Murder at the Lodge (Inspector Peach Series Book 7) Read online

  Murder at the Lodge

  J.M. Gregson

  © J.M. Gregson 2003

  J.M. Gregson has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 2003 by Severn House Publishers Inc.

  This edition published in 2017 by Endeavour Press Ltd.

  To John Cox, Keith Bedford, Mike Gizzey, Derek Briggs

  and all the other policemen and ex-policemen who try to

  keep me on the straight and narrow

  Table of Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  One

  Detective Constable Brendan Murphy watched Detective Inspector Percy Peach out of the corner of his eye. It was marvellous how the man seemed to ooze aggression from every pore when he questioned suspects.

  ‘You’re in trouble, sunshine. Big trouble. Gives me a lot of pleasure, that does.’ Peach smiled at his subject, his teeth looking very white and very sharp at the base of the round face.

  The twenty-two-year-old on the other side of the small, square table, striving to appear indifferent, looked a little surprised despite himself at this open statement of satisfaction by a policeman: you could usually expect more caution from the pigs, nowadays. He looked meaningfully at the slowly turning cassette beside them and said, ‘You could be sorry you said that, Inspector Peach.’

  ‘Oh, I doubt that, Mr Afzaal. I doubt it very much. But I think you might regret what you did in Mr Alston’s shop.’

  The boy’s fingers flicked automatically to the side of his head, caressing the glossy black hair where it was combed back over his temples. Thrown a little by Peach’s confidence, he played the card he had intended to hold back for emergencies. ‘This is racialist.’

  ‘I’m glad you admit it, lad. We might get somewhere now.’ Peach’s smile was sudden and broad, like the crocodile’s in Peter Pan. He turned briefly to the man at his side. ‘Might be worth making a note of that, DC Murphy. Mr Afzaal admits his actions had a racialist motivation.’

  Afzaal’s brown eyes widened in consternation. ‘Not what we did — what you say we did — what you’re trying to plant on us. What you’re doing to us now, I mean. It’s clearly racialist.’

  Peach looked with distaste into the handsome, olive-skinned features. He was happier out-thinking white thugs with shaven heads and tattoos and limited IQs, but he was far too experienced to show it. You couldn’t pick and choose your villains, these days. ‘You mean questioning you about this assault with three of your friends on a defenceless man three times your age, with another officer present and a tape running? I doubt if you could make the racialist label stick, sunshine.’

  Peach turned and grinned at DC Murphy, who took his cue, smiled broadly at the preposterous notion of Percy Peach being racialist, and said, ‘Especially in view of what your friends have just been telling us.’

  Fear flashed across the too-revealing young features. The others were a year younger than him, and he hadn’t had time to brief them after their arrest last night. There was no knowing what they had been admitting to the police under pressure, especially if this little turkey-cock of an inspector had been at them. Afzaal licked his lips, tried to think, found it impossible under the mesmeric glare of the dark eyes on the other side of the table. He said weakly, ‘It wasn’t any more than a bit of fun.’

  Even after years of experiencing it, it still gave Percy the occasional shock to hear a Lancashire accent issuing from an Asian face. He relaxed, gave the boy another grin, wondering if Afzaal realized that he had virtually admitted the incident in his last phrase. Then his face hardened. ‘You tell the man whose shop you wrecked that it was just a bit of fun. See if that’s how he sees it.’

  ‘He was asking for it.’

  Peach raised his black eyebrows as high as they would go beneath his shining bald pate. ‘A man of sixty, with no history of violence? A man with a lot of respect in the community, trying to run a newspaper and general sundries shop? I doubt if the magistrate will see it that way.’ He shook his head sadly at the obstinacy and unreality of the young man in front of him.

  That young man had been very sure of himself when he swaggered into the interview room five minutes earlier. DC Murphy marvelled at the uncertainty Peach had induced in him without anything tangible to throw at him. A master in the art of bluff, was Percy.

  Wasim Afzaal snarled, ‘You can’t frighten me with the bloody bench, Peach! This’ll never come to court, and you know it. You’ll never convince the CPS you’ve got a case!’

  Peach beamed at him. ‘You should be listening to your mates, sunshine. They’ve been singing like sweet English thrushes. Not racialist, that, is it?’

  ‘They wouldn’t do that!’ Afzaal was shouting now, as though he hoped that the extra volume would convince them. But he could hear the doubt in his own voice.

  Percy shrugged, without turning down the radiance of the beam on his face. ‘Suit yourself, sunshine.’ He turned to Brendan Murphy. ‘Better make a note that Mr Afzaal refused to co-operate at this point. Said the case would never come to court. Won’t please the judge, that.’ Peach raised Afzaal’s case effortlessly from local to Crown court. ‘Won’t even please Mr Afzaal’s mum and dad, I shouldn’t wonder.’ He shook his head sadly again at the follies of youth.

  It was always worth a mention of dad with these Asians. Your born and bred Lancashire ruffians had usually long since cut off the ties of home, but family values and pressures were still strong with Indians or Pakistanis, even when lads claimed to be brutally Anglicized. Sure enough, Afzaal’s face clouded at the mention of his family. ‘No call for you to go ratting to my dad,’ he said sullenly.

  ‘No. You’ve been an adult since you were eighteen, the law says. Responsible for your own actions, and likely to be put away for a year or two on a grievous bodily harm rap.’

  There was no question of any charge as serious as that. Indeed, if Afzaal had but known it, there was no chance of old Harry Alston bringing any case to court: he’d be far too conscious of the retribution which might be visited upon his corner shop.

  But Afzaal didn’t know that. All he could see was Peach’s grin growing wider as he felt panic coursing through his veins. He said hoarsely, ‘It was a bit of fun that got out of hand, that’s all.’

  Percy sensed a collapse. His grin disappeared abruptly as he leaned forward, ‘I can almost believe that, sunshine. Though my idea of fun wouldn’t be the same as yours. And it’s not how Mr Alston would see it, is it?’

  Afzaal shut his eyes briefly, to shut out the inspector’s toothsome grin. But in its stead, he could see only his father’s thunderous brow, hear his harsh tones threatening to suspend the degree course he was enjoying. ‘Is there no way out of this, then? Without going to court, I mean?’

  Peach drew in a long breath, then let it out again slowly, in an astonished whistle. He looked at Brendan Murphy, shook his head sadly, then turned his attention back to the handsome, apprehensive young face on the other side of the table. Abruptly, he reached across and switched off the tape recorder. ‘Can’t promise anything. It would depend on the injured party, not me.’

  ‘You mean Mr Alston? You t
hink he might be persuaded to …’

  Afzaal left his question hanging in the air, and Percy Peach regarded it curiously there for a few seconds, as if he was watching a smoke ring slowly disappear. He said doubtfully, ‘You’d need to pay for all the damage. Mr Alston will need a new cash register: the old one’s probably beyond repair after you flung it on the floor like that. And of course you’d have to pay for the cigarettes and the boxes of chocolates you stole.’ Afzaal gulped, then snatched hard at salvation. ‘We could do that, I’m sure. If the four of us got together.’

  Peach looked doubtfully at DC Murphy. ‘We could ask Mr Alston, I suppose. In his place, I’d still want to bring charges, to see the ruffians who’d wrecked my shop put away safely for a stretch. But Mr Alston might be a more charitable chap than me.’

  DC Murphy nodded slowly. ‘He’d need some extra payment for sundry damage to his stock when you smashed those bottles, and some compensation for the terror you brought into his life, I’m sure. But I think he’s a kind chap, Mr Alston.’ Old Harry would need some briefing to ask for enough, thought Brendan. The man had been anxious only that the police should forget about the damage to himself and his shop when they’d seen him that morning. Before this Peach magic.

  The DI pursed his lips and added, ‘And we’d need to make sure he had a public apology. As evidence of good faith. In front of police witnesses.’

  For a moment, Brendan thought Percy had overplayed his hand. The young man bridled; this was surely more than his pride could take. ‘No way!’ he said harshly. ‘Chanting out our sins to old Alston in front of a policeman? We’d be the laughing stock in —’

  ‘I suppose your father would do as a witness, at a pinch,’ said Percy thoughtfully. ‘I know Mr Alston respects him as a fellow businessman.’

  Afzaal glared at him. ‘My father mustn’t know anything about this. That’s a condition for any —’

  ‘You’re not in a position to make conditions, lad!’ snapped Peach, raising his voice for the first time in the interview. ‘There’ll be a police presence, then, when you make the apology. And you’d better name the sum you’re offering in compensation for last night’s little episode. I think two thousand would probably cover it. Five hundred each. But how you distribute the payment among the four of you is up to you. So long as Mr Alston gets his money and his full apology.’

  Afzaal gulped. ‘He’ll get them. He can have the apology today, and the money within three days. Just make sure my father doesn’t get to know anything about this, that’s all.’

  Percy gave him his blandest smile. ‘Better tell the other lads what you’ve agreed. We’ll get them up from the cells: I dare say they’ll be a bit surprised. DC Murphy will run you down to Mr Alston's place when you’ve agreed the wording of your apology with him. All part of the service.’

  *

  Bricks made without straw. Old Harry Alston would be pleased, not to say astonished, to find these young thugs offering both compensation and apology. It had cheered up this Monday morning, when the drizzle fell in thin sheets over the drab old cotton town. Peach looked out over its greyness with a surprising affection as he climbed reluctantly up the stairs to see the superintendent in charge of the Brunton CID section.

  An interview with Superintendent Thomas Bulstrode Tucker was the last thing he needed on a Monday morning. Probably another pep talk about the efficiency of the CID unit. You tended to get these when Tommy Bloody Tucker had no serious crime to divert his attentions. The pep talks tended to degenerate into bollockings when Percy refused to accept the aspersions cast upon the efficiency of his team.

  But it was immediately apparent that this was not to be a bollocking morning. Tucker waved him expansively into one of the pair of deep armchairs which had just been delivered to his penthouse office, then came round his desk and sat uneasily in the other one himself. Within a minute, a tray arrived with a coffee pot, china cups, and chocolate digestive biscuits. The trimmings normally only afforded to civic dignitaries visiting the police station.

  ‘I thought it was time we had a friendly chat,’ said Thomas Bulstrode Tucker.

  Bloody hell, thought Peach. You’ll need to watch yourself here, Percy my lad.

  ‘Help yourself, Percy,’ said Tucker, proffering the plate of biscuits with a smile which seemed to be costing much facial effort.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ said Peach, and filled his mouth with biscuit to prevent himself from meeting this charm onslaught with the wrong words. Everyone knew that Tommy Bloody Tucker hated his guts, that the superintendent only tolerated him because he produced results, that the high reputation of Tucker’s CID section rested heavily on the back of Peach.

  ‘We’re a good team, you and I, Percy,’ said Tucker, forcing his smile even wider to accommodate the thought.

  That’s two Percys already, thought Peach: watch your step here, lad, or you’ll be in the dudah up to your knees. ‘With the help of the rest of the lads and lasses who work for us in CID,’ he said cautiously.

  ‘With the assistance of the rest of the team, of course, Percy,’ said Tucker expansively, throwing his arms wide for a moment to accommodate men and women whose names he mostly didn’t know. ‘Characteristically modest of you to share the credit like that, I must say.’

  ‘An aspect of leadership I picked up from you, I’m sure, sir. Always give credit where credit’s due, you taught me.’ Peach sipped his coffee and nodded appreciatively.

  Tucker looked thoroughly bewildered. He couldn’t remember ever saying that. He had never failed to seize the credit for his unit’s good results, never omitted to sidestep the brickbats when things went wrong. He cleared his throat. ‘We’ve been together now for eight years, Percy.’

  ‘Longer than most marriages nowadays, sir. Not everyone is as lucky as you in that respect.’ Peach found that a mention of his chief’s formidable Brunnhilde of a wife normally made Tucker uneasy.

  The superintendent smiled wanly. ‘And I think it’s time that our efforts were recognized.’

  Peach knew what was coming, now. Promotion. It had been hinted at before. The old fool was determined to get made up to chief super so that his salary would be raised for the last few years of service, which were all-important for his pension. He’d do anything to secure that — even take the hated Peach up a rung with him, if that was what it took.

  And apparently it did. Tucker said, ‘Of course, 1 wouldn’t hear of promotion for myself unless they agreed to make you a chief inspector, Percy.’

  ‘That’s very generous of you, sir.’

  ‘Not at all, not at all.’ Tucker waved the plate of chocolate digestives at Peach so expansively that four of them fell in a semicircle round his inspector’s feet.

  Percy picked them up carefully and put them back in a neat arrangement on the plate. ‘Rigging the evidence,’ he explained cheerfully. ‘The girl from the canteen will never know.’ Tucker pressed on desperately. ‘The promotion board will be considering my case — our cases — in the near future, Percy. So it’s important everything is shipshape and Bristol fashion within our empire.’

  Peach looked suitably puzzled at this sudden switch to the nautical. Then he grinned conspiratorially. ‘That a reference to our increasing number of female officers, sir?’

  Tucker, in his bewilderment, returned for a moment to his normal tetchy self. ‘No, it isn’t. And how you can possibly —’

  ‘Reference to Bristols, sir. Well understood between old sweats like you and me, sir, but there’d be some of the women who might take exception even to a bit of innocent fun like that!’ He leered conspiratorially. ‘Though I must say, one of the better aspects of increased female recruitment is the increasing presence of bouncing young Bristols around the station. I might have known a man of your taste and observation would have noticed that. But I wouldn’t like you to be done for sexual harassment. Not with a promotion coming up. So the Bristols had better remain our secret.’ Peach tapped the side of his nose and ventured the sort of c
onspiratorial wink which even he had never dared to visit upon Tommy Bloody Tucker before.

  Tucker stood up abruptly. ‘All I’m saying is that we have to behave carefully over the next few weeks if we want a promotion. Be aware of sensitive issues and treat them with proper consideration.’ He sought desperately to divert himself from Peach’s picture of abundant Bristols in the station below him. ‘What have you been doing this morning, for instance?’

  ‘Oh, nothing much, sir. Putting the fear of God into a couple of tearaways who were causing trouble last night.’

  Tucker was immediately attentive, not to say apprehensive. Brunton, like most of the old cotton towns around it, had been suffering from racial tensions in the preceding weeks. ‘National Front tearaways, were they?’

  ‘No, sir. And they hadn’t come into the town from outside to cause trouble, like some of the thugs who’ve assaulted our officers lately. Born and bred in Brunton, these lads. Causing trouble for the owner of a local corner shop.’

  ‘And you’ve pinned them down. Charges pending, are they? Do us a bit of good in our relationships with the local Asian community, this will.’

  ‘I doubt that, sir.’

  ‘Don’t underestimate the importance of public relations in modern police work, Peach. I’ve told you that often enough before.’

  Percy noted that he had lapsed in his chief’s address from ‘Percy’ to ‘Peach’ again. He was happier with that. He looked suitably puzzled. ‘Yes, sir. But I don’t quite see how pinning this crime on to young Afzaal and his gang is going to be a major PR coup.’

  Tucker had gone rigid with his cup and saucer in his hand at the mention of the Pakistani name. The china rattled alarmingly in his fingers as he set it down upon his desk. He said faintly, ‘Not the Afzaal who owns the chain of grocery shops in the north of Brunton?’

  Peach nodded cheerfully. ‘That’s the chap, sir. Well, the family, I should say. It’s his eldest son. I’ve been giving him the shits — sorry, causing him a certain degree of apprehension — this morning. Him and his nasty little mates.’