Dusty Death (16 page)

‘If that's all you have to offer, I shan't waste any more of my time.' Tucker was already suspecting that the man was sending him up, that he had reacted to these suggestions about interrogating the nun in exactly the way that he had been intended to. But the wretched man kept such a scrupulously blank face that his chief was never quite sure of him. And you couldn't take any chances with public relations these days, especially where a sensitive area like religion was concerned.

‘Sister Josephine did point the way to another suspect, sir,' said Peach tentatively.

Tucker settled back into his chair with a sigh. ‘What have you produced this time? A bishop? A judge?'

‘Very droll, sir. I like it!' Peach chuckled appreciatively. ‘No, nothing like that. Rather a nuisance, actually, but it's got to be investigated. Another suspect, this time from outside the squat itself. A man called Dave, who held drug parties in the empty house next door.'

Tucker thought this was promising, but having risen once to Peach's bait, he was going to be more cautious this time. He nodded sagely. ‘Drugs, eh! He could have been dealing, you know, this man.'

Good to see you haven't lost your talent for the blindin' bleedin' obvious, Tommy Bloody Tucker. Peach said stiffly, ‘Yes, sir. That seems entirely possible. And diligent research has unearthed the fact that this man is still operating in Brunton today, sir.'

Tucker almost said that this sounded like a much more promising suspect. But once bitten, twice shy. ‘We'd better have him in for questioning, then. Petty criminal, is he? Or has he gone on to larger scale villainy in the last ten years?'

‘You could say that, sir, I suppose.'

‘Dealing, is he?'

‘Not in drugs, sir. He's an estate agent.'

‘An estate agent?' Tucker's jaw dropped appealingly, in the reaction which Percy always thought denoted a small triumph for him.

He let go the chance to instruct his dumbfounded chief in what an estate agent did. ‘Partner in Ormerod's Estate Agency and Auctioneers, apparently. Of course, he's no longer just Dave. The man now calls himself David Edmonds, Managing Director.'

‘David Edmonds?'

‘That's the chap, sir.' Peach brightened, his emotions moving in inverse ratio to Tucker's distress. ‘You don't happen to know him, do you, sir?'

Tucker said dully, as if he had wandered into a nightmare, ‘He was initiated into my Lodge last month.'

Peach allowed his delight to spread in a slow smile over his face. ‘I didn't know that, sir.'

Tucker glared at him suspiciously. ‘You didn't?'

‘No, sir. I haven't even seen the rogue yet. DC Murphy has just brought him into the station.' Peach mounted his smile all over again, developing it into a growing excitement. ‘But you realize what this means, sir? You're aware of my research which demonstrates that a Freemason is four times more likely to commit a serious crime in this area than an ordinary citizen. The fact that this Edmonds is a Freemason means that statistically there is an excellent chance that—'

‘PEACH! Of course I am aware of this ridiculous so-called research of yours! I could hardly be otherwise, when you thrust it at me at every opportunity. And I have to tell you that I am sure that David Edmonds will prove to be a young man of complete integrity. He was proposed for membership by his father-in-law, Stanley Ormerod, who is a former Master of the Lodge.'

‘By Jove, sir! The owner of Ormerod's himself. The oldest established property dealers in Brunton, as they call themselves! This would make the local headlines, if Edmonds did prove to be our man! Give us some very useful publicity that would, if we were able to make an arrest. We need good publicity, as you're always reminding us, sir.'

‘Now listen to me, Peach. Listen very carefully. You have so far provided me as suspects with an eminent pianist, a compassionate nun, and a leading and well-respected local businessman. It's not an impressive list, is it?'

‘Impresses me, sir. Intriguing, I'd say. And I must remind you that they were all in or around that squat in Sebastopol Terrace in 1991. That squat which no one in Brunton CID seemed to be interested in, at the time.'

Tucker breathed deeply, trying to still his annoyance. ‘Take it from me that your killer will not be found among these three. You will need to look much further.'

‘Yes, sir. You don't think it's worth my talking to this David Edmonds, then?'

Tucker attempted not to speak through clenched teeth. ‘Of course you must speak to him. If he was really there at that time, which I find it difficult to believe, he may be able to throw some light on this crime.'

‘Yes, sir. You wouldn't like to interview him yourself? Exercise your usual diplomacy, keep me from putting my foot in—'

‘Of course not!' It was Tucker's automatic reaction to any suggestion that he might be involved at the crime-face. Then he thought of a rationalization. ‘It wouldn't be appropriate for me to be involved directly, as a friend of David Edmonds. Or an acquaintance, I should say.' Better distance himself, just in case of the incredible possibility that this pleasant young man might be a killer.

‘Very well, sir. I shall see him myself. Immediately, in fact.'

That announcement did not reassure Tucker, but he thought the best option was to be out of the place quickly. He cursed again his decision to show his face at the station on a Sunday. ‘Yes. Well, you'd better be about your business,' he said.

He waited until a safe interval had elapsed after Peach's departure, then crept quietly to his door and opened it cautiously. He was feeling very conspicuous, in his yellow sweater, bright tartan plus twos and green stockings. But with luck, he should be able to slip out quietly: there was no more than a skeleton staff in the place on Sunday morning.

The coast seemed to be clear. He crept quietly down four flights of stairs and took the side door into the car park without encountering a single officer.

He had the door open, was about to slide his garishly clad frame into the driving seat, when a voice from above him said, ‘Enjoy your golf, sir!'

Percy Peach was leaning out of the window of his office, wearing the widest and blandest of his vast range of smiles.

‘I hope this won't take very long. I'm willing to help, of course, but I can't think what I can possibly have to tell you.'

David Edmonds had spoken as soon as they came into the interview room, before they had even introduced themselves. That meant he was nervous.

Percy Peach liked that. He gave the man a thin smile and studied him unhurriedly. Good suit; formal shirt and tie, even on a Sunday morning. Tallish, with well-groomed brown hair above a long head. Slim build, with just a little flab at the paunch and beneath the chin, probably from comfortable living.

He put a new tape into the cassette recorder, glanced at his watch, and announced, ‘Interview with David Edmonds begins at 12.31. Present, Chief Detective Inspector Peach and Detective Sergeant Blake.'

There was no need for the tape: the man hadn't been cautioned, hadn't even been brought here under arrest. Officially, he was helping the police with their enquiries, of his own free will. But Percy found that being taped added a little pressure for interviewees, and he wasn't averse to that.

As if he read these thoughts, David Edmonds nodded at the recorder and said, ‘Is there really any need for this?'

‘Probably not, sir. But we find that people are less inclined to change what they have said to us when they are asked to sign a written statement, when it has been recorded. Do you have a problem with being taped?' He allowed his mobile black eyebrows to rise in surprise above the smile.

‘No. No, of course I don't. I've nothing to hide, have I?' David cursed himself for the nervous giggle which came unbidden on the end of his words.

‘Remains to be seen, sir. I do hope not.'

David made an extravagant show of looking at his watch. ‘I really should be home by now. My wife will no doubt be wondering where I've got to. I trust this won't take long.'

‘Not very long, sir, if you co-operate fully. If it takes longer than we expect, you can always give Mrs Edmonds a ring. Let her know you're in the nick.'

Edmonds licked his lips, looked from this grim figure to the shapely girl with the chestnut hair beside him, and folded his arms. He had surprisingly big hands, with long, slender fingers. He said as firmly as he could, ‘You'd better get on with it, whatever it is.'

‘Much the best idea, I agree, sir. We'd like to talk to you about a house in Sebastopol Terrace. Number twenty-six, to be precise.'

‘Did we sell this property? I'm afraid I don't recall it. I'm only in overall charge, you know, and we now have three branches at Ormerod's.'

It was a good reply, an expert bit of fencing. But Peach had seen the apprehension flash into the man's eyes when he had mentioned the name of the street and the number. ‘You didn't sell the property, Mr Edmonds. It was condemned, eighteen years ago. The last legitimate residents were moved out of the house in 1989. It is the first few months of 1991 that we are concerned with.'

‘I see. Then I can't see what I have to offer you.'

‘How old are you, Mr Edmonds?'

‘Thirty-seven. What is the relevance of that?'

‘None. Except that I wouldn't expect someone of that age to be suffering from memory loss. I'm a year older than you, and I can recall perfectly well what I was doing thirteen years ago.'

It was insulting, but David's racing mind told him that he had much better swallow it. ‘And so can I. I just don't see the relevance of this.'

‘Don't you, sir? We have reason to believe that you were very familiar with what was going on at twenty-six Sebastopol Terrace. That you visited the empty house next door on several occasions and took part in what have been described to us as drugs parties.'

‘I've never done drugs. I fear you've picked up the wrong man here, Chief Inspector. And I think you've wasted my time for quite long enough.' He tried to push back his chair and rise, but was disconcerted to find that it was bolted to the floor. And his own legs did not seem to be working as he would have wished.

Peach gave him a much grimmer smile. ‘I do hope you're not going to refuse to co-operate, Mr Edmonds. Of course, if you feel that you need to have a lawyer present for this exchange, you are perfectly entitled to enlist one.'

David did a quick evaluation and saw the nightmare scenario of his wife, his children, his parents-in-law having to be told all about this section of his life. He said, ‘Of course I don't need a lawyer! I'm sure I'm capable of clearing up this misunderstanding without any legal advice.'

‘Misunderstanding.' Peach pursed his lips, then articulated every syllable of the word distinctly. ‘I don't see any reason for any confusion here. We're saying that you were in that house at that time. That you brought drugs there for sale. Are you denying that?'

David wondered exactly how much they knew already. The man seemed very confident. Perhaps they were letting him tie himself in knots, and then would throw irrefutable evidence into his face, from someone who had been there at the time. He looked at the cassette, turning slowly, silently, incriminatingly. He wished now that he had objected to it in the first place, but it was too late to turn the clock back now. He couldn't see how he could do anything else but co-operate, or at least give the appearance of co-operating. He couldn't let them know everything, of course.

He said through dry lips, ‘What is it you want to know?'

Peach nodded his approval of this change in attitude. ‘Everything you can tell us about those parties at number twenty-eight, Mr Edmonds. And everything you know about the people occupying the squat next door at number twenty-six. So that we can put it together with what other people who were there at the time are telling us and see how far it tallies.'

‘I deny that I was dealing in drugs, for a start.'

‘Pity, that. There's a caution on record, you see. It reads to me as if you were very lucky to get away without a prosecution and a conviction at the time.'

‘That wasn't at Sebastopol Terrace. That was months later, in the summer.'

‘Your memory seems to be coming back quite well now, doesn't it? Very gratifying, that. Let me pinpoint it for you. You were cautioned for dealing in drugs on June the twenty-second 1991. You had been apprehended in the car park of a Brunton public house. Not in Sebastopol Terrace, as you now recall so vividly, though within a mile of it.'

For a wild moment, David wondered if he could deny it. He wanted to say that this man wasn't him at all, that this was a hideous case of mistaken identity, that the thick-headed police would be apologizing to him, when their error became obvious even to them. Instead, he heard himself saying dully, ‘That was a long time ago, in another life.'

‘Perhaps. Perhaps you could even demonstrate that to us, if we had the time. But it wouldn't be of any great interest to us, Mr Edmonds. Because it's that other life we're interested in, you see. And I think you know why that is.'

‘The murder of Sunita Akhtar.' Again he hadn't meant to say that. The words had come unbidden to his lips.

‘That is what we're investigating. Along with a team of almost thirty other officers.'

‘I didn't kill her.'

‘I'm glad to hear it. You won't expect us merely to accept that statement, however. It will need to be investigated. Which is what we are now beginning to do. You say you didn't kill her. So can you tell us who did?'

‘No. I've no idea.'

‘But you knew the girl.'

It was a statement, not a question. David wondered if he should have denied all knowledge of her, defied them to prove any connection between this caution he had received for dealing and the dead girl. But he didn't know how much they already knew, how much he could dare to lie. He said, ‘I think I did. There was a Pakistani girl used to attend our little gatherings sometimes. I don't remember her name, not at this distance, but I'll assume it was her, if that's what you're telling me.'