Least of Evils (7 page)

‘Indeed it is, sir. Directly so in my case. I've been most careful in my selection of boxer shorts since we spoke last week. And I've kept a very close check on my wife's panties also, sir. I must say that in the case of DS Lucy Peach duty has combined with pleasure in a most agreeable fashion.' He stared reflectively at the ceiling and allowed a beam of ecstasy to steal over his features until his whole frame was suffused with bliss.

‘I see. Well, as I say, I have decided for the moment to keep the matter under review.'

Percy's face fell. ‘Your decision, as always, sir. But I must admit to a smidgeon of disappointment. Having volunteered my services when you broached the project, I was looking forward to a meticulous examination of the bras and pants of all the female officers under our jurisdiction.'

Tucker decided to try the man-to-man approach. ‘Come, come, Percy! You know very well we'd never get away with such things without claims of sexual harassment.'

‘The thought had crossed my mind, sir. But with the Head of CID prepared to assert himself and provide his usual strong and fearless leadership, I resolved as ever to carry out my orders. I would bring enthusiasm and thoroughness to the inspections, in the knowledge that you would be taking full responsibility for my actions.'

The mention of responsibility was as usual a red light for Tucker. ‘The matter as I say is under review. But I will tell you privately that I have almost decided against issuing any directive on dress.'

‘Ah! In that case I shall continue to conduct meticulous examinations of the front and rear elevations of DS Peach's underwear, so as to keep myself in practice for any future general order from you. But I shall not extend such tests to the rest of our female officers.'

‘You asked to see me, Peach. What is it you wanted?' Tommy Bloody Tucker reverted to world-weary resignation. Percy realized that it was time to wrestle with more serious police concerns.

‘A very large criminal fish has swum into our waters, sir. A killer shark, in fact.'

Metaphor usually confused Tucker, but this time he surprised his junior. ‘I presume you're referring to Oliver Ketley.'

Peach, who could not know that the chief constable had raised this matter with Tucker only that morning, was surprised by this unusual grasp of reality from his chief superintendent. ‘Indeed I am, sir. From the amount of building he's already commissioned at Thorley Grange, I fear he intends to stay here indefinitely. Which from our view can only be distressing.'

For a few moments, the two were silent, a pair of senior policemen united by the threat of a major menace to life on their patch. Tucker's reaction was as usual negative. ‘I have to remind you, however, that nothing major has so far been proved against Mr Ketley. As far as the law is concerned, he is an innocent citizen.'

‘But you and I know better.'

‘We may feel that we do, Percy, but there is nothing very much we can do about that.'

‘A burglar attempted to rob Mr Ketley a fortnight ago, sir.'

‘Then it's our duty to bring that burglar to court.'

‘Indeed, sir. But we cannot provide the Crown Prosecution Service with a case, because the victim, Mr Ketley, refuses to provide us with the appropriate evidence. Refuses even to acknowledge that any such incident took place.'

‘That is unfortunate, but there may be very little we can do about it. No doubt Ketley wishes to keep a low profile.'

‘I'm sure he does, sir. But a member of his staff used a firearm against the intruder, who I am sure did not offer any violence himself.'

‘Can you prove this?'

‘Not yet, sir. But I have not yet taken a personal interest in the case myself. I feel that it is time I did so.'

‘You must be very careful, Peach. Very careful indeed. This man may be a villain, but he has no convictions which declare that to the public. He has the resources to do us considerable harm.'

He was being warned off. But whatever Peach's shortcomings, he really cared about crime; he hated it with something approaching a missionary zeal. That was the thing which made him respected as well as feared by the entire CID section. He now pointed out to Tucker Ketley's known involvement in drugs, in prostitution, in gangland killings – known to the police, but so far unproved in court, because it had been impossible to persuade key witnesses to bear witness in court against him.

Peach spoke with a passion that reduced even the pusillanimous Tommy Bloody Tucker to silence. Then he mentioned the worst crime of all, in the minds of most policemen in Lancashire. Worse even than straightforward murder, for most of them. Worse than anything except the abuse of children, because the victims of this crime were numerous and almost as helpless as children. A crime committed as long ago as 2004, yet still in many respects unsolved.

Chief Superintendent Tucker listened aghast, and was quelled. All he said as he dismissed his DCI was a fearful, ‘For God's sake mind how you go, Peach!'

It was still February. Everyone knew that there must be hard frosts still to come. There might even be more snow; indeed, from the higher parts of the course, you could still see whiteness upon the top of Ingleborough. But golfers, like most sportsmen, are optimists when it comes to weather, as in most parts of Britain you need to be.

The North Lancs Golf Club was the best one in the area. It was one of Chief Superintendent Tucker's permanent resentments that while DCI Peach's application for membership had been immediately accepted, his own had been turned down. The membership committee had politely pointed out that Tucker's handicap of twenty-four was not low enough for him to be considered, and his most intensive efforts over the years had not succeeded in reducing it.

On this crisp, bright Saturday, the present captain of the golf club, a local solicitor who had been a member since he was a boy, was playing one of his captain/pro challenges against two members. These were friendly encounters which led to a good deal of banter in the clubhouse; those pairs who beat captain and pro enjoyed congratulations in the clubhouse and entry to a small competition for all the winners at the end of the year. Those who lost made a modest contribution to the captain's chosen charity. These light-hearted, pleasurable occasions allowed the captain to play with people he might otherwise not have encountered on the course.

The professional played off scratch and the other three received the appropriate stroke allowance, according to handicap. The challengers this time were a new member, Oliver Ketley, and the man who had introduced him, a local bookmaker. This man had realized that he could no longer compete with the big boys and sold his three betting shops to Ketley's organization. The captain was glad that the bookmaker, whom he had known for years, was part of the four-ball, for he had found conversation with the new member difficult.

Oliver Ketley was not a natural communicator: he had found little need for it over the years. As his power and his reputation had grown, the men around him – save on the few social occasions he allowed himself, it was always men – had adopted the habit of speaking only in response to some enquiry of Ketley's. Unless Oliver initiated conversation, there was very little of it around him. The pro was a taciturn individual who when on the course concentrated upon producing his best golf. For eighteen holes, the conversational exchanges were largely between the captain and the bookmaker. If Ketley noticed that things were socially rather strained, he did nothing to alleviate that.

The captain found him a difficult, intimidating figure. New members were traditionally nervous in the presence of their captain; he had grown used to easing their tensions and lightening the atmosphere. Oliver Ketley had no need for his assurances that this was only a game and not to be taken too seriously. He seemed indeed to be a serious man. With his commanding physical presence, the shorter clubs looked like toys in his hands. He generally hit the ball straight, if not with quite the distance you would have expected. He accepted congratulations on his better shots with the merest nod and the smallest of smiles. His pale blue eyes registered no satisfaction, but they did give the impression of taking in everything around him. He did not seem to approve of much that he saw, though his mouth when it spoke uttered conventional phrases. He won the match with a solid par on the eighteenth, then shook hands with the briefest of smiles.

In the clubhouse, Ketley bought the first round and unbent a little over the drinks. The captain had many other people to talk to here, lots of cheery greetings and golfing chatter, so it was easier for him in the club lounge. Oliver was drinking brandies, but they seemed to have no effect upon him. When someone mentioned drink and driving, he said that his driver was picking him up and offered a lift to anyone who thought they might be unsafe to drive. No one took him up on his offer.

Oliver said nothing out of place, as befitted a new member. He offered no opinions on politics or religion, even when the talk turned to the challenge of Militant Muslimism, a hot topic in a town where a quarter of the population was now Asian. He smiled when any of his companions said anything humorous, but the small movement of the lips on the square, expressionless face scarcely constituted mirth. There was certainly no sign of amusement in the very pale blue of eyes, which seemed too small for that large face.

Just before he left the club, he asked the captain about his chosen charity. ‘It's the Brunton Hospice,' the captain said. ‘They do wonderful work and they're always short of funds. But you don't owe anything: you won our match.'

Ketley's thin lips tightened again into his small, humourless grin. He produced his cheque book. He said nothing as he wrote, then stared at the cheque for a moment before he signed with a flourish. ‘I agree that it's a wonderful cause. Please add this to your gift fund. I'd rather the source remained anonymous.' He handed over a cheque for two thousand pounds, waved aside the effusive reaction, and prepared to leave the club. News of his generosity would get out, despite his request. In his experience, people could never keep completely quiet about gifts, if they were large enough.

From a much noisier table on the other side of the busy golf-club lounge, Oliver Ketley's every movement and reaction were carefully noted. Beneath the bald head with its fringe of black hair, the darkly glittering eyes of Percy Peach were studying his man.

Oliver Ketley's greatest rival did not play golf. In the office behind his Manchester casino, Jack Burgess sat with Geoffrey Day and awaited the arrival of a third man. Whilst Ketley was taking his exercise, the workaholic Burgess was furthering his interests. Jack liked that idea. He liked the thought that it was his industry which had taken him ahead of his rivals, which would presently enable him to overtake Ketley.

Saturday was a busy day in the new casino, which stretched across the extensive floor of a converted mill. In a few hours' time, garish neon lighting outside would be beckoning the punters inside and roulette wheels would be spinning to make money for the owner, as cotton looms had once done in this city they had called Cottonopolis. But at the moment all was quiet. There was the faint sound of vacuum cleaners at work on the carpets of the big room where the public squandered its money, but no other activity.

Burgess looked at his watch. ‘Better get down to the back door, Geoff. Bring the man straight up here.'

Day nodded. They had offered to meet him at his own place, but he hadn't wanted them there, hadn't wanted any visitors which might give watching eyes a clue about the work he did. He would come to the back door of the casino at the time he had arranged. Crowded cities were a much better cover for him. He felt happier with crowds around. If you wanted to survive in his trade, you took every possible precaution.

He was beside Geoff Day before Day saw him, even though he was watching for him at the back door of the casino. The man was fit and wiry, without a surplus ounce of fat on him. His eyes were set deep in his gaunt face, making him seem at first glance ill, almost as if he might be suffering from some terminal disease. He would have attended to that if he'd known it, as he would have anything which made him other than ordinary. Anonymity was his cloak and he had become almost paranoid in his search for it. He looked up and down the narrow street behind the casino, then followed Day into the building.

‘Mr French to see you, sir,' said Day. He shut the door carefully behind the visitor and moved away from the room. You accorded a contract killer the respect of a ‘Mr' and a private audience. You moved away whilst the boss negotiated the hire of his services. George French wasn't alone in thinking that the fewer people who knew about his business the better. If things went wrong, which of course they wouldn't, it was much better that you knew nothing about whatever sinister bargain had been concluded.

In the small, very warm room Day had left, hirer and the putative hired sat down opposite each other. French slid his anorak off his shoulders and on to the back of his chair and Burgess nodded and smiled. It was almost two years since he had last seen French, but he didn't shake his hand. He ignored the man's sallow cheeks and the dark patches beneath his eyes. ‘You're looking well, George. And prosperous, I trust.'

‘Well enough.' The speed with which his answering smile appeared and disappeared showed how awkward he felt with such pleasantries. ‘You want a job done, or I wouldn't be here.'

‘You're right. I do.'

‘Twenty thou in advance. Twenty thou on completion.'

Some people shied away when they heard the price. The fair-haired man on the other side of the desk wouldn't do that, but it was as well to agree the terms from the outset. Jack Burgess smiled, eased himself back in his chair for a moment; even with a job like this, he liked to pretend that as the employer he was in charge. He thought of producing the bottle of malt whisky from the cupboard behind him, then decided against it. French would certainly refuse and those who turned down expensive spirits always seemed to him to be asserting some subtle moral superiority. But moral wasn't a word you should apply to this man's trade.