The Pursuit of Truth Page 11

  Healey shook his head. Farrell continued, ‘Yes, Rex, that’s our esteemed Head of Department, decided a couple of years ago that he had too much administration to do, so he invented this title ‘Departmental Administrator’ and got faculty agreement to pay someone five hundred a year to take it on. The deal was this extra five hundred, and less teaching. I wouldn’t have touched it with a bargepole but Neville jumped at it.’

  ‘For the money?’

  ‘Perhaps. But also to busy himself with all kinds of inconsequential things, so he had an excuse for not doing others. And poke his nose into areas that didn’t concern him. At least, that’s what I think.’

  ‘He was nosy?’

  ‘I’d never leave him in my room by himself. I always had the feeling that he’d go rooting through my things. And then there was the big hoo-ha over the secret recordings he was making of colleagues.’

  ‘When was that?’

  ‘It all blew up a couple of years ago but God knows how long he had been doing it. Used to sit and chat and all the time he’d have his little tape recorder going. Of course he said it was for research and that he’d never reveal anything sensitive about anyone if he published his findings. He published bugger all so that wasn’t a problem, it was just a breach of trust between colleagues. You probably think I’m being sanctimonious. But everybody felt that way.’

  While Healey denied that he thought him sanctimonious, Farrell finished his beer. ‘Another?’ he asked.

  ‘No, thanks. But are you …? Well, all right. But just a half.’

  It took Healey and Farrell nearly an hour to walk the three quarters of a mile back to Beech Lane. They talked all the way, and whenever they became particularly involved with what they were saying, they would stop and stand, occasionally shifting their feet about, for minutes at a time. Farrell told Healey more about the Department and the kind of work they did. Most of their students, it seemed, were teachers of English as a foreign language, most of them from overseas but some from Britain. Tim Wright, for instance. Didn’t he want to get a job in the Department and wouldn’t there be one going now that Crouch was dead, asked Healey. Farrell thought him quite bright but he doubted that he would be willing to work hard enough. There would be dozens of applicants if they advertised, and they didn’t want to make the same mistake they had with Crouch. Perhaps they could offer him the post for a year and then advertise. But nothing would happen until Rex got back from holiday.

  Carter’s name came up again, and his passion for work. Healey said that he would never have guessed that Carter was only a year older than Farrell. Farrell shrugged. He said that he thought of Carter as a ‘monstruo de la naturaleza’, a monster of nature, and explained that this is what Cervantes of Don Quijote fame had called Lope de Vega, the Spanish writer of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, whose literary production had been enormous. He’d been married twice and had several children, some of them illegitimate.

  Farrell explained that he had come across Lope de Vega when he had been doing his first degree, which had been in Spanish studies. He had intended to stick with Spanish and had actually registered for a PhD and gone to Madrid, with his wife and their recently born first child, to do research. Short of money, he had started teaching English there – you didn’t have to know anything about teaching, just be a native speaker. ‘And that,’ he said, ‘is how I got into this business. I did an MA at Bangor, Rex was the external examiner, he liked my dissertation, and offered me a job here. That’s my life story. What about yours?’

  Healey told him about how he’d come to join the police. ‘In spite of what my grandmother told me.’

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘That when you join the police, you’re no longer a man.’

  ‘What did she mean by that?’

  ‘I think she meant that you aren’t free to do what you personally think is right, you have to follow the rules. I think that’s what she meant. I remember one of the stories she told us as kids was of her sister’s husband, who was in the police. He set fire to his chimney – probably just to clean it, my father always did – and his brother, who was also in the police, reported him. Who to, I don’t know, but she thought this wasn’t the way to behave.

  ‘There was another story my grandmother told us, about her husband walking home in the evening – he was a shop manager – and coming across two policemen giving someone a beating in a dark alley. ‘Leave that man alone,’ he said, or some such thing. They did, but they must have found out who he was, because from then on police kept coming to the shop where he worked and asking to see him. Just to cause trouble for him.’ Healey paused. ‘That was Liverpool. She wasn’t the only one who didn’t hold the police in high regard.’

  ‘No,’ agreed Farrell.

  They walked on a little way, stopping under a streetlamp, leaning against the low wall of one of the large red brick houses that lined the pavement side of Wilderness Road. On the other side was the Wilderness itself, a wooded area that was part of the old university campus and enclosed by a tall chain-link fence.

  ‘But getting back to you,’ said Healey, ‘what do you teach? English?’

  ‘Not so much English. Chris does that. Well he doesn’t teach English exactly; he teaches about it. You know, the grammar, pronunciation. No, what I teach is how to teach English. Different methods, different theories of learning, and so on. And also how to test people’s English. That’s my speciality in fact.’

  Healey passed no comment.

  ‘What I’m really interested in, though,’ continued Farrell, ‘is the way children learn their first language. I’ve been making recordings of our youngest since she was a few months old. I’ve transcribed a lot of it. Just need to analyse it now.’

  ‘How many children have you got?’

  ‘Three. All girls. Thirteen, twelve and three.’ He responded to the widening of Healey’s eyes. ‘Yes, the last one was a surprise, but a welcome one. How about you?’

  ‘Just two. A girl thirteen and a boy eight.’

  ‘So we’ve both got thirteen-year-old girls. Perhaps they should meet.’

  ‘Probably they already have. Meg’s at Maiden Erlegh.’

  ‘Molly’s at Kendrick.’

  ‘Ah.’ Healey’s daughter hadn’t wanted to take the entrance exam for the grammar school, and he hadn’t tried to make her. He didn’t regret it, though he thought she might one day. ‘Well, yes, perhaps they should meet.’ It would be interesting, he thought, since Meg insisted that they were all snobs at Kendrick.

  An upstairs window above them closed with a bang and there was a rustling in the undergrowth opposite. ‘Fox,’ said Healey. They walked on.

  Somehow or other they got to talking about football. Since childhood Healey had supported Liverpool, who had just won the league for the second year in succession. Once he learned that Farrell’s team was Everton, who had come seventh, he became almost apologetic about his own team’s success. It was years since Healey had been to Anfield but Farrell managed to get to Goodison four or five times a year, he said. Forgetting momentarily the need for tact, Healey recalled the letter to the Liverpool Echo in which an Everton supporter said that he had noticed that the team’s centre forward always wore sweatbands. He had a question: why? The implication being that the player was so lazy that he never broke sweat. Healey chuckled at the memory but Farrell seemed unamused, so Healey quickly changed the subject to the common enemy, Manchester United, who, they both agreed, would never win the league while Atkinson was manager.

  They moved on to politics. Healey wasn’t surprised when Farrell said he had always voted Labour. Healey couldn’t say the same; he had voted for the Liberal Alliance in June, when the Conservatives had won an unexpected landslide victory, something which they both thought was as much to do with the Falklands War as anything else. They had both been against the war. Farrell had taken part in demonstrations, while Healey admitted that, to his shame, he had kept his head down and said nothing about it to his
fellow officers.

  They had almost reached Beech Lane when Farrell mentioned the part-time course brochures, which Healey had been carrying with him since they left Farrell’s house. ‘I know you haven’t had a chance to look at them, but when you do, if there’s anything you want to know, feel free to ask. Give me a call, or whatever. I suppose there’s every likelihood we’ll be meeting up again soon, as long as you’re working on the case.’ Before Healey was able to respond, Farrell continued, ‘No, don’t worry, I’m not going to ask you about it.’

  ‘That’s all right. And since you’ve mentioned the case, I hope you don’t mind me mentioning the form you were going to get from Wright.’

  ‘Christ, sorry, yes. I forgot. I saw him but completely forgot. I’ll get it from him first thing, before they go to Stratford. Where will you be?’

  ‘I can’t be sure. Could you leave it with one of the officers at the Hall?’

  ‘I’ll do that.’

  ‘And thanks for this.’ Healey held up the booklets. ‘If nothing else, they may help me think a bit more clearly about what I want to do.’

  They were now standing outside Healey’s house. He gestured towards it. ‘I’d like to invite you in but I think I’d better get to bed. It’s going to be an early start tomorrow.’

  ‘For me too. And the first thing I have to do is get you that form.’

  ‘Thanks. Next time, though, you must come in for a drink.’

  ‘Look forward to it.’

  As he watched Farrell make his way up the road, Healey fumbled in his pocket for his keys. Pulling them out, he advanced on the door and, after a couple of failed attempts, fitted the key in the lock and turned it. Inside, switching the hall light on, he looked at his face in the mirror. ‘You drink too much,’ he said.

  In the kitchen he filled a half-pint glass with water from the tap and drank it down. He did the same with a second. Then he walked through to his study, pulled a book from a shelf and sat heavily in his chair. He had got a free copy of Chambers Biographical Dictionary from a book club. In it he found LOPE (DE VEGA) and was directed to VEGA CARPIO. He read that ‘the mere list of Lope’s works presents a picture of unparalleled mental activity.’ Chris Carter all right. But was it true of Carter, as the entry said of de Vega, that ‘imagination and creative power were not amongst his gifts?’ Healey wondered too whether Carter would die poor, ‘after giving almost all his income to charities and the church.’ ‘Somehow I don’t think so,’ he said aloud. He made to stand but sank back heavily into the chair. He was only able to get up after he had placed his hands on the arms of the chair and pushed slowly upwards. As he passed the mirror in the living room, he looked at himself again. ‘And you’re getting old,’ he said.

  He went into the front room and switched on the television. The cricket highlights were just finishing. And England were just about finished too. New Zealand only needed 101 to win, which they duly obtained. The Australian presenter was there again, praising the New Zealanders on their first victory in a test match in England, lamenting England’s performance, excusing only Gower, who had made a century and Willis who had taken five wickets for very few runs in the second innings. ‘Bugger off,’ said Healey, switched off the television and made his way upstairs to bed.

  His daughter’s bedroom door was half-open. Creeping in, he stood by the bed. Her face was lit by the light from the landing. He bent down and kissed her forehead. She stirred slightly but did not wake. Turning, he went out and then into his son’s room. Kissing him, he said, ‘Won’t be long before you’re coming back from the pub drunk too.’

  In bed, Healey lay on his back, with his eyes open, for several minutes. Eventually he turned towards his wife, who hadn’t woken when he came in. ‘Things are going to get better,’ he whispered, and leaned across her to turn off the light.

  no idea

  they’ve got no bloody idea

  no way they can get me

  not unless …

  but no, that won’t happen

  TUESDAY

  Healey woke at six, feeling fit and well, despite the previous night’s drinking. This was going to be a good day. He swung straight out of bed, went downstairs, put on the kettle and went out into the garden. A blackbird that had been searching the earth beneath the rose bushes called in alarm as it made its escape, flying just above the ground until it reached the gap in the pines, then up and over the shed. ‘You fool,’ said Healey, ‘as if I’d hurt you.’ He bent down and sniffed a yellow rose that he’d bought on the way to Oxford the previous year; whisky something, he seemed to remember it being called. Straightening up, and wincing as much out of habit as because of the twinge of pain this gave him, he walked to the bottom of the garden and looked back up to the house. The children’s bedroom windows were all open and so too were the French windows from the living room, something which he hadn’t noticed when he passed through the room the night before.

  He went back to the kitchen, and poured boiling water onto a teabag in his favourite mug, one with a picture of Liverpool Cathedral on its side, which his children had bought him when the family had made a day trip to that city. While he waited for this to brew, he collected his notepad and a pen, and began to go through the notes he had made the previous afternoon. Twenty minutes and a second mug of tea later, sitting at the table on the terrace, he made a neat copy of his numbered list of things to do. Before getting up and setting off to the Hall on foot, he added one more point, at the top: 0 – Teague!

  Arriving at the Hall just before 7.30, Healey went straight to the incident room. He took the folder with his name on it from the wire basket on the central table and started to go through its contents. The top sheet recorded a telephone message for him to meet with the Super at three o’clock the previous afternoon, which was dated Monday and timed at 12.11 pm. He had phoned and sorted that out with the Super. When asked where he’d been at three – they’d been unable to reach him anywhere – he invented a visit to the University, where he couldn’t find any of the people he wanted to speak to. The purpose of the meeting with the Super had only been to report on progress so far, which he’d done over the phone, apparently to the Super’s satisfaction. It was made clear to Healey, however, that the Chief Constable, seemingly a friend of the University Rector, was taking an interest. ‘So keep me informed,’ had been the Super’s last words.

  Flipping through the other papers in the file, Healey stopped at the report on the body. He was already familiar with its contents: essentially that Crouch had suffered multiple fractures but had died from the massive insult his brain received when his head hit the ground. The report also noted that there was evidence of another distinct and substantial blow to the left temple which had been inflicted by some blunt object before impact with the ground. Unlikely to be after, thought Healey, grimly. And not while he’s falling. He took out a pen and made a note to find out if the earlier blow was sufficient to cause unconsciousness.

  The scene of crime officer’s report, which he read next, was remarkable for the lack of information it provided. There were no fingerprints other than Crouch’s. There was no evidence of a struggle of any kind. Healey was pondering this when he heard the door squeak open behind him. ‘Morning, sir,’ he heard. It was Teague’s cheery voice.

  ‘Good morning, Teague,’ he responded in as friendly a manner as he could muster. ‘Come and sit down.’ Now that the time had come, he wanted to postpone it but he knew he couldn’t. ‘Look … erm … I realise I’ve been a bit difficult this last couple of days.’

  ‘No, you haven’t, sir.’ Teague stood beside him.

  ‘… been a bit off hand … haven’t kept you abreast of things … so I thought we should just sit down and go through everything together.’

  Teague, managing to look both baffled and pleased, pulled up a chair and sat down. Healey took out his list. ‘First, we agreed that we’re dealing with murder, not suicide?’

  ‘Even though there was that note that threatened to ex
pose something he’d done?’

  ‘Well, let’s come back to the note later. By the way, have we had anything back on the comparison between that and the notice I gave you?’ Healey started to look through his folder.

  ‘No, I’ll get on to them right away, as soon as we’ve finished,’ said Teague.

  ‘Right. No, the key thing is the blow to the head before he fell.’

  ‘But nothing in the room he could have been hit with.’

  ‘No, but something missing from the room that you’d expect to be there.’

  ‘What’s that, sir?’

  ‘His bat. He’d been playing cricket. He uses his own bat. The rest of his kit is in the room. But no bat.’

  ‘Ah.’ Teague looked suitably impressed.

  ‘And while we’re talking about things missing from the room, where’s his diary? Look at everything that Crouch has to do with and you see he’s a methodical person. His books, his files, his tape recordings, all of them neatly organised. So he must have a diary. It isn’t in his briefcase, not in the clothes he had at the Hall, not in his office at the University.’

  ‘What about his house?’

  ‘I looked there too.’

  ‘So you’re saying someone took it.’

  ‘And why would they take it?’

  ‘There’s something incriminating in it?’

  ‘Such as?’

  Teague was silent for a few moments. ‘Their name? Maybe an appointment. An appointment that night. He was expecting someone and he had them down in his diary.’

  ‘Spot on. At least that’s what I think. It would explain why he told his wife he was staying late in the Hall. And that would also suggest that it was someone he knew well, to arrange to see them around midnight or later.’

  ‘So find the diary.’

  ‘Or find the bat. Though there’s every chance that they’ve been disposed of by now. But, yes, we should be looking for them. Can you organise a search of university grounds, any wasteland and the front gardens of the houses around the Hall?’