The Pursuit of Truth Page 7

  ‘I can’t. I’ve got to watch the soup.’

  Healey went back to where he had bowled the first ball from. He lobbed another down. Jamie took a big step forward, swung his bat, and the ball went flying over the fence and into the garden next door.

  ‘That’s it,’ said Healey. ‘You’ve got it.’

  Jamie glowed with pleasure.

  ‘That was really good,’ said his father. ‘Now, do you want to go round and get the ball back?’

  Later that afternoon Healey stood outside the Crouches’ house in Falstaff Avenue. He had rung the bell twice but there was no answer. He had deliberately not phoned ahead; he didn’t want her to have time to prepare herself. A ground floor window in the house next door opened.

  ‘She’s in the back garden.’ It was the woman who had been gardening when he was there the previous time.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Healey. He stepped to the gate between the house and the garage, pressed the latch and pushed. The gate didn’t move.

  ‘Can you tell her I’m here?’ he said. ‘The gate’s bolted.’

  ‘Go through the garage,’ said the woman. ‘It isn’t locked. The lock doesn’t work.’ She continued to watch him.

  Healey turned the metal handle and tipped the yellow garage door upwards and over until it was half open. He stooped and peered inside. Directly in front of him was the sunlit front end of a grey Mini. In the wall to the right of the car he made out a door. Standing up inside the garage, Healey edged round the car, took hold of the handle of the door he had seen, turned it, and pushed.

  The door swung open and he saw before him Mrs Crouch sitting in a deck chair with a young child on her knee. The chair was set at an angle to him and Mrs Crouch did not see him but the child, presumably her daughter, was looking directly at him and began to tug at her mother’s arm, pointing in his direction. Mrs Crouch turned her head and saw him too. Healey stepped forward.

  ‘I’m sorry, I rang the bell but there was no answer.’ He was conscious that in the morning he had already apologised for arriving unexpectedly in a woman’s presence. At least Mrs Crouch didn’t perform the same pantomime act as the cleaner had.

  ‘Oh, Inspector,’ she said and made as if to get up.

  ‘Don’t get up.’

  Mrs Crouch eased the girl from her knee onto the concrete ground, where she stood, looking up into Healey’s face.

  ‘Your daughter?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes. Gia.’

  As Healey looked down at her, Gia took her mother’s hand and pressed her hip against the side of the deckchair. ‘Mrs Crouch,’ he began, ‘I need to talk to you seriously. I don’t suppose Gia could …’ He gestured in the direction of the house.

  ‘Not really, there’s no one else to look after her.’

  ‘All right, but could we go inside?’

  ‘Do we need to? Can’t we talk here?’

  ‘Very well.’

  ‘You’ll find a deckchair at the back of the garage. Do you mind getting it?’

  After what had happened on his previous visit to the house, Healey had made up his mind to be very formal and keep a distance, physical as well as psychological, between him and Crouch’s widow. Now, within a minute of arriving, he found himself sitting opposite her in a deckchair and, despite himself, looking at the opening at the top of her blouse, where he saw a heavy gold chain and crucifix. This won’t do, he thought. He put his hand to his mouth, coughed, sniffed, and then proceeded to produce a notepad, which he opened, and appeared to study what was in fact a blank page. He looked up and fixed his eyes on hers. He spoke quietly in order not to alarm the child.

  ‘Mrs Crouch, when I came here yesterday you told me that you had spent the previous evening and night alone with your daughter.’

  ‘Excuse me,’ interrupted Mrs Crouch. ‘Gia, why don’t you take dolly to the bottom of the garden and show her the flowers?’ The girl seemed reluctant but picked up the cabbage patch doll that lay at her feet and carried it by one of its legs as she walked slowly down the lawn.

  ‘Yes, you were saying?’

  ‘First you told me that you were alone with your daughter. Later you telephoned to say that you hadn’t been alone, that Mr Wright was here all night.’ Even as he said this, Healey was conscious of the rhyme of night and Wright, and even worse, that Wright could be interpreted as Right. Spend the night with Mr Right! Mrs Crouch, however, did not smile and continued to look at him intently. He pressed on.

  ‘The reason you gave for changing your story was that you lied at first because you were embarrassed at spending the night with a man who was not your husband. That’s what you told me and that’s what you told my sergeant when he questioned you. You also told him …’ At this point Healey hesitated, glancing in the direction of the child who was now too far away to hear if they spoke quietly.

  He continued, ‘You told him that Mr Wright was just a friend, that you did not have sexual relations with him, that you slept in your bedroom and he slept downstairs on the sofa. Am I … er … correct?’ He had just managed to stop himself saying ‘right’.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you stand by your new story?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well I have to tell you, Mrs Crouch, that I find it difficult to believe.’

  ‘It isn’t a story. It’s true.’

  ‘All right. How often has this happened before? That he’s spent the night here when your husband was away.’

  ‘It was the first time.’

  ‘What time did Mr Wright arrive?’

  ‘About ten o’clock.’

  ‘What time did you go to bed?’

  ‘I don’t know. Perhaps midnight.’

  ‘So you spent two hours together. What did you do during that time?’

  ‘We talked.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘Many things.’

  ‘Such as?’

  She hesitated. ‘About the Philippines,’ she said eventually.

  ‘And?’

  She looked at him blankly.

  ‘And?’ he repeated. ‘What else did you talk about?’

  She did not answer.

  ‘So Mr Wright is a tutor on a summer school, where there’s a party in progress. He leaves the party, comes here, talks to you for two hours about the Philippines, then you go to bed. And what does he do? Does he go back to the party? Does he go back to the Hall where he’s got a bed? No, he spends the night on your sofa, during which time your husband falls to his death at the Hall. Are you surprised I find it difficult to believe?’

  As he looked at her, tears began to well up in Mrs Crouch’s eyes. She stood up and felt inside the pockets of the cut-off jeans that she was wearing.

  ‘Just a minute, please,’ she said and went towards the house. Healey noticed that, despite her slim figure, Mrs Crouch’s hips were wider than he had remembered. Her daughter went running after her, a pink carnation that she had picked for her doll falling from her hand.

  As she came out of the house, Mrs Crouch was still dabbing her eyes with a tissue.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. She sat down. ‘I’ve left Gia watching television. I don’t want her to hear what I’m going to tell you.’ She put the tissue to her nose and sniffed.

  ‘So are you going to tell me what really happened?’ asked Healey.

  ‘What I said is true,’ she replied. ‘He did stay all night on the sofa. But we did not speak about only the Philippines.’ She sniffed again. ‘You see, I asked him to come because …’

  ‘Because?’

  ‘Because I was afraid of my husband …’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘He was being very violent with me.’

  ‘He was hitting you.’

  ‘No, not hitting, but shouting, shouting so loud, in my face. He said terrible things.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know why. He was becoming crazy.’

  ‘What terrible things did he say?’

  ‘He called me a bitch. A who
re. He said I was sleeping with other men.’

  ‘Is that true?’ Healey’s curiosity was not exclusively professional.

  ‘No. Of course not.’

  ‘And how long had that been going on for?’

  ‘For months. It started after Easter.’

  ‘But you waited until last Friday before you felt the need to talk to Mr Wright.’

  ‘No. I have told him before. But this time was different.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘The night before, Neville told me that he hated me, really hated me, and he would like to kill me. I was frightened. That’s why I asked Tim to stay with me.’ Mrs Crouch burst into tears, put her hands to her eyes, and rocked backwards and forwards, sobbing. At which, Healey’s first thought was to make a pot of tea. He forgot to ask about her husband’s friends.

  his wife, his child

  what have I done to them?

  Healey parked his car in the sports ground car park, and ambled over to the pavilion. He watched as a bowler tore in at great speed and released the ball, which bounced half way down the pitch. The batsman planted his right foot outside off stump and hooked the ball fiercely in Healey’s direction. The ball was still three feet above the ground when it reached him and he caught it in front of his midriff. He signalled a six, quite unnecessarily, he realised, and there was a ripple of applause. He tossed the ball to the fielder who had come from square leg to collect it, and continued on his way to the pavilion. As he got there, he was greeted by a small, bearded grey-haired man with a jutting chin, dressed in whites and holding a nearly empty pint glass.

  ‘Good catch,’ he said.

  ‘Thanks,’ responded Healey. ‘It’s been a long time.’ His hands were still stinging but he wouldn’t mention that.

  ‘The bar’s open,’ said the man, ‘if you fancy a drink. Just through there.’

  ‘I won’t, thanks. But what about you?’

  ‘Very kind. Pint of Directors, please.’

  While Healey was being served, he heard a loud ‘Howzat?’ from the field. There were groans from the front of the pavilion, and, a few moments later, brief clapping, which Healey suspected, was sympathetic in nature. When he emerged from the pavilion, the bearded man was engaged in putting on the pads that the outcoming batsman had just taken off. Healey placed the glass of beer on a nearby table.

  ‘Many thanks,’ said the man, and continued to struggle with the straps.

  Healey let him finish padding up before he asked him if he knew Neville Crouch.

  ‘Neville! Of course I do. He played for us the other day. He a friend of yours?’ The man picked up the pint Healey had bought him and began to swig from it.

  ‘Not really. Actually, I’m with Thames Valley CID.’

  The man put down the glass.

  Healey continued, ‘I don’t know if you’ve heard …?’ The man did not react. Healey realised that he was doing this all wrong. He couldn’t tell a man who was about to go out to bat that someone he possibly knew well had been killed.

  ‘It’s just that I have to check up on the movements of a number of people. You told me that he played for you the other day. Would that be Friday afternoon?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What time did you start?’

  ‘Half past one.’

  ‘And finish?’

  ‘Towards seven.’

  ‘Did Doctor Crouch seem well that day?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Nothing unusual about his behaviour?’

  ‘No, nothing I can think of. What’s happened, anyhow? Is Neville all right?’

  Before Healey could reply, there was another triumphant shout from the centre of the field. One of the stumps at the far end was leaning back, and a disconsolate batsman was already trudging back to the pavilion. The little bearded man slipped on his gloves, put his bat under his arm, and set off in sprightly fashion for the wicket. After perhaps ten yards, he stopped, turned, and called back to Healey, ‘He did get a bang on the head, if that’s the sort of thing you mean,’ then continued on his way.

  ‘Retired hurt,’ Healey heard a voice behind him say. He looked round and saw that it was the scorer who had spoken.

  ‘You were talking to Jim about Neville, weren’t you? He ducked into a bouncer that didn’t bounce. Hit him on the head.’ The man flicked over the pages of the scorebook.

  ‘Look, here it is. Retired hurt, thirteen. Unlucky thirteen. We all had a laugh about that. Except Neville, of course.’

  ‘Was he badly hurt?’

  ‘I don’t think so. It was his pride that was hurt more than anything else. It didn’t bleed. Just a bump.’

  ‘Where was the bump exactly?’

  The man leaned towards Healey and placed a finger at a point above his own left temple. ‘Just about here.’

  ‘Did he have it checked out, go to the hospital, do you know?’

  ‘I don’t think so. He took a couple of paracetamol. Said he was going home to have a lie down.’

  ‘Did he say home?’

  ‘Oh, I’m not sure. Maybe not.’

  Healey waited while the man concentrated on making an entry in the scorebook. ‘By the way, do you know if Dr Crouch had his own bat?’

  ‘You mean on Friday?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Healey quickly, realising that he shouldn’t have used the past tense.

  ‘I imagine so. I’m sure he did.’

  ‘I don’t suppose he could have left it here, could he? I mean, after being hit.’

  ‘No. If he had, someone would have noticed when we all left.’

  Healey was about to thank the man, when he heard shouting from the middle of the pitch. He recognised the voice of the bearded man, who was waving his bat in the direction of the sightscreen, in front of which stood a woman with a dog on a lead. ‘Get out of there,’ the bearded man called. It was only when one of the fielders ran over and presumably explained what was wanted of her, that the woman moved. She headed slowly in the direction of the car park and exit.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Healey to the scorer, setting off for the car park. He and the woman met almost beside his car.

  ‘Excuse me,’ he said. ‘It’s Miss Wood, isn’t it?’

  ‘Woods,’ replied the woman. ‘With an ess. Do I know you?’ She stood feet apart, both arms behind her back. Though she was only small and apparently frail, she gave the impression of someone who was used to more than holding her own. She looked Healey in the eye.

  ‘No,’ said Healey, ‘but I was at the Hall when you were talking to Miss Colgan yesterday. I saw you come out of her office with your dog. Maisie.’

  ‘Daisy.’

  ‘I’m sorry. Daisy. I believe you live just by the Hall.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And when you saw the Warden yesterday you were complaining about the noise on Friday night.’

  ‘Was I?’ replied Miss Woods. ‘I really don’t know.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘I don’t remember what I was talking about. In fact I don’t remember speaking to … Who did you say I was speaking to?’

  ‘Miss Colgan.’

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  ‘But you don’t remember what you talked to her about?’

  ‘What are you? Police?’

  ‘Yes, I am actually. Thames Valley CID.’

  ‘Shouldn’t you have told me that at the beginning?’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘And don’t you have a badge or something?’

  Healey produced his warrant card and showed it to her.

  She examined it carefully. ‘Well, Chief Inspector. Now I know who you are. What was it you were asking me?’

  ‘I was asking about your visit to the Hall. I believe you were complaining about the noise on Friday night.’

  ‘Oh, the noise. Yes, there’s often noise from there.’

  ‘And on Friday night?’

  ‘Friday night.’ She paused. ‘Friday night. What day is it today?’

 
; ‘Sunday.’

  ‘So Friday would be …’

  ‘The day before yesterday.’

  ‘The day before yesterday.’ Again she paused. ‘No, I’m afraid I don’t remember, Chief Inspector. It’s my Alzheimer’s, you see.’

  ‘You’ve got Alzheimer’s?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So you can’t remember if you perhaps took …’ Healey nearly said ‘Maisie’ again, the name of his own dog. ‘Daisy?’

  ‘Yes. Daisy.’

  ‘Daisy out for a walk.’

  ‘Well I always take her for a walk before bed.’

  ‘And do you bring her this way?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Past the Hall?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So you probably brought her this way on Friday night. Do you have any idea what time that might have been?’

  ‘No, not really.’

  ‘Do you remember noticing anything unusual at all? In the area of the Hall.’

  ‘I can’t even remember coming out.’

  ‘Not at all?’

  ‘No, not at all.’

  ‘Well, if you do remember anything, please let me know.’ Healey handed her a card. ‘The number is there,’ he said.

  Miss Woods put the card into a pocket, gave Healey a pinched smile, tugged at the lead, and set off with Daisy in tow. When she was about twenty yards away, she turned abruptly. ‘Is this to do with the murder?’ she called. Healey pretended not to hear, opened the door of his car and climbed in. In the rear mirror he watched Miss Woods and Daisy make their way out of the playing fields onto the road, and turn left.

  Once they had disappeared from view, Healey turned his attention to the cricket. The little bearded man was striking the ball all over the field. Through the open car window, Healey heard spasmodic clapping as the ball went for a four or a six. At one point the ball was struck in his direction, crossed the boundary and came to rest not far from his car. Healey sat and watched as a tired and red-faced fielder came lumbering up, picked up the ball, and trotted back onto the pitch, before bowling the ball underarm in the general direction of the wicket. Hot and tired himself, Healey yawned. He would go to the Hall, check what had been happening, and then go home. With luck he would be able to have a nap before supper.

  But he was out of luck.