Merely Players (23 page)

‘Thank you for being so frank, Mr Barnes. If you hear or think of anything which might be relevant to this case, please ring this number immediately.'

Paul waited impatiently with his hand on the phone until the police car turned into the lane and disappeared. It rang only twice before it was answered. He said without preamble, ‘It was two youngsters, not the big man in charge and his sidekick, who spoke to you. The very fact that they were sent here might be significant, but I think I stonewalled quite effectively.'

The man wore a charcoal-grey suit and an immaculate white shirt. He examined the chair offered to him and brushed the seat of it before smoothly piloting his elegant backside on to it. He plucked each of his cuffs half an inch forward and announced, ‘This is a delicate matter, Detective Chief Inspector Peach.'

‘It had better be a speedy one also,' said Percy, who had observed these preliminaries with diminishing patience.

‘I see. Well, my name is Percival Spencer. I am the manager and principal partner in the Ghyllside Hotel, Grasmere. A particularly beautiful village in the English Lakes.'

‘I know Grasmere. Very pretty, as you say. Gets very overcrowded in the tourist season. I don't know your hotel.'

Spencer's patronizing smile said that it would be quite unthinkable for an oik like this to defile the rooms of the Ghyllside. ‘As an exclusive hotel, we are a little off the beaten track. Away from those vulgar throngs of tourists who crowd the village at weekends, as you say.'

‘Mr Spencer, you asked to see the man in charge of the Cassidy murder investigation. I am he. But unless you can come to the point very quickly, I shall have to pass you on to one of my sergeants.'

Percival Spencer's shocked countenance was worthy of Lady Bracknell. ‘I see. Well, it's a delicate matter, as I said. We don't normally disclose bookings, but—'

‘But you think you should tell me about one booking in particular.'

Spencer looked as crestfallen as an actor whose best speech has been cut. ‘Yes.'

‘Would this booking have been for last Friday night, by any chance?'

‘It would, yes. A double room for Friday and Saturday nights. With dinner on Saturday and full English breakfast on Saturday and Sunday.'

‘In whose name?'

‘Ah! This is where the matter becomes very delicate.' Percival made an effort to resume his lofty demeanour. ‘The booking was made in the name of Jackson.'

‘Better than Smith, I suppose. Just. Must be the upmarket version. What was the real name of the customer?'

‘Normally we would never disclose this.'

‘I'll bear that in mind, next time I fancy a dirty weekend at the Ghyllside. Name, please.'

‘Well, it was Mr Adam Cassidy. One of our most valued clients. That's why I felt I should come here in person, Detective Inspector Peach.'

‘Detective Chief Inspector Peach – as we're being so delicate. Had Mr Cassidy used your services before?'

‘I'm happy to say that Mr Cassidy had spent several happy weekends with us. We regarded his extended custom as the best possible evidence that we had given good service.'

‘I'm sure you did. Were these happy weekends with a succession of different partners?'

Spencer looked at Peach as if he had just dropped a piece of fine china in his kitchen. ‘We regard these details as confidential. It is our duty to protect the privacy of our guests.'

‘And it is our duty to find who blew this particular guest apart. I wouldn't wish to find you attempting to frustrate the police in the course of their enquiries.'

Percival looked down at his highly polished black shoes. He told himself that he was fortunate in not having to deal with odious oiks like this very often. ‘I think Mr Cassidy was accompanied by a different lady on each of his visits to us.'

‘And have you any thoughts on the real identity of the lady who should have visited you as “Mrs Jackson” this weekend?'

‘None whatsoever.' Percival delivered those two words with considerable satisfaction.

Percy Peach stood up and allowed himself a closing beam of satisfaction. ‘Thank you for this information, Mr Spencer. I do hope that your exclusive establishment does not appear in a court case as a seedy refuge for adulterers. But I fear that will be out of my hands.'

‘Just follow me. I've arranged that we won't be disturbed.'

Luke Cassidy led the CID men rapidly past a few hundred curious young eyes, along a wide corridor, and then through an empty classroom to an ancillary room with the words HISTORY SEMINAR on the door. There were about ten upright chairs in here. A large map of England during the Civil War dominated the wall opposite the entrance, with Van Dyke's flattering portrait of Charles I on one side of it and Cromwell, warts and all, on the other. Cassidy ushered them to the two chairs he had set ready for them and took a third chair opposite them himself. He sat rather awkwardly for a moment with arms folded, then dropped them stiffly to his sides, as if he had read the rules of body language and was determined to heed them.

The teacher looked very tired, Peach thought. He had an indoor pallor about him. He looked in dire need of a holiday in a sunnier part of the world. In the silence which hung in this windowless room, the sound of children's voices came faintly to them, a mixture of the shrill and the raucous. Luke Cassidy said with needless apology, ‘They're all a bit excited at this time of year. We finish for the Christmas break tomorrow.'

Peach said, ‘The biggest problem with murders is that we cannot interview the victim. We always have to build up a picture of a person we didn't know at all before his death. We've spoken to Jane Cassidy; we normally see the spouse first in the case of a suspicious death. But other than her, you're the first person we've spoken to who can give us an accurate account of Adam's family life.'

Luke Cassidy said almost eagerly, ‘My mother's been dead for years. My father's got bad rheumatoid arthritis and is failing badly. We're trying to keep him in his own house and out of the home he doesn't want to go to.'

Clyde Northcott said quietly, ‘Who is “we”, Mr Cassidy?'

A faint, strained smile. ‘My wife and I. Hazel cooks a meal for him on most days and I take it round for him. I get my two children to pop in and see him whenever I can, but in all truth there isn't much for them there. Dad's legs have more or less gone, so he won't come round to our place, even in the car. He can't do much for himself any more, and frankly he cares less and less about whatever life is left to him.'

This summary of lonely, confined old age had come tumbling out as though he'd prepared it, but he could scarcely have done that. It was more likely the account of his father's situation and his own part in it which he had grown used to offering as a response to polite queries about old Harry Cassidy's health. Peach said quietly, ‘Your father had two sons, Mr Cassidy. Tell us about his relationship with Adam.'

The long, pale face winced instinctively. Whatever the cause of it, this man was under a lot of strain. ‘Dad doted on Adam. He's gone downhill quickly in the few days since my brother's death. He was never a bad dad to me, but Adam was always his favourite, even when we were kids.'

‘And Adam responded to this?'

There was a long pause, as though Luke was fighting to be fair and finding it difficult. ‘Sometimes I felt that Adam wasn't really capable of deep attachments. He scarcely bothered to keep in touch with the two children of his first marriage, and he had difficulty even remembering the names of my two – his only niece and nephew. His response to Dad's decline was to pretend it didn't exist until he was forced to confront it, and then to throw money at it. What Dad really wanted was to see Adam, to talk to him and hear about this glamorous world where he'd become such a hit. It couldn't have been more different from his father's world, but that in itself would have made it interesting for Dad.'

‘Did he see Harry very often?'

‘No. That was a bone of contention between Adam and me. He would promise to come and then not turn up. I used to watch the disappointment gathering in Dad's face as the hours passed and he realized he wasn't going to see Adam after all. He always made excuses for him, but I knew how much he was hurting.'

‘You must have resented this. Particularly when Harry was taking up so much of your own life.'

‘I don't begrudge the hours I have to spend with Dad. He was a good husband to Mum and he misses her now. He's been a good father to me, in his own way. I can still see him at forty, playing cricket with us and encouraging us at school, generous with his love and his time. I owe him for that, and I'm happy to give him my love now, when he's just the shell of the man he was.'

Luke Cassidy was clearly a man in whom feelings ran deep. A passionate man, but one under considerable strain; that was often a combination which erupted into unforeseen violence. Peach wondered about the influence upon him of the wife he had seemed so anxious to keep away from them. Peach suggested quietly, insidiously, ‘But Adam did not feel a similar impulse to repay your father's years of care?'

It was as if he had broken a dam and released the pent-up waters behind it. ‘Adam didn't seem to feel anything at all, most of the time! Dad had indulged him, the way he would never have indulged me, when he wanted to become an actor. All right, it was justified, in the end, because Adam was a success. But for a man of Dad's background, his support must have cost him a lot. I know Dad's friends made fun of Adam's show-business pretensions, but Harry never wavered; I think he was the only one in the family who really believed that Adam could make a go of it.'

‘That must have made Adam's neglect over the last few years hard for Harry to bear.'

Luke shook his head violently. ‘No. It never did that. Dad would never admit to the slightest fault in Adam. It was always someone else's fault when he didn't see him for months.'

‘Yours, perhaps.'

A wan, bitter smile. ‘Sometimes. As the world closes in on old people, logic deserts them, and they tend to lash out at the ones nearest to them, don't they?'

‘Which makes life very hard for people like you.'

He shook his head again, more gently this time. ‘I try not to resent it in Dad. He can't help it, any more than he can help his bigotry against the Asians in the town or indeed against most things new. But I used to get furious with bloody Adam, who could have given Dad so much pleasure so easily and yet chose not to.'

‘This must have soured your own relationship with your brother.'

Again that sad, reluctant smile. ‘I sometimes felt we'd been growing steadily further apart since we were about eighteen. But it was his neglect of Dad which made me feel really bitter against him. Sometimes it felt as if Adam chose to withhold himself simply on a whim, as if he wished to demonstrate how precious his presence and his attention were to Dad. He behaved as if he was above ordinary, human emotion – as if that were something he despised in himself and others. I'd begun to feel over these last few months that Dad would be better without him altogether. At least that way he wouldn't be perpetually disappointed.'

Peach let that last sentiment hang in the air for what seemed to Luke a long, significant moment. Then he said quietly, ‘You sound as if you are happy to be rid of him.'

Luke gave them such a measured reply that it seemed as if he had been waiting through the rest of the interview for this very question. ‘I'm not glad Adam's dead. Death brings with it memories of happier times in the past and thoughts of chances missed. And this has hit Dad really hard. He's behaving as if he has nothing left to live for now. I don't think he'll last long.'

Peach nodded to Clyde Northcott, who said formally, ‘Did you kill your brother, Mr Cassidy?'

There was no outrage. Just that sad, pensive smile again. ‘No. There were times when I felt like doing that; I expect you come across that quite often within families. But it wasn't me who killed him.'

‘Then have you any idea who did?'

‘No. But I wasn't involved in Adam's life, apart from the small, intimate part which concerned Dad. I know Adam's wife and his children. Our two families have met up, but not often. I think it was Boxing Day when we last saw them, so it's virtually a year ago. So the only bit of Adam's life I've been concerned with over that period is his relationship – or rather his non-relationship – with Dad, which I've told you about.'

There was something a little pedantic in his determination to get the details right. But that is plainly what he was: a careful, conscientious man, doing his best for a father who did not appreciate his efforts. DS Northcott finished his note and asked, ‘Where were you last Friday night, Mr Cassidy?'

‘I went out to the pub at about eight o'clock – at my wife's insistence – intending to stay for only an hour or so. She knew I'd had a trying week at school and with Dad, and she felt I needed a break. In the event, Hazel was right. I saw friends in the White Hart whom I hadn't seen for months and spent more like three hours than one with them. It was after eleven when I got home. About twenty past, I should think.'

Again it seemed important to him that he gave them all the detail he could. CID officers shouldn't mock that quality, thought Clyde; so often people weren't able or weren't willing to give them the degree of detail they needed. He smiled at Luke Cassidy and said, ‘Thank you. We can check this out easily enough at the pub, I expect.'

‘The pub gets very crowded on Friday night. The landlord and his staff might not remember exact times. But Hazel will certainly confirm them for you.'

They took a quiet leave of this quiet man. But Peach said after they had made their way through a corridor of curious young eyes to the car, ‘We'll check out Friday night with the clientele of the White Hart, not his missus, I think.'