The Killing Club (20 page)

Swift explained that his team was currently investigating the murder of Christian Hartwell, a local journalist, who he believed had been a member of the research trip to Algeria. In an attempt to cover all angles of the case they were interested in any details of Hartwell’s past life which might have a bearing on his recent death.

‘Ah, yes, Christian Hartwell,’ Sir David intervened. ‘I’ve seen one or two reports in the
Yorkshire Echo
. You don’t seem to be having much luck.’

Swift nodded. ‘Did you meet Christian Hartwell back in 1989?’

‘Yes, I did briefly. I went to In Salah and met the remaining members of the field party after the unfortunate Hugh Ross met his end.’ He stared down into his glass, and for a moment Swift wondered if he had fallen asleep, or had suffered some minor cerebral incident.

‘I had the opportunity a few days ago to talk to Harriet Brunswick, who was one of the party,’ Swift told Colburn. ‘She gave me some quite detailed information about the circumstances. She told me that one of the party, Charles Brunswick, whom she later married, was charged with Hugh’s murder.’

Sir David looked up. ‘Yes, that’s right. The police were desperate to get someone nailed for the killing. They used to be a bit gung-ho out there about murders committed by foreigners back in the eighties.’

‘And then the charges were suddenly dropped.’

‘Correct.’ Sir David’s eyebrows twitched.

‘So what happened? Did Brunswick do it and get off after a word from someone in high places? Or did someone else do it and get off for another reason?’

Sir David now had a gleam in his eye. ‘No to the first question, and no to the second.’ He took a large slug of whisky, and let it roll slowly down his throat. ‘Since your phone call, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking. I’ve been thinking about my career, and about my small, pathetic and lonely life now, with my lovely wife gone and my sons and grandchildren in far flung parts of the world. And sometimes even when you are as old as I am you can gain a sudden insight into what really matters.’

Swift waited patiently, not very hopeful about quitting this interview in the possession of any helpful information, and probably having to listen to an old man’s ruminations and soul-searching, before he could decently leave.

‘And as a result I’m going to break the habit of decades,’ said Sir David. ‘I’m going to divulge some information I would never have dreamed of divulging in past times. Because I think it’s the right thing to do: to simply tell the truth for once.’ He grinned. ‘Just listen to me! A former ambassador committing himself to telling the naked truth!’ He stubbed out his cigarette and took another gulp of whisky. ‘You came to the right person,’ he told Swift. ‘No one else would have felt inclined to tell you what I am about to. Indeed there are probably very few people who would have been able to do so because it was all kept secret between myself and one or two other personnel. And you won’t find it in any documentation – for the reason that most, if not all of it, has been destroyed and the rest doctored.’

Swift came on the alert. He sensed Sir David was beginning to enjoy himself, and at the same time that he was deadly serious, and knew perfectly well what he was doing.

‘You see, there weren’t four young people on that trip. There were five. And from what I and my colleagues could gather in liaison with the police and the other students it was that fifth person who was Hugh Moss’s killer.’

‘Are you going to give me a name?’ Swift asked.

‘I am. But first, let me tell the whole story. I used to be a rather good raconteur in my younger days, so bear with me. The young person involved was the only son of a multimillionnaire. He was a young man who had been brought up to enjoy huge wealth and privilege. He was also very intellectually able, although he only managed a third at Oxford as he had a disinclination for work and self-application. During his teen years he caused a great deal of anguish for his parents, becoming involved with major criminals, drug dealing and violence. He was always on the sidelines, and never got entangled with the police. Although it’s likely he never got caught because of the conspiracy of silence which surrounds people with power and connections and money. Such people should never be underestimated. The current stink about MPs and their wretched expenses is peanuts compared with what goes on with the seriously rich.’

Swift cut in, hopeful to avoid a lecture on the morals of MPs. ‘Will you allow me to make a guess at what happens next in your story?’

Sir David grinned. ‘Carry on, Chief Inspector.’

‘The so-called rich and powerful lobby got wind that this young man was in trouble. Maybe he was the first suspect to be charged … before Brunswick came into the line of fire?’

‘Correct. However once the people back home – his parents and their powerful friends – got to hear of it, pressures were exerted, the sharp end of them falling on us chaps at the embassy in Algiers and also the local police. As a result of all that, the young man was released. But the police were still hungry for a conviction so young Brunswick was selected to be put in the frame, on the grounds that he had no alibi for the time of the murder, and that he was a mouthy, headstrong young colt.’

Swift smiled to himself. Brunswick hadn’t changed much.

‘Fortunately for Brunswick, his own parents were not without influence. They immediately liaised with us, and following some discussion a very sharp lawyer was flown out to Algiers. The Ambassador sent for me, told me that I was one of his shrewdest diplomats, and promptly despatched me to the scene of the action with Mr Smart Lawyer. And the next day Brunswick was free.’ He relaxed in his chair, his face lit with a small smile of satisfaction.

‘And the name of the young heir to his father’s millions?’

‘Julian Roseborough, the son of the owner of the Roseborough supermarket chain.’ He levelled a glance at Swift. ‘And let me tell you this, Julian is dangerous. Plenty of money and influence and very little humanity. When his father inherited the business from his own father, he set about expanding it. He then bought and refurbished Graysham Abbey in Wiltshire, married a minor aristocrat’s daughter and did his best to ape the life of a country gentleman. Julian Roseborough was brought up accordingly, mixing with the hunting, shooting, county set and given to believe he had an innate superiority over the rest of us poor peasants.’ He stretched his legs out in front of him. ‘Was all that of any help?’

‘Very much so,’ said Swift. ‘Thank you for your candour. I have another question.’

‘Fire away.’

‘Do you have a personal opinion on who killed Hugh Moss?’

‘I’m around one hundred per cent sure it was Julian Roseborough. However, I have to say that young British people with their expensive equipment, and their appearance of having endless leisure, do not endear themselves to the poorer Arabs with their vastly different culture and moral stance. They set themselves up to run into hostility and trouble.’

Swift could appreciate the ambassador’s point of view.

‘Anything else?’ Sir David enquired.

Swift considered, making a quick mental review of the interview.

‘I did consider contacting you people when I read about Hartwell’s death,’ Sir David said. ‘It took me a while to place the name and match it up with the Hugh Ross murder case, but after that I was able to recall what had happened quite readily. I simply didn’t think there could be any connection between what happened then, out there in the desert, and what has happened now. Moreover, I had not yet had my Damascene moment of deciding to reveal a diplomatic secret which has been buried for years. So all in all I’m jolly glad you gave me a call.’

‘So am I,’ Swift said. ‘You’ve given me some food for thought.’

‘Splendid. Pleased to hear it. I don’t suppose I can tempt you to join me in a whisky before you go. Just a single, I know you have to work. Not that work ever interfered with a drink back in the good old days.’ He got up and made for the drinks table. ‘I think I deserve another, at any rate.’

Swift smiled and nodded an acceptance. How could one reject an invitation as gracious and genuinely meant as that?

Craig arrived in Thirsk, tired out, sticky, sweaty and, he feared, smelly, despite his attempts to spruce up a bit in the gents’ public toilets in the square. He found the location of the police station and stared it for some time from a safe distance. Various chatting police officers walked in and out, laughing and joking like the end of the world was not about to arrive. He waited, his heart beating a fierce tattoo in his chest. Just do it, he told himself, locked in conflict.

And then his body jerked in shock as he felt a hand on his shoulder. ‘Hello, there.’

He swivelled around. The hand belonged to the young woman who had served him in the pub the previous evening. She was carrying some bulky parcels and looked rather careworn, but she was smiling at him, as though pleased to see him again.

‘Hi.’ He smiled at her uncertainly, trying to think of something else to say to her. ‘How are you doing?’ he asked.

She shook her head and sighed. ‘Not too brilliantly. My dishwasher has flooded the kitchen. I should be opening up in an hour, and my usual helper has rung to say she’s sick and can’t come in to work.’ She put up a hand to smooth her hair, and he saw that her fingers were trembling.

‘I’ll come and help you clear up,’ he said.

She looked at him. ‘Are you sure? I’ll pay you.’

‘You’re all right,’ he said. ‘I’d like to help.’

They fell into step together, making their way around the square. ‘I’ll carry your bags,’ he said.

‘You’re like a gift from heaven,’ she said, handing him the roughly wrapped parcels, which turned out to be a mop and bucket.

‘Have you been sleeping rough?’ she said, suddenly, noticing the state of him.

‘Aye.’

‘Have you nowhere to go?’

‘Not really.’

They walked on in silence. Craig kept glancing at her. She was small and round like a teddy bear, with plump arms and legs. Her skin was very white and her hair shiny and black like a bird’s wing. She was lovely.

Back at the pub he followed her into the kitchen. She gave him the new mop and bucket to use and armed herself with some old towels. Paddling through the lukewarm water spewed out by the dishwasher, they got busy. ‘My old bucket’s gone missing,’ she told him. ‘I think my helper might have borrowed it. She does that sometimes.’

‘Oh, aye,’ said Craig. ‘You could do without that.’

She laughed. ‘True. She’s a nice girl though … but a bit of a lazy cow!’

They both laughed. ‘I’m Josie,’ she told him.

‘Craig,’ he said.

‘And where do you come from, Craig?’ she asked.

He squeezed the wet mop in the strainer above the bucket. Squeezed really hard. ‘Prison,’ he said.

She didn’t stop, simply went on soaking up the water in the towel she was holding. ‘Were you there long?’

‘Eight years. I killed someone.’

A short, echoing silence. ‘That’s some confession,’ she said.

‘I wanted you to know.’

‘Good. That’s good,’ she told him. She looked at him, her eyes faintly troubled.

‘I’ll go if you like,’ he said.

‘No. Don’t go.’ She said it as though she meant it.

When the floor was dry again, she put on the kettle. ‘What would you like to eat?’ she said. ‘I’ve got eggs, bacon, sausages. Meat pies to heat up in the microwave. Lasagne, chicken Kiev, garlic mushrooms. And chips, of course.’

He plumped for lasagne and chips. She made thick, strong tea to wash it down with, then sat down at the kitchen table opposite him. ‘I took over this pub three years ago,’ she told him. ‘Me and my partner, Seb. We built it up so we had a good regular clientele, and we were thinking of advertising to do catering for weddings and funerals. And then Seb met someone else and went off to Australia with her.’

Craig looked at her and shook his head in disbelief. How could anyone walk away from a lovely woman like her?

‘Well, at least he didn’t put his hand in the till. He left me in quite a good position, but all on my own. It hasn’t been easy, but I’m still afloat.’

‘That’s the main thing,’ said Craig solemnly, breaking off from wolfing down his food.

She rested her cheek on her hand. ‘Yes, it is.’ She waited for him to clear up his chips. ‘Right! That’s a bit of my story. Would you like to tell me a little of yours?’

He dipped his head. ‘I dunno.’

‘Only if you want to,’ she said. ‘Finish your grub first.’

They sat without speaking whilst Craig hoovered up his chips. Josie sat quietly watching him and her gaze seemed curiously comforting.

He laid down his cutlery and wiped his mouth on the thick paper napkin Josie had given him. ‘I haven’t spoken about it for years,’ he said.

‘Go on,’ she urged. ‘It’ll be all right.’

‘It was the day I was twelve when it happened,’ he started. ‘I was living with my mum in a little terraced house in Bradford. She wasn’t very well. She used to stay in bed a lot, and she kept running out of money. I used to stay at home and look after her instead of going to school. We both used to hide when the Education Welfare people called. She had this boyfriend called Barry Jackson. He was right tall and full of himself, driving up to the door in his big Ford Granada and honking the horn to let us know he’d arrived. He’d bought me a great big showy-off birthday card and a model of a Ford Granada. Big deal! My mum was still in bed and she’d forgotten to get me a card, but I didn’t mind, because it wasn’t really her fault.’ He stopped. ‘I loved her so much,’ he exclaimed. ‘I just wanted to stay at home and look after her, and do her shopping and watch telly with her.’ He started to chew on his fingers. ‘I suppose I was a bit of a wet.’

Josie was very still and quiet. He could tell she was really listening, not just pretending.

‘It’s special, how you love your mum, isn’t it?’ Josie said, softly.

‘Aye. Anyway Jackson went to get her out of bed, and she came down and sat on the sofa. He showed her the things he’d bought for me, and she said to him, “That’s lovely, pet”. And for a while things were OK. And then Barry started asking about having some food, like a birthday tea, and mum said she’d got nothing in, and he said she should have made an effort on my birthday, and that the place was a mess and she should be ashamed of herself and pull her socks up.’ He took in a shaky breath. ‘I could hardly bear it,’ he said.