A Little Learning (9 page)

Eleven

The pigeon stared down speculatively at Detective Inspector Peach as he parked his car against the wall of the police station car park. Percy looked round at the rotting sycamore leaves, up at the low grey clouds of the dismal sky, and caught the bright bead of the pigeon’s eye. ‘Morning, Charlie,’ he said. The pigeon regarded him speculatively for a moment, then raised each foot in turn, delivered a non-committal coo, and defecated slowly on top of the wall.

‘Exactly!’ said Peach. He sighed and went into the station.

He climbed the stairs gloomily, rehearsing his report on the state of play for Superintendent Tommy Bloody Tucker. ‘Thought I’d just put you in the picture about the Carter case, sir.’

‘Made an arrest yet, have you?’ said Tucker brightly.

That’s all I need on a miserable Wednesday morning, thought Percy. Tucker in his martinet mood, trying hard to be brisk and unforgiving, like a proper superintendent. ‘Bit of a puzzler, sir, this one is.’

‘That’s Peachspeak for no progress, isn’t it? Oh, I’ve worked with you long enough to know you pretty well now, Percy,’ said Tucker jovially, rather pleased with himself.

Use of first name: always a danger signal, Percy reminded himself. ‘Wide range of acquaintances Claptrap Carter had, sir.’

‘No excuse for backsliding. Lots of crime victims have a wide circle of acquaintances, you know. And I’d rather you didn’t call the victim Claptrap. It might slip out in public.’

‘Claptrap Carter, sir,’ said Peach, ruminatively and unrepentantly. ‘Everyone seems to have called him that. Freemason, you know, sir.’ He announced the victim’s membership of the brotherhood as if it immediately explained the nickname.

‘Yes, I do. And I can’t see how that it has anything to do with the case. You have a phobia about the Masons, Peach.’

‘Yes, sir. No Masonic connections to be investigated, then. That will certainly cut down on the work for the team. It seems a bit sweeping, but if you’re confident we can safely ignore all the Masons in the area, I’ll announce it at tomorrow morning’s briefing for the team. I dare say it will raise a few eyebrows, especially when it gets out to the press, but if those are your orders —’

‘Those are
not
my orders, Peach! We have to keep an open mind on this. However unlikely it may seem, you should not rule all Masonic people out of suspicion. Though scarcely any Masons are in fact convicted of crimes, we must show that we —’

‘Almost eight per cent, sir, last year, on our patch.’ Peach produced the statistic while gazing sphinx-like at the ceiling. The day was improving already.

Tucker glared. Ineffectively. You couldn’t get in a good glare on a man who was staring at the ceiling. ‘What do you mean, eight per cent?’

‘Eight per cent of male criminal offences in the Brunton area were committed by Masons, sir. Little bit of research of my own, that. I thought you might be interested.’

‘But how can you know that when — when—’

‘When it’s a secret society, sir? Oh, but as you have told me so frequently, the secrecy is no longer important. And you’re right, sir, in a way. As you always are. I found when I asked around I could soon find who the Masons were. Some of the hard men even seemed to think it would help them, to declare their Masonic connections. It didn’t, of course.’

Tucker glared again, so fiercely that it hurt his eyes. It was worse than useless: that round moon face was now angled at forty-five degrees towards the ceiling. ‘That is no doubt what the national proportion should be, considering the number of Freemasons in the country.’

He’s fed me just the line I needed again; you couldn’t have a better straight man than Thomas Bulstrode Tucker, thought Peach. He transferred his gaze from the ceiling to his chief’s face and gave him the most dazzling of his smiles. ‘Not so, sir, actually. At the latest count, the number of Masons in the country is well under two per cent. Which gives us an interesting local statistic. In the Brunton area at least, it seems that a man is four times more likely to commit a crime if he is a Mason.’

Tucker’s jaw dropped. ‘Four times more likely?’

‘That’s it, sir. Interesting, don’t you think? I thought that when I can find the time I might produce a little monograph on the subject. Just like Sherlock Holmes used to do.’

‘Sherlock Holmes?’

‘Fictional detective, sir. Bit of an old junkie, too. We’d have him for it, nowadays.’

‘I’m well aware who Sherlock Holmes was, thank you, Peach.’

‘Yes, sir. Well, as I say, we’d have pulled him in for Class A drug possession, today.’ He grinned conspiratorially as another delicious thought possessed him. ‘I wonder if he’d have been a Mason, today, sir. He had a bit of a fascination with secret societies, and Dr Watson certainly strikes me as a potential member of the Brotherhood. It’s —’

‘Peach! Will you stop this nonsense and brief me about your progress!’

‘Of course, sir. Well, as I say, I haven’t actually begun to write the monograph about the local connections between Freemasonry and crime yet, but I’ve got the statistics all ready. And Alf Houldsworth says the
Evening
Dispatch
would be interested, and possibly the nationals, and —’

‘You will not release any such material!’ The mention of Alf Houldsworth, the mischievous one-eyed crime reporter of the local daily, made Tucker tremble with apprehension and fury. ‘You will come to me before you propagate any such nonsense. I shall check whether it is genuine.’

‘Yes, sir. I’ll make a note of that, and communicate it to the lads downstairs. All nonsense must be checked as genuine by Superintendent Tucker before general release. I’ve got that.’ He stared at Tucker’s desk, furrowed his brow, and nodded very seriously, as though each movement of his head was driving the announcement into his memory.

Tucker knew from experience that he should cut his losses and abandon this, before things got even more surreal. But he felt he must make at least a token defence of local Freemasonry. ‘I expect you were including motoring offences in your statistics.’

‘Yes, sir. And fraud.’ He wasn’t going to tell Tucker that a local accountant, convicted of eight offences, had upped his local Masonic count dramatically. ‘And wife-beating. There was quite a bit of domestic violence, as far as I can remember.’ Peach’s round face brightened cherubically on that thought. A vision of Tucker’s Brunnhilde of a wife with a whip floated beguilingly across his mind.

‘Right. Back to business, Peach. Are you near to an arrest in the case of Dr Carter?’

‘No, sir. Enquiries are proceeding apace. No prospect of an immediate arrest.’

‘If you spent more time on real crime, and less on your fantasies about Freemasonry, we might have better results.’

‘Claptrap Carter was a Mason, sir,’ said Peach enigmatically. He was now staring hard at his favourite spot, which was precisely two inches above Tucker’s head.

‘Have you interviewed his wife?’

‘Yes, sir. She doesn’t seem stricken with grief. Doesn’t seem to have been particularly close to her husband, for someone married for over twenty years.’

Tucker’s eyes lit up. ‘Then in my view you should investigate her very closely. Three-quarters of killings are domestic, you know.’ He produced the statistic which every policeman knew with a flourish, as he was wont to do, although he wavered between three-quarters and four-fifths as his chosen proportion.

‘Yes, sir. The killing took place some time on Saturday night, as you will remember. Mrs Carter seems to have been safely ensconced at her mother’s in Kendal for the whole of the weekend.’ Peach stared obsessively at that spot on the wall behind his chief, inscrutable as a statue.

‘I see. Well, just be certain she’s not lying, that’s all. Anyone else in the frame?’

‘Senior Tutor at the UEL, sir. Chap by the name of Culpepper. His ancestor rogered Catherine Howard, he says. Fifth wife of Henry the Eighth, sir. Executed for it, apparently. Proper bit of lese-majesty, that.’ Pity there wasn’t more of that sort of thing in the police hierarchy, thought Percy. Be a brave man who rogered Barbara Tucker, though.

‘Why suspect this fellow?’

‘Didn’t like Carter, sir. They were rivals for the Directorship, eighteen months ago, and he lost out. He certainly hadn’t any high opinion of Claptrap Carter’s intellectual capacity. And he admitted he hated his guts. That’s a quotation, sir,’ Peach said apologetically.

‘Really. Well, he’s certainly a candidate for your killer.’

‘Yes, sir. He’s not a Mason, though.’ Peach said it dolefully, as if this considerably reduced the chances of Culpepper being their man.

‘Peach, will you please rid yourself of this obsession with Freemasonry and get on with your work! You’ve wasted quite enough of my time.’

And you of mine, thought Peach as he went back down the stairs. He glanced through the window. There was a gleam of watery sun among the clouds now. The day was a little brighter than when he had climbed those stairs.

*

Peter Tiler had never spent such a miserable couple of days as the ones following his arrest after he had tried to dissolve Ecstasy in Kathleen Stevens’s drink. A night in the cells, a harsh grilling, a grudging release, with the certain knowledge that he would hear the details of the court hearing on the charges of possession and attempted date-rape in due course.

When he got back to the site, his worst fears were realized. Kathleen had already been notified that she would be required as a witness in the eventual court case. He realized now, when it was too late, that she was as naïve and inexperienced about sex as he was. And consequently outraged by what he had attempted. And a practising and devout Roman Catholic, one of the few who did not seem to have rebelled against the moral straitjacket of the nuns. Just his luck.

Kathleen refused to listen to his explanations, forbade him ever to come near her again, and retired tearfully to her room with her rosary.

On Tuesday, Peter had endured an excruciating interview with his course tutor and been told that his academic future hung in the balance. Now, on Wednesday morning, just when it seemed that things could not get worse, he heard that there were two CID people on the campus again, talking to Kathleen Stevens.

At eleven forty-five, Peter Tiler was summoned to an interview with a Detective Inspector Peach.

Peter had never met anyone quite like DI Peach. Within two minutes, he had decided that he never wished to do so again. Peach for his part saw with his experienced eye a foolish young man, in whom there was no really vicious streak, who had strayed onto paths where he should never have trod. But Peach hadn’t a lot of time to waste; it was only the fact that Tiler was a UEL student that had brought the affair to his notice, and he didn’t want to spend many minutes on what might well lead only to a dead end, as far as his murder case was concerned.

‘Date-rape, eh? Nasty business, that. Very politically incorrect. They’ll throw the book at you for it, I shouldn’t wonder.’

Tiler said wretchedly, ‘It wasn’t rape.’

‘Only because an officer of the law prevented it. Nipped in before you could actually get your todger on the job, it seems. Drugs involved, too. Nasty business.’ Peach repeated one of his favourite phrases and shook his head sadly.

‘Only pot. And one tablet of Ecstasy. And I’d never have raped Kathleen Stevens,’ said Peter, doggedly but hopelessly.

Lucy Blake, who had studied the wretched youth silently from her position beside Peach, said softly, ‘Where did you get the drugs from, Peter?’

It was the first police voice Tiler had heard since his nightmare began which seemed even vaguely sympathetic. He knew he should be cautious, but his whole being wanted to respond to it. ‘On the site. There’s a bloke who comes to the student bar on Wednesday evenings.’

‘A student?’

‘No, I don’t think so. I’ve never seen him any other time.’

Lucy leaned forward, waited for the hunted eyes to look up into her own ultramarine irises. ‘Listen, Peter. You’re in trouble, as DI Peach has told you. But it might not be as bad as it seems at this moment, if things go well for you. It appears that Kathleen Stevens is not anxious to pursue any charges against you. I’m not sure I’d feel so charitable, in her position, but it seems she just doesn’t wish to drag the two of you through the courts. That still leaves the drugs. We don’t do deals with people in your position. But if you cooperate, and we’re able to arrest a supplier, it’s possible you won’t be charged with possession. No promises, mind: that won’t be my decision, or even DI Peach’s. I’m simply advising you about the best course of action.’

She was serious, low-key, yet urgent. If her voice carried conviction, it was because her concern was genuine. Peter Tiler was immature and foolish, not vicious: she had no wish to see his whole life blighted by a criminal record for Class A drugs possession.

Tiler looked from the unrelenting face of Peach to this prettier and more sympathetic one, and then gave them everything he could. Description of the campus supplier, the range of drugs he offered, and the exact time when he dealt. Peter didn’t know much, but by the time they left him to reel back to his room they had all of it.

It was all concluded swiftly and efficiently, the way Percy Peach liked it. He said as the CID pair lunched in a pub, ‘You were good in there, kid. Putty in your hands, that lad was.’