The Pursuit of Truth Read online

  Again Farrell shook his head. ‘No. Not that I’m aware of.’

  Healey made his way upstairs. As he walked across the landing, he heard a familiar voice coming from a room on his right, the door of which was ajar. It was the radio. World Service, he thought. But the man’s name, what was it? When he got downstairs, Farrell had switched off the television and was gathering newspapers from the shelf under the coffee table.

  ‘I’ll be on my way,’ said Healey. Farrell offered no objection.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Healey, ‘I shouldn’t have taken advantage of your hospitality to ask you about Crouch.’

  ‘That’s all right.’

  ‘It’s just that …’

  ‘You’re in pursuit of the truth.’ Farrell smiled.

  Healey smiled back. ‘Thanks very much. I enjoyed it.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  ‘Goodnight.’

  ‘Goodnight.’

  When Healey reached the road and looked back at the house, the downstairs lights were already off and one came on in the room from which he’d heard the radio. It suddenly came to him. John Timpson. That had been the voice on the radio. The Open University, he thought, perhaps that’s the way to go. Feeling happier than he had for some time, he walked the fifty or so yards home and went straight to bed, where he dreamed that he was opening the batting for Lancashire.

  SUNDAY

  Though he had gone to bed happy, Healey did not sleep well. Something was troubling him. He woke at five minutes to four, at twenty past five, and again at a quarter to seven. On the first two occasions he went to the bathroom to relieve his bladder and, dehydrated, to slurp up water from his cupped hands, which he held under the cold-water tap.

  On the third occasion he went down to the kitchen and put on the kettle. He dropped an English Breakfast teabag into a mug, put it beside the kettle, and went out into the garden. As he did so, a green woodpecker rose from the lawn where it had been eating a breakfast of ants. If only it would eat all of them; Healey’s attempts to exterminate them from the lawn and rockery by pouring boiling water into their nests had resulted in failure and a sense of guilt for what he had done. Still, today was another cloudless day, a beautiful day. Healey found himself looking at the mostly yellow roses in the bed next to the terrace (or what they called the terrace; in fact it was just a broad strip of concrete that ran along the south side of the house, which he planned to tile some day, when he had more time and his back wasn’t so bad). These roses, which the previous evening had glowed modestly in the twilight, were now revealed to have leaves covered with black spot, which both disfigured them and foretold their imminent death. In fact some of the leaves were already dry and withered, ready to fall to the ground – amongst the weeds – at the first breath of wind.

  Healey felt an unfocused anxiety. It always seemed to happen these days when he’d been drinking the night before. He never knew whether it was because of the alcohol or because of whatever had caused him to drink. Or because of what drinking had led him to do or say. Well, last night he hadn’t felt a desperate need for drink. And he hadn’t drunk much. But he did feel uneasy about what had happened. Meeting Farrell and Carter at the Three Tuns had provided a good opportunity to find out more about the people involved in the case. He had taken advantage of this, and maybe they – at least Farrell – felt he had taken advantage of them, of their hospitality. He had felt comfortable with them, even flattered to be in their company, until, by asking too many questions, he had shown what Farrell must have felt was his real interest in them. He didn’t expect to be invited to the Farrells’ again in the near future.

  Was that what was bothering him? That was part of it. And …? Few of his colleagues, probably none of them, would have gone back to Farrell’s house, even if it were only a few yards from their own. ‘Thank you, but no, I must be getting back.’ It wasn’t thought wise, in fact it was positively forbidden, to fraternise with anyone involved in a case, however obliquely. At least not without getting authority for it. When he’d done it before, it had sometimes led to a breakthrough in a case that was going nowhere, and nobody worried about it. But that wouldn’t help him if anything ever went wrong. He certainly wouldn’t say anything to Teague about last night. To another sergeant perhaps – to Teague no. That ambitious little toad wasn’t above telling tales if he thought it would be to his advantage.

  Was that all that was troubling him? No, but … He went back into the house. The kettle had stopped boiling and he switched it on again.

  Fifteen minutes later, after a crap, a shave and a shower, and now wearing a white shirt with narrow blue stripes, Healey was sitting at the wooden picnic table on the terrace, drinking his tea and eating toast smothered with butter and French apricot jam. Though it was still early, the sun was hot on the side of his face and neck. A wasp landed beside his toast and he waved it away. He began to make a list of the things that he had to do that day. At ten he had the appointment with Carter. Before that, though, he would go to the Hall. There were things to check there, and he would see if he could get to speak to Wright. He also needed to go over with Teague everything they’d got so far, something they hadn’t managed to do the previous day.

  Back in the kitchen, he made a cup of sweet milky instant coffee for his wife, which he took upstairs and put on the table beside the bed, where she lay on her back, still asleep. He pulled back the curtains. ‘Jill,’ he said. There was no response. ‘Jill,’ he repeated. She stirred slightly. ‘Coffee,’ he said.

  Without opening her eyes, his wife smiled. ‘Thanks, love,’ she said. As he watched, she turned on her side and snuggled under the sheet. Thinking that the coffee would be cold long before she woke up again, Healey went out onto the landing. The door of his young son’s bedroom was open and Healey looked inside. Jamie too was fast asleep, lying on his back, completely naked, with the covers in a pile at the bottom of his bed. Healey then tapped lightly on his daughter’s door.

  ‘Hello?’ he heard. He quietly turned the handle and opened the door. The room was filled with a warm glow from the sun shining through the red curtains. His daughter was sitting in bed, her knees drawn up, reading a book. Above her head Paul Young looked down from a poster. Their terrier, curled at her feet, eyed him warily. His daughter smiled.

  ‘All right?’ he asked.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘What are you reading?’

  ‘Agatha Christie.’

  ‘Is it good?’

  ‘It’s great.’

  ‘Do you want me to open the curtains?’

  ‘All right.’

  He pulled back the curtains and the room was filled with sunlight. He didn’t want to leave. ‘I’ve got to go,’ he said. ‘Tell Mum I’ll be back for lunch if I can.’ She nodded.

  He went to the door.

  ‘Bye, love.’

  ‘Bye, Dad.’

  On the way out he tugged the Sunday paper from the letterbox and put it on the kitchen table. He got in the car and drove off down Beech Lane, noting as he did so that the curtains of Farrell’s front bedroom had not been opened. It didn’t occur to him that he still had the previous day’s shopping in the boot.

  The Hall stood on the corner of two roads. As he drew near to it and began to slow down, Healey saw a coach parked in the smaller of the roads. A line of what seemed to be mostly young women were climbing aboard. Healey parked on the opposite side of the road and stayed in his car. He took out the course booklet, which he still had with him, and saw that this must be the day trip to Bath. At the back of the queue he noticed the woman who had complimented him sarcastically on his politeness. Silvia, was that her name? She was clearly agitated, changing her weight from one foot to the other, looking up and down the road, looking at her watch twice in the two minutes that Healey was watching her. She was wearing a cream blouse – again – and a sage coloured skirt, a jacket of the same colour over her arm, with a beige canvas bag hanging from her shoulder. An attractive woman, he thought, styl
ish, elegant, probably in her mid-thirties. He wondered what it would be like to be with a woman like that. He was jolted from his musing by the sound of a horn behind him. He looked in his mirror and saw a blue open-topped sports car, signalling a turn that would take it into the Hall grounds, but which would not be possible until either the coach or Healey’s car moved and left enough space for it to pass. Healey started his engine and moved forward a few yards. From behind he heard an acknowledging toot from the sports car and, tilting his mirror so that he could see the Hall entrance, Healey watched as the car turned, then stopped. The woman stepped towards it, leaned on the door with one foot off the ground, and spoke animatedly to the driver, before the car moved on into the Hall grounds, parked, and the driver, a slightly built young man with long fair hair, emerged and took the woman’s arm. They both got on the coach, which drove off almost immediately.

  As Healey entered the reception area, the old man on the desk asked if he could help him. Healey told him who he was. ‘And you are …?’ he asked.

  ‘Mr Bird,’ was the reply.

  Very apt name, thought Healey, for such a thin and bony man. Long scrawny neck and beaky nose too. He noticed that Bird pronounced the ‘r’ in his name, as most older people in Reading would, though very few young ones. Healey showed him his warrant card.

  ‘So it was you who found the body?’ he asked.

  ‘It was.’

  ‘Did you recognise who it was right away?’

  ‘I did. His face was very familiar to me.’

  ‘Why was that?’

  ‘Cos he was always coming to me complaining about something or other, right from the start. This wasn’t right. That wasn’t right. I tell you, I got really fed up with him. I said to him one day, I said, Tell me, Doctor Crouch, are you the director of this here summer school? No, he says, why? Why? I says, well you know who the director is so why don’t you tell ’ im what’s wrong and then he can take it up with the proper authority. Then you won’t have to keep bothering me. Well, he didn’t have an answer to that.’ Bird paused. ‘Poor bugger, though. No way for anyone to go.’ He shuddered.

  ‘Did you notice if Dr Crouch spent time with anybody in particular?’ asked Healey.

  ‘No. No, but he did have an eye for the ladies, I noticed. They seemed to have time for him too. Funny really, him being such an ugly bugger. I thought it must be to do with them being foreign or something.’ Bird shook his head in apparent wonder. ‘Some really nice-looking ones too.’

  ‘But no one in particular?’

  ‘Not that I saw.’

  Healey started to move off, then stopped. ‘There’s a blue sports car parked outside. Do you know whose it is?’

  ‘Parked where?’

  ‘Just outside the door.’ Healey pointed to the door through which he had come into the building.

  ‘Bloody hell. He knows he’s not supposed to park there.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Mr Wright.’

  ‘The tutor?’

  ‘Yes. The Warden told him he wasn’t to park there. It’s for senior Hall staff only.’

  ‘Was it here last night?’

  ‘I didn’t see it at all last night.’

  ‘What about the night before, the night of the party?’

  Bird scratched his head before replying. ‘It was there, yes. Until I made him move it. Got him out of the party I did.’

  ‘When was that?’

  ‘Just after nine.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Yes. The nine o’clock news had just started on the telly. I saw it when I come through the bar. There was nobody around here so I went out for a fag and there it was, his car in Miss Colgan’s place.’

  ‘So where did he move it to?’

  ‘Onto the road. Just round the corner.’

  ‘Did it stay there?’

  ‘All night. At least it was there when I went off duty at one. And it was there when I came back on at eight.’

  ‘Well thanks, Mr Bird. Where was Miss Colgan’s car, by the way?’

  ‘She was at home. She doesn’t like to be around when there’s a party on.’

  ‘Oh, I see. Thanks again, you’ve been very helpful.’

  Bird looked pleased with himself. ‘Can I ask you a quick question, sir?’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘What exactly is the law on street parking? Only I don’t think it’s right that people who don’t live in an area should take up space that doesn’t belong to them.’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t help you on that one, Mr Bird.’

  Bird seemed surprised.

  ‘But,’ added Healey, ‘I’m sure my sergeant will know. Why don’t you ask him?’

  When Healey entered the incident room, it was empty except for one constable.

  ‘Morning, Gifford.’

  ‘Morning, sir.’

  ‘Any sign of Sergeant Teague?’

  ‘I haven’t seen him, sir.’

  ‘Can I have what we’ve got so far?’

  Gifford handed him two fat folders, which Healey took to a table near the window. He was leafing through the contents of the first folder when Teague appeared. ‘Morning,’ he called cheerily. As he approached Healey, he added, ‘That porter’s a bit weird, isn’t he? Wanted to know all sorts of things about street parking. Said you told him to ask me.’ Healey did not respond and Teague continued ‘Yeah, weird, what you might call a funny old bird,’ at which he chortled loudly.

  Healey, still annoyed at having missed Wright, gave him what he thought of as an old-fashioned look. ‘Can we get some work done. I’m seeing Carter in less than an hour.’

  By the time Healey left the Hall to call on Carter, he and Teague, though they were still waiting for a report from Forensics, had agreed on what they ought to follow up. They had to talk to Wright, give him a hard time if necessary. They needed to know whether he had really been with Mrs Crouch on the night of Crouch’s death. They knew that Mrs Crouch, since she had changed her story, had lied to them but not why. When Teague interviewed her, she had simply repeated what she had said to Healey on the phone: that she had been too embarrassed to admit to having a man in her house all night when her husband was away. If she had in fact told the truth in the first place, then Wright had lied. Why would he have done that? Teague was confident that Wright hadn’t been at Mrs Crouch’s when he went there the previous afternoon. Downstairs there was only the living room and the kitchen, and he had used an unnecessary visit to the loo to go through all the rooms upstairs.

  Wright wasn’t the only person whose movements on the night of what they now mostly referred to as the murder demanded further investigation. Teague was particularly interested in one of the few male course participants, first because he was from the Philippines, where Crouch had lived, and second because he told Teague, who happened to interview him, that he had been with friends in London and then had gone to Heathrow to see them off on a flight to Paris, where they would begin four weeks touring through a number of European countries. The man did not have a contact address for them, and said that they wouldn’t be coming back to Britain before they went home to the Philippines. ‘Very convenient,’ said Teague, at which Healey told him to speak to the man again at the earliest opportunity.

  The second person with what Teague referred to as ‘a dodgy story’ was Mary Walters, one of the tutors. She had said that she had left the party at about 8.30 and gone back to her flat in Ealing. But one of the other participants said that she had seen Walters in the communal bathroom on her floor not long before midnight. This discrepancy only came to light when stories were being collated and compared late the previous evening and no attempt had so far been made to look into this further.

  The other obvious essential matter was motivation. Who would want to kill Crouch and why? Healey would concentrate on this, interviewing Crouch’s colleagues and family (and friends, should there be any). Teague would speak to Wright, Walters and the Filipino, as soon as that proved possibl
e, bearing in mind that at least one of them, Wright, and possibly all three, had gone to Bath for the day.

  Healey had some other possibilities in mind, but it wasn’t his practice to let his sergeant know everything he was thinking.

  As he left, Healey nodded in the direction of Gifford. ‘Where’s everyone gone, by the way?’

  ‘Sorry, sir, I meant to tell you. They rang last night just before I left. Wanted to know if we still needed them, and I said just one would be enough for now, seeing as all the interviewing was finished. I hope that was all right.’

  ‘All right, but call me next time.’

  Healey parked his car next to Carter’s big Rover, which in daylight turned out to be maroon in colour, in the otherwise empty car park on the King’s Road campus of Berkshire University. Getting out, he surveyed the long dreary brick building that ran parallel to the road, just twenty or thirty yards from it. He had never been there before and he realised that he had no idea how he was going to find Carter’s office. He went to the main entrance and pulled on the handle of the heavy glass door and found that, as he had suspected would be the case on a Sunday morning, it was locked. He looked at his watch. Four minutes to ten. He had just stepped back from the door and was scanning the windows above in the hope of seeing some sign of life, when he heard the rattle of keys in the lock. Carter came out, a smile on his face, took Healey’s hand and shook it as vigorously as he had the night before.

  ‘Good morning, Richard,’ he said. ‘Another beautiful morning.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Healey, a little taken aback by Carter’s cheerful manner. ‘It’s supposed to last another week, they say.’

  ‘Is it indeed? No doubt it’ll turn nasty then. That’s when I go on holiday.’

  They entered the building, climbed a flight of stairs and were walking along a narrow corridor with doors on each side.

  ‘Where are you going? On your holiday, I mean,’ asked Healey.

  ‘South of France. We’ve got a little place there, above Cannes.’