He was trained to observe. He saw things which other people would have missed without any conscious effort. In truth, that was not all police training. He had been a drug dealer, even a suspect in a murder case, before Percy Peach had rescued him, persuaded him to become a copper, and then recruited him into CID a couple of years later. Northcott had learned early in life to watch his back and keep his eyes and ears open. It was a quality very useful to him, even now that he had joined the right side of the law.
The woman might be going somewhere entirely innocent — statistically she probably was. But he’d been lucky to spot her as she turned onto the main road at the T-junction and he was pretty sure she hadn’t seen him. He hesitated for but a moment, then eased the Focus out into the traffic, two cars behind the blue BMW, and kept it in view as they moved out of Brunton and into the countryside.
This might be a wild goose chase, but it would be interesting to see where the widow of James O’Connor was heading.
She was alone in the sports car and he was confident she hadn’t spotted him. She drove north, out along the A59, accelerating as the traffic thinned, so that at one stage he was afraid of losing her. But he saw her indicating a left turn and followed her at a safe distance as she eased the sleek blue car on to a much narrower lane. Clyde knew this road; he’d roared over it many times on the Yamaha 350 motorcycle which was his preferred mode of transport. The lane climbed upwards over the flank of Pendle Hill, the height which rose towards two thousand feet and dominated the softer country of the Ribble Valley beneath it.
It was past nine o’clock now and the cars all had their lights on. Clyde kept a discreet distance behind the BMW, watching the red of its rear lights appearing and disappearing as it climbed the hill ahead of him. He thought he knew where it was heading. There was a pub on the side of the hill, busy at weekends but dependent on people who drove out on summer evenings for much trade beyond that. It was still spring and still quite cool up here by this time of night. Clyde guessed correctly that the pub would not have much custom tonight, despite the handwritten notice advertising food at the bar. As Sarah O’Connor turned the blue BMW into the car park, there were only two other cars parked there. Clyde waited until she had hurried into the pub before he eased the Focus gently into the car park. He chose the opposite end of the parking area and reversed the Ford in so as to be ready for a swift exit.
The other two vehicles were a battered Ford Transit van and a green Honda Civic. Clyde wondered whether Sarah O’Connor was meeting the driver of one of these or someone yet to arrive. He would wait ten minutes and then decide whether to venture into the hostelry. He couldn’t hope to preserve his anonymity if he did that.
It was very quiet on the hillside as the sky darkened above him. Because of the silence, he heard the car when it was still a long way away. He watched its headlights appearing and disappearing as it wound its way along the lane and climbed closer, felt a thrill of anticipation as it indicated and then swung swiftly into the car park and drew up next to the blue BMW Z4. Clyde slid down in his seat, but the man who emerged from the red Jaguar did not even glance towards him in the semi-darkness.
Dominic O’Connor strode swiftly into the pub and his meeting with his brother’s widow.
Northcott reported his Thursday-night journey to Peach as they rode out on the following morning to their next interview in this sprawling case. ‘Interesting,’ said Percy. ‘You’re sure neither of them saw you?’
‘Absolutely sure. I decided there wasn’t much point in hanging around in the pub car park, so I don’t know how long they were in there. It could have been a completely innocent social meeting, of course.’
‘And Tommy Bloody Tucker could win the final of Mastermind. Meetings like that are suspicious until proved otherwise, to cynical fuzz like us. You showed initiative surprising in a man recruited to be a hard bastard.’
‘I’ve told you before: I’m not just a pretty face.’
Peach appeared to think this even more amusing than Clyde had expected. But there was no time for further discussion. They were outside the high electronic gates of the house they were visiting. Much to Percy’s disgust, they had to announce themselves into the speaker in the tall brick gatepost. The gates swung silently open thirty seconds later.
It was a modern house, but a large one and set in extensive grounds. Between two and three million pounds, Peach estimated; you got a feeling for prices when you moved around the area. The maid led them into a huge lounge, where the woman who waited for them was as well-groomed as the lawns and gardens around her house. She was a phenomenon which was still rare in north-east Lancashire: a rich and powerful woman who had made her money almost entirely by her own efforts. It was even rarer to find a woman who reputedly had used criminal activities to underpin her success.
Linda Coleman seated them on the sofa opposite her armchair, with the light directly into their faces. Then she ordered that coffee should be served, without asking them whether they wanted it. Mrs Coleman had the air of a woman who was used to being obeyed; no doubt that was exactly the impression she wished to convey. She said, ‘I shall give you all the help I can in the matter of James O’Connor’s death. It will be very little.’
She was a woman at ease with herself and her surroundings. Her dark green dress was in a smooth fabric which neither of the men could identify. ‘Expensive’ was as accurate as Clyde Northcott could get. He wondered how much she had paid to get soft leather shoes which exactly matched the shade of her dress. They knew from research before they came here that the face beneath the golden, short-cut hair was forty-four years old, otherwise they would have assessed it as younger. The clear blue eyes looked these two contrasting men up and down as they sat awkwardly on the deep-seated sofa. Those cold eyes announced that she was in charge here and that they would do well to remember that.
Peach was not a man who took kindly to such subordination. He said without preamble, ‘Why do you think you were invited to Monday night’s celebration at Claughton Towers, Mrs Coleman?’
‘That is surely a question you should ask of the man who invited me. As he is no longer here to answer it, perhaps his PA or his wife could provide your answer.’
‘But I am asking you. It is surely a question you must have asked yourself when you received the invitation.’
She stared at him for a moment before deciding to answer the question after all. ‘We were business rivals who had become business partners. Jim was recognising that by asking me to sit with the people who’d been working for him for years.’ The answer came clearly and without hesitation, as if she had dispensed with the idea of deceit.
‘James O’Connor had taken over some of your enterprises.’
‘If you care to put it like that, yes. I prefer to regard it as a profitable merging of mutual interests. I’d hardly have been placed on the table immediately below his if Jim hadn’t regarded me as an important player.’
Peach gave her a sour smile. ‘An important player in what particular game, Mrs Coleman?’
‘Retail interests, principally. I own a town-centre woollens shop, one of the few independent traders left outside the big chains. We also have a men’s outfitters, which supplies most of the school uniforms in the town.’
‘And makes surprising profits.’
‘We do all right.’
‘Profits which are out of all proportion to the turnover in these shops.’
‘I didn’t realise you claimed to be an expert in retail merchandising. The modern police service must be amazingly tolerant, if you are encouraged to develop such interests.’
‘Did James O’Connor also take over the prostitution rings for which these shops are a front?’