The Pursuit of Truth Read online

  Before he could ask her another question, there was a tap at the door. ‘Come,’ called out the Warden. Enid stepped in with two cups of tea, a bowl of sugar and a plate of biscuits, from which Miss Colgan immediately took a chocolate digestive. Only then did Healey feel able to continue.

  ‘What can you tell me about Crouch?’

  Miss Colgan swallowed what remained of the biscuit, ran her tongue round her upper teeth and smiled. ‘Very little, I’m afraid. I only know him from the summer school, which he’s taught on each year since they first came here. This is the third year, but I can’t say I’ve got to know him. He always kept very much to himself. Married to a woman from the Philippines he met when he was working there. They have a daughter, about four years old, I think.’

  ‘What sort of person was he?’

  ‘As I said, I didn’t really get to know him. He seemed to be a very particular person, finicky even, tended to worry about what I regarded as rather trivial matters.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘The fact that the beer in the bar wasn’t quite as cold as he thought it should be. That the coffee wasn’t strong enough. Things of that order.’

  ‘He complained?’

  ‘He did. But I’m not saying, Chief Inspector, that he had no grounds for complaint, simply that he was always the one who found fault. And having made his complaint, he persisted with it until he was satisfied that things had been put right.’

  Healey pictured the body beneath the open window. ‘Would you say he was a happy man?’

  ‘Who can say for sure that someone is a happy person? But in my estimation, no, he wasn’t. He rarely smiled, if ever, and he went about as if he carried the world’s worries on his shoulders.’

  ‘Did you notice any change during the course of the summer school?’

  ‘No, not really. He seemed very much the same as ever.’

  ‘How did he get on with the other tutors, do you know?’

  ‘Well enough, I think. I didn’t see any evidence of ill feeling.’

  ‘And with the students?’

  ‘I don’t know. I see very little of them myself. I could ask my staff, if that would help?’

  Healey hesitated before replying. ‘Yes, that would be helpful, Miss Colgan. One last thing, what time does the Hall close?’

  The Warden smiled again. ‘It doesn’t close.’

  ‘So anyone could come in off the street, at any time?’

  ‘They’d have to come through Reception, where there’s always a porter on duty. They’d need to have a key to get in through any of the other entrances.’

  Healey nodded and stood up. ‘Now, if I may, I’d like to see Crouch’s room.’

  Shit, we need to get our stories straight

  When Healey knocked at the door of what Miss Colgan had referred to as Crouch’s ‘study-bedroom’, Teague opened it. Healey stepped inside.

  Teague looked pleased with himself. ‘I’ve found something, sir.’

  Healey put his hand on the younger and shorter man’s shoulder. ‘All right. Just a minute. Let me find my bearings.’

  Healey looked round the room. It contained a single bed with a heavy dark green bedspread, neatly turned back to reveal white pillows and the folded-over edge of a white sheet. On the floor at the foot of the bed was a long maroon sports bag. There was an armchair covered in the bedspread material, a desk and chair, with a black leather attaché case open on the desk. On a glass shelf above a washbasin, an upturned toothbrush and a tube of toothpaste stood in a white plastic mug. Dabs of blu-tack on the grey walls betrayed the former presence of attachments of some kind. With pictures and a few personal touches, the room could have been quite cosy. Now it seemed cheerless. Almost all of the external wall was taken up by one very large upward-tilting window, which was open to its widest extent, leaving ample room for a man’s body to pass through. Curtains, also in the same green bedspread material, were drawn back.

  Healey approached the window. Between the tall chestnuts that stood in the Hall grounds he saw in the middle distance the gas-holders beside the river in Newtown. Beyond them and the Thames (which he couldn’t see) was the green of rolling Oxfordshire countryside. The room must be looking north-west. By evening the sun would be coming through the window. Could be very pleasant. Nice for a student. For a moment he thought about his daughter, who at thirteen was already talking about going to university. He looked down to the ground below the window and saw that the body had been taken away.

  Hearing a cough, he turned and saw Teague looking even more than usually smug. ‘Well then, what is it?’ asked Healey.

  Teague took out a handkerchief and, like a conjuror about to produce a rabbit, slid open the top drawer of the desk, to reveal a folded sheet of white paper. ‘It’s a letter, sir, addressed to Crouch. Typed. Or done on a computer.’ He passed it to Healey, who, having already slipped on a pair of thin white gloves, carefully unfolded it, and began to read.

  Neville

  Yes, its from me. Surprised? Yes, its a long time since my last letter, isnt it?

  You should have thought that I would leave you alone now? No, never. I shall never forget what you did. Soon EVERYONE will know and you know what that will mean!! You gave me much pain and now you will SUFFER in your turn. There is nothing that you can do. Just wait and think about it. BELIEVE ME! I am near you.

  Healey looked up from the letter to see Teague’s watery pale blue eyes fixed upon him. ‘What do you think, sir?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Well, it’s a threat.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘If what he was going to reveal was something really bad, that might have been enough …’

  ‘To make him jump out of the window?’

  ‘It might be.’

  Healey read through the letter again, put it down open on the desk, then walked back to the window. Teague followed him. They both leaned forward and looked down to the spot where Crouch had landed.

  ‘Not the way I would choose,’ said Healey.

  ‘Nor me, sir, but he wouldn’t be the first.’

  ‘That’s true.’ Healey nodded his head in the direction of the letter. ‘Anything strike you about the letter?’

  Teague walked back to the table and peered at the letter without touching it. ‘No date.’

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘No name. No address.’

  ‘What about the style?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘The way it’s written. The English.’

  ‘Well it’s a bit funny.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘It doesn’t sound natural.’

  Healey did not pursue the matter further. He sat on the bed, picked up the attaché case, and set it on his knees.

  ‘Has anyone told his wife yet?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Okay. I’ll do that. What I want you to do is to speak to everyone on the course, tutors as well, and the Hall staff. Find out where they were between eight last night and nine this morning. Anything they can tell you about Crouch’s movements.’ Teague’s mouth opened as if he were about to speak, then slowly closed. From the inside pocket of his suit jacket he pulled something which Healey recognised as the course booklet. Teague flicked through the pages.

  ‘Do you know how many …?’

  ‘Four tutors and forty-six participants. No problem. Get all the help you need. On my authority. And try the neighbours. See if they noticed anything. Okay?’

  Teague hesitated. ‘Yes, sir.’

  As he went out of the door, he paused. ‘Would you like to have this, sir?’ He offered the booklet, which was still in his hand.

  ‘I’ve already got one. But where did you put that letter?’

  ‘It’s on the desk,’ said Teague, not pointing out that it was Healey who had placed it there. Healey went over to the desk, took out a note-pad, into which he started to copy the contents of the letter, being careful to reproduce the errors accurately. When he realised that Teagu
e was still in the room, he turned.

  ‘You can go now, Teague,’ he said. Teague went out, closing the door behind him.

  Healey was pleased to be alone. Teague wasn’t bad at his work but he wasn’t the most congenial company, despite his cheery chappy manner. Narrow-minded, cynical, chauvinistic, and a reader of the Sun, he was also ambitious, someone to whom brown-nosing was second nature. When Healey finished copying the letter, he saw that there was a set of keys on the desk, one with a tag marked ‘Office’, next to a neatly folded copy of the previous day’s Guardian. Turning his attention to the attaché case, he opened it and surveyed its contents. Three Pentex pens: one red, one blue and one black, each held in a loop of imitation leather. A book of first-class postage stamps. A book of second-class stamps. A copy of the course booklet, in which all references to Crouch were highlighted in yellow.

  There was also a book: RP Revisited: emerging variation in Received Pronunciation, whose authors were Christopher Carter and Neville Crouch. He opened it from the back and glanced at the index … ‘glottaling, glottalization, glottal stop … monophthongization’. Not a gripping read, he thought. He flipped through the pages and from the book fell a small sheet of paper covered in very neat but tiny writing. It was headed ‘Meanings of the Modals’, beneath which was a list of numbered notes. The only other object in the case was a Casio miniature tape recorder, which Healey slipped into his pocket. He set the case aside and, sitting down on the bed, pulled the sports bag towards him. From it he took out a pair of batting gloves, a pair of pads, a pair of neatly folded whites with grass stains at the knee, a pair of rather battered but perfectly white cricket boots, a plastic protector and a jock strap.

  As he began to put them back there was a tap at the door. It was Enid, the Hall secretary. ‘I’m terribly sorry to bother you, Chief Inspector, but your wife just phoned. She says you’ve got all the shopping in the car.’

  A curtain twitched in the house next door. Healey was at the door of a semi-detached house in Falstaff Avenue. Beside him on the step stood a bottle of milk. He rang the bell, for a second time. It was eleven o’clock and already very hot, though the nature of his visit had made him put on a jacket and tie. A strong scent reached him from the lavender at his feet where bees were busying themselves. He had never liked the smell of lavender. It reminded him of long Sunday mornings as a child when he sat with homework he couldn’t do, while his mother attacked the furniture around him with lavender-scented polish. Still no answer. Shit. He should have phoned. He pressed the bell once more and turned to walk to his car, a new silver-green Cavalier.

  Leaning against the car he surveyed the house in which Crouch had lived. The brickwork was reddish brown, the woodwork painted bright yellow and white. All the curtains were drawn. Just as he was about to open his car door, the curtain of an upstairs window was pulled back and a face appeared, then disappeared. Healey returned quickly to the door, where through the frosted glass he saw movement and heard the lock turn. The door opened as far as the chain attached to it would allow.

  Half a face looked out at him. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Mrs Crouch? Good morning. I’m Chief Inspector Healey, Thames Valley CID.’ He put his warrant card in front of the face. ‘I need to speak to you. May I come in for a moment?’

  ‘My husband isn’t here.’

  ‘No, I know, Mrs Crouch, but could I come in for a moment?’ The door closed briefly and then opened wide. If Healey thought of a word at that moment, it was ‘beautiful’. The woman was beautiful. Shiny black hair, big brown eyes, shapely lips, slim, quite tall, signs of a good figure inside the dark blue dressing-gown which she held closed at the collar.

  She looked worried. ‘Is there a problem? I wish my husband were here.’

  There was just a trace of a foreign accent, Healey thought, though he didn’t recognise it. Presumably a Philippine – or was it Filipino? – accent. He followed her into a rather gloomy, sparsely furnished room that ran from the front to the back of the house and smelled of stale cigarette smoke. Picking up a cloth doll from a dark brown imitation leather armchair, she sat down and Healey sat opposite her. Behind her was a French window, through which he saw a lawn running back to fruit trees at the bottom of the garden.

  ‘Mrs Crouch, I have some bad news for you.’ She held the rag doll to her chest. He waited for her to say something but she didn’t.

  ‘It’s about your husband.’ Healey bit on his lower lip. ‘I’m afraid he’s dead.’

  Her hands went immediately to her face, dropping the doll into her lap. She made a whimpering sound. Her head still in her hands, her elbows resting on her knees, she began to pant. Healey got up. He went to the sideboard, where there was a decanter and some chunky cut-glass tumblers. He lifted the stopper of the decanter, sniffed it, then poured a large shot of brandy into one of the glasses. He went over to where she was still sitting and put his hand on her shoulder. ‘Here, have this.’

  She looked up at him as if in alarm, then down at the glass he was holding, and shook her head. Still looking down, she asked, ‘What was it? What happened?’

  ‘It was at the University. At the Hall. He fell. As far as we can tell, he appears to have fallen from the window of his room there.’ He put down the glass of brandy.

  ‘Can I make you some tea?’ he asked after a few moments. She didn’t answer but slowly stood up, and walked unsteadily into the kitchen. Healey heard water pouring from the tap into the kettle.

  She came back into the room. ‘Was it an accident?’

  ‘It may have been. We don’t know yet.’

  ‘When did it happen?’

  ‘We think early this morning.’

  She walked to the front windows and pulled back the curtains, allowing the sun to stream in and fill the room with light. She turned, and without looking at Healey went back into the kitchen. When she emerged, it was with a tray on which there was a green teapot, jug and cups. She poured out two cups of tea. Healey reached towards the cup she had put on the low table beside him, then paused.

  ‘When did you last see your husband?’

  ‘When he left to go to the summer school yesterday morning, about half past eight.’

  ‘He didn’t come back?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did he telephone you at all?’

  She hesitated. ‘He phoned in the evening to say he would be staying at the Hall.’

  ‘What time was that?’

  ‘About eight o’clock.’

  ‘Did he say why?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It isn’t very far to come.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So why not come home?’

  ‘I don’t know. He wanted not to disturb me, perhaps.’

  ‘Did he make the call from the Hall, do you know?’

  ‘It should have been from the Hall, I think. Yes, I’m sure. He said I’ll stay here tonight. He said ‘here’.’ She bit her lip as she looked at Healey through eyes which he noticed were still dry. ‘It wasn’t an accident, was it?’

  ‘I honestly don’t know, Mrs Crouch.’

  ‘But all these questions.’

  ‘Just routine. I have to ask them. Just in case.’

  ‘He said that the party would finish very late.’

  ‘And after that telephone call from your husband, did you stay here at the house?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘All evening?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You didn’t go out?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So you were by yourself?’

  ‘Except for my daughter.’

  ‘Your daughter? And how old is she?’

  ‘Five.’

  ‘Did anyone come to the house? Is there anyone who could confirm that you were here?’

  Mrs Crouch shook her head. ‘No.’

  Healey picked up the cup of tea, paused, then put it down again. ‘Was there anything bothering your husband, do you know? Did he seem worried lately?’

  �
��He was always worried. He worried all the time.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘About work … about money … about … about everything.’

  ‘Why did he worry about …?’

  She interrupted him. ‘It was his nature.’

  Healey nodded. ‘But was he particularly worried lately?’

  She looked down for a few moments, as if trying to remember. But what she said made Healey think that she had been making up her mind whether to tell him or not.

  ‘Yes, he was. For the last two weeks he has been very preoccupied.’

  ‘Since the summer school began?’

  Again she hesitated. ‘Yes. I suppose it was.’

  ‘Do you know what it was that was worrying him?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You have no idea?’

  ‘No. He told me nothing.’

  Healey put his hand towards the cup of tea and pushed it slowly away from him. He stood up stiffly, wincing slightly.

  ‘Well if you think of anything that may have been worrying him, please call this number.’ He handed her a card. ‘Leave a message if I’m not there.’ He rubbed the knuckles of his right hand up and down the small of his back, before moving towards the door.

  Behind him, Mrs Crouch glanced at the card he had given her. ‘Chief Inspector, do you want to see my husband’s things?’

  ‘No I don’t think so, thank you. Not now. But just one thing. Your husband called. Did anyone else?’

  Before she could reply, the phone rang. She picked it up. ‘It’s for you.’

  She stood close to him as Healey listened intently. ‘What’s that? Not sure? Okay. Yes, ask them to set it up. In the Hall if possible. You just carry on. I’ll be back in an hour. Oh, and by the way, you can tell them their trip to London is off.’ He put the phone down.