A Very Private Murder (32 page)

‘Do you want to tell me about it?’

‘Not particularly.’ He pushed himself upright, saying: ‘Biscuits. Please, have a biscuit.’

I sat patiently waiting until we were both furnished with a side plate and a home-made crunchy cookie. ‘I think you’ve worked it all out by now, Charlie,’ he said. ‘You’re a good cop.’ I took a bite of biscuit and sipped my coffee. ‘I was in big trouble,’ he continued. ‘Big financial trouble. The gales had taken off much of the roof and the rain was doing the rest. First estimate was quarter of a million, going up every day. We were running as fast as we could just to stand still. We applied for grants everywhere imaginable, tried to do a deal with the local council, but nobody was interested.’

I sneaked a look at the clock on the wall and thought I’d better speed things up a little. I said: ‘And then along came a white knight in the form of Arthur George Threadneedle.’

‘Something like that. We knew him quite well, through the musical evenings and the horse racing. Put it down to naivety, greed, desperation, what you will, but we fell for the spiel and invested fifteen thousand pounds in the Peccadillo syndicate. It was peanuts, really, but it was just about my last fifteen grand. If the rumours could be believed – that Peccadillo was descended from Shergar – it would win a race and then earn us a fortune in stud fees. It all sounded so simple.’

‘But you’d learnt about genetics, and genetic fingerprinting.’

‘That’s right. The horse couldn’t run, wouldn’t even cut the mustard as a selling plater, and the new techniques would prove it wasn’t descended from Shergar. I took Threadneedle to one side and spelt it out to him. He thought about it and came up with the idea of the fire. I went along with it and Motty came in with us. I thought Threadneedle would do the deed and I’d be a mere spectator, but at the last minute he said he’d be under suspicion as he was the owner. We’d have a better chance of success, he said, if he had a good alibi and Motty and I did the dirty work. He swore there was no paperwork to link either of us to the horse, so we did it. We shot the horse first, then broke its leg, then started the fire. It was the dirtiest night’s work I’ve ever done.’

‘Who fired the shot?’

‘I did. Motty was supposed to, but he couldn’t reach. I was more or less forced into it.’ He sat quietly for a while, then added: ‘I’m not offering that as an excuse. I was just as culpable, whoever fired the shot.’

‘Did you start the fire?’

That took him by surprise. He thought about it for a few seconds, looking embarrassed, then took the line of least resistance. ‘Yes,’ he admitted. Another long, awkward pause before he enlarged upon and tried to excuse his admission. ‘Right from the beginning that was supposed to be my role in the job – starting the fire. Threadneedle had laid a trail of straw soaked in paraffin or petrol, and brought a box of cook’s matches, just in case I forgot mine. It was slow to start; I thought we’d blown it, then it went up like a bomb.’

I took a sip of coffee, then said: ‘But it was all unnecessary, wasn’t it, because the country homes people stepped in and offered you a lifeline?’

‘Yes, I suppose it was. Two days later, would you believe. Their letter came two days later. We thought they’d forgotten us – they’d been sitting on our application for a year – but then, out of the blue, they came to the rescue.’

‘Sighs of relief all round.’

‘You can say that again. We’d have gone under, no doubt about it. Funny thing is, that doesn’t sound so bad, now. I’d have lost this place but we’d have stayed a family. Now I’m scared stiff I’ll lose the girls. I can’t see Pumpkin ever forgiving me. Losing her love is a price I can’t afford.’

I’m normally immune to moral blackmail, but he had a point. And I don’t believe in the confessional approach. All that does is transfer the pain to someone else. Someone who doesn’t deserve it. I’ll go to my grave with my heart filled with black secrets, and they’ll all go with me.

‘What happens now?’ he asked.

‘I’ll go back to Heckley,’ I replied. ‘Tomorrow I’ll have a word, off the record, with our prosecution service lawyer. I’ll tell him about this hypothetical case involving a humane killer, a racehorse that couldn’t run and a deliberately started fire. He’ll tell me that no crime was committed other than a fraudulent insurance claim, but as the chief claimant was dead it was not in the public’s interest to pursue it. Case closed. We’re short of filing space at the nick, so we’ll probably destroy the file.’

‘Really?’

‘I think so. I’ll probably fail big Dave’s Gaitskell Heights test, but you won’t be doing anything similar in the future, will you?’

‘Gaitskell Heights test?’

‘It’s a long story.’

‘Right. Well, I can safely say no to that. You’ve been … It’s more than I deserve, and I’m grateful. You know you’ll be welcome at Curzon House any time you like, and I speak for the girls as well as myself.’

‘Thank you,’ I said, but I knew that when I drove down that lane again it would be for the last time. I placed my empty mug back on the tray and manoeuvred myself to a standing position. ‘Say goodbye to Toby for me, please. I’ve enjoyed her company.’

‘She’ll be sorry you’ve not said it yourself.’

‘Oh, she’ll get over it,’ I told him. Most people do.

He invited me to the village gala at the end of August. I said it was a busy time for us but I’d try to make it, then it was back to the car. I wound the window down so I could hear the
plunk plunk
of Toby’s demon serve for as long as possible.

Gaitskell Heights are a pair of Sixties tower blocks at the heart of the Sylvan Fields estate in Heckley. They quickly became run-down and neglected, and because of this they were used by the council as a dumping ground for poorer tenants, meaning anyone who fell behind with their rent. Then they widened the qualification requirement to include single-parent families, immigrants, druggies on rehabilitation programmes and all the other unfortunates, misfits and bone-idle dropouts that wash up on the edges of society. The locals call the flats Gaza.

When I’m lenient with someone like Curzon, when I’m dealing with someone I might like under different circumstances, Dave always asks me if I’d pass the Gaitskell House test. If they lived in a tower block and not in a six-bedroom town house, would I treat them with the same consideration? Of course I would, I tell him, but he doesn’t believe a word of it, and neither do I.

Sean and Carl pleaded guilty to aggravated burglary and robbery and are awaiting sentence. The kidnapping charge was dropped. They are remanded in custody and have been told to expect custodials. Janet Threadneedle is out on bail, living at her sister’s in Harrogate, awaiting trial for murder. She’ll be given life, but life can be short. Oscar Sidebottom was briefly sectioned and is now awaiting psychiatric reports prior to his trial for attempting to pervert the course of justice. Terry Bratt was sentenced to community service for offences against the Dangerous Dogs Act, but allowed to keep Bruno on condition he had him neutered and microchipped. Dave’s canine friend, Banjo, wasn’t so lucky, which resurrected the usual joke: ‘Was it mad?’ ‘Well, it wasn’t too pleased.’

Buckingham Palace issued a statement saying that Ghislaine and the prince had parted amicably, each to pursue their own career. The weather changed at the end of May and we had a dreadful summer. All over the country, barbecues, bought during the first flush of spring, stood dripping and rusting on block-paved patios, monuments to the Englishman’s eternal optimism. I didn’t make it to the village gala, and the rain lashed down all that weekend, so I doubted if Curzon sold many houses. In September a postcard arrived on my desk, addressed to:
Detective C. Priest, Number One Policeman, Heckley, Yorkshire.
It was a photograph of Mont Blanc, sent by Toby. The message was brief, saying that the treatment was doing her good and she was feeling a lot better. I guessed that she was at some sort of clinic. I took the card home and pinned it on my board in the kitchen, between last Christmas’s Age Concern raffle tickets and the washing machine settings.

Dave, Jeff and I had been for a walk, taking in the Derwent reservoirs. Dave offered to bet me a pound that Jeff would tell us that the Dambusters trained there, but I didn’t take up his offer. On the way down Jeff said: ‘The Dambusters trained here, y’know.’

‘Really,’ we replied, giggling with silent glee.

It was a miserable day – autumn had come early – so we didn’t hang about. I’d had a bath and my M&S ready meal and was just about to start watching
In Bruges
, which Jeff had loaned me, when the phone rang. It’s usually bad news when the phone rings at nine o’clock on a Saturday evening so I answered it like the professional I pretend to be.

‘It’s me,’ said a female voice from the
not-too-distant
past.

‘Hello, me,’ I replied. ‘This is a surprise. How are you?’

‘I’m fine. How are you?’

‘I’m fine, too. I was just about to watch
In Bruges
. I’m told it’s good.’

‘It’s brilliant. Look, Charlie, why don’t you bring it round here and we could watch it together. I was about to open a bottle of Lindemans but didn’t want to drink it by myself. I’d love to see you.’

‘Oh, what a shame,’ I said. ‘I’ve been out for a walk and am well knackered. I won’t be very good company, I’m afraid.’

‘Well, it doesn’t matter if you fall asleep.’

‘And …’ I added, thinking on my feet, ‘and … there’s the little matter of the three cans of Foster’s I’ve just downed. I can’t afford an OPL rap.’ Actually, the three cans were in the fridge, still chilling.

‘Oh, that’s a pity. I just felt like some company. Tell you what: how about if I brought the bottle round to your place?’

This was becoming worrying. I said: ‘Much as I’d like to see you, I don’t think you should drive. You sound as if you’ve had one or two already.’

‘Just a little one, that’s all. I could always take a taxi.’

Sometimes, I feel as if I’m the victim of circumstances. I said: ‘A taxi?’

‘That’s right. They’re cars that take you where you want to go, for a small fee. Shall we say half an hour?’

‘Right,’ I replied. ‘Half an hour. I’ll look forward to seeing you.’

‘Will you, really?’

‘Of course. More than you’ll imagine.’ I can smooth-talk for Heckley when it suits me.

‘I’m on my way.’

‘Bye.’

Ah well, I thought. Bruges will still be there tomorrow. I was climbing the stairs to clean my teeth and have a squirt of Givenchy
Pour Homme
when the phone rang again. It’s a murder! I thought, my hopes raised. Please be a murder!

‘Hi, it’s me again,’ she said. Her voice had developed a certain huskiness since our previous conversation, thirty seconds earlier. ‘I’ve been thinking.’

‘Thinking,’ I repeated. ‘That sounds dangerous.’

‘No! It’s fun, not dangerous. How about if I wore my uniform? Would you like me to wear my uniform,
Inspector
?’

Ah well, I thought, in for a penny, in for a pound. ‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘I think I’d like that. I think I’d like it very much,
Superintendent
.’

This story is fiction and all the relevant characters in it are imaginary. I have used some real places and institutions to create a sense of location and distance, but any implied criticism of these is without foundation. Throughout the writing of this book I was received as always with courtesy and cooperation wherever I made my enquiries.

The real Alice Hawthorn is in the village of Nun Monkton, and well worth a visit.

 

 

If you enjoyed
A Very Private Murder
look out for
the other books in the Charlie Priest series.

 

 

 

 

 

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