Wages of Sin (28 page)

John Devoy found in his tension that his hearing seemed more acute. He listened to the sound of their footsteps on the pavement, moving in harmony, landing together in a silence which seemed more than usually profound. Far off, over the tops of many buildings, he heard the faint sound of a bus pulling away from the town's centre. His lines in the play seemed to have dried up now. He said uncertainly, ‘I shouldn't be doing this and neither should you. If you won't promise to give up selling yourself like this, I'll have to—'

The men came from behind him, strong, unyielding, and certain of what they had to do. He heard a shrill yelp of pain as his wrist was forced up hard between his shoulderblades. It took him a second to realize that the sound had come from him.

Then Toyah Burgess was saying, ‘There's no need to hurt him! Please don't hurt him more than you need to!' The concern in her voice must be for him, he thought. He could scarcely believe it possible, such was the depth of his self-loathing.

Then one of the men was shouting the words of arrest into his ear, warning him that he did not have to say anything but if he withheld information which he later intended to use in court, it could prejudice his defence.

They loaded him carefully into the police car which now drew up alongside them, watching him carefully for any sign of aggression, any attempt to elude their hands.

Father Devoy attempted neither resistance nor escape. His distress was submerged in an overwhelming tide of relief.

On the following morning, Thursday the twenty-seventh of November, DCI Peach climbed the stairs to Chief Superintendent Tucker's penthouse office with a lightened heart. He could see the end of this one, now. But he would put money on the fact that Tommy Bloody Tucker hadn't a clue about it.

Tucker didn't look pleased to see him. ‘I have a busy schedule today,' he said accusingly.

‘Just keeping you briefed on the Sarah Dunne case, sir. As per your orders.'

‘I see. Well, it appears the murderer probably won't be found on our patch, Peach. In view of the connection now established with the murders of those two prostitutes in the Midlands.'

‘No connection, sir.' Percy gave just a hint of his satisfaction in delivering that information. Silly old sod hadn't listened to his radio or read his newspapers, as usual. Probably Bru¨nnhilde Barbara only allowed him Wogan and Radio 2 in the mornings.

‘I think you'll find there is, Peach. That phone call last Saturday night was authenticated as coming from Birmingham and—'

‘Man's been arrested, sir. In Walsall. He's confessed to killing the two toms in Birmingham. But he wasn't anywhere near Lancashire on the night Sarah Dunne was killed. I've spoken to the CID Superintendent in Walsall. The man they have in custody was on a works outing in Walsall that night. With seventy-three witnesses, apparently.'

Tucker stared hard into the impassive round face on the other side of the desk, then took a deep breath. ‘I was never really convinced about this theory of a serial killer, you know. You jump to conclusions rather too readily, if I may say so, Percy. Without weighing all the evidence. I feel now that I shouldn't really have allowed you to sell me this one.'

‘I see, sir.' Percy fixed his gaze on his favourite spot six inches above Tucker's head and resolved not to allow himself the release of anger.

‘I shan't make it public that you were mistaken about this, of course.'

‘That's good to hear, sir.'

‘Solidarity, that's the key to good management and a cohesive CID unit. I'm here to carry the can.'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘Paid for it, in fact. So we'll say no more about this particular wild goose chase.'

He'll have convinced himself in seconds that the serial killer really was my notion, thought Peach, making a mental note to get a videotape of Tucker's media briefing on the previous Tuesday. He said, ‘That phone call trying to link our murder with the pair in the Midlands may still be relevant, sir.'

‘Relevant?' Tucker spoke the word as if it were part of an obscure foreign tongue.

‘Yes, sir. Someone made the phone call, even though it wasn't the Walsall killer. Someone with a genuine Birmingham accent, according to our forensic audiologist. And possibly, just possibly, someone wanting to throw us off the scent. To divert us from our local suspects towards the false trail in the Midlands.'

Tucker frowned as he digested this difficult idea. ‘I suppose that is possible. But probably over-subtle. I think you'll find in due course that this was no more than a straightforward hoax caller.'

‘That is possible, of course, sir.'

‘Not only possible, but overwhelmingly the most likely explanation. You get a lot of hoax calls, when a murder goes undetected for any length of time, you know.'

‘Yes, sir.' Peach noted with renewed irritation his chief's capacity to move from the outrageous to the blindin' bleedin' obvious.

‘Anyway, you'd better get on with bringing me up to date on this case. I've a busy schedule today, you know.'

‘Yes, sir, you did mention that.' Peach banished his automaton's expression in favour of one of his sunniest smiles. ‘Well, there's no sign at the moment that this crime is down to a Mason, sir.'

Tucker's brow clouded. ‘Your prejudice against Freemasonry is neither amusing nor original, Peach. I've told you before, a Mason is most unlikely—'

‘Four times as likely to commit a serious crime as an ordinary member of the public, in the Brunton area, sir. You know my research.'

‘I couldn't not know of it. You remind me of it at every opportunity.'

‘Most interesting little monograph, it should make, sir. When I've the time to write it up and table the statistics. I'll give you full credit for help with the research, sir. Solidarity, as you say, is the secret of our success.'

‘How near are you to an arrest?' Tucker jutted his jaw aggressively. Put the little sod in his place. Press the nose above that objectionable black moustache firmly against the grindstone.

‘Quite near, sir. I wouldn't like to say how near. Mustn't jump to conclusions too readily, as you reminded me earlier.' He looked over his shoulder, as if to check that they were not overheard, then leant forward and spoke confidentially across the big desk. ‘We pulled in a Catholic priest last night!'

The public relations man that was always just beneath the smooth surface of Thomas Bulstrode Tucker's skin leapt out as suddenly as a rearing stallion. ‘A Catholic priest? This could tear the town apart.'

‘Been giving some of our ladies of the night a real good regular seeing-to over the last few months, apparently,' said Percy gleefully.

‘Peach, for Heaven's sake be cautious!'

The DCI chuckled. ‘That's rather good, sir. For Heaven's sake! But we've no need to be careful, sir. The man's confessed to paying for it and getting it, apparently. Of course, I've still to interrogate him. Going to do that as soon as I've finished here, sir.'

‘Then go carefully. When religion is involved, there's no knowing what—'

‘Thought I'd take DS Blake in with me, sir. Get her to flash a bit of gusset, if he clams up on us.'

Tucker blanched visibly: an interesting sight, Percy thought. ‘You'll do no such thing, Peach. Handle this with kid gloves.'

Peach looked disappointed. ‘Really, sir? I was thinking more in fishnet tights terms. Man's shown where his weakness lies, so we might as well exploit it, I thought. But if you'd like to do the interview yourself, sir, I'm sure we'd all be delighted to—'

‘No, Peach! You know my policy on these things. Not to interfere. To show confidence in my staff. To maintain—'

‘Maintain an overview, sir. Yes, I understand. Just like to flash a bit of female thigh at a man, when he's shown a fancy for it. But you're the boss, sir, as always.' He nodded dolefully.

Anyone who had seen Peach in action would have known that the last thing he would have done was to use female lingerie in these circumstances. Anyone who knew Lucy Blake would have known how she would react to the very suggestion. But it was so long since Thomas Bulstrode Tucker had seen his staff working at the crime-face that he was easily deceived. He said weakly, ‘Is this Roman Catholic priest your only suspect?'

‘No, sir. We've still got our policeman in the frame.' Peach grinned happily at the prospect of charging down another politically dangerous avenue.

Tucker gave a sickly grin. ‘The Sergeant from Morecambe, was it?'

‘The Inspector from Blackpool, sir. Traffic Police. Name of Thomas Boyd. Stolid sort of chap to look at, sir. Wouldn't have thought he had it in him, if you'll pardon the expression.'

‘Go carefully, Peach. That's an order. This is a sensitive area, when it involves a senior officer from another force. Haven't you been able to eliminate him yet?'

Peach shook his head vigorously and happily. ‘Far from it, sir. Inspector Boyd was spotted cruising the streets in our area on Tuesday night. Looking for a certain lady of the streets to offer a little violence, I reckon. He ran into one of our patrols and drove off without dropping his trousers. But he remains in the frame.' He smiled and nodded his satisfaction with this happy situation.

‘Along with others.' Tucker tried to speak firmly and assert himself.

‘Yes, sir. There's Joe Johnson, for a start.'

‘Our local Napoleon of Crime.' Tucker produced the phrase as if it were original. Then he went on more gloomily, ‘If Johnson's involved, we won't get him. He's too big now, has too many influential friends. You know the problem: no one will give evidence against him. He's got the local crime scene sewn up and everyone's scared of him.'

‘True enough, sir. And he's bigger than local, now. He's got casinos and clubs in Cumbria, the north-east and the Midlands, as well as Lancashire. Some of them are no doubt legitimate businesses.'

‘We're not going to get him then, are we? Let's hope Joe Johnson has nothing to do with this murder.'

‘Let's hope he
has
, sir! And that we can pin it on him!' Peach spoke with unusual vehemence, his passion for taking villains for once outweighing his contempt for Tommy Bloody Tucker.

Tucker shook his head. ‘You've got to be realistic, Peach. Of course, I'd like to catch the man myself, but now that he's becoming almost respectable, the moment may have passed.'

‘He'll be joining the Masons, if we leave it long enough,' said Percy grimly.

Tucker decided not to rise to this. ‘Have we any other possibilities?'

‘Yes, sir. Man by the name of David Strachan. Commercial traveller, sets up computer systems for firms and provides the necessary software. His firm's in Birmingham, but the north-west is his area.'

‘That phone call on Saturday was from Birmingham. The one trying to tie our murder in with the Midlands murders. The one you said might be designed to throw us off the trail.' Tucker came as near to excitement as he ever permitted himself to get.

‘Yes, sir. We've taken a recording of Strachan's voice. The forensic audiologist is testing it against the tape of that call which came in on Saturday night.' Peach looked at his watch and said with a proper sense of drama, ‘Perhaps at this very minute.'

‘I have a feeling this might be our man, Peach. You'll tell me it's early days, but you get a feeling for these things when you've been in this detection business as long as I have.' He steepled his fingers and nodded sagely.

Percy decided that his chief watched too much television. Not surprising, really: he'd bugger all else to do. He fed him another titbit. ‘Strachan patronized our local toms, sir. One in particular: mature blonde lady, name of Sally Aspin. Don't suppose you know her, sir?'

‘Of course I don't, Peach! I'm not in the habit of patronizing our local prostitutes, am I?'

‘No, sir, I suppose not. Bit of research, perhaps, I was thinking. Anyway, this chap Strachan likes a bit of rough play. Paid extra for it. Called the buxom Sally Miss Whiplash, I believe.' He shook his head sadly at the frailty of mankind.

‘He sounds more and more like our man, you know. Is there anything else you can offer?'

‘Well, sir, he admitted when we interviewed him that he proposed to offer a little violence himself, when he was sufficiently excited. And he had a piece of rope in his pocket which he admitted he wanted to put round his partner's neck at some stage in the exchange.'

‘This is a clincher, Peach! You mark my words, a clincher!'

‘You don't think this could be a normal sexual practice, sir? I mean, my experience is very limited, but they tell me the combination of sex and violence excites some men. I wanted to consult you about this, sir. I thought perhaps that with your wider experience of connubial exchanges you could offer me some guidance as to the range of . . .' He spread his arms slowly and helplessly, opening the curtains on the delicious vision of Bru¨nnhilde Barbara pursuing a sexually excited Tommy Bloody Tucker around the bedroom with a whip.

‘No! What on earth do you think I am, Peach?'

Percy resisted temptation once again. ‘A man of rich and varied experience, sir, in private as well as public life.'

‘In sexual matters, Peach, I am a novice.'

‘You surprise me, sir. You're sure this is not just the becoming modesty for which you are noted throughout the station?'

‘Indeed it is not, Peach. I have no idea how the mind of a man like this – this commercial representative—'

‘David Strachan, sir.'

‘Thank you. How the mind of a man like David Strachan works. But I'm pretty sure he's our man.'

Peach decided not to draw attention to any contradiction here. ‘He's given us a DNA sample, sir. It's being compared by Forensic with samples taken from the body of Sarah Dunne.'