What had been a scullery with stone sinks when the house was new was now a well-fitted small kitchen; what had originally been a large wash-house behind this was now a spacious utility room. And still the buildings stretched backwards, into the garden which climbed away beyond them. Substantial buildings like this needed a lot of heating, but that had not been a major problem in 1900. Coal had been plentiful and cheap and the servants to carry it readily available. The rearmost building of all had once been a substantial coal store, capable of housing two or three tons of the shining black fuel if necessary.
It was a long time since this section of the house had been used for its original purpose. It now had a fine new entrance door, indicating that it had been converted into an office which could operate independently from the rest of the house. To their surprise, the door opened instantly when Peach turned the handle.
On this fresh May day of clear skies and high white clouds, their nostrils as they moved out of the clear air and into the room were assailed instantly by a scent both of them had known before and did not seek to smell again. Unnaturally sweet and characteristically foetid: the scent of human death.
Dominic O’Connor lay slumped over his desk with his head laid sideways upon it. The cord around his neck had bitten so deeply into it that it was scarcely visible beneath the darkening flesh. His eyes were wide and bulging, as if in astonishment at what had happened to him. He looked as if he had been surprised only minutes before they arrived.
Only the odour announced to them that he had been dead for several hours at least.
NINE
Peter Coleman was arrested and charged with the murder of James O’Connor at one o’clock on Saturday. Although a heavy police presence surrounded his house for the arrest, it was surprisingly low key and undramatic in the end. One of the thugs Coleman used to enforce security for the Lennon organisation disclosed the fact that his chief had driven to Claughton Towers with the sole aim of shooting the man at the centre of the evening’s celebration. As Peach had forecast, the rat deserted his sinking master almost eagerly, once his own safety was threatened.
Chief Superintendent Tucker didn’t like having his weekends interrupted. But Saturday was a quiet news day, so there was every chance that his media briefing would go out unedited on radio and television. When you had good news to impart to the public, you wanted maximum coverage; he always emphasized that to his staff. And it wouldn’t do him any harm if the Chief Constable saw him broadcasting the news of a police triumph to the nation at large.
He had scheduled the briefing for four thirty, and the cameras and microphones, as well as the crime reporters from national and local press, were in position by then. Thomas Bulstrode Tucker spent a good twenty minutes with the make-up girls, removing his rimless glasses to allow them to powder and groom him before the single large mirror in their improvised set-up in the town hall. Tucker had designated this venue, in the belief that he would make an impressive figure at the top of the wide stone steps, as he announced his victory over the darker forces in society. A civic setting would give him gravitas. Gravitas was a very important element in the armoury of T.B. Tucker.
He liked to appear in a well-pressed uniform on these occasions, believing correctly that smartness added conviction in the public eye. Both BBC television and ITV microphones were here, he noted with approval. He nodded a friendly greeting to the young woman who was the BBC’s weekend presenter in the north-west. ‘Announce me as the man who directed this successful investigation of a major crime,’ he whispered to her, as the director gave the one-minute warning.
Tucker had originally thought he would appear sitting behind a table, with lesser mortals in uniform alongside him to emphasise his status. But uniforms were thin on the ground on a Saturday, and he was secretly pleased that that insufferable man Peach had said he was pursuing an inquiry in the Wilpshire district of the town and wouldn’t be around for this PR exercise. PR was emphatically not Peach’s forte and he made Tucker nervous when he was anywhere in the vicinity. Peach might have produced this result, but it needed a man with his chief’s gifts to put the right gloss on it and make the most of the situation. He would appear standing at the top of the town hall steps: that would give a greater sense of urgency.
The rather nervous presenter announced Tucker as he had requested: as the man in charge of this investigation into the brutal murder of a popular local businessman who was also a former international sportsman. She followed this with her first question, which Tucker had also set up for himself. ‘We understand that a man is now helping you with your enquiries.’
Tommy Bloody Tucker smiled urbanely. ‘That is correct, Jenny. But I think this is surely a bit of police jargon which we can dispense with on this occasion. Let us be honest and direct; I am here to tell you that an arrest has been made and that charges will be preferred within the next couple of hours.’
He paused, smiling modestly through the little flutter of reaction which followed his statement. Then he added, ‘I shall not give you the offender’s name at the moment. That will be released as soon as he has been charged with the crime of murder.’
He paused. The word still made its impact, even in this violent century. Jenny said, ‘Did you make the arrest yourself, sir?’
Tucker gave her an avuncular smile. ‘I don’t see any need for “sirs” here. I am a member of the police service who is proud to be a humble servant of the public.’
‘Who pay your wages,’ said the presenter, with a rather more acid smile.
‘Who pay our wages and I’m sure are pleased to do so, when we produce results like this one.’
‘So you led the enquiry and made the arrest yourself, Superintendent Tucker?’
‘Chief Superintendent, Jenny. Not that we’re going to stand on ceremony here, are we? Not with a result like this. Rejoice, as a certain fine lady said before me. Rejoice and be thankful for our success!’
‘We shall, Chief Superintendent. Did you arrest this man yourself?’
Tucker’s noble brow wrinkled a little with irritation at this nit-picking. He said with a lofty smile, ‘I don’t think you appreciate the way in which the system operates, Jenny. You couldn’t be expected to, I suppose. I direct the team. I maintain an overview of order and disorder in the area. I estimate the place this particular crime occupies within that. I direct an efficient and enthusiastic team and ensure that it produces the desired results.’
‘So you don’t soil your administrative hands with anything as crude as the arrest of a violent criminal.’
There was a ripple of amusement among the cynical old hacks at the bottom of the steps. It was nothing as vulgar as hilarity, but rather the pinprick of merriment which pomposity brings upon itself. Tucker said loftily, ‘I have confidence in my team. I allow my officers to get on with their work. And now, if there are no other questions, I am sure that we all have things to do.’
He had been nettled by his television interviewer into a further error. It was a mistake even to suggest questions from the seasoned hacks, who resented having to stand outdoors and be patronised by this balloon of self importance. Alf Houldsworth, former Daily Express crime reporter who was enlivening his retirement with part-time work on the local Lancashire Telegraph, enjoyed the occasional pint and exchange of information with Percy Peach. He knew all about Tommy Bloody Tucker. He called from the edge of the crowd, ‘So is the officer who has personally pursued and trapped this highly dangerous man here for us to congratulate?’