The Pursuit of Truth Read online

  ‘What? Lentil bake?’

  ‘Yes, lentil bake. What’s wrong with that?’

  ‘We had lentil soup for lunch and now we’re having lentil bake for supper.’

  ‘And so?’

  ‘Christ Almighty. I give up.’ Healey turned away from the kitchen door, resisting the urge to slam it shut.

  His wife called after him. ‘You give up? What if I gave up? Let’s see how you’d manage.’

  ‘Well I wouldn’t do lentils for lunch and supper,’ he muttered to himself. He went into the front room, where the two children were on the sofa watching television. They looked round at him but said nothing. Nor did he. Why did it happen so often like this, he thought. He had come home quite cheerful, thinking he’d take the paper to bed and doze off while reading it. He had popped his head into the kitchen to ask what was for supper, and immediately they were having a row again. He knew that the real cause wasn’t lentils – he’d enjoy the lentil bake – but he didn’t want to think about the source of their problems now, though his mind was burning with the injustice of it all. He looked down on the children, who had turned back to face the television. He put a hand on each of the heads and ruffled their hair, before going into the hall, out through the front door, then through the gate at the side of the house and into the back garden. He wasn’t ready to go through the kitchen yet.

  He stood at the bottom of the garden and looked back at the house. It was detached, but only just (the house on the right was no more than six feet away from his) and had been built, badly, in the early sixties. Through the kitchen window on the left he could just make out the figure of his wife, leaning over the stove, not moving, listening no doubt to whatever happened to be on Radio 4. A few moments later he saw her cross to the Welsh dresser, gather plates and cutlery, then disappear into the hall, to reappear at the table beside the French windows in the dining-cum-sitting room. As he watched her lay the table, thought of the children in front of the television, looked round the sunlit garden and back at the house, he was aware that these images belonged to the picture he had had in his mind since childhood, a picture which he had worked hard to create in real life. But he was also aware that in his imagination it had been a silent picture and one over which he had exercised complete control. It had been a child’s picture. He suddenly wondered what pictures of grown-up life his wife had had as a child. Feeling more tenderness towards her than he had for some time, he went back to the house to tell her he was sorry.

  After supper Healey sat in his study, a small room with bright orange walls, part of an extension to the ground floor of the house, built before they had bought it. The cursor on his computer, into which he had just tried unsuccessfully to insert the floppy disk he had taken from Crouch’s house, blinked at him incessantly. Why the hell did they make different sized disks, for God’s sake? He turned the machine off and took from a drawer of his desk a large sheet of paper, on which he wrote down a series of names, placing them apparently at random on the page. Against each name he proceeded to write in green ink the supposed whereabouts of that individual around the time of Crouch’s death, next to which, in several cases, he drew a large question mark. He then took a red pen and to a small number of names added a possible motive for murdering Crouch. Finally, still using the red pen, he drew a large circle round three or four of the names.

  As he stood up from his desk, Healey groaned. Even in this warm weather his back was giving him trouble. Not something to talk about. He’d already been approached about possible early retirement. Give them a chance, and he’d soon be gardening full-time. And that would be no good for his back, he thought ruefully. He went into the next room, poured himself a scotch, and sat down at the table where they had eaten supper. Normally they ate in the kitchen, but on Sundays they had supper here in the dining-cum-living room that gave onto the garden through French windows, using their best silverware and red paper napkins, and listening to the top forty on Radio 1.

  It was Jamie who had raised the question of the lentils. ‘Dad, why were you annoyed we were having lentils?’

  Healey looked round the table before pinching the end of his nose between his thumb and first finger.

  ‘What?’ asked Jamie.

  Healey held his nose again.

  ‘What? What d’you mean?’

  ‘Farts,’ said Healey. ‘Lentils make you fart. The more you eat, the more farts you do.’

  Jamie giggled.

  ‘Shurrup, Dad,’ said Meg. ‘We don’t want to hear about farts when we’re eating.’

  ‘And,’ Healey continued, ‘we already have enough farts in this house. Three at this table for a start.’

  ‘Four,’ said his wife.

  ‘Oh, so you admit you’re one, do you?’

  ‘No, I mean you.’

  ‘But if there are four at the table, one of them must be you.’

  ‘No,’ shouted Jamie. ‘What about Maisie?’

  ‘Maisie’s not at the table,’ said Healey. ‘Where is she, by the way?’

  ‘In the garden.’ Meg pointed through the window and Healey, who was sitting with his back to the window, turned to look out. He winced.

  ‘Your back?’ his wife asked.

  He shook his head. ‘Hey, you kids, you’ll never guess what happened to me. I met a dog just like Maisie. And guess what her name is.’

  ‘Maisie,’ the two children said together.

  ‘No, not quite. It was Daisy.’

  After he had told them just how like Maisie the dog was, and who its owner was, and how he had found it hard to remember its name, the conversation had wandered over a variety of topics before Meg asked them to be quiet for the top five hits at least. When these were over, so was the meal, and Healey had gone into the study.

  Now he was back at the table, sipping his scotch. The phone rang and he listened as his wife went from the kitchen to the hall to answer it. ‘It’s for you,’ she called.

  It was Teague, telling him that neither the Filipino nor Mary Walters had been in the Hall, that the coach which had taken the participants to Bath was due back at the Hall about nine o’clock, and did Healey want him to meet it and interview Wright, and see if the other two were on it, or would tomorrow morning do? To Teague’s obvious relief, Healey said that tomorrow morning would do.

  Finishing his whisky, Healey went back into the study. Glancing repeatedly at the sheet he had already been working on, he quickly made three lists. One was headed ‘CHECK’; the second was headed ‘FIND OUT’; and the third, which represented his plan for the following day, was headed ‘MONDAY’. Having written the lists, he looked through them, nodding at various points with approval. Satisfied with his work, he clipped the sheets of paper together and laid them down neatly on his desk.

  He went into the next room, poured himself another whisky, and slumped into an armchair. From the low table in front of him he lifted a heavy hardback book on modern art by an Australian, whose television series on the same subject – and with the same title – he had already watched. He put his hand upwards and behind him to turn on the standard lamp. As his fingers searched for the pull-cord, he felt a twinge in his back. ‘Bloody back,’ he said to himself. ‘What a pain.’ Not for the first time he found himself smiling at his use of the expression. It reminded him of a period, several years before, when he had been involved in the training of new recruits, talking about legal sanctions of various kinds, and had seemed unable to stop using the word ‘fine’ as an expression of approval.

  That work hadn’t lasted for long. They had decided that he wasn’t the most suitable officer for recruits to meet. Too idiosyncratic, he had been told. He had been told worse. A maths teacher at his grammar school had summed him up in his report book with a single word – Lazy. On the same page, his French teacher had referred to his ‘dilettante attitude’, an expression which he had found quite attractive and felt almost flattered by. He glanced down at the book on his lap and grunted. A dilettante still, he thought, conscious tha
t he had bought at least a dozen such volumes through the book club but had hardly got further than looking at the pictures in any of them. No change there.

  There had been a change, however. He had been in the police for nearly twenty-five years. And done pretty well. Not many people who had known him as a teenager would have predicted that. Leaving school after a few months in the sixth form when he missed more classes than he attended, he had worked for nearly five years as a trainee personnel manager in a chemical factory in the centre of Widnes, next door to the knacker’s yard. He had gone to night school, first to get qualifications in personnel work (something at which he had been singularly unsuccessful), and later to take ‘A’ levels with the intention of getting into university. He finally did pass one ‘A’ level, but with such a poor grade that he knew no university would accept him. It was soon after this, when he woke one winter morning and heard the rain hammering against his bedroom window, that he decided he wouldn’t go to the factory that day. Or any other day. Within a week he had left home, rented a room in Liverpool, and gone on the dole.

  It was at the Employment Exchange that he saw the advertisement for the police. He wasn’t in the least attracted by it at first, but as weeks went by and he didn’t get any work except casual labour, he began to think of it more and more as a possibility. Eventually he applied and, somewhat to his surprise, was accepted for training. Looking back on it now, he was pretty sure that it was the ‘A’ level that attracted them. Apart from that, he couldn’t have looked such a good prospect. Anyhow, he survived the training, getting by on the physical side, being outstanding on the academic. When he graduated, he was told that he had a great future ahead of him in the force. You could be a chief constable one day, they had said. Well, he had known for a long time now that he wasn’t going to be a chief constable, or anything like it. It had taken him several years to see it clearly, but for him the police wasn’t a career; it had never been more than a job. A job that he mostly enjoyed, especially from the time he became a detective, and one that he was good at. But it was just a job.

  As he reflected in this way, Healey turned the pages of the book, stopping here and there to look at a picture or to read a few words. He had begun to read about how Matisse in old age was unable to hold a paintbrush, when the print began to go out of focus, and Healey knew that he was about to have the snooze that he had hoped to have before supper. The room was soon filled with the sound of snoring and the predictable effects of eating too many lentils.

  When he woke up, Healey wandered into the front room and switched on the television. He might just catch the cricket highlights, he thought. But no, it was Sunday and they weren’t playing.

  Someone, somewhere, sat up in bed, and switched on the light.

  thank God

  I didn’t do it

  but I did … I did

  that was just a dream

  MONDAY

  Healey woke early to another sunny day. While he drank a mug of tea, he completed the ‘Quick Crossword’, as it was misleadingly named, that his wife hadn’t managed to finish the previous day. He took the dog for a walk, shaved and showered, drank another mug of tea, collected the papers he had left on his desk the night before, and left the house just before seven. As he was getting into his car, he thought for a moment of going back to take a cup of coffee to his wife who was still in bed, but decided not to. He was moving and he needed to keep moving. And, anyhow, she’d be glad not to be disturbed this early. He swung out of his drive into Beech Lane and immediately recognised the figure of Farrell walking in the same direction he was driving. He pulled up alongside and wound down the front passenger window. Farrell’s beard, Healey noticed, had been subjected to a severe trim, though his hair still hung over his collar.

  ‘Can I give you a lift?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m going to the Hall.’

  ‘So am I. Jump in.’ Healey lifted his papers from the seat and stuffed them in the glove compartment.

  Farrell climbed in and fastened the safety belt around him. ‘Thanks. You’re starting early.’

  ‘I was going to say the same to you.’

  ‘Well, I’m giving a talk at nine and I’m afraid I haven’t done much in the way of preparation. I’ve got to look through stuff that I left in my room in the Hall.’ He glanced sideways at Healey. ‘What’s your excuse?’

  ‘I’m a policeman.’

  ‘Oh.’ Without this time looking at Healey, Farrell went on, ‘Er, I wonder if … I know I shouldn’t be asking you this, but have you made … is there … I’m not even sure how to ask the question …’

  ‘You mean, have we made any progress? Yes, we have actually. But you wouldn’t expect me to tell you what form that’s taken.’

  ‘No, of course not.’

  Healey had stopped at the traffic lights at Christchurch Green. ‘I suppose you must have been thinking about it too?’

  Farrell hesitated before replying. ‘Yes, I suppose I have.’

  ‘And?’

  Again Farrell hesitated. ‘I can’t see who would have wanted to do it.’ He turned towards Healey, who was looking directly at him. ‘Assuming that Neville didn’t do it himself.’

  Healey did not respond but continued to look at Farrell. A car immediately behind them hooted and Healey looked up to see that the lights had turned to green. He moved forward and made the turn into Elmhurst Road. A few seconds later they were outside the Hall. Farrell got out and, holding the door open, leaned down. ‘I’ve been thinking,’ he said. ‘You know we were talking about the OU the other night. Well, we offer part-time courses at our place and I was wondering if you would like me to let you have details of them. There might be something that you’d be interested in.’

  ‘That’s kind of you. Yes, I would, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘No problem.’ Farrell looked as if he might say more but only smiled, held up his hand briefly, as if in thanks for the lift, and closed the door.

  Healey watched him cross the road and go into the Hall. He opened the glove compartment and took out his papers. As he did so, there was a tap on the window beside him and the pink smiling face of Teague appeared. Healey made a semicircular movement with his hand to indicate to Teague that he should go round to the passenger side of the car. Teague did this, opened the door and dropped into the seat, an audible puff of air coming from his mouth.

  ‘Morning, sir.’

  ‘Good morning, Teague. And how are you?’

  ‘Wide awake and ready to go. Unlike the driver ahead of me at the lights back there.’ Teague chuckled.

  Without appearing to have heard the remark, Healey promised himself revenge before the day was out. ‘Right,’ he said, ‘let’s agree what we’re going to do today. I’d like you to talk to the Filipino again. Go through every detail of his movements, every little detail. Doesn’t matter how long it takes. Okay? Check tickets, credit card slips, everything. Well, you know.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And go through all the statements again to see if he’s mentioned by anyone else. Look for mentions of Wright and Walters too. Get the latest from the lab. We haven’t had a report, have we?’

  ‘I’ll check.’

  ‘And get this to them.’ Healey took from his breast pocket the folded piece of paper that he had taken from Crouch’s office door the day before. Ask them to compare this with the letter we found in Crouch’s room. Find out when the inquest’s going to be.’ Healey became pensive, put his hand to his mouth and chewed at the nail of his thumb.

  Teague waited a few moments before asking, ‘Is that all?’

  ‘What? Oh, yes. I’ll take Wright and the Walters woman, since you didn’t manage to do it yesterday. I’ll see you at the Queen’s Head at one.’

  Wright drew deeply on his hand rolled cigarette, paused before blowing smoke out of the corner of his mouth. Through narrowed eyes he looked directly at Healey and asked in a surprisingly deep voice, ‘So what is it you want to know?’

  Wrig
ht had still been asleep when Healey knocked at his door, but now fifteen minutes later he sat in the armchair, looking neat in a mauve shirt and dark pink trousers, with nothing on his noticeably small feet. He had grey eyes, a wide, rather delicate mouth, and shoulder length dirty blonde hair. Healey, sitting opposite him on the upright chair, wondered what kind of woman would find him attractive. Hadn’t he been thinking more or less the same thing about Carter the previous day? There was no reason why Wright shouldn’t appeal to Teresa Crouch, especially if he gave her support with the problems she said she was having with her husband. Could there be something between them? There must be. Even if he hadn’t spent the night with her – and Healey doubted that he had – she was willing to lie for him. So there must be something. But then he had seen the Italian woman waiting for him to go on the trip to Bath. What was going on there? The thought crossed his mind that Wright could also be attractive to men. The powerful scent of the sweet smelling aftershave or deodorant that filled the room may have brought this possibility to mind, as well as his choice of clothes.

  To Healey, Wright’s languid manner and an accent which struck him as posh made him distinctly unappealing. He began by asking Wright to tell him everything that had happened on the Friday evening. Wright said that he had been at the party from the start at eight o’clock, had left around ten and walked to Falstaff Avenue, rather than take his car, because he’d had a few drinks and thought he might be over the limit. He talked with Mrs Crouch until she had gone to bed and then slept on the sofa, coming back to the Hall early the next morning.

  Healey then asked Wright to describe in detail the route he had taken to Falstaff Avenue. At various points in Wright’s account, Healey asked him if he had seen anyone on that part of the journey. Wright hadn’t. When asked if he expected Healey to believe that a two-mile stretch of the town had been completely deserted of people at that time of a Friday night, he said no, perhaps not, but he had been thinking about the problems between Crouch and his wife, and so he hadn’t noticed anyone. You’re a liar, thought Healey but didn’t say it.