the front and a small new greenhouse between the garage and the weedless lawn at the rear. It was one of many such properties on a large modern estate; Egerton Gardens was a cul-de-sac off a wider road which was lined with much larger houses. This was obviously the section of the estate designed for retired couples; had it not been a bitter, overcast February day, they would no doubt have seen elderly men working in the gardens and passing the time of day with their neighbours.

Percy looked hard at the front door with its neat brass numbers. There was no sign of life within. ‘Let's hope the bugger's at home. You introduce us, Clyde: it might be an occasion when we want the hard bastard to the fore.'

His companion glanced at him without emotion. Northcott could do other things as well as frighten people, but Peach knew that bloody well; when life was quiet, Percy liked to rub friend as well as foe up the wrong way. Clyde dutifully rang the bell, then listened to the noise echoing in what sounded like an empty residence. There was no other sound, but within five seconds the door was opened wide before them and a slight figure in jeans, sweater and open-necked shirt stood interrogatively in the aperture.

‘Mr George French? I am Detective Sergeant Northcott and this is Detective Chief Inspector Peach. We'd like a word with you.'

The man eyed them up and down with curiosity but without apparent fear. ‘You'd better come inside.' He looked for a moment at the police Mondeo at his gates before he turned away from them, for all the world like a suburban householder who was worried that a police vehicle left there for any length of time would excite speculation amongst his neighbours. He led the way into a small, immaculate sitting room and gestured towards the sofa, whilst he took one of the armchairs in the comfortable, slightly old-fashioned three-piece suite.

Peach looked round unhurriedly, sizing up the lean man with the blue-grey eyes deep-sunk in his sallow cheeks. It was those deep-set eyes which made him look a little older than the highly fit man he actually was. His shoulders were narrow, but his frame was wiry and carried no surplus weight. His hair was cut quite short, but not cropped; it took a keen eye to detect the few strands of grey in it. Around thirty-six, Peach decided. And in this setting, expertly camouflaged.

Percy gave a few seconds to each of the two original art works on the wall before he said, ‘Business good, is it?'

George French looked at him steadily. An ordinary citizen in his own home would have asked them what they were about by now, but he was content to let them make the running; it was his habit to reveal nothing of himself until he chose to. ‘Business comes and goes, for a consultant engineer. But it's good enough, yes. I have been divorced for seven years now and I have only myself to think of. I collect enough commissions to avoid working for a monthly wage. I like to be my own master.'

Peach gave him a broad smile, then rocked to and fro very thoughtfully upon the sofa, seemingly moved by some private mirth. ‘Consultant engineer, eh? Well, it's as good a cover as any. I expect you've even got an engineering qualification, if we go back far enough. I expect you could even provide us with details of some of the work you've undertaken in the last year, if push came to shove. So I won't waste my time and yours: you probably have plenty, but we've got villains to lock away, haven't we, DS Northcott?' Peach glanced not at his sergeant but through the wide double-glazed window at the row of neat dwellings. ‘You're posing here as a model citizen, Mr French. Shouldn't the pose include morning coffee and biscuits for your unexpected but welcome visitors?'

‘I don't offer hospitality to strangers who insult me in my own home. I think you should state your business and then be on your way.'

But Peach, despite his assurance that their time was valuable, was playing this slowly. He had only one telling fact at his disposal and he would reserve it for a little while longer. Even men as cool and apparently unshakeable as this one could become nervous, if you delayed your strike. ‘You must feel honoured to have such high-ranking CID men in what you would no doubt call your humble abode. Your name and address were given to us by someone of even higher rank in the Greater Manchester police. You've excited their interest, you see, and they're keeping an eye on you.'

French had known why they were here since he had seen them climbing out of the car, but he would play out his part in this preliminary charade as long as he could. Whilst you revealed nothing of yourself, it was still possible that they knew less than you suspected they did. ‘If what you are telling me is true, I can't think why they should do that. A case of mistaken identity, perhaps. People tell me the police system is nothing like as effective as it should be.'

Peach glanced again at the paintings. ‘You collect enough commissions to live comfortably, as you say, George. But not as a consultant engineer. Work is much more rewarding for a contract killer.'

French looked from one expectant face to the other. ‘I suppose I should laugh at such a bizarre idea. Instead, I find myself both bewildered and annoyed.'

Clyde Northcott had to exercise all his powers of concentration to prevent him stealing a glance at Peach. This man seemed so genuine and unthreatening that he wondered whether they had indeed been given a bum steer, whether this was an innocent member of the public going about his business and they were about to be acutely embarrassed.

Peach was beset by no such apprehension. He was about to play his single trump card, but he would play it as if he had four others to follow. ‘A contract killer. A man who has to kill regularly to maintain his income, to pay for things like this.' He glanced again at the paintings on the wall.

French smiled like one being patient with a recalcitrant child. ‘Engineering pays well enough, if you're efficient. I'm quite good at costing major new projects, although I say it myself. If you ever need a new bridge or want to know the cost of clearing a site for a new supermarket, you should come to me, Mr Peach. I'll give you my card before you go.'