Dusty Death (15 page)

It gave them a start. With average luck, someone would still be around at Preston who remembered a slim black boy named Billy arriving there, thirteen and a half years earlier. A boy who had apparently tried for a relationship with Sunita Akhtar, and been rebuffed.

Peach looked at his now encouragingly lengthy notes. ‘That just leaves the other girl in the set-up.'

‘Emmy. Tall, shapely, streetwise. Three or four inches taller than me, so probably about five feet nine. Twenty-one. I remember her announcing that it was her birthday, one bitterly cold day in January.' For a moment, she was back in that bleak world where she seemed to have been another person entirely. ‘We weren't particularly close, Emmy and I. We came from very different backgrounds. She'd been brought up hard, with a mother who brought home a succession of different “uncles” for the girl to cope with. She had a low opinion of men in general, as you might expect, but she didn't have much time for me, either. I can understand why: I was still wet behind the ears, as I said earlier, and Em wasn't the most patient of women.'

‘I'm told she was a blonde.'

She reminded herself again that she wasn't his only source of information about these people. ‘Yes. I'm sorry, didn't I say that? I think she was a natural blonde, too. It wasn't easy to do anything sophisticated with your hair, in that place. In case you're wondering, I'm a brunette, under this lot!' She flicked her hand briefly towards her head.

‘What about her relationships with the others?'

‘She was a tough cookie, was Emmy. She even stood up to Wally, when she felt she needed to. Mind you, most of the time she kept herself to herself, like the rest of us. But she seemed to have more confidence that she was going to survive and go on to better things than anyone else in there.'

‘How did she get on with Sunita?'

‘I don't think she liked her much. Emmy had a contempt for her naivety, for a start – but she felt that for me too.' She paused, as if wondering whether to speculate further. ‘But she seemed to resent Sunita being there at all, sometimes. She seemed to think she was a source of danger for us.'

‘As she may have been, for someone. Someone who felt a need to remove her permanently from the scene.'

‘Yes. I'm well used to death at the hospice, but I've never had to confront one like this before. Forgive me, but I find the thought of Sunita dying alone like that, with all her life in front of her, very disturbing.'

Suddenly she was weeping, dropping silent tears into a man's large white handkerchief which had arrived in her hand from nowhere. It was odd, after her previous composure.

Peach said, ‘Thank you for coming in here this morning, Sister Josephine. I can assure you that what you have told me will be most useful to the team investigating this killing. All we can do for Sunita now is to find her killer and bring him to justice.'

She composed herself and stood up. ‘I understand what you say, but I've become accustomed to thinking in terms of divine justice, which is sometimes rather different from the human sort in which you have to deal.' The handkerchief had disappeared as mysteriously as it had arrived. ‘Thank you for being so considerate. I think I've given you all I can. If I think of anything else in the days to come, I shall be in touch with you.'

She was back in the privacy of her room at the hospice before she allowed herself to analyse what she had said to that strange, understanding Chief Inspector Peach. He seemed to think she'd been helpful to him.

She hadn't been able to tell him everything, of course.

David Edmonds could not remember when he had last been in the office on a Sunday. Ten years ago at least, he reckoned, back in the days when he was a trainee negotiator. Before he had proved himself in the estate agency business. Before he had married the boss's daughter.

It wasn't a bad thing, opening up the offices of Ormerod's Limited and spending a quiet Sunday morning there alone. It gave you privacy. He enjoyed being a family man with three young children, enjoyed the image of wholesome respectability, but he had almost forgotten what it was like to have the luxury of being alone with your own plans for a couple of hours.

He had booked them all into a good hotel in Madeira, got quite a good deal with a late booking. He took one or two pictures of the swimming pool and the dining room off the Internet to show to the children; he would be greeted as a hero when he returned home at lunchtime. Then he rang his father-in-law to give him the news; no harm in letting the boss know that you were hard at work on a Sunday morning, when others were still in bed with the Sunday papers. ‘I've arranged a couple of viewings for this afternoon,' he informed Stanley Ormerod. ‘It's good to have time to myself in the office: I want to tie up all the loose ends before I go off to Madeira, as I said on Friday.'

There were four properties which were marked as ‘Sold, subject to contract'. David Edmonds left memos for the staff concerned, instructing them to push solicitors for definite exchange dates, to harry the prospective purchasers a little to make sure they were serious. People talked about gazumping, but much more often it was the purchasers who let you down, in his experience.

On Monday morning, he would tell the staff in the office to stir things up a little, to let these people know that there were other people interested in buying these houses, whether that was actually the case or not. It wasn't strictly ethical, but it was what you had to do to hurry things along, to clinch sales. The younger people who worked for him needed to understand that, to learn how the world of property operates. But he'd remind them of it tomorrow, rather than include it in the memos: it wasn't sensible to put things like that in writing.

In fact, business overall was pretty quiet at this time of the year. No doubt it would pick up as usual around Easter, as he had told his father-in-law when arranging his fortnight away from the place. In not much more than an hour, he had cleared his desk and was wondering what else he could do to show his industry.

He made a phone call to an elderly couple who were threatening to take their Edwardian house off the market because they had not been able to find the bungalow they wanted. ‘I understand your position, Mr Robinson, of course I do. This is probably the most important single decision you will make in the rest of your life.' He mouthed the words he had used so often before, forced the concern into his voice.

Flicking through the list of properties available, he half-listened to the frail voice telling him of sleepless nights, of how the situation was making this senior citizen's wife ill. Then he launched into his spiel. ‘It's your decision, of course. But it's my duty to offer you the benefit of my experience in these things, which now stretches to many years. That's part of the service we offer. And I have to tell you, Mr Robinson, that I think you would be very foolish to withdraw from the sale at this stage. Very foolish indeed, in fact. We have secured a sale for you at very nearly the full asking price, and I would be less than honest if I did not state my opinion that you would be most unwise to turn away from that now.'

‘I suppose we could fit into that bungalow we saw on Friday, if we got rid of most of our furniture,' the old man said uncertainly.

‘It's an attractive place. Pleasant garden,' said David, reading from the details in front of him: he had never seen the property himself.

‘Yes. It's rather overlooked, compared with the privacy we're used to here. But I suppose one has to make certain sacrifices, if—'

‘Moving is all about compromises, Mr Robinson. Take my word for that!' David assured him confidently. ‘No one gets exactly what he wants, unless he has millions to spend.'

‘Well, I'll have another word with Edith, then. Tell her we ought to go ahead with the sale whilst we have the chance.'

‘That would certainly be my advice, based on years of experience. I've seen too many people regret losing the courage of their convictions, believe me!'

‘It's very good of you to take the trouble to ring us on a Sunday morning.'

‘Not at all, Mr Robinson. I just thought I'd like to give you my full attention, whilst things were quiet here and there were no distractions.'

He smiled slowly as he put down the phone. With a bit of luck, he'd have the lucrative sale of their big house confirmed and the Robinsons lined up to buy that bungalow before he disappeared for two weeks on Friday. Nothing like leaving a tidy ship behind when you went away.

He was locking the door of the office when the voice behind him said interrogatively, ‘Mr David Edmonds?'

He turned to look up into the fresh face of a man perhaps ten years or more younger than he was. ‘I'm afraid we're closed for the day now. The office will be open from nine o'clock tomorrow morning, if you—'

‘I'm Detective Constable Murphy. We'd like you to answer some questions for us, in connection with the investigation of a serious crime.'

David Edmonds was not the only man at work on this last Sunday in February. Thomas Bulstrode Tucker had put in an unprecedented appearance at the Brunton Police Station. He was dressed in bright plus twos and a garish yellow sweater which his wife had given him for Christmas, which you could hardly call plain clothes. The Head of CID had been on his way to Brunton Golf Club, but had felt the impulse to pop into the station for half an hour, leave a memo for the absent Peach to show he had been there, and depart swiftly for his afternoon of golf.

The plan went wrong from the start. DCI Peach was already in the station when Tucker arrived there. And he came up to brief him on the Sunita Akhtar case, pinning his chief in his peacock garb behind the big desk.

‘You don't know who was in charge of CID work in this particular district in 1991, do you, sir?' Percy Peach knew very well that it was Tucker, then a humble Detective Inspector, but it might be as well to remind his Chief Superintendent that he knew.

‘Oh, I don't think there's any mileage in going back thirteen years, do you? Probably Harrison, I should think: he was the CID Superintendent at that time.' Tucker thought it was pretty safe to name a man who had been dead and buried for three years.

‘Just curiosity, sir. One of the necessary attributes of the successful CID man, my first boss used to say. No one in the police seems to have paid much attention to the occupation of twenty-six Sebastopol Terrace by squatters at the time. An occupation which seems to have resulted in murder.' Peach shook his head sadly on the thought of this grave omission.

‘I hope you're not trying to divert me, Peach. I hope you're not trying to disguise the fact that you're not making the progress on this case that you promised me when I went public to the media about it.'

Peach recalled no such promise. But that was par for the course; Peach consoled himself with a metaphor which reminded him that Tucker was a very poor golfer indeed. ‘We're making steady progress, sir. But there's a lot more evidence to be unearthed yet! I say, that's rather good, isn't it, considering this case concerns a body buried for all those years?'

‘Abandon the schoolboy humour and give me your report, please. I'm a busy man, you know!'

Peach stared pointedly at the empty desk in front of Tucker for a moment. ‘We've found another of the people who were in that squat, sir. Another suspect, you'd have to say.'

‘Indeed I would! And I hope a rather more likely one than the eminent concert pianist you produced for me on Thursday.'

‘Matter of opinion, that, sir. Like to keep an open mind on these things. It's a woman, sir, this one.'

‘Ah! Much more promising, I'd say.'

Peach wondered what the feminists who were now rampant in the police service would make of that. ‘She seems to have been in the squat for the whole time that Sunita Akhtar was there, sir. Left a month or so after the girl disappeared.'

‘Promising, Peach. A gut feeling tells me you may have chanced upon a prime suspect here. It may well be that—'

‘She's a nun, sir.' Peach was rather proud of the timing of his deadpan delivery.

‘A what?'

‘A nun, sir. A Roman Catholic religious. They traditionally dress in—'

‘Yes, yes! I know very well what a nun is, you fool. Do you take me for an idiot?'

Frequently, thought Percy grimly. It's one of the things which helps to keep me sane. ‘This nun works in a hospice, sir. Very highly regarded, very dedicated and efficient, apparently. The secretary says the place couldn't exist without her. I made certain enquiries about her when she'd been in to see me, sir. Just as well I did, if you think she's now emerged as our prime suspect.' He kept his countenance studiously blank and fixed his gaze intently upon the white wall behind Tucker's head.

Tucker was already regretting his impulsive decision to come into the station. ‘Have you any reason at all to think that this lady killed that Pakistani girl?'

‘Not yet, sir. But I'm keeping an open mind, as I said. And now that I have the benefit of your overview, now that I know you consider her our prime suspect, I feel bolder about the situation.'

‘Bolder? In what way?'

‘Well, I thought I might rough her up a bit, sir. Give her a touch of the old third degree. Not exactly the Spanish Inquisition; no thumbscrews or—'

‘You'll do no such thing, Peach!' Tucker's panic rang loud and clear through the almost deserted station.

‘Not even the strong light shone straight into her face, sir?' Peach's disappointment was exquisite to behold.

‘YOU WILL HANDLE THIS WITH KID GLOVES, PEACH! Is that absolutely clear?' Tucker gripped the edge of the desk in front of him and half-rose from his chair.

‘Yes, sir. If you say so, sir. But it's difficult to get the information we need, playing things strictly by the book, isn't it?' Peach shook his head sadly at the restraints which were inflicted upon the modern policeman.