A Little Learning (16 page)

Ruth Carter smiled. ‘It had happened before. She must have wondered about us arriving in separate cars, but she never mentioned it. This was the third time we’d stayed there.’

DS Blake gave her an answering smile, then switched her questioning with all the aplomb of her mentor, Percy Peach. ‘Do you possess a firearm, Mrs Carter?’

Ruth Carter’s experienced but attractive features froze for a moment. Then she forced the smile back onto them and said determinedly, ‘Not only do I not possess one, but I don’t think I have handled one in my entire life. I have certainly never fired one.’

Lucy nodded. ‘But Tom Matthews is something of a small arms expert, isn’t he?’

‘He is a fine shot with both rifle and revolver, I believe. That has never been demonstrated to me, though. I have never even seen Tom with a gun. We have never discussed the matter, but I fancy he knows that I would not like to have such weapons anywhere in my house.’ Ruth Carter knew perfectly well what she was saying, that this was a firm denial of any involvement in her husband’s death. Yet she smiled a little as she spoke, exulting in the thought that her lover would know such things about her without the need for them to be put into words.

Peach studied her for a moment, then said quietly, ‘It is now over five days since your husband was murdered in this house. And at least four days since you knew about it.’ His eyes never left her, and he was sure that she realized that the words ‘at least’ meant that she was still in the frame for the murder of her spouse. But she was not visibly ruffled by it. ‘You must have been thinking about who might have pulled the trigger on that revolver.’

‘I have thought of little else, Inspector Peach, in the last few days.’

‘So you must by now have some opinion on who might have killed your husband. In this case, Mrs Carter, I can assure you that your thoughts will not go further than this room.’

As if to emphasize the fact, DS Blake shut her notebook and put away her ball-pen, an action registered with a wan smile by Ruth Carter. She raised a forefinger to push away that non-existent stray tress from her forehead again, then said with a sigh, ‘I wasn’t the only one to have relationships outside our marriage, you know. George picked up what he could, where he could. Without damaging his career, of course.’ The contempt which seared these phrases gave them at last a glimpse of her sour disillusionment with a marriage which had run its course.

This was difficult ground, but an area which might well prove fruitful. Peach said gently, Van you give us the details of any recent liaisons your husband was conducting?’

She thought for a moment, sipping coffee which was almost cold, wrinkling her lips in disgust at the taste of it. ‘Not going to be much use as a vicar’s wife, am I, if I can’t serve decent coffee?’ It was an assertion of the seriousness of her relationship with Tom Matthews, a notification that whatever the CID thought about her or Tom’s guilt in this, they would have a life together in the future. ‘I haven’t paid much heed to these things recently. Not since Tom and I got together so unexpectedly. George didn’t know about us, incidentally. He was far too preoccupied with his own concerns.’

Peach brought her gently back to his question. ‘But do you know of any recent relationships, casual or serious, which Dr Carter might have been involved in at the time of his death?’

‘There was that black girl, of course. I think George was having a go at her. I couldn’t see what she could possibly see in him, but I suppose she had different eyes from mine. Very attractive eyes, as a matter of fact. Very attractive girl. Intelligent, too, but I can’t remember what her subject was. She’s taught in the States, but I can’t recall her name — she’s from Barbados, I think.’

‘Carmen Campbell?’

‘That’s the one. You know about her, then.’

‘Yes. Can you think of any reason why she should have wanted Dr Carter dead?’

‘None whatsoever. I should think our Senior Tutor is a better bet than any woman. He’s never made any bones about his dislike for George. I share a lot of what he feels, of course: George was a charlatan and a hypocrite. But for Walter Culpepper it was verging on paranoia. He’s a genuine scholar, which is why he saw more clearly than most, and earlier than most, what a poser George was. And the fact that George got away with it made Walter really furious: I’d say it turned his contempt into a real hatred. And an unbalanced hatred, I’d guess. Don’t be deceived by his learning and his jokey exterior: our Senior Tutor can be a dangerous enemy.’

‘Dangerous enough to kill? To shoot someone through the head in cold blood?’

‘That’s for you to decide, Inspector Peach. You asked me to speculate, and I’ve done so. I’ve watched Walter Culpepper’s frustration growing over the years — they were in a college of higher education together before this university was even thought of, don’t forget. When it was, Walter was passed over for the post which will next year become a vice-chancellorship, in favour of a man he detested. I think he’s unbalanced — how seriously, and whether he’s unhinged enough to have killed George, is up to you to decide.’

Peach nodded. ‘We try to decide on the basis of the facts available, of course. People have to have the opportunity for crime, as well as the motive and inclination. But thank you for those thoughts. Is there anyone else you can think of who had reason to wish your husband dead?’

She thought for a moment. ‘No. I saw only a very limited part of his professional life, of course.’

‘Have you any knowledge of a drugs traffic on the site?’

She shook her head. ‘I know that it is a danger in all student communities. I suppose in a new and rapidly expanding university like this, there might be rich pickings for drug dealers. But I have no knowledge at all of anything happening on this campus.’

Peach was disappointed, but not surprised. He believed her: it was what he would have expected. He wondered just what the Drugs Squad officers had been able to get out of Malcolm McLean, whether there was in fact any connection with the death of Claptrap Carter.

He stood up. ‘Thank you for the coffee, and for being frank with your thoughts about this death. No doubt you will be in touch with the Reverend Thomas Matthews.’ He allowed himself the ghost of a smile. ‘If when you talk you can recall any fact or any person who will confirm where either of you were on Saturday night, please get in touch with us immediately. If we can eliminate anyone from our enquiries, it will speed up the processes of detection.’

Ruth Carter stood beside them as they got into the car, watched the rear of the Mondeo until it disappeared beneath the cedars. That was a formal way of telling her that they were both still under suspicion, she decided.

Eighteen

The police machine is thorough, but sometimes it seems to be using a lot of manpower for very little result. Eventually, however, this thoroughness often throws up unexpected and welcome results. Percy Peach received two such pointers when he returned to the Brunton CID section on the morning of Friday the 22nd of November.

The first came from a routine trawl of army records. It appeared that the Reverend Thomas Matthews had retained a Smith and Wesson revolver when he finished his service and moved back into civilian life. There was nothing sinister in this: the weapon was private property; Thomas Matthews, like most expert shots, owned his own weapon. During his army service he had only ever used the revolver in shooting contests.

Examination of the Firearms Licence Register showed that the Reverend T. R. Matthews was a member of a shooting club, but did not hold an individual licence to keep any weapon at home.

The second windfall for DI Peach concerned Malcolm McLean, the chemistry lecturer who had virtually admitted his involvement in the supply of illegal drugs on the UEL site, but strenuously denied any connection with the murder of its Director. The Drugs Squad, pursuing McLean hard about his control of the drugs traffic on the campus, had turned up a witness who had seen him on the site, within two hundred yards of the Director’s house, at ten o’clock on the Saturday night when Dr Carter had been murdered.

Percy Peach sat with his hands on his temples for two minutes in his office, deciding how he was going to use these two precious snippets of information. Then he was summoned by his superintendent, and he went upstairs to report the latest information to the man officially in charge of the investigation. Might as well give Tommy Bloody Tucker every chance to make a fool of himself.

*

Carmen Campbell was stretching her long legs languorously on her desk and looking out of the window when the phone rang. It was Keith’s voice from Cheshire, sounding as clear as if he was in the next room. Carmen was immediately erect and alert on her chair.

Keith’s voice had that familiar hint of uncertainty which she found sometimes attractive, sometimes irritating. She did not like men who were too sure of themselves, especially in the matter of her affections. But she sensed that this was one of the occasions on which she might find his lack of confidence annoying rather than consoling.

‘The police are coming round to see me. You said they might.’

‘I said they
would
, Keith. But it’s nothing to worry about. They’ll probably want to confirm that I was with you for all of last Saturday night, that’s all.’

‘What if they ask about the nature of our relationship?’

‘Then you may tell them whatever you think fit, Keith. I might be interested to hear it myself.’ She grinned into the mouthpiece, picturing his anxious, innocent white face at the other end of the line. ‘But I would be surprised if they asked you much about that. It’s only routine. Just tell the truth and shame the devil, as my mother used to tell me.’

‘Mine, too. The truth about Saturday night, you mean. That’s easy enough. We went to
The Who
concert, and then we came back here. You spent the night with me. We made love some time during the night, but I’m not certain when.’

She laughed. ‘I’m sure you don’t need to tell them the last bit. It might enliven their dull lives, if you gave them action replays.’

‘Do I tell them we were stoned out of our minds?’

‘No, I wouldn’t do that. None of their business, is it? We might have had a few spliffs too many, but lots of people do that, during and after a concert. It’s part of the unwinding, isn’t it? But you’ll only embarrass them if you tell them. The police know it goes on, but they don’t want to do anything about it. Not pot. Not nowadays. Not unless you’re dealing, which you aren’t.’

‘No. There isn’t any in the flat at present, if they start looking around.’

She could hear the doubt in his voice again, and this time it really was irritating. ‘I’m sure they won’t want to search the place. Look, Keith, this is no big deal. Don’t get yourself worked up about it. It’s just routine, when there’s a murder. The police have to eliminate me from their enquiries, along with a lot of other people. Just tell them the truth: that’s all you need to do.’

‘You’re sure they won’t want to know about the pot?’

‘Don’t mention it. All they want to know is that we were together from four o’clock on that day onwards. So you just tell them the truth and that will be the end of it.’

‘All right. When shall I see you again, Carmen?’

‘I’ve a hell of a lot on for the next couple of weeks. Student assignments to mark and return. I like to discuss each one with the student concerned.’

‘You’re too conscientious, you know. I’ve told you before.’ ‘Maybe. Anyway, I’ll give you a ring on Sunday evening.’ Carmen Campbell put the phone down and stared at it hard for a moment. She couldn’t see the two of them going on beyond Christmas.

*

‘I can only give you ten minutes, Peach.’ Superintendent Tucker stared at Percy over his gold-rimmed half-moon glasses, as if the report he had called for was an intrusion in a hectic day.

‘That’s enough, sir. Brief report on the progress of the case.’ Percy spoke in clipped tones, through a face rigid with discipline, like a soldier at attention on parade.

‘Well?’

‘You were right about the murder victim’s wife, sir. Mrs Claptrap Carter. She appears to have an alibi.’

‘Didn’t I tell you it would be so? Nice lady, Mrs Carter. Pillar of rectitude.’

‘Yes, sir. Except that her alibi is that she was being adulterously shagged out of her mind at the time, sir. By a clergyman.’

Tucker thought this could not possibly be right. But he looked at Peach’s rigid face, with his eyes trained above his superior’s head, and as usual he was not sure. He had heard of people standing to attention, had even demanded it himself, on the occasional police parade. But Peach was the only man he had known who could sit to attention. He was doing it now, with his short legs thrust out in front of him, his back ramrod straight, his neck seemingly made of iron, his features frozen. Tucker said incredulously, ‘This surely can’t be so.’

‘Told me it herself, sir, not an hour ago.’

‘With a clergyman, you say?’

‘Reverend Thomas Matthews, sir. Doctor of Divinity. Vicar of St Catherine’s. University Chaplain.’ Percy piled on the details in his clipped, neutral voice, each one more shockingly sensational than the last.

Tucker sought for some kind of relief from this lurid picture. ‘Well, at least it means that neither of them is guilty of the murder of Dr Carter.’

‘Unless they were in it together, sir. At it like knives one minute, blowing the husband’s head off the next. It’s not unknown.’

‘But a lady like Mrs Carter. And a local clergyman, who seems to be highly regarded by his parishioners. It’s hardly likely, is it?’

‘Doesn’t seem so, sir. Except that they’ve no witness to support their story of where they were on Saturday night. And we’ve just had word that our vicar seems to be holding a Smith and Wesson .357, without licence.’

Tucker’s jaw dropped, most appealingly for the man staring rigidly over his head. ‘Remind me again, Peach, about the weapon which killed Dr Carter.’

‘Smith and Wesson .357, sir.’ Percy had the greatest difficulty in preventing a smile, but succeeded.

‘And — and have you questioned the Reverend Matthews about this firearm?’

‘About to do so, sir, when you called me up here. News only in this morning.’

‘Well, complete your report to me and get about your business, then.’ Tucker did his best to make any delay seem his inspector’s fault.

‘Yessir. Checking up on the West Indian bint’s — sorry, lecturer’s — alibi. Carmen Campbell. Planning to give her a bit of the third degree, sir, as you suggested. No marks left on her, of course, just firm questioning and bright lights in the face.’ Peach kept his gaze upon the wall, but permitted himself the ghost of a conspiratorial smile.

‘I never authorized any such thing! I don’t want any accusations of institutional racialism cast at this force, Peach. Is that crystal clear?’

‘Yes, sir.’ Peach, who had never conducted a racist interview in his life, managed to imbue the two syllables with disappointment. ‘Might be able to frighten the Senior Tutor, sir, with your permission.’

‘Senior Tutor? At the UEL?’

‘Walter Culpepper, sir. One of his ancestors rogered Queen Catherine Howard, sir, if you —’

‘Yes, yes, I remember, Peach! What a squalid mind you have! What sort of man is this Culpepper?’

‘In his sixties, sir. Lively mind, but quite frail physically. No experience of police brutality. Even waving a truncheon at him might loosen his tongue, make him smile the other side of his clever little face.’

‘Peach! You will go very carefully. This man might become the first Vice-Chancellor of the University of East Lancashire.’ Tucker rolled out the titles sonorously, as if he hoped to milk some vicarious intellectual dignity himself from them.

‘Yes, sir. That might give him a motive for bumping off Claptrap Carter, you see. That and the fact that he’d hated him to the point of paranoia for many years. Your Mrs Carter told me that.’

‘Not my Mrs Carter, Peach!’ The horror of being dubbed the friend of a murderess suddenly reared itself before Tucker’s fearful imagination. ‘Do you think this Culpepper might have done it?’

‘Might have, sir. He’s a genuine intellectual, I think. Kept quoting
Hamlet
at me.’ Percy knew how Tucker feared intellectuals. ‘And he’s no alibi for late Saturday night and early Sunday morning.’

‘Well, then. Follow it up, get the evidence, and bring him in. Is that all?’

‘Almost, sir. Except for the man who seems to be statistically the strongest bet of all.’

‘Statistically?’ Tommy Bloody Tucker took on the look of a suspicious goldfish, an expression which Percy would have loved to catch and fix for posterity. But we live in an imperfect world.

‘Involved with drugs, sir. In a big way, it seems. Plenty of money and guns floating about in the drugs world, sir. And lots of murders.’

‘Yes. I don’t need you to tell me that, Peach. This seems much the likeliest area for an arrest.’

‘Yes, sir. And the man in question was seen on the campus on Saturday night, sir. Drugs Squad have come up with that.’

‘Pity you couldn’t be so efficient yourself, Peach. Anything else against the fellow?’

‘Yes, sir. Malcolm McLean, sir, that’s the chap. And my own research supports the view that he’s our man.’

Tucker peered darkly at the man still sitting so rigidly upright on the chair in front of him. ‘Your own research? You’re not referring to that ridiculous —’

‘Masonic Prominence in Crime in the Brunton Area, sir.’ Percy enunciated the words as if they were already a title for the monograph he had threatened. ‘That’s it. Four times more likely to be guilty of serious crime round here if you’re a Freemason. Malcolm McLean’s a Mason, sir!’

Peach produced his last sentence like a schoolboy triumphantly concluding a geometrical proof. For the first time, he relaxed his pose, and gave Tommy Bloody Tucker the most seraphic of his smiles.

*

It was but a short journey to the vicarage of St Catherine’s parish church. The church itself rose high in smoke-blackened stone. The forty chimneys King Cotton and its associated industries had brought to Brunton had gone now, and there was a fund raising money for the cleaning of the stone, but the declining number of parishioners made it doubtful if the tall spire would ever rise in pristine glory above the houses which surrounded it.

The Victorian vicarage had been pulled down and six modern detached houses built in its grounds. The Church Commissioners had used some of the profits to build a practical, boxy, modern vicarage, a hundred yards from the church itself. ‘Designed for a small family, really. Plenty big enough for a single man and his housekeeper,’ Tom Matthews explained, as he led DI Peach and DS Blake into the square, rather clinical drawing room where he received church visitors.

He was dressed in a black clerical suit with a dog collar. He said to Lucy Blake, who had seen him in a green sweater and jeans on the UEL campus, ‘I always wear formal clothes here. It’s what most of my parishioners seem to expect.’ He was patently nervous, and Peach saw it and delayed his first question accordingly. Not many people got less nervous if you kept them guessing about the purpose of your visit.

He waited until they were all sitting rather awkwardly in the heavy, worn leather armchairs which had come from the former vicarage before he said, ‘We need to ask you a few important questions, Reverend Matthews.’

‘Please call me Tom. Everybody does. I told DS Blake that when we met yesterday.’ He grinned affably, looking younger than his forty-three years.

Lucy Blake countered with, ‘There was quite a lot that you didn’t tell me, though, wasn’t there?’

Peach was ready to attack now. ‘Quite a lot of vital information that you chose to conceal, in fact,’ he said. ‘Facts, or your version of facts, which you knew were quite vital to police officers investigating a brutal murder. I’d say to withhold information quite deliberately in these circumstances amounts to lying, wouldn’t you, DS Blake?’