The Pursuit of Truth Read online

  ‘I wonder what she’s cherching,’ Healey had said to himself, remembering her behaviour towards him. Now, in the garden, he thought again of his encounter with her. Could she have killed her husband? No, of course not. At least, not by herself. Wright? He still hadn’t managed to speak to him. Must do that in the morning. The image of Teresa Crouch came back to him and he tried to remember the scent of her perfume.

  Anyone watching the chief inspector at this moment would have seen a tall and rather heavily built middle-aged man standing motionless, shears in hand at the end of the garden, a pose he held for more than a minute. With a sudden shake of the head, he crossed over to the other side of the garden, where, shuffling sidewards, he began to work his way up the side of the lawn towards the house, cutting away the blades of grass that hung over the rose bed. Halfway along, he stopped abruptly, took the shears to the shed and, glancing up to the windows of the children’s bedrooms, which were now lit, strode purposefully into the house.

  Having said goodnight to the children, he went into his own bedroom, where he found his wife sitting up in bed with two pillows behind her, still with her glasses on and a book resting open in front of her, but again asleep. ‘Jill. Jill,’ he said, ‘I’m just going along to the pub. Won’t be long.’ One of his wife’s eyes opened; there was a faint smile on her face. ‘All right, love,’ she said. ‘Don’t forget your key.’

  The Three Tuns, a 1930s brick building standing close to the busy Earley crossroads, was Healey’s nearest pub. It wasn’t the greatest, but it was only ten minutes’ walk, and the Guinness was as good as anywhere in Reading. Out of term time, with the students away, it wouldn’t be too crowded. It was where Farrell had said he’d been for a drink on the night of Crouch’s death, something he could perhaps check at the bar, as well as have a welcome pint or two before closing time. Then back for the test match highlights. The best idea he’d had today.

  As soon as he got close, Healey realised his mistake. From across the road he heard the confused sounds of talk and sudden shouts of laughter from the open windows and saw people sitting at the wooden picnic tables that had recently been put in what was previously a car park. The place must be packed. Still, there was nowhere else to go now that he’d come this far on foot. He crossed the road and went into the lounge bar and immediately recognised the reason for his mistake. It was full of Open University students, who also attended summer schools at the University. In their thirties and forties, the men far outnumbering women, and all of them apparently drinking pints, the men showing much more interest in the women than was usually the case in pubs, they had taken over the bar.

  Healey was reminded of how close he had come to registering with the Open University a couple of years before. If only he had, what might he be doing now? Chatting up a young woman? Sitting with his books? More likely just what he was doing, what he always seemed to be doing, going for a pint by himself. He pushed his way to the bar, where he had to wait while others got served. Eventually a hot and tired barmaid, dressed in a half unbuttoned white lace blouse, was ready to take his order.

  ‘Pint of Guinness, please. Straight glass.’

  He felt a hand on his shoulder and a voice from behind said, ‘Make that three, will you?’ Healey looked round, to see Peter Farrell, who greeted him cheerily.

  ‘Hello there. Checking my story are you?’

  ‘No, not really. Just felt like getting out for a drink.’

  ‘I was joking.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Chris Carter’s here. Why don’t you join us? I’ll get these. That’s him there, with the beard. I mean, that’s if you’re allowed to fraternise with your suspects.’

  ‘You aren’t …’ began Healey, until he realised that Farrell was joking again, or at least he thought he was. ‘All right, thanks, but take this.’ He offered Farrell the five-pound note that he had already taken from his pocket.

  ‘Absolutely not. You’re our guest.’

  Healey eased his way between bodies to the corner where Carter was sitting. ‘I’ve just seen Peter Farrell at the bar. He asked me to join you. Richard Healey.’ He held out his hand to Carter who, half standing, shook it vigorously and gave his own name.

  ‘Can you squeeze in here?’ he asked.

  Healey ensconced himself on the green velour bench tight between Carter and a large-breasted young woman in a pink T-shirt which, with the aid of a red heart and black lettering, advertised her love of mathematics. The woman, apparently engrossed in a paperback, remained immobile and Healey felt the warmth of her thigh against his. He looked at Carter, who peered back at him through the thick lenses of horn-rimmed bifocals.

  ‘It’s Professor Carter, isn’t it?’

  ‘Not quite. I don’t become a professor until October, the beginning of the academic year.’

  ‘Oh, it’s just that I saw it in the course booklet.’

  ‘The course booklet? Oh, the summer school booklet. That was just Peter’s little joke.’

  ‘Well, congratulations anyhow,’ said Healey, wondering what was funny about giving someone their title a couple of months early.

  ‘Thank you.’ Carter looked round as Farrell edged towards them through the standing crowd, raising the tray of drinks to chin level in order to pass a laughing and gesticulating man with an almost bald head. ‘You should congratulate Peter too,’ he said, loud enough for Farrell to hear. ‘He’s just been made a reader.’

  Farrell sat down and they all three took up their glasses. ‘Cheers,’ they said.

  ‘And congratulations to you both,’ added Healey.

  They took long draughts of Guinness. Farrell drew the back of his hand across his mouth, collecting creamy foam from his beard.

  ‘Have you two introduced yourselves?’

  ‘Yes,’ responded Carter. He looked at Healey, who said nothing.

  ‘The Chief Inspector …’ Farrell began, at which the woman next to them looked up from her book.

  ‘Richard,’ Healey muttered.

  ‘Sorry.’ Farrell paused. ‘Richard is investigating Neville’s death.’ At the word ‘death’ the woman looked at Healey more closely.

  ‘Oh, really?’ said Carter. ‘How interesting. You aren’t here to check up on us, I suppose?’ He chuckled and scratched his beard.

  ‘I’ve already asked him,’ volunteered Farrell, ‘and the answer apparently is no.’

  Healey watched as, in the following silence, Carter picked up his glass, drew it towards his mouth, leaned his head forward as if to drink, then put the glass down again.

  ‘Poor old Neville,’ said Carter, slowly shaking his head. ‘Do we know how it happened?’

  ‘No,’ replied Healey, uncomfortably aware of the interest being taken by the young woman. ‘I was wondering if I might talk to you about it tomorrow.’

  ‘Of course. When?’

  ‘Morning?’

  ‘Fine. I’ll be in the Department from about nine.’

  ‘It’s Sunday.’

  ‘Oh yes, I do realise that. Best time of the week. No students.’ He glanced at Farrell. ‘And just as important, no colleagues.’

  ‘Fine. I’ll call by about ten, if that’s all right.’

  ‘I’ll be there.’ Carter lifted his glass again, this time taking several gulps before addressing Healey. ‘Richard, you’re from the north, I take it.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Let me guess. St Helens.’

  ‘Not quite. Widnes.’

  ‘Widnes.’

  ‘Yes. Wide nose.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Widnes … wide nose of the Mersey. At least that’s what we were told at school. In geography.’

  ‘Well I’ll be blowed. I would never have thought that.’

  ‘May not be true, of course. Our geography master also told us that changing weather was the explanation for what he called the English genius.’ Healey paused, waiting for laughter or at least some comment, but none came. To break the silence, he asked, ‘And wher
e are you from, Chris? Not so far from Widnes yourself, I imagine?’

  ‘Manchester. And Peter’s from Liverpool.’ He lengthened the last syllable of Liverpool and rhymed it with cruel. ‘What are we all doing living down here?’ He laughed. ‘Taking advantage of the poor southerners.’ As he spoke, the landlord called last orders. Healey stood up.

  ‘Another pint?’

  ‘No thanks,’ replied Carter. ‘We’ve got to be off. We’re going back to Peter’s to watch the cricket.’

  ‘I was planning to watch it too,’ said Healey.

  They made their way to the door, Farrell calling an unanswered goodnight in the general direction of the bar. They stood outside in the still warm air.

  ‘Can we give you a lift?’ asked Carter.

  ‘No thanks. I live just down the road.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Beech Lane.’

  ‘But that’s where we’re going. Peter lives at 22. Come on. The car’s here.’ Carter put his hand on Healey’s back and led him to a large saloon car that looked orange under the neon streetlight. They got in what Healey now recognised as an old Rover and the heavy doors closed with a pleasing clunk. Carter started the engine.

  ‘Why don’t you watch the cricket with us?’ said Farrell, as the car nosed its way onto Wokingham Road.

  ‘Oh no, I couldn’t …’

  ‘Of course you could. And you could check the rest of our story at the same time.’

  From the back seat Healey could see only the back of Farrell’s head but it wasn’t difficult to imagine the grin on his face. Why not, he thought. Couldn’t do any harm. It would be more fun than watching the cricket by himself. And it would be a chance to find out a bit more about Crouch and the people who knew him.

  ‘All right. Thanks,’ he said.

  The car pulled into the drive of Farrell’s house. As the three men got out, a light came on in the hall and the door opened. Healey saw a small female form silhouetted there.

  ‘You forgot your key,’ said the woman.

  ‘Did I, love?’ said Farrell. ‘Sorry. Did you wait up?’

  ‘No, I was watching that Ruth Rendell thing on ITV. The cricket’s just started, by the way.’ Farrell stepped inside. Carter motioned Healey forward. He found himself facing a small sharp-faced woman with red hair and green eyes. He would have guessed she was in her late twenties. Farrell spoke.

  ‘Oh, Pam, this is Chief Inspector Healey. Richard, my wife.’

  ‘Hello,’ she said in what struck Healey as a posh Liverpool accent. ‘This isn’t an official visit, I hope.’

  ‘No, I …’

  ‘He’s come to watch the cricket with us. He’s our neighbour, would you believe?’

  ‘Yes, I would actually.’ She turned to Healey. ‘I’ve seen you walking past with your dog, haven’t I? A terrier.’

  ‘Yes, probably. I take her on the campus.’

  Farrell pushed the door of the front room and held it open.

  ‘Cricket, gentlemen.’

  Healey smiled at the woman. ‘Nice to meet you.’

  ‘Nice to meet you.’

  The room the men sat down in was almost square with a small rectangular bay. The whole of the dark green wall opposite the door was covered with books on white shelves. In one corner, below the books, was the television. In the other corner stood a black cupboard, on which there was a tape recorder and stacks of audio cassettes. The remaining walls, all white, sported various framed prints and a small oil painting of a beach scene. In front of the men was a glass topped black metal table on which were two tumblers, a bottle of whisky, cheese and biscuits. Farrell’s wife came in and put another tumbler and a plate on the table. Farrell picked up the bottle.

  ‘You’ll have a drop, won’t you?’ he said to Healey.

  Healey looked at the bottle. ‘Teacher’s,’ he said. ‘That’s quite appropriate.’

  ‘Funnily enough,’ said Farrell, ‘that’s how we started drinking it. The students on the summer school a couple of years ago thought it would be amusing to give their teachers each a bottle of Teacher’s. And we’ve been drinking it ever since.’ He poured three very large whiskies.

  The men drank whisky, ate cheese (Healey more than the others – he hadn’t eaten since lunchtime) and, largely in silence, watched New Zealand build up a big lead over England, whose batting then collapsed. After the smiling (smirking, Healey thought to himself) Australian presenter of the programme bade them good night, there appeared on the screen the logo of the Open University.

  ‘That’s it,’ said Carter. ‘They’re going to lose, first time ever against New Zealand in England.’ No one responded. Healey looked at his two companions. They were both of similar build, tall and slim, and they both had beards. Otherwise they looked quite different. Carter had greasy curly brown hair, pasty pockmarked skin, a somewhat bulbous nose, and fat lips, and his beard looked as if it hadn’t been touched for weeks, except by food, of which there were obvious traces. There were pronounced bags under his hazel-coloured eyes that looked enormous through the lenses of his spectacles. Not a picture of health, thought Healey. Farrell by contrast had long, straight, almost black hair, smooth tanned skin, light grey eyes, an aquiline nose, and a wide, almost pretty mouth. His beard was neatly trimmed. He looked several years younger than Carter.

  The Open University logo was still on the screen. ‘What do you two think of the Open University?’ Healey asked.

  ‘Best thing Harold Wilson ever did,’ replied Farrell.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I’m a bit biased. Pam is doing a degree with them. It’s changed her life.’

  ‘Your wife?’

  ‘Yes, sorry, I didn’t introduce you properly, did I? Too keen to watch the cricket. Yes. She felt she’d missed out, not going to university. Decided to do a degree with the OU. Now she feels, well, fulfilled, I suppose, if that doesn’t sound too pretentious.’

  ‘I was thinking of doing a degree with them myself.’

  ‘Why not? If you want to, that is. Would it help your career?’

  ‘Bit late for that, I’m afraid. But that wouldn’t be the reason. It’s just that I’d like to be able to study something in depth, really get to the bottom of it. Something completely different from my work.’

  ‘But isn’t that just what you do in your work?’ broke in Carter. ‘Search for the truth. Get to the bottom of things. When you think about it, your job is not that dissimilar to ours really. We’re all seekers after truth.’

  Healey was about to protest but Farrell spoke first.

  ‘The pursuit of truth,’ he said. ‘Where does that come from? I mean, who said it? Or who wrote it?’

  ‘Don’t know. But tell me when you find out,’ said Carter as he stood up. ‘Anyhow, Richard, the point is, we’re in the same business really. And if I don’t get to bed very soon,’ he affected a long and noisy yawn, ‘I won’t be in a state to pursue much truth tomorrow morning.’ He beamed at Healey and moved towards the door. ‘Good night, Richard. See you tomorrow.’

  ‘Good night.’ Healey stood up himself. He heard the other two exchange words in the hall, the car door clunk shut, the tyres crunch on gravel, and the front door close. Farrell came back in.

  ‘Sit down, Richard. Have another scotch.’ He went over to the television, where an earnest young man in a double-breasted blue blazer was attempting to show how mathematics could explain the outcome of a naval battle, and turned down the sound.

  Healey sat down. He sensed that, however unusual the situation he found himself in, he might learn something useful. ‘Did Dr Crouch play cricket?’

  ‘Yes. He was very keen. In fact he played yesterday afternoon. For the academic staff. Against Berkshire second eleven, I think.’

  ‘So he was pretty good?’

  ‘Yes. Opening bat. Very dour. Very Yorkshire.’

  ‘Not another northerner?’

  ‘Afraid so.’

  ‘Was anyone else from the Department playing yesterday?’


  ‘In that match? No.’ Farrell sat down beside Healey, then suddenly put his hand to his brow, almost as if saluting. ‘Wait a minute. Tim played. He’s not staff but he was playing too.’

  ‘Tim?’

  ‘Yes. Tim Wright. He did an MA with us this year. English Language Teaching. Got a distinction. I asked him to be a tutor on the summer school. That’s why he stayed on.’

  ‘Instead of going home?’

  ‘Home? I don’t know about that. He’s been trying to get a job over here. He thought we might find something permanent for him but there’s no chance. He’ll probably have to go overseas again.’

  ‘Overseas?’

  ‘He was in Manila for five years before he came here. I imagine he can go back to a job there if he wants.’

  ‘The Philippines? Isn’t that where Dr Crouch was before he came to Reading?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did they know each other before?’

  ‘I think so. In fact I’m sure they did. I remember Neville saying that Tim asked him to be one of his referees. When he applied for the MA.’

  ‘Would you say they were friends?’

  ‘Not really. At least I don’t think so.’

  ‘But they played cricket together?’

  ‘No. Oh you mean yesterday. That was an exception. They were one short and Neville asked Tim to make up the numbers. He asked Chris first, but of course he was too busy.’

  ‘But they got on all right?’

  ‘Neville and Tim?’ Healey nodded.

  ‘I think so.’

  Healey stood up. ‘Sorry, I need a pee. Can I use your …?’

  ‘Of course. Up the stairs, turn right, and it’s the door in front of you.’

  Healey paused at the door. ‘Is there anyone Dr Crouch didn’t get on with?’

  Farrell shook his head.

  Healey persisted. ‘Someone who might have something against him?’