The Pursuit of Truth Read online

  ‘Perhaps I will look at your husband’s things after all, Mrs Crouch.’

  Healey parked his car in the unmade road at the side of the Queen’s Head, or the ‘Knob’, as it was known to the students who were its principal customers. He didn’t like the place. Or the people who ran it. But it was on his route from the Crouches’ to the Hall of Residence, and he was hungry. Ordering a cheese toastie and an orange juice and tonic in the gloomy and almost empty public bar, he sat down on a bench in the corner under the dartboard. The battered, grimy wooden floor had not been swept, the tables were covered with greasy smears, and the smell of stale beer hung in the air.

  Putting on his white gloves again, he took from his jacket pocket the tiny black tape recorder which he had found in Crouch’s attaché case at the Hall. He turned it over in his hands, pressed a plastic switch marked with an arrowhead, and put the recorder to his ear. Nothing. He found a knurled wheel beside the letters ‘VOL’, turned it as far as it would go, and put the recorder back to his ear. Still nothing. He took out a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles and put them on, stood up, held the machine beneath the dartboard light, and squinted to see if the tape inside was moving. But there was no cassette there. Healey remained standing, motionless. You idiot, he said to himself.

  It was only when a woman’s voice called ‘cheese toastie’ that he slowly stuffed the tape recorder back into his pocket, walked to the bar, and took the proffered plate. ‘Sauce?’ the woman asked, but he was half way back to his seat before he heard the question, and when he turned to say no thanks, he saw the woman’s back disappearing into the lounge bar. As he chewed his toastie, which he now noticed was burned at the edges, Healey’s mind went back to what had happened less than an hour before.

  Mrs Crouch had led him upstairs, past a mobile made of dozens of sea-shells hanging from the ceiling, and into what she announced as her husband’s study, a box room with a window onto the back garden. She immediately excused herself and went into the bathroom opposite. Against one wall of the study was a small white melamine-covered desk with a computer on it, a shallow drawer on either side. The opposite wall was lined with shelves filled mostly with books but which also held what looked to Healey like dozens of audio-cassette cases. Attached to the shelves were sticky labels on which were typed various categories of book: Psychology, Language, Research Methods, Other. Within these categories the books were in alphabetical order according to author. Each of the cassette cases, numbered 1 to 62, was marked with a three-letter code. He put on his glasses, opened one of them and saw that the cassette itself was marked with the same code and number as the case, and also a date. He thought of the cassette player in his pocket that he had taken from Crouch’s room in the Hall but these cassettes would have been too large for it.

  Healey pulled out the black swivel seat that was resting against the desk and sat down. He switched on the computer, which rumbled into action. As he waited for it to boot up, he pulled open the two desk drawers in turn. The first contained envelopes, pens, pencils, an eraser, blue and green highlighters, and a box of apparently unused floppy computer disks. In the second were a chequebook, a paying-in book, and a set of bank statements, the latest of which showed a credit balance of £103.33. Looking through the entries, Healey noticed with some satisfaction that Crouch’s monthly salary payment was little more than half his own. Buying the computer must have been a big investment for Crouch, he thought. But perhaps it wasn’t his but the University’s.

  He looked up at the monitor. Despite the computer’s clicking and whirring, the screen was blank. It took him a moment to realise that the monitor had been switched off, not something that anyone bothered to do at headquarters, at least as far as he was aware. He switched it on and was soon browsing through Crouch’s WordPerfect files. Most of these seemed to be concerned with his work: lecture notes, summaries of articles. There was a directory containing the outline of a book he seemed to be planning which had not been modified for more than three years. There was also a directory for correspondence, which contained letters, including more than one addressed to a publisher, explaining why he wasn’t yet able to send any of the promised chapters. In a further directory was a single file which, because it demanded a password, Healey was unable to open. It was while he was wondering how he might get into this that it had happened.

  As he looked through Crouch’s things, Healey had been vaguely aware of what sounded like a shower running, the opening of the bathroom door, the closing of another door, and then the scent of a perfume that he didn’t recognise. Now that scent was in the room again and with it Mrs Crouch herself, dressed in a pale blue silk cheongsam, split to the thigh. She came up behind him and put her hands on the back of the seat. Healey turned to look up at her. As he did so, her right hand slid from the seat to his shoulder.

  ‘Yes?’ Healey asked abruptly, as if addressing one of his detectives who had spoken out of turn.

  She immediately pulled her hand away, and a look of alarm, almost of fear crossed her face. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said.

  Healey turned back to the computer screen and tried to concentrate on the words in front of him. After a few seconds, without another word, Mrs Crouch left the room. He heard the tinkling of the hanging shells as she brushed against them and, a few moments later, the sound of the front door opening and then closing. He quickly took a floppy disk from the desk drawer, onto which he copied the file with the password protection and slipped it into his jacket pocket. He closed down the computer and hurried downstairs, opened the front door, walked half way down the path, and looked up and down the street, hoping that he would see Mrs Crouch.

  The only person he saw was a middle-aged woman in the front garden of the house next door where the curtains had twitched earlier. The woman leaned on her fork and stared at him. He turned back to close the door behind him, only to see Mrs Crouch framed in the doorway. In one hand was a lighted cigarette and in the other was the bottle of milk that she must have picked off the step when he had heard the door opening and closing. She held up the bottle as if in explanation. Healey started to tell her why he had rushed out, stopped, muttered a thank you, and, under the watchful eye of the lady gardener next door, made his escape to the car, where he sat motionless, trying without success to understand Mrs Crouch’s behaviour upstairs. How could she have acted that way within a few minutes of being told that her husband was dead? Eventually, he shrugged and put the key in the ignition. As he started the engine, he realised that he hadn’t asked about Crouch’s diary and cricket bat. He also realised that he hadn’t seen the Crouches’ daughter.

  As he remembered this in the Queen’s Head and continued to wonder, Healey felt in his pocket for the floppy disk. It was still there. And there was a lot to do. He took off his reading glasses, put them away, and walked out of the dark pub into the bright sunshine. He left his car where it was parked, and strode off in the direction of the Hall of Residence.

  Even though it was only a quarter of a mile to the Hall, when Healey got there, he was sweating and he wished that he’d driven. Before he opened the door to reception, he sniffed his armpits and then slipped on his jacket, which he had been carrying over his shoulder. There was no one in reception but the sound of voices led him to what turned out to be the incident room that Teague must have set up, where uniformed policemen and policewomen were talking to course participants across trestle tables. There was no sign of Teague. ‘You might try the bar, sir,’ suggested one of the constables.

  And that was where Teague was, leaning against the bar, a half empty pint glass beside him, a half smoked cigarette in his hand. ‘Just a shandy,’ he volunteered.

  ‘How’s it going?’ asked Healey.

  ‘All right. A few interesting things. Should be finished within an hour, sir.’

  ‘Have they finished in Crouch’s room yet?’

  ‘They’re just finishing now.’

  ‘Good. Give them this.’ He passed Teague the miniature tape recorder. ‘It
was in Crouch’s briefcase. Have we interviewed all of the tutors yet?’

  ‘All except one, the course director. Farrell.’

  ‘Is he around?’

  ‘That’s him there.’ Teague nodded his head in the direction of a tall, dark bearded man with hair down to his collar, probably in his thirties, who was leaning against the glass emergency exit at the far end of the room and talking animatedly with a pretty, young, fair-haired woman, who was wearing a simple cream blouse and what looked like expensive jeans. Healey went over to them.

  ‘I’m sorry to interrupt, but I’m Detective Chief Inspector Healey. You’re Doctor Farrell, I believe. I wonder if I could have a word.’

  ‘Of course,’ replied the man. He turned towards the woman, who Healey now saw had bright blue eyes. ‘I’ll get back to you on that later, Silvia. Maybe after supper?’ He turned back to Healey. ‘How can I help you?’

  ‘If we can find a quiet corner, I’d like to ask you about last night.’

  At that moment, the Hall secretary came up behind Healey. ‘Chief Inspector,’ she said, ‘there’s a call for you.’ As she led him away, she added, ‘You can take it in Miss Colgan’s office.’

  Healey came back from taking the call to find Teague talking to the Silvia woman. ‘Teague,’ he said, ‘there’s a tutor called Wright. What was he …’ He stopped as he noticed that the woman was listening intently to what he was saying. ‘Excuse me,’ he said, ‘I need to speak to my sergeant.’ She looked at him blankly. ‘Would you mind leaving us?’ he added.

  ‘You are so polite,’ she responded and, with a toss of the head that Healey would have found funny in other circumstances, she stalked off.

  Healey looked back at his sergeant, who had a silly smile on his fat pink face. ‘So, Wright, where was he last night?’

  Teague stopped smiling and consulted papers attached to his clipboard. ‘Er yes, I thought it was him. That was one of the interesting things. He says he was at the party until ten and then he went round to the Crouches’. Spent the night there.’

  ‘That’s exactly what Mrs Crouch has just told me on the phone. After telling me this morning that she was on her own. Except for her daughter.’

  ‘Did she explain why she said she was on her own?’

  ‘Because she was embarrassed at having a man in her house all night.’

  ‘So why did she change her story?’

  ‘Says because she realised she should tell the truth.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah – after Wright phoned her and let her know what he’d told us.’

  ‘That could well be it, Teague. We need to talk to her again. This time, you do it. By the way, is Wright around?’

  ‘I’ll check, sir. Do you want to speak to him?’

  ‘I do. But I’ll talk to Farrell first.’ He walked over to Farrell, who seemed not to have moved since the Hall secretary had come for Healey.

  ‘I’m sorry about that, Doctor Farrell. Can we talk now? The Warden’s office is free.’

  Once inside the office, Healey gestured for Farrell to take one of the two seats facing the Warden’s desk, closed the door, and sat down in the other seat himself, with his back to the window. He saw that, despite his almost black hair and beard, Farrell had pale grey eyes, which were now looking directly into his own.

  ‘Well,’ Healey began, ‘I’d like you to tell me …’ He slapped his hands against his chest. Damn. He didn’t have a notebook with him. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve got something I can write on …’

  Farrell grinned. ‘I don’t, but I’m sure Miss Colgan will.’ He got up and went round to the other side of the desk, pulled open a drawer, and produced a sheaf of headed letter paper. ‘This do?’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘And a pen?’

  ‘No, I’ve got one, thanks.’

  Farrell returned to his seat and Healey began again. ‘Can you begin by telling me where you were at eight o’clock last night?’

  ‘I was here, at the party.’

  ‘What time did you leave?’

  ‘A quarter to ten.’

  ‘Where did you go?’

  ‘To the Three Tuns. It’s a pub on the …’

  ‘Yes, I know it. How long did you stay there?’

  ‘Till closing time.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘I went home.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I stayed there.’

  ‘All night?’

  ‘All night, yes.’

  ‘If I had to check what you’ve told me, who would I ask?’

  ‘About the Hall, anyone on the course, I guess. The pub, I was with a friend.’

  ‘Whose name is …?’

  ‘Chris Carter.’

  Healey wrote down the name then pulled the course booklet from his pocket. ‘The same Chris Carter who gave a lecture this morning?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘All right. And at home?’

  ‘Chris Carter went back with me. He stayed until nearly two. After that, my wife, I suppose, though she was asleep when I went to bed.’

  ‘You didn’t wake her up?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, thanks for that. Now, about Doctor Crouch. What can you tell me about his movements last night?’

  ‘He was at the party too.’

  ‘He was still there when you left?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘How did he seem?’

  ‘I’m not sure I can tell you. It was a party. It was noisy. People were dancing and drinking. To be honest, I didn’t really take much notice of him.’

  ‘Was he drinking?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘But not so much as you’d notice?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Was he dancing?’

  ‘At one point he was. I saw one of the Bulgarian women dragging him onto the floor.’

  ‘But only that once?’

  ‘That’s the only time I remember.’

  ‘Did you notice anyone in particular talking to him?’

  ‘Not really. He was sitting with the Bulgarians. And some other East Europeans, I think.’

  Healey folded the one sheet of paper on which he had written, and put the others on top of the architectural drawings that still lay on the Warden’s desk.

  ‘Thank you, Doctor Farrell. That’s all I need to ask you for the moment.’

  Farrell stood up as if to leave, then paused. ‘May I ask you a question?’

  ‘Yes, though I don’t promise an answer.’

  ‘Do you know if Neville … whether he did it himself, or …?’

  ‘No, we don’t.’ No longer writing notes, Healey noticed that not only were Farrell’s open neck shirt, corduroy trousers, and socks dark blue, but also his shoes. The brown leather belt he wore seemed an anomaly.

  ‘Was Crouch a friend of yours?’

  ‘Not exactly. I always got on well with him but I wouldn’t call him a friend. I never went to the pub with him, for example. Except in a crowd.’

  ‘Do you know who his friends were?’

  ‘No. No one in the Department, I’m pretty sure. He kept very much to himself.’

  ‘But he wrote a book with Professor Carter, didn’t he?’

  ‘That was a long time ago.’

  ‘Were they friends then?’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘But they aren’t now? Or, they haven’t been lately?’

  ‘I don’t think so. But you could ask Chris, of course. If you need to know, that is.’

  Healey stood up and opened the door. ‘Thanks again,’ he said as he ushered Farrell out of the door. ‘Oh, and could you give your home address and phone number to one of the officers in the games room?’ Farrell was halfway down the empty corridor when Healey went to the door and called after him.

  ‘One last thing. Do you know Mrs Crouch’s first name?’

  ‘Teresa.’

  ‘Teresa. And the lady you were talking to just before. Silvia I think you called her. Is she teaching on the co
urse?’

  ‘No, she’s just a course member. Why?’

  ‘No reason. I just wondered. Well, Dr Farrell, no doubt we’ll be seeing each other again.’ As it turned out, they saw each other rather sooner than Healey expected.

  It was after nine and beginning to go dark when Healey got home. Through the open front window he saw his wife and the two children watching television, one of those awful game shows by the look of it. Jamie, he thought, should be in bed. Once inside, he opened the door of the front room to say hello. The children giggled and pointed at their mother, sitting upright in an armchair, glasses on her nose, fast asleep. ‘All right, you two, straight to bed when this finishes.’ He went upstairs, changed into jeans and T-shirt, and stopping only to make himself a gin-and-tonic, went out into the garden.

  As he drank, he looked with satisfaction at what he had achieved since they had moved there five years before. The garden looked good. The pleasing curves of the lawn, the beds of floribunda roses, the rockery, the judas tree set amongst pink flowering bushes, the small apple orchard at the bottom, and the corner where he had put up a Wendy house for the kids. In the gloom it was easy to ignore the weeds, his wife’s one responsibility in the garden. From the shed he took a pair of long-handled shears and began to carefully trim the edge of the lawn where it met one of the flower-beds. As he did so, he began to think about the new case.

  He was fairly confident that Crouch had not committed suicide. There was evidence of his having received a blow to the head before he hit the ground. With the proverbial blunt instrument. It was this information, relayed to him at Mrs Crouch’s by Teague, that had caused Healey to set up the incident room. Crouch, he felt sure, had been murdered, pushed, possibly unconscious, from the fifth floor window of the Hall. But there was no sign of a struggle in the room. Who could have done it? Someone who knew him. Mind you, it wasn’t long since that Open University lecturer had been killed on a campus by a complete stranger. That was a summer school too. But this was different.

  Be methodical, he told himself. Who had the motive? Who had the opportunity? ‘Cherchez la femme,’ Teague had said that afternoon when he got back from interviewing Mrs Crouch. ‘What a little cracker she is. Well worth cherching her, and no mistake. Our Teresa.’ He said her name as if eating a sweet, and Healey saw spittle ooze from his mouth onto his lips.