The Pursuit of Truth Read online

‘Very nice,’ said Healey, wondering what relevance British weather had for a holiday in the south of France. ‘Going with the family?’

  Carter smiled. ‘Yes. Wife and the two kids, one from my previous marriage. What about you, Richard? Are you going away?’ Carter pushed open the door and ushered Healey into a room which was much smaller than he had expected.

  ‘Not sure. We tend to do things at short notice. Occupational hazard. This case for instance …’ Healey’s voice tailed off.

  Carter waved his arm in the direction of a chair where Healey might sit and sat down behind his desk. Immediately he stood up again.

  ‘Before I forget, take a look at this.’ He pushed a large open volume across the desk towards Healey. ‘Remember last night we were talking about the pursuit of truth?’ he said. ‘It’s part of the title of a book. Well you can see for yourself.’

  Healey put on his glasses. ‘You’ll need this too,’ said Carter, handing him a magnifying glass. ‘It’s the compact edition. Of the OED,’ he added.

  Healey squinted at the text. 1956 J. Wilson Language and Pursuit of Truth ii. 57 Men make .. protests against particular types of privilege .. for instance, against class-privilege, he managed to read.

  ‘And there’s another,’ said Carter. ‘Let me show you.’ He opened the dictionary at a page marked by a yellow Post-it. This time the quotation was from a book on Buddhism.

  ‘Different pursuit. Different truth,’ said Carter.

  ‘Yes.’ Healey continued looking at the second entry. ‘I’m impressed. I wouldn’t have expected you to have time to find these.’

  ‘Well you know what they say; if you want something doing quickly, give it to a busy man. Or woman, I suppose we have to say today.’ He picked up his spectacles and began to clean them with a tissue he took from a box. ‘And, to put it kindly, Peter isn’t the busiest man on this earth.’

  ‘What about Crouch? Was he a busy man?’

  ‘Ah, well, there you have a different case altogether. If you believed what Neville said, he was the busiest man in the Department. But it was all show. If you look at what he actually produced, there’s nothing there.’

  ‘Didn’t he write a book with you?’

  ‘Oh, you know about that. That was me. He contributed very little.’

  ‘But his name’s on the cover.’

  ‘Oh yes, but that doesn’t mean much.’

  ‘Doesn’t it mean that you don’t get full credit for what you did?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I wonder why you did it then.’

  ‘Out of friendship, as much as anything else. He was new in the Department. He seemed a nice enough guy. He was certainly bright, but he wasn’t getting anywhere. I just thought he needed a bit of help to get going. That’s why I suggested we do the book together.’

  ‘But it didn’t work out the way you expected?’

  ‘No, not at all. At the beginning he was full of enthusiasm, reading a lot, making notes, writing outlines for his chapters, but not producing any text. After a few months of this, when I’d more or less finished my half of the book, I got fed up and said that unless he did produce something quickly, we’d better scrap the idea. I’d do it by myself.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He did eventually write a chapter but it was almost unreadable.’

  ‘So what did you do?’

  ‘I rewrote it and the rest of what he did. And made up my mind not to do anything of a collaborative nature with him again.’

  ‘Did you fall out?’

  ‘Not at all. He was happy to be getting half of the credit. And half of the royalties. While I was happy to put the matter behind me. No, there was no ill feeling. I felt a bit sad that it hadn’t worked out more as I’d anticipated, but that’s all.’

  ‘Did you remain friends?’

  ‘Truth is, we were never very close. I know when you asked me I said I did it out of friendship. It would have been more accurate to say out of friendliness. The only real friend I have in the Department is Peter.’

  ‘What about Crouch? What friends did he have?’

  ‘In the Department? I don’t think he had any. He seemed completely wrapped up in his home life, as far as I could see.’

  ‘Did he have any enemies?’

  ‘Not that I’m aware of. His inefficiency may have annoyed people but not to the extent that they became enemies. Or would throw him out of a window, if that’s what you’re thinking.’

  Healey didn’t respond. Despite the windows being open, he was becoming aware of a faint but acrid scent of sweat. He looked around the room, at the three walls lined with books, at the small table on which stood a computer, at the whiteboard covered with what he thought must be some foreign script, and finally at Carter himself, with his elbows on the desk, his head resting in his hands, looking directly through his spectacles into Healey’s eyes. Carter’s own hazel eyes were magnified, as were the bags beneath them. His beard still had the same traces of food on it as the previous night. His hair did not seem to have been washed either.

  Not a particularly attractive man, thought Healey. But attractive to whom? Healey had to admit that he was often surprised by what women found attractive. It certainly wasn’t just appearance. Carter was energetic, successful, presumably quite well off – he had a house near Cannes, he’d said – and apparently self-confident. Healey wondered what his wife was like. What each of his wives was like. But he asked a different question.

  ‘How did Crouch get on with his wife?’

  ‘As well as people usually do when they’re married to each other. I mean, he seemed devoted to her, couldn’t do enough for her. They had the child, of course. She didn’t have to work.’

  ‘He earned enough to be comfortable?’

  ‘Nobody earns a fortune in universities, but yes, enough to be comfortable, I’d say.’

  ‘And they got on well?’

  ‘Yes, at least …’

  ‘At least what?’

  ‘It may not have anything to do with their marriage at all, but I sensed that something was bothering Neville over the last couple of months. I told you that he always gave the impression of being busy. Going from office to office with a stack of papers, sending out dozens of memos about nothing in particular, generally wasting people’s time. Well, perhaps two, no probably three months ago he stopped doing that. All of a sudden you’d hardly see him, and when you did, he didn’t want to say more than hello. And not always that. I can remember a couple of occasions when he walked straight past me, as if I weren’t there.’

  ‘Do you have any idea what might have caused this?’

  ‘None at all.’

  The scent of sweat was getting stronger. Healey produced a notebook. He hesitated before speaking, knowing that he shouldn’t call Carter professor, and didn’t want to call him Chris, so what should he call him? Nothing, as he’d been doing all morning.

  ‘As a formality, can I ask you about your movements on the night that Doctor Crouch fell? I just need to know where you were from eight o’clock on Friday evening until nine o’clock on Saturday morning.’

  Carter told him that at eight he had been working here in his office. Just before ten he had left for the Three Tuns, where he met Peter Farrell. At closing time they’d gone in his car to Farrell’s, as they had the following evening with Healey. He’d stayed until two o’clock, then driven home, where he went straight to bed, and that was it. He left the house next morning at eight-thirty and at nine was starting his lecture to the summer school.

  While Carter gave his account, Healey had been looking at a pair of large framed photographs on the wall behind him. Now he asked, ‘So, that’s you, is it, the young cricketer?’

  ‘Lancashire schoolboys.’

  Reminded of his dream, for a moment Healey thought to tell Carter about it but decided not to. ‘Really?’ he said. ‘You must have been good.’ Carter did not demur.

  ‘And the other picture. Is that judo?’

  ‘Karat
e, actually. But I was pretty useless. I put it up there just to keep the students in order.’ Carter chuckled and his eyes glinted as he grinned at Healey.

  After thanking Carter for his help, Healey stood up to leave. Carter came round the desk to shake his hand again, pausing on the way to switch on his computer. Closing the door behind him, Healey pulled back his jacket and sniffed under his arm. All he smelled was the anti-perspirant, whatever it was called, that his wife bought him. As he walked along the corridor, the nameplate on one of the doors caught his attention. On white plastic, printed in black, was ‘Dr N. Crouch’. Next to it, attached to the door by a drawing-pin was a folded piece of paper on which were typed the hours that Crouch was available to see students. Healey pulled the paper from the door and slipped it into his pocket. He tried the door but it was locked.

  When Healey got back to the Hall, Gifford, the constable that he had spoken to in the morning, was still there, reading a newspaper. ‘Sergeant Teague asked me to tell you that he had to nip out but would be back soon,’ he said, pushing away the newspaper across the table he was sitting at. Healey was reminded of Carter pushing the dictionary towards him.

  ‘Is there something you want me to read in that?’ asked Healey.

  ‘No, sir,’ said the man, ‘I was just …’

  ‘Just give me the key to Crouch’s room, will you?’

  Armed with the key, he climbed five flights of stairs to the floor on which Crouch’s room was to be found. On his left were the rooms, with their views over the sports field; on his right was a series of windows looking down into a courtyard. As he stood outside Crouch’s room, the nearest to the stairs, he heard sounds coming from the half-open door of the next room, heavy breathing and the occasional grunt. Curious, he put his head round the door and saw a diminutive woman tucking in the bedspread that she must have just thrown into place.

  ‘Oh, my God,’ she gasped, when she saw Healey, ‘you frightened the life out of me. I didn’t hear you come in.’

  Her hair was black and tightly curled, her eyes bright blue, and her lips painted scarlet. The lines on her face suggested she was in her fifties. Dyed hair, thought Healey.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘I didn’t mean to shock you. Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes, I’m fine.’ She put her hand to her chest, gulped and put her tongue out over her lower lip. Like a gargoyle, thought Healey. ‘At least, I think I am,’ she added and sat down on the edge of the bed.

  Healey told her who he was and why he was there. ‘Do you do all the rooms on this floor?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So you did Doctor Crouch’s room?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Did he stay there every night?’

  ‘No. In fact, he never stayed in the Hall – unless you count Friday night, of course.’

  ‘Do you know why he had a room at all?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. Unless he thought he might strike lucky with one of the women on the course.’

  ‘What makes you say that? Was he trying, do you think?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t think so. He didn’t seem the type.’

  ‘What type is that?’

  ‘You know, after the women.’

  Healey nodded. ‘Whose room is this by the way?’

  ‘Doctor Farrell’s.’

  ‘Does he stay over at the Hall?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘Why aren’t you sure?’

  ‘Should I be telling you this? It isn’t very nice talking behind someone’s back.’

  ‘I’m sorry, what’s your name?’

  ‘Rita. Or do you mean my surname?’

  ‘Rita,’ Healey adopted the most serious tone he could muster, ‘I’m investigating what may turn out to be a murder. It’s your duty to tell me anything that will help me find out exactly what happened.’

  The woman seemed pleased to be able to continue without any sense of guilt. ‘Well, the first week he didn’t use to use it at all. Except to keep his mac here.’

  ‘His mac?’

  ‘Yes, it used to be lying there on the bed. Never moved. I suppose he thought it might rain one day. It’s gone now, though, and it still hasn’t rained.’

  ‘And since the first week has he used the room at all?’

  ‘Well he’s used the bed all right but I’m not sure it’s at night.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘The talk is that he comes up here in the afternoons.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘When I come the next morning, the bed clothes are all over the place.’

  ‘Is that it? Nothing else? No evidence of someone else being here with him?’

  ‘No. Well, sometimes I’ve smelled perfume on the pillow but that could be Doctor Farrell’s aftershave, couldn’t it, things being unisex and all these days?’

  Healey went to the head of the bed and lifted a pillow to his nose. It did smell of some scent or other but he was at a loss as to whether it was a man’s or a woman’s. He put the pillow down.

  ‘So are all the rooms on this floor for the tutors?’

  ‘Yes. I mean no. The one at the far end is Sam’s.’

  ‘Sam?’

  ‘The course assistant.’

  ‘I didn’t realise there was one. What’s his second name?’ As he asked, Healey pulled out his course booklet.

  Rita laughed. ‘It isn’t a he, it’s a she. Samantha. Samantha Black. She’s a student.’

  Healey found her name in the booklet.

  ‘All right. And who’s in the next room to this?’

  ‘That’s Miss Walters. Or Ms Walters, as she likes to be called.’ Rita pronounced Ms with a long drawn out zzz sound.

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Mr Wright.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘An empty room. Then Sam.’

  On the blank inside cover of the course booklet Healey made a quick sketch.

  STAIRS

  Putting the booklet back into his pocket, he asked, ‘You say you clean all the rooms on this floor?’

  ‘Yes.’ The cleaner nodded.

  ‘Do you remember if any of them wasn’t slept in the night that Dr Crouch fell?’

  ‘Ms Walters’ wasn’t. I’m sure of that. Doctor Crouch’s wasn’t, of course.’ She looked at the ceiling and held her mouth open. ‘That’s all, I think,’ she said eventually. ‘I had to make the other beds, though, like I say, I never know if a bed’s used at night or before. Or actually slept in.’ Her eyes twinkled. ‘I don’t come nosing up here at night, Inspector.’

  ‘No, I’m sure you don’t. Does anybody come round at night?’

  ‘I don’t know. You’ll have to ask Mr Bird to find that out.’

  ‘I’ll do that,’ said Healey.

  Healey left Rita to carry on with her cleaning and let himself into Crouch’s room. At first glance it looked just as he had left it the previous morning. Then he noticed traces of graphite left by the scene of crime people where they had been looking for fingerprints. He saw too that the attaché case and the letter had gone, which reminded him that he had to ring about the letter, unless there was already a report on it downstairs. He’d check that before he left.

  He moved to the window and looked out. He heard the buzz of a moped and looked down to see the little red helmet of its rider flash repeatedly between the chestnuts that lined the road. On the other side of the road were the hedge-lined University playing-fields, a car park and tennis courts to the right of the entrance, a pavilion and cricket pitch directly ahead. After weeks without rain, the grass was the colour of straw. Over the roof of the pavilion he could see a man on the cricket square with a hand-mower preparing a wicket. The boundary had already been marked with white metal disks on spikes. Healey glanced at his watch. He guessed the match would start in a couple of hours and last at least until six or seven in the evening. He would pass by the pavilion in the afternoon to see what he could find out about Friday’s game. Crouch’s last game, he thought. ‘
Krapp’s last tape,’ he said aloud, and wondered why.

  At the priest’s signal, the congregation rose and made its way slowly towards the altar to receive communion. Just one figure at the rear of the church, head bowed, remained seated.

  ‘Come on, Dad.’ Jamie was calling to him from the garden, where he was standing with his cricket bat. ‘Come and bowl to me.’

  Healey had just got back from the Hall and brought in the shopping that had been in the boot of the car and put it on the kitchen counter. Luckily, there had been nothing that could have gone off. His wife, who was making lentil soup, had acted as if she hadn’t noticed and he had picked up the Sunday Times from the table where he’d left it a few hours earlier. ‘I want to look at the paper,’ he called through the open window.

  ‘Aw, come on, Dad.’

  Healey remembered how much it had meant to him when his father had played with him. He put down the paper. ‘Okay. But just five minutes.’

  ‘Yes!’ His eight-year-old son punched the air.

  In the cupboard under the stairs Healey found a cardboard box that had held bottles of wine. He took this and an old tennis ball out onto the lawn. Using the box as the wickets, and having placed Jamie’s hands in more or less the right position on the bat handle, Healey proceeded to lob the ball gently in his direction. Jamie swished at it, missed it completely, and the ball bounced twice before hitting the box. Jamie picked up the ball and rolled it back to him. Collecting the ball, Healey walked up to his son.

  ‘Look,’ he said, ‘try and hit the ball just after it’s bounced. See where it’s going to bounce and step towards it.’

  He put the ball on the ground two feet in front of them. Leaning over him, he put his hands round Jamie’s on the bat.

  ‘Imagine it’s going to bounce there. So take a step forward, and bang, you hit it.’

  He stepped forward himself, dragging Jamie with him. ‘Do you see?’

  Jamie nodded, without looking up at him.

  ‘Let’s give it a try then.’ As Healey stood up, he saw his wife watching them from the kitchen.

  ‘Jill, why don’t you come and play too?’