Mortal Taste (10 page)

The routine of detection said that at this stage of a case you had to consider the unlikely as carefully as the probable. It was still possible DI Rushton would prove to be the officer who had drawn out the key information in the case from this man, the officer who had spotted the possibilities in an unlikely source. He finished his writing at the bottom of the sheet and looked up again at the unpromising figure in front of him. Only just possible.

‘So you think you can help us find who killed Mr Peter Logan. You knew him, did you?'

‘No, I never met him.'

Rushton's faint hopes fell still further. ‘Mr Simpson, we're really very busy with this investigation—'

‘But I know someone on his staff. Someone who teaches there.'

‘There are over fifty teachers at Greenwood Comprehensive School. Unless you've got good reason to think that—'

‘Tamsin Phillips. Teaches history. I used to live with her.' Simpson was becoming more and more excited.

Rushton wondered how he was going to calm him, then get rid of him. Other officers were already watching them curiously. He wasn't good with nutters, never had been. Perhaps he should have chosen somewhere more private for this exchange, after all. He tried to find a soothing tone. ‘That is very interesting, I'm sure, but I fail to see that it has any bearing on—'

‘I think she killed him. Tamsin Phillips.' His eyes flashed wildly.

‘Now that is a very serious accusation to make, Mr Simpson. Darcy. I think you should consider—'

‘She's been carrying on with him, you know. With Logan. They've been at it for months.'

Chris Rushton's interest quickened a little, despite himself. ‘This is a very serious accusation to make, Darcy. And unless you think it has any bearing on Mr Logan's death, you shouldn't really—'

‘She's well capable of violence, Tamsin Phillips is. Well capable of killing, when she's roused.'

‘Really? Well, my advice to you—'

‘You don't believe me, do you? Well let me tell you, years ago, she did this to me!' He leapt from his chair and pulled his shirt up with both hands, until it almost obscured his excited face.

But it wasn't Darcy Simpson's face that DI Rushton and the rest of the people in the CID section at that moment were looking at. It was the livid purple knife scar extending from the centre of his chest to the left side of his abdomen.

D
aniel Price enjoyed the Rotary lunch. He was quite surprised how much he enjoyed it. He had tried to analyse his feelings, and decided that he enjoyed his double life, enjoyed making this innocent part of it as convincing as possible. There was a certain satisfaction in persuading people that you were a splendid chap, when all the time you knew that you weren't.

Daniel had set up his own business at thirty, a successful computer software firm. It was prosperous enough, even in these competitive times. Not quite as prosperous as most people in the Rotary thought, of course. But then they weren't to know that their affable companion at the lunches and other Rotary functions had another and more lucrative source of income. They merely assumed from his open-handedness and lavish lifestyle that Price Computer Supplies must be doing very well indeed.

Daniel downed a very acceptable raspberry pavlova in the dining room of the White Hart and contributed his share to the pleasant hubbub of conversation and laughter in the long, low-ceilinged room. Most of the others went quickly away after coffee to their various workplaces, but Daniel stayed for a few minutes to chat to the few who remained. When he was asked to help with the latest project to raise funds for disabled children, he shook his head regretfully and explained that he was far too busy to offer practical assistance. But he made a generous donation from his own pocket ‘to get the ball rolling'.

The treasurer for the project was absurdly grateful. Daniel smiled quietly as he went out to his Mercedes. He wondered what the reaction would be if the worthy man knew where that money had come from.

He would go back to the offices of Price Computer Supplies later in the afternoon. But first he had another piece of work to undertake, a workforce of an entirely different sort to motivate. He moved the rear-view mirror in the Mercedes for a moment to check his appearance, ensuring that his dark, thick, wavy hair was perfectly in place.

He was a vain man at times, he thought, recognizing the weakness in himself without any feeling of guilt. Instead of guilt, he allowed a small smile of satisfaction to steal for a moment over his handsome, sallow features. It was a face, he decided, designed for impassivity and concealment, a face well fitted for deception. That was just as well.

The engine of the big Mercedes purred into life. Daniel Price eased the maroon saloon out of the White Hart car park and away towards that other, secret life.

The full post-mortem report on Peter Logan offered little that was new.

It confirmed that the headmaster had almost certainly been killed in the park where the body was found. Marks in the sparse grass under the trees had suggested to the SOCO team that the body had probably been moved no more than two metres after it had fallen, to place it under the cover of the copse of trees at the site. The PM reinforced this view. There were no marks on the corpse to suggest that it had been carried about after death.

‘It looks as if he arranged to meet his killer in the park,' said DI Rushton.

‘Or was taken there at gunpoint,' said Lambert, anxious to keep as open a mind as possible until he knew more. ‘Is there anything more about time of death in the report?'

Rushton looked at the details he was transferring from the printed page on to his computer. ‘Nothing very precise. The body was lying in that copse for around twenty-four hours before it was found. “The evening of Monday 28th September” is obviously as far as they would go in court. Stomach contents aren't as helpful as they might be, since he'd had nothing substantial since lunch at twelve thirty that day. Just tea and biscuits about four thirty to five, along with others at the conference in Birmingham. Pathology and forensic incline towards death early in the evening rather than late, though they wouldn't be happy to be definite about that in court.'

Bert Hook nodded. ‘He couldn't have died before eight. It was probably some time between eight and half past eight. He left Birmingham University campus at ten to seven that evening.'

Rushton entered this latest fact on to his files. Lambert said to Hook, ‘Did you find out anything else about his behaviour on the day of his death?'

‘Only that he didn't seem at all nervous or distracted. He gave what everyone seems to think was an excellent address about secondary education generally and his school in particular, answered questions, led a discussion group in the afternoon, and was generally bright and cheerful all day. He was seen to make one phone call on his mobile, after lunch.'

‘Which no one interviewed so far has admitted receiving,' said Rushton, who had checked the team files as soon as Hook had come back from Birmingham with his report.

‘Weapon?' said Lambert.

Rushton shook his head dolefully. ‘They couldn't even be precise about that. They haven't found the bullet. They're confident that a silencer was attached, and they've got a reasonable picture of the point of entry. They think there's a fair chance they could tie it up with the murder weapon, if we ever find one. From the extent of the damage to the skull, they think a Smith and Wesson pistol is the most likely instrument.'

‘Anything turned up yet from the preliminary interviews at the school?'

Rushton was pleased with this question. It was a proper build-up for the one unusual bit of information, which was going to come from him. ‘Nothing much yet. One teacher has been mentioned by someone else, though. Singled out for special attention, as you might say.'

He told them about Darcy Simpson's visit, about his dramatic display of the chest scars, stemming, as he claimed, from an attack by a teacher at Greenwood School, Tamsin Phillips.

‘Simpson isn't the most reliable sort of informant. Possibly on drugs; almost certainly psychologically disturbed, I should think. But we checked out his story with Thames Valley Police, where the incident took place. It seems to be substantially true. Apparently she stabbed him three times with a kitchen knife.'

‘When was this?'

‘Five years ago. They'd been living together. It seems to have been in a fit of jealous rage, when he wanted to end the relationship.' Chris Rushton's mouth wrinkled with distaste at the thought of such lack of control; his own marital break-up had been much more civilized.

‘So Ms Phillips has a criminal record.'

‘No. She got off with a caution. Darcy Simpson refused to bring charges and the CPS wouldn't take it on without his co-operation. She agreed to a course of psychiatric treatment, so I suppose they thought they hadn't much chance of a custodial sentence.' Rushton's face creased with contempt in the policeman's conditioned reaction to any mention of psychiatry.

‘Did Phillips make any mention of the incident in her interview at the school?'

‘No. Simpson only came in here after she'd given her statement.' He flashed the page up on the screen. ‘This is absolutely routine: she says she didn't know Logan well; found him an excellent headmaster; had no idea who could possibly wish to kill him. No one's been back to her since Simpson came in here. I rather thought you'd like to follow it up yourself, sir.'

Lambert nodded and grinned. ‘I'll take Bert with me to protect me against kitchen knives.'

‘There's one other thing Simpson said about Ms Phillips. He claimed she'd been having an affair with her late headmaster.'

Daniel Price drove his car round the ground floor of the multi-storey car park, checking that he was unobserved, and then eased it down the driveway to the basement.

There was little daylight down here. In the evening, the druggies and drop-outs would congregate here, but there were only two pathetic figures now, sitting with their backs against the concrete wall at the far end of the basement; Daniel kept well clear of them. The place smelt dank and foetid, with that strange combination of stale urine and the strong disinfectant the authorities used to try to cleanse the place.

He found the man he wanted when the invisible figure lit a cigarette, the match rasping into brief illumination, then leaving the tip of the cigarette glowing red in the gloom by the wall. The tiny red tip was all Price could see until he was very close to the man. He did not stand opposite him, but went and stood beside him, so that both of them were in the deepest shadow against the wall, observant of any other entry into this daunting place.

They stood thus for ten seconds before Price said, ‘You'd better tell me what you want quickly. There's no point in hanging about here longer than we have to.'

‘The usual horse and coke. More ecstasy. They're always after that. And Rohypnol. The demand for that keeps going up.'

The date-rape drug. The demand was going up everywhere, not just here. The man with the cigarette chuckled in the near-darkness, eliciting an answering snigger from Price. It was a mirthless, chilling exchange. But there was no one in this depressing place to hear them. Daniel said, ‘I'll get you whatever I can. Rohypnol's difficult. The rest you'll have.'

A grunt of approval. Then the man waited, knowing there would be more. Price could have taken his order without risking a meeting. There must be more to be said. This man was below Price in the industry's obscure chain of command, was waiting to hear what his supplier would have to say. He couldn't see how it could be anything good for him.

Daniel let him have another nervous pull on the cigarette before he spoke, watching the end glow more brightly for a couple of seconds in the gloom. Then he said, ‘You need to increase your turnover. If you sell more, I can get it cheaper. I can pass the saving on to you.'

Try the positive approach first: appeal to greed. You should only threaten if you needed to. But Daniel Price was beginning to realize that he rather enjoyed offering threats.

‘It's – it's not easy.' The red spot burned bright again from another nervous pull.

‘The demand's there, if you look for it. That's the advantage of what we sell, the market can always be extended.' Another chuckle, this time at the vulnerability of human nature. Only Daniel tittered this time.

The man in front of him said, ‘You have to be careful. Watch who you're talking to.'

He was feebly stating the obvious, not offering a reason for his failure to sell more, and both of them knew it. He threw his cigarette half-smoked on to the concrete beneath their feet, then stamped on it.

Daniel could catch the panic on the narrow features, now that his eyes had adjusted to the half-light. He thought he could also smell fear on the man, though it was difficult to be certain in this foetid place. He exulted in his power to instil fear. This is how official torturers must have felt; this must have been what made men join the Gestapo. He had read a lot about war crimes, and Stalin's secret police. He said abruptly, ‘How's trade going at the school?'

‘We need to be careful there. Now that the Head's been killed, the place is swarming with police.' It was perfectly true. So why did it fall from his lips sounding like a feeble excuse?

‘Of course we have to be careful. Always. Not just now. But you haven't answered my question.'

‘Well, the trade's going all right. I'm having to replace two people who've left at eighteen and gone on to other places.'

‘But you'll have done that, by now. You'll have been thinking ahead, someone with your efficiency.' Price let his contempt roll over the last phrase.

‘Yes. I've got one new pusher already in place.' He thought for a moment of Mark Lindsay, that gangling boy he had recruited, and was glad that Daniel Price was not able to inspect him. ‘I'm shifting plenty of pot, and the fifth and sixth-formers are looking for ecstasy and—'