Least of Evils (14 page)

He was relieved to see that Jack Chadwick, former police sergeant and colleague but now civilian, was in charge of the scene of crime team. Jack was the best SOCO officer he knew, who not only never missed items left behind at a scene, but was quick to spot the possible significance of anything which presented itself. Jack nodded to Northcott, then spoke to Percy as if they were still the serving colleagues they had once been. ‘The meat wagon's ready to move in. I thought you'd like to see the corpse in situ before they take it away.'

Ketley was in the driving seat, but slumped sideways towards the centre of the vehicle. There could be little doubt that it was the shot which had killed him that had pitched him that way. The right side of his head was a mess; it wouldn't be easy to tidy up the face for identification. It seemed that the bullet had been fired from somewhere in front of his right ear and had emerged from his forehead in front of his left temple. There was a jagged hole in the fabric above the left-hand corner of the windscreen with the near-black of dried blood around it. Chadwick responded to Peach's interrogative look. ‘We've got the slug. You'll get the match from forensics in due course, but I've no doubt it came from that.'

He nodded to the other side of the broad heap of flesh which had lately been a man. Loosely clutched in the right hand, looking as if it would fall from it as soon as it was disturbed, was a revolver. Even against that huge paw it looked a sizeable weapon. Chadwick waited until Peach had studied it before nodding. ‘A Ruger nine millimetre. Whoever fired it meant business.'

Peach walked slowly around the huge car, which seemed even bigger when you moved past it on foot. It was a cool, clear, day. The sun was still low and would never get very high. The scene of crime ribbons had been fixed a long way from the car in its lay-by, but there was nevertheless a row of curious heads visible against the skyline. The gory glamour of violent death brought spectators, even when there was nothing to see.

The rear doors of the Bentley were open. Clyde Northcott looked at the spotless rear floor wells and asked Chadwick, ‘Anyone in there with him when he died?'

‘We've gathered a few fibres. Whether they were left there yesterday or on some previous occasion we don't yet know and may never know. Anything else will wait until forensics get busy. I expect those boys and girls will enjoy taking a Bentley apart far more than they would a Nissan Micra.'

Peach exchanged grim smiles with Chadwick. ‘I don't expect this to be easy, Jack.'

‘Don't be such a bloody pessimist. You've already got the murder weapon.'

‘Murder weapon, Jack? That's very unprofessional, when we don't know yet that anyone killed the sod.'

‘Perhaps my official report will have to say that. But I know a bit about Ketley, Percy, though no doubt nothing like as much as you do. I wouldn't have thought he was likely to top himself. And I know how disappointed you'd be if this was suicide, my old mate.'

Peach grinned, taken back ten years to when they had been keen young CID sergeants together, before the serious gunshot injuries which had ruined Chadwick's promising career. Then his face darkened. ‘If this is a killing by one of his business rivals, it's going to be a contract man.'

Chadwick looked again at the man and woman systematically covering the ground around the car, at the photographer waiting patiently to take his final pictures after the body had been removed. For the first time, his reaction was that of the civilian rather than the CID stalker he had once been. ‘At least Ketley's gone for good. The world is rid of a man it will be much better without.'

At one o'clock, Greta Ketley stared at her mobile phone and hesitated. She looked anxiously down the long stretch of the bedroom and dressing room, though she had already checked twice that there was no one within earshot.

Then she took the decision she had always known she was going to take and punched in the number. Two rings later, the familiar voice responded. She said simply, ‘You've heard?'

‘Yes. It was in the radio news summary at twelve. The television news is reporting from the scene now, but the car's screened off. Have they contacted you?'

‘Yes. Two women PCs came this morning. Gave me the barest facts they could. He was found last night. Dead at the wheel of his Bentley, they said.'

‘Did they say it was a suspicious death? That's the phrase they use.'

‘I don't think they did. I don't remember those words. But I was upset. I asked them if there'd been an accident. They said no, they didn't think so. That's when the older one said there were gunshot wounds.'

‘Did they say it was suicide? Or that it looked like suicide?' His voice was calm, even matter-of-fact. But she knew he was nervous, because he was running his questions together in his anxiety to know the facts.

‘No. I don't think they ever used the word suicide. I tried to get more out of them, but they said that was all they could say at this stage. All they knew themselves, I think they said. Then they said that the man in charge of the case would want to see me later, that he might be able to tell me more.'

‘That's just routine. Nothing you should be worried about.'

‘No. I'll be glad when it's over, though.'

‘Of course you will. That's perfectly natural. But it's better that we don't meet for a few days. They might have someone in the frame by then.' He paused, then said more grimly, ‘They won't be short of suspects. Did they mention identification of the body?'

‘No.'

‘They'll probably want you to do it. If you find that too distressing, they'll find someone else. But if you can face it, it might be a good thing to do. It would be the first step in what they usually call closure.'

‘I'll do it, then.' Her voice was heavy with the emotional weariness which often assails the next of kin. ‘I don't feel up to much questioning, though.'

‘They'll treat you as gently as they can. They always see the spouse of the deceased first. It's because that's normally the person who can tell them most about the habits and the movements of the victim.'

It was the first time either of them had used that word. And despite what he said about her knowledge of Oliver, both of them knew that the spouse was always the first suspect, the person police had to investigate before they could move out into a wider circle of possible killers. ‘I'll be glad when it's over. I'm surprised how upset I feel about Oliver.'

‘That's normal enough. Happier times are bound to come back to you. It might be an idea to ring a doctor and get him to prescribe something. That's a form of protection in itself – you can always rely on him to say you're too disturbed to be persecuted with questions.'

‘Or her.'

‘Or her, indeed. Get the sorority on the job. Is there anyone around who could be a friend and a help to you? Someone who could come in if you were getting upset and say you'd had enough?'

‘There's the housekeeper, Mrs Frobisher. She's friendly enough, but a bit distant. There's a young widow who's only become resident a week or two ago. I quite like her. I'm sure she'd help, if I needed her.'

‘Bear it in mind, then. But the police questioning is likely to be straightforward and sympathetic, as far as you're concerned. I know you won't tell them about us, and I can't see any reason why they should ever get on to that. Anything else should be straightforward. And don't be nervous.'

She forced herself to grin at the invisible presence at other end of the conversation. ‘Of course I won't be nervous. I've nothing to be nervous about, have I?'

‘Of course you haven't. And I look forward to seeing you, as soon as the heat's off. It's best that you don't phone me. I'll be in touch, when I think it's safe. If I ring, it will be at four o'clock exactly, the time we've always used. Usual arrangement: if there's no reply after two rings, I won't persist. Goodbye, my darling.'

Martin Price stared at his mobile for a moment after they had finished speaking. He wondered why he had used that old-fashioned phrase about the heat being off. And he wondered just how long that process would take.

ELEVEN

I
t was three thirty when the police came to Thorley Grange. A short, cheerful-looking man in a neat grey suit, who said his name was Detective Chief Inspector Peach, and a very tall, smooth-featured, black man, whom he introduced as Detective Sergeant Northcott. Greta Ketley watched them climb out of the police car by the stone pillars of the old house and wondered why they seemed familiar to her. Then she remembered: she'd seen the same pair in almost exactly the same place ten days or so ago, when they'd called to see Oliver in his office.

There was no time to speculate about the reason for that visit. Within thirty seconds, they were offering their apologies for having to disturb her at such a sad time. She touched her white face, feeling for the puffiness around her eyes, and said what she'd decided she would say before they came, ‘You mustn't worry about disturbing me. Of course I'm upset and shocked, but I want you to find out who did this, for all our sakes.'

Peach wondered quite who was included in that last phrase, when she had no family around her, but perhaps the little shrug of her shoulders indicated that it comprehended the household in general. He felt a sharp sympathy for this pale, dignified figure who had suddenly been thrown from the background into the very centre of things in this huge house, responsible now for staff whom she might never have wanted. She had a slight, attractive, Scandinavian accent which seemed to make her an even more isolated figure, a lonely Lady of Shalott in a world she did not understand.

All of which was probably romantic nonsense, Peach told himself firmly. This pale figure with the long fair hair and the high-cheeked, attractive face might be a hard-headed gold-digger; she might have known and approved of the methods by which her husband had become so rich. She was certainly now allowing herself to be treated as the lady of the manor. One of the servants had led them into a large drawing room where Mrs Ketley was already sitting in a large armchair, wearing a long, dark blue dress and shoes in matching leather.

It was an appropriately sombre hue for the situation, but he noticed how admirably it complemented her Nordic complexion and hair. Surely a natural sense of style didn't make a woman more calculating? Greta Ketley smiled wanly, as if she read that thought, and said, ‘I see the reasons for this meeting, but I hope it won't take very long.'

‘It shouldn't do. It's largely a matter of routine, but I assure you it's very necessary.'

‘Mrs Johnson also knew my husband. She lives in the house. Will it be all right if she stays with us? I'm sure I shall be all right, but I'm feeling a little weak.'

Peach had been concentrating on his first estimation of his hostess as the victim's wife. He glanced for the first time at the woman who had led them here and saw a figure who might have been chosen as a physical contrast to her mistress. Mrs Johnson was slight and dark, and demurely pretty. She seemed a little embarrassed by her mistress's request for her presence. Early to mid thirties, Peach's experienced eye said. Divorced, he supposed, though you could never be sure of circumstances without checking. Probably that was why she was able and willing to take a residential post; you must live very cheaply as a resident here and be able to save most of your wage.

He said, ‘Of course we have no objection. It will ensure you're not outnumbered by policemen – I know DS Northcott doesn't like that.' The face beside him, hitherto as inscrutable as that of an African god, cracked into a smile at this gentle witticism. Clyde directed the smile towards Mrs Johnson, as though it made them companions here, as minor players in the scene.

Peach's bonhomie briefly took in the whole company. Then he darted his first question at the widow, ‘How long were you married to Oliver Ketley?'

‘Twelve years.' She watched Northcott's large hand scribble a note, then caught the calculation in the police eyes and responded to it. ‘I was thirty when I married him. Quite old enough and quite experienced enough to know what I was doing.'

There was an air of challenge in the statement, which Peach welcomed. He found it much easier to deal with women of spirit than drooping flowers, even if they occasionally antagonized each other. The whole point of this first meeting was to get as much information as possible. That was a fact they sometimes offered as an apology, but the widow really was the person who could usually tell them most about a victim. He was already sure in his own mind that Ketley was a victim, not a suicide.

‘You're telling me that you married him with your eyes wide open. That you were well aware of how he made his money.'

‘No. I'm merely trying to be as honest with you as I can. I'm trying to tell you I knew a little about the man he was and why he attracted me – that I wasn't an impressionable teenager who knew nothing about life. I had very little idea then how he made his money and I have probably even less idea now.'

Percy doubted whether that was true, but it wasn't the right time to press the thought; he was interviewing a widow less than twenty-four hours after her husband had been brutally murdered. Instead, he took up the other issue she had raised and offered her a different challenge. ‘I shouldn't think teenagers, impressionable or otherwise, would have been much drawn to Oliver Ketley.'

She did not smile at the thought. She was not relaxed enough for that. She chose her words carefully, as if she were the alien she had once been, picking her way through the minefield of the English language. ‘It is true that young people shied away from Oliver. His face was not easy to read and he was not a man it was easy to know. He liked it that way. But some women prefer a certain mystery in a man. It sets him apart from the others, makes him more of a challenge, I think.'