Backhand Smash Read online

‘That tallies with what other people have told us, which must be reassuring for you. Did you speak to him in public?’

  ‘No. I didn’t speak to him in private either, since that is what your question seems to imply. The dancing was getting pretty hectic by that time in the evening. I think I nodded to him across the room at one point.’

  ‘Did you see him having any sort of altercation with anyone else who was there?’

  ‘No. But I have to emphasize that I scarcely saw him.’

  ‘Do you, indeed? Would you say that you knew Jason Fitton well?’

  ‘No, not well. I knew his father quite well, when he was alive. He wasn’t a tennis player, but he ran a scrap metal business and I ran a joinery business in the town, so we were business acquaintances. Derek’s firm grew very successfully during the years in which I knew him; the two of us remained friends as well as business colleagues.’

  Peach sensed that Swarbrick was happier to talk about dead father than newly dead son. ‘But you didn’t like Jason as much as you liked his father.’

  Arthur made himself take his time. This man Peach was getting to him; he couldn’t afford that. ‘I didn’t. I felt I’d never really got to know Jason. He was away at school, of course, and then he spent time in London. He didn’t really appear much in Brunton until his father died and he inherited the firm.’

  ‘That is more than twelve years ago. I’d have thought you’d have now known him quite well, especially as he’s a member of your tennis club.’

  Arthur liked the idea that the tennis club was his personal fiefdom, which Peach seemed to be accepting. But he had to distance himself from Jason Fitton. ‘Not a very active member, as I said. He can play reasonably, but he seems to use our social facilities as much as our playing ones. And I was never as close to him business-wise as I’d been to his father. Over recent years, I’ve seen his managing director, Bob Walmsley, much more often than I’ve seen Jason.’

  ‘Business-wise, yes.’ Peach weighed the word with some distaste. ‘Some of Jason’s business interests were highly dubious, were they not?’

  ‘I’ve heard rumours to that effect. I cannot enlighten you further.’

  ‘I see. This is one of the areas where we could probably enlighten you, Mr Swarbrick, but I cannot do so until we have enough evidence to go public. Meanwhile, Jason Fitton is a murder victim and our job is to find out who killed him.’

  ‘From what you say, he’s no loss to our town. Perhaps you won’t be as determined as usual to find who it was who disposed of him.’

  For a moment, he had let real venom creep into his tone. Peach noted it and let the man’s words hang for a moment in the room. They could hear movements from his wife at the back of the house, but the tea or coffee that he had suggested earlier did not arrive. He said quietly, ‘We shall find Fitton’s killer and put him in court, Mr Swarbrick. Who else did you see speaking with him on Saturday night?’

  ‘Younis Hafeez.’ The name came too promptly upon the heels of the question to sound spontaneous. Hafeez was a man whom Swarbrick detested, but he should not have let that become so apparent. ‘I say that only because it’s the picture I have of Fitton at the ball. He was talking to Hafeez when I first saw that he was there. I suppose the image has stayed with me since I heard that Fitton was dead.’

  ‘Were the two of them arguing?’

  He would have liked to say yes. He would have liked indeed to say that they had almost been at each other’s throats and that a couple of hours later one of them had been murdered. But these men were talking to others, patiently and accurately unravelling the events of Saturday night. They’d expose him if he lied, and come back to ask him why. ‘They were too far away for me to be certain whether there was any dispute. They were on the other side of the dance floor and there was a lot of noise and laughter, so I could not be at all certain how amiable their exchanges were.’

  ‘So you didn’t detect any sign of a dispute between them?’

  ‘No. That doesn’t mean that there wasn’t one. Just that I didn’t see anything. I was preoccupied with other concerns.’

  Clyde Northcott, who had kept only a watching brief until now, said, ‘Was Mrs Swarbrick with you throughout the evening, Arthur?’

  Swarbrick felt a sense of outrage at the use of his forename by this black policeman. But Northcott was a member of the tennis club now, and thus entitled to such familiarity. ‘No. She’d only come to the ball because of my position as chairman of the club. She departed with some neighbours of ours at twelve o’clock. I felt I had to stay until the close, because of my position.’

  ‘And when did you leave, Arthur?’

  Again that use of his forename. Northcott’s tone was neutral, even friendly, but he was taking the piss. Nor did Arthur like the direction of his questions. ‘I didn’t need to hurry, because I knew Shirley was safely at home and in bed. I thanked the band for their efforts, then watched them put away their instruments and depart. Most of the members and guests had gone by then, though a few of them were still laughing and shouting to each other across the car park.

  ‘Why did you stay so long, Arthur? I should have thought that you’d be anxious to be away, being on your own by this time.’

  ‘I didn’t think like that. I suppose that being chairman for years now has brought a certain proprietorial quality to my actions. It seemed natural to me to take my time and see most people off the premises. It probably seems silly to you, but I feel a sense of responsibility about things like the annual ball. You want to see it go well and when it’s all over you want to see everyone depart home safely.’

  There was a short silence. Then Peach, with one of his more innocent smiles, said, ‘Of course, another explanation would be that you waited your chance to dispatch your sworn enemy Jason Fitton from this world.’

  ‘That’s outrageous!’

  ‘It is, isn’t it? But it’s the way we simple souls are taught to think, you see. We coppers are always looking for the black side of human nature. I suppose that’s because we come up against it so often.’ Percy beamed his satisfaction at this philosophical observation. ‘We’d better have your reaction to my outrageous suggestion, I think.’

  ‘I certainly didn’t do any such thing. Fitton’s death has nothing to do with me.’

  But you didn’t reject my description of him as your sworn enemy, Percy noted silently. He stopped smiling and barked, ‘Where and when did you last see Jason Fitton, Mr Swarbrick?’

  ‘During the dance. Fitton was on the other side of the floor from me, and he was talking to someone, not dancing. It was somewhere near the end, but not right at the end. I don’t think he danced the last waltz.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. That’s commendably precise.’ And carefully prepared, Peach thought. You expected to be asked just those questions. ‘What time did you leave the club?’

  ‘I couldn’t be precise about that. It was probably about one thirty. It’s only ten minutes from here by car, but I made myself a cup of tea at home and was still in bed by two. I didn’t disturb Shirley, who was sleeping soundly by this time.’

  You’re telling me that no one can confirm your story before I can point that out to you. Percy wanted to ask him if he and Shirley slept together, but that would be an unjustified intrusion. He might be back to ask it later in the week, if this innocent-looking man turned out to be a prime suspect. Tommy Bloody Tucker always wanted a prime suspect, irrespective of whether the evidence warranted it or not. He was still looking straight at his man as he said, ‘Why didn’t you like Jason Fitton, Mr Swarbrick?’

  He looked as if he was going to deny it, but then shrugged his shoulders rather too elaborately. ‘No particular reason. We had different temperaments, I suppose. I’d known his father well and liked him; I suppose I expected Derek’s son to be from the same mould. But he wasn’t. He was a maverick: he was prepared to deal with anyone and to consider anything that would make him money.’

  Peach nodded slowly, without taking his eyes o
ff Swarbrick’s face. He was sixty-two: they’d checked that before they came here. He looked all of that and more now. He still had a plentiful crop of grey hair, but his face was also grey and the lines on it seemed to have deepened during their interview. There was nothing surprising in that: most people did not confront violent death more than once in their lives, whether first-hand or more distantly. ‘Who do you think killed him, Mr Swarbrick?’

  ‘I don’t know, Detective Chief Inspector Peach. That’s your job rather than mine, surely.’

  ‘My job, yes.’ Peach paused for a moment, as if the matter needed thought. ‘But with the help of the public, of course. With the help of all good and responsible citizens. In this case, you are the citizen who knows most about the people who were at Birch Fields Tennis Club on Saturday night. I need hardly point out that there is a high probability that one of them was responsible for this killing. I’d like your thoughts on who might have committed this grave crime. Feel free to speculate: this will go no further, unless, of course, it proves fruitful, in which case your helpful contribution to our enquiries will be acknowledged.’

  ‘I’m sure Jason had many enemies. You’ve hinted at some of his illegal activities. He was a rich man from them, but I imagine he must have made quite a few enemies.’

  ‘Some of whom were no doubt at your summer ball on Saturday night.’

  ‘I suppose that is so. Olive Crawshaw didn’t like him any more than I did. And Olive’s opinions are quite different from mine. I suppose that just shows what a wide range of enemies Jason must have had. I can’t see Olive as a killer, though.’ He sat back, even smiled a little, as if anxious to emphasize how fair-minded he was.

  Peach said unsmilingly, ‘Whereas we have to consider everyone, until we know otherwise. Who else, Mr Swarbrick?’

  Arthur had left the man he most wanted to implicate until last, so that he might preserve the impression of neutrality. ‘You’ll have to consider Younis Hafeez, I suppose. Is it racist to say that I wouldn’t trust that man very far?’

  ‘Not if it’s an accurate statement of your feelings. That’s what we need from you at this point.’

  ‘I think Hafeez has had business dealings with Fitton, but you will know more about that than I would.’

  ‘Indeed we do, Mr Swarbrick. Why do you think he might have killed Fitton?’

  ‘I think he’s a man capable of murder, that’s all. I’ve no real evidence to offer you.’

  Peach nodded, waited a few seconds to see if Swarbrick would add to that thought, then stood up. ‘Please ring this number immediately if you have further thoughts or discover significant facts when you speak to people at the tennis club.’

  They had travelled some distance in the car before Peach said, ‘Swarbrick disliked Jason Fitton much more than he’s so far admitted to us. I wonder why.’

  ‘I was wondering exactly the same thing, sir,’ said Clyde Northcott gnomically.

  ELEVEN

  The PM report was available by Monday afternoon. So were the initial findings of the forensic team, who were still examining the dead man’s car and clothes with the thoroughness permitted by modern machinery and techniques.

  Peach brought in DC Brendan Murphy and PC Elaine Brockman to examine the findings with him and Northcott. Clyde was dubious about involving Elaine. ‘She’s not even CID and we’re not inviting the rest of the murder team in. It will cause talk around the station. People will think she’s getting special treatment. It will make things difficult for her with the rest of the uniforms.’

  ‘She’s graduate entry, isn’t she? Those buggers are supposed to get the widest possible experience in the shortest possible time, so that they can order us all around in a few years. PC Brockman needs to learn to look after herself. And she’s got the local hard bastard to look out for her, if push comes to shove. Tell them Tommy Bloody Tucker authorized it, if they ask any questions. Anyway, she’s a long-standing member of the tennis club where this crime took place. Her knowledge of previous local shenanigans might be invaluable to us, seeing as you seem to have learned so bloody little about the place.’

  And so it was that a rather wide-eyed and determinedly silent Elaine Brockman joined the three experienced CID men to dissect these latest findings. She was given a photocopy of the sheet that the others were holding and found herself glad of the opportunity to look down at the words of the reports. It wasn’t long since she’d used the technique in small groups at university, studying the print in front of her intently so as to avoid catching the tutor’s eye and being asked for her opinions. It was the first time she’d ever been in any sort of contact with Percy Peach, and his fearsome reputation made him more threatening than any tutor had ever been.

  There were no new revelations about the murder weapon. The thin cord that had been ruthlessly tightened around the dead man’s neck gave them nothing. The victim had no doubt raised his hands to it as it killed him, but had not even succeeded in getting his fingers between cord and neck in his brief struggle to maintain his life. That struggle had been as hopeless as it was brief. It had lasted only seconds and there was nothing beneath the corpse’s nails that could help them. He had not laid hands on his enemy, not torn hair or flesh or skin from whoever had dispatched him so ruthlessly.

  The cord itself, the murder weapon, was equally unrevealing. It was a hundred and twenty-four centimetres, or just over four feet in length. The two ends had been twisted savagely and swiftly to kill Jason Fitton, but whoever had done that had worn leather gloves. With the leverage possible for someone attacking an unsuspecting victim from the rear, no great strength had been necessary in the killer. A woman – even a child – could have done this. The cord was obtainable anywhere. There were examples of it in the maintenance rooms at the tennis club, amongst the spare nets and the fencing wire and the paint tins, but the cord could just as easily have been brought in from outside, because it was freely available in any hardware shop.

  The car gave them little more. The Bentley was regularly valeted. It had last been cleaned on the Tuesday before Fitton died. That was annoying, because it left four full days between valeting and death, time for a variety of passengers to have occupied every seat in the car. Fitton had driven to Manchester on Wednesday and to Leeds on Friday for business meetings; as yet it had proved impossible to establish whom he had met on either of these expeditions. No one knew whether he had carried passengers with him in the front or rear of the car. Fibres and head hair collected from the front passenger seat of the Bentley showed that at least two and probably three people had occupied it since it had last been cleaned.

  Particular attention had been paid to the rear seat on the off side of the vehicle, since that was almost certainly where the killer had sat as the cord was tightened around the victim’s neck. But again all that had become clear was that at least two people had sat there between Wednesday and Saturday. These might or might not have included the killer: it was possible that if he had been aware of forensics and clad himself accordingly, he might have executed the crime without leaving enough of himself behind to be identified. Or herself, of course: policemen always think and speak of males, since nine-tenths of violent crimes are committed by men. There was nothing helpful in the footwell in front of that seat where the killer had sat, indicating again that he had been careful and methodical. Or perhaps simply lucky in his choice of footwear and the nature of its soles; you couldn’t afford to exclude even the unlikely, at this stage.

  Hairs and fibres had been carefully isolated and stored by the forensic team, as part of the routine in these circumstances. They might eventually provide DNA matches with samples taken from someone arrested for this crime, but that was hypothetical and very distant. It could not be conclusive in itself, since more than one person had occupied the relevant seats in the Bentley in the days before the murder.

  Younis Hafeez arranged to see the CID on his own working patch. You didn’t want people like that defiling your home, and he had things there t
hat were completely private and needed to remain so. He’d been expecting the call, of course. Indeed, it had taken rather longer than he had expected to arrive. That had made him nervous, or as near to nervous as he ever came.

  Peach looked up at the block of offices as Northcott parked the police Mondeo. A large, undistinguished block. Expensive, possibly even impressive in an overbearing sort of way, but without a scrap of architectural merit. Functional but characterless. Some of these places were different inside; they could be quite agreeable to work in or live in. It was nevertheless surprising two minutes later to find that Hafeez’s office was so pleasant.

  The lift took them swiftly and silently to the top floor, where Hafeez’s section occupied a third of the space. The anteroom where his PA operated was generous in size, but modest compared with the spacious suite with long windows on two sides that Hafeez himself occupied. ‘Please take a seat, Detective Chief Inspector Peach. I’ve been expecting you.’ He gestured towards the low, wide, ridiculously soft and comfortable armchair beneath the west-facing window. ‘And you too, Clyde.’ He smiled into the uncompromising dark face of his fellow member at Birch Fields, greeting him as if he were an old friend rather than a recent enemy. ‘It’s nice to feel under these distressing circumstances that there is a fellow tennis player involved in the search for a killer.’

  ‘You know that murder is involved, then?’ said Peach. He spoke as aggressively as he could, but it was difficult whilst sitting on the very edge of this too-comfortable chair, feeling like a pea on a drum, one of his dead mother’s favourite similes.

  Hafeez gave him a condescending smile, relaxing above him in a higher and less accommodating chair with his back to the light, reversing the positions Peach liked to establish between questioner and questioned. ‘Foul play is suspected, the bulletins tell me. I always take police information seriously.’

  ‘If you took police warnings seriously, we might be speaking in a different place, or perhaps not speaking at all.’