Least of Evils (6 page)

There was something irritating about this scrupulously presented individual, Knight thought. He said waspishly, ‘It's quite a junior post, you know. Not particularly well paid.'

‘The wages are adequate. It seems to offer the sort of experience I need.'

‘Quite frankly, I have to wonder why you're applying here. We can't be offering much more than you're earning in your present post.'

‘Money is not the first consideration, Mr Knight. The work is more important. And I understand from the details you sent me that the post is residential.'

‘Indeed it is. The details also said that you would be expected to adjust your duty hours at short notice to accommodate the needs of the household.'

‘That again is not a problem. I am, as we say, not afraid of work. And free residential accommodation makes the pay seem much more generous. I am a single man; at present I have to reserve a large fraction of my wages to pay for my accommodation.'

There were only two other applicants. This man was patently superior to either of them, in experience, attitude and the way he presented himself. It would constitute racial prejudice to ignore that. Michael Knight took a deep breath and said, ‘In that case, I am happy to make you a formal offer of this post, Mr Lee. I'm sure we will be very happy working together.'

He stood up and held out his hand. Chung Lee took it and shook it up and down twice, as if concluding a formal ceremony. His hand was small but his grip was firm and confident. He gave his little smile again and said, ‘Would it be possible for me to see the kitchen where I am to work and the room where I am to live before I leave today?'

Knight gave him a quick tour of both, then assured Lee that he was delighted he could move in so quickly. Chung had already given in his notice to the restaurant, which meant that he could take up his new post in two days' time. He was as polite and secure in his leave-taking as he had been in everything else.

Michael Knight rang the restaurant where Lee had been working after he had gone and was told that he had been a model employee in his short time there, that the owner had been disappointed when he had handed in his notice. He had even offered Lee a little more money, but the young man had said that he needed the more varied experience which the post at Thorley Grange would offer him.

Knight wondered why he should be worried about offering a junior post to a man who seemed both from his background and his bearing to be so eminently suitable. Perhaps the deficiency was in himself rather than the candidate; perhaps he felt he would not be able to live up to the high expectations of this very contained man.

Perhaps Mr Chung Lee had seemed just a little too sure of himself.

Eddie Barton was discharged from hospital twenty-four hours after being interviewed there by DS Lucy Peach and DC Brendan Murphy.

He was proud that he had given the pigs nothing they could use, pleased to be rid of the succession of bored-looking constables in uniform who had sat outside the door of the ward to prevent any hostile access to him. Yet he found he felt almost naked without this attendance during his first few days of convalescence at home.

It was thirty-six hours before he limped out to the betting shop to place a bet, three days before a friend who visited him was able to persuade him to go to the pub in the evening. He relaxed a little on his second pint. ‘I'm glad you dragged me out, Rob. Mum's a diamond, really, the way she looks after me, but I was getting stir-crazy in there.'

He refused to be drawn on the exact nature of his wounds. He also sat where he could keep an eye on the door of the pub, so that he could see whoever was coming into the place. It was early evening and there weren't many entries; the ones who came were mostly familiar. But after two pints Eddie had had enough. He said, ‘These ribs are playing me up, Rob. The medics told me I'd have this pain. I'd better call it a day.'

‘You seem nervous, Eddy.'

‘Nervous? No. It's just that I realize I'm not quite as fit yet as I thought I was. They said I'd need to take it easy for a while. Do you think you could walk home with me? Just in case it gets worse, I mean.'

‘No problem, mate. I go past your place, anyway.' Both his friend and his anxious mother were surprised to see Eddie back in the house before eight o'clock.

But as the days passed, nothing happened, Eddie felt stronger, and it seemed as if his vague fears were groundless. He realized now that he'd been too ambitious in trying to burgle Thorley Grange, that it was out of his league. A nagging voice beneath his fear protested that he'd almost got away with it, hadn't he? And those mysterious people up there surely couldn't want any further revenge on him. He'd escaped with nothing and they'd almost killed him for it. They'd probably forgotten all about him by now.

A fortnight after his failed attempt on the jewellery of Greta Ketley, Eddie Barton was feeling less threatened and more cheerful. It was the middle of February now and after a hard winter the snowdrops in the gardens he passed were making a brave show. In the sun beneath sheltering walls, the brilliant yellow and the deep blue of crocuses were proclaiming that spring was not too far away. He had called at the library and was carrying two of the romantic novels Mum liked and two thrillers for himself. He was secretly proud of the fact that he read, though he tended to conceal it from all but his closest friends.

There was no problem at the job centre. He was patently still unfit for the manual work which was all they could offer him and he had the medical notes to support him. When he threatened to display his wounds, the frosty-faced woman paid him his benefit without even the token reluctance she usually displayed. Money in his pocket always lifted his spirits. Even the pittance the social gave you made you feel comfortable, for a day or two. He'd be able to resume work in a week or ten days, so long as he didn't undertake any difficult entries. It would be a while before he could squirm through windows again.

He would be glad to get home. The bag with the four books wasn't heavy, but it was tugging a little against his damaged ribs, and he couldn't transfer it to the other hand because that was the arm with the healing bullet wound in his bicep. He'd take the short cut by the old gasworks, where the only houses left standing were a few squats. You didn't go that way at night, but it would be fine at eleven in the morning.

He could walk quite quickly again now; maybe he'd go to the pub on his own tonight. It hadn't seemed so at the time, but he was coming round to the view repeatedly expressed to him by the hospital nurses that he'd really got away very lightly, considering he'd had two gunshot wounds and a brutal kicking. He was supposed to see his own doctor this week, but he'd probably skip that, if the healing still looked good when he inspected it in the mirror.

He was so preoccupied with his own thoughts that he scarcely heard the big silver Audi as it glided up behind him. Posh car for these parts, Eddie thought automatically. He didn't realize that it was stopping until a man was beside him, holding his arm in a vice-like grip. ‘Inside!' was the single word he said. He put his hand on Eddie's head and bent it beneath the roof as he shoved him into the car, like the police did with an arrest.

Eddie Barton was too frightened to make any protest. He felt, indeed, as if the breath for words might never come to him again. He could see the back of the driver's head, with the hair close-cut upon it; the man did not turn to look at him.

‘We wanted a word,' said the man beside him. He had a Geordie accent, which for some reason made the words sound more sinister to Eddie. He fixed strong fingers and thumb on Eddie's bicep, finding exactly the place of the healing wound, drawing a sharp gasp of pain from the quivering face above it. ‘You're lucky you're still 'ere, mate. You got away lightly.' He gave the arm another squeeze, as if contemplating what more serious damage he might now administer.

‘First, you don't ever go near Thorley Grange again, toerag.'

‘I won't! I won't!' Eddie wanted to convince them that nothing was further from his thoughts, but he couldn't find the breath for that.

‘Second, you keep shtum. Absolutely shtum. If you breathe one word about what you did or what you saw up there, you're dead meat.' He accompanied each phrase with another squeeze on the arm, producing a series of terrified whimpers from Eddie. He seemed to enjoy these, for he accompanied his final word with a jab at the plaster which was all that now covered the broken rib in his side. ‘Understood?'

A scream of agony. Then, lest the enquiry should be repeated, Eddie shouted. ‘Understood!'

‘Drive on,' said his torturer after a few seconds. He sounded disappointed that his work was over, and Eddie divined that this was a man who thoroughly enjoyed inflicting pain. He didn't protect his victim's head from the roof this time, or even leave the car with him. The Audi stopped after a hundred yards and Barton was flung from it into the doorway of a derelict house, his fall on his injured side eliciting a final yell of pain.

He lay still for a long time, as if he feared that any movement would be interpreted as a sign of defiance which would merit further punishment. Not until the sound of the Audi had died away into the generalized hum of distant traffic did he dare to lift his head and look around him. Then, slowly and painfully, he levered himself to his knees and looked at the squalid street around him. It was completely deserted. The rusting gasholder shut out the pale winter sun, making his isolation seem more complete.

Moving in slow motion, like a man who could not believe he had escaped more serious hurt, Eddie Barton gathered the scattered library books and returned them to the plastic bag. Then he limped homewards, feeling as wretched as he ever had in his young and eventful life.

FIVE

C
hief Superintendent Thomas Bulstrode Tucker looked out of the window of his penthouse office in the massive new brick building which was Brunton police station. He could still remember the old market hall, with the big ball atop its square tower, which had fallen each day when the clock beneath it struck one. He had stood as a small boy with his hand in his father's to watch the demolition of that tower by the vandal civic developers in 1964. Now he could look out over the town to the countryside beyond, towards the splendours of the Ribble valley, which amazed those visitors from the south who had expected only the grimy terraces of an old cotton town.

Chief Superintendent Tucker was looking forward, anticipating that slowly approaching date when the cares of office would disappear and a fat pension would leave him free of worries. It was true that he had a formidable wife to confront at home, but he thrust aside that unwelcome prospect with the thoughts of carefree days on the golf course, when he would discover the elusive secret of that infuriating game and his handicap would come tumbling down. Like many another hopeless hacker, Thomas cherished the notion that leisure and more rounds would improve his golf. It would be some years before he faced the reality of Anno Domini. That would defeat all lessons and practice and eventually diminish even the very limited prowess Thomas possessed.

Tucker was at once a source of fun and a great frustration to his CID staff. He was a humourless figure, but not as stupid a man as most people thought. He was aware both of his own inefficiency and of his reputation among his staff. The iron rule of rank muffled most opposition. But he knew that there were constant mutterings about the chief whom that offensive man Peach had christened Tommy Bloody Tucker. He couldn't do without Percy Peach, whatever liberties the fellow took, because it was DCI Peach who produced the crime clear-up rates which had made T.B. Tucker a Chief Superintendent and head of CID.

He sometimes toyed with the notion of retiring ‘on the sick', as he had seen some of his colleagues do. You claimed stress, which was very difficult to disprove, and spent the last years of your service either absent altogether or appearing only intermittently, with the real responsibility and the real work transferred to others. It was a tempting prospect, but it had one great drawback. Both his formidable wife and those acquaintances at the Lodge and the golf club who had no police contacts thought of him as efficient.

Self-esteem was important to Tucker. He believed that loss of reputation in the Lodge and the golf club were the worst disasters which could hit a man. You could survive many things, but loss of face was not one of them. Without a family, there were few other things left to Thomas but status.

That was a sad thought, and he was in many ways a sad, isolated man. He spent most of his days negatively. He did not try to be constructive, but fought to avoid mistakes, to keep his nose clean. His only consistent aim was to avoid the ultimate humiliation of a dressing-down by the chief constable and the suggestion that he should consider his position. His was neither a happy position nor a happy life. And now the hated Percy Peach, the man who was at once his saviour and his nemesis, was climbing the stairs to see him from the CID section where the real work was conducted.

Chief Superintendent Tucker determined once again to assert himself. One of his many faults was that he rarely learned from experience.

‘I'm very busy, Peach. This is most inconvenient. What is it that you wanted?'

Percy took his time in running his eyes over the vast empty spaces of the executive desk. ‘I see, sir. Still redrafting your memo to all CID staff, are you?'

Tucker sighed deeply, trying to demonstrate that he was as long-suffering as any saint under Satanic attack. ‘You'd better sit down, I suppose. What on earth are you talking about?'

Percy's black eyebrows arched impossibly high beneath his shining bald pate. ‘Your directive about correct pants and bras for our staff, sir. I've been holding myself in readiness.'

Enlightenment dawned. Tucker said gruffly, ‘The dress code, Peach? That is still under review.'