“You know we can’t stop it? If they really want to get to him, they’ll get to him.”
Ray shrugged. “Like I said yesterday, I’ve got a murder to solve.”
“You could end up with two.”
“We’ll solve that as well.”
“Our job is to prevent crime as much as it is to solve it, you know?”
Ray slammed on the brakes, the car juddering to a halt in the middle of the road.
“If you don’t like what we’re doing, you can get out now,” he growled.
Joseph didn’t know what to say. He sat there, looking at Ray, open-mouthed.
“Well?” Ray asked, a car horn punctuating the word behind them.
Joseph looked over his shoulder at the irate driver stuck behind them. “We should get moving,” he said meekly.
*
They spent the rest of the journey in silence, neither of them able to look at each other, let alone share a word until they pulled up at the golf club where Peters based himself. It couldn’t have been more of a contrast to the grubby warehouses favoured by Tommy Jay. An old manor house, set in the Kent countryside, well away from where Peters carried out his criminal enterprise. A valet approached the car as they pulled up, holding his hand out for the keys.
“Don’t be expecting a tip,” Ray warned, holding out his police badge by way of explanation. The valet stammered his understanding, taking the keys, whilst Joseph and Ray went in.
They were met by the maître d’ of the country club, who asked what business they had there. When they explained they wanted to speak with Christopher Peters, his tone quickly changed to one of uncertainty. “I don’t know if Mr Peters is here with us today,” he said unconvincingly.
“I would have thought that of all the people in this building, you’d know if the owner was in,” Ray said bluntly. “I’ll be sure to let him know that you’re not up to the job when you find him for me.”
“If you just give me a couple of minutes, I’m sure I can clarify…”
“Just get on with it,” Ray snapped, still angry at the world.
They waited for a good five minutes before the maître d’ scuttled back, apologising for his earlier confusion and ushering them through to where “Mr Peters,” he purred, would be “delighted to accommodate them.”
*
Peters sat in a tall-backed brown leather Chesterfield, next to an immaculately polished round table, upon which sat a decanter of what could have been brandy or whisky. A little early perhaps, but then it was the weekend. He didn’t rise to greet them, instead waiting for them to take the initiative.
“Detectives Cribbs and Walsh, CID M Division,” Ray pointed to himself and then Joseph as they stood at the table over Peters. “We were hoping to have a couple of minutes of your time, Mr Peters.”
Peters looked up at them. Even sitting in the chair, his height was apparent, exacerbated by his thin frame. Sharp angles defined the features on his face, his cheekbones, nose and jaw all angular and pointed. He kept his silver hair swept back and wore a well-pressed black suit with a white pocket square poking out of the top pocket. “Many do, detectives. Of course, as you’re fine upstanding members of Her Majesty’s constabulary, I would be only too happy to help.”
There were no seats opposite the table and Peters made no effort to call for the maître d’ or any of the other staff to provide them, so they remained standing. “We would like to talk to you about the murder on the dockside last week.”
“Yes, I had heard about that. A terrible business. And if I can offer any assistance, I would be only too glad.” Peters’ response came with an air of measured rehearsal, the words carefully chosen to ensure he came across as a pillar of the community. Where Tommy Jay courted the bright lights and celebrity, Peter was far more austere. His rule was absolute and based on his position, not intimidation. He played on rank and societal standing to ensure his dominance, leaving very few his equal. Taking on the role of a concerned citizen, just like everyone else, simply added to his respectability.
“You can assist us by first of all letting us know where you were on the evening of November 9th.”
Peters raised an eyebrow at Ray’s question in the way a schoolmaster might at an impudent child. “Where I was?” he echoed. “Well, not that I’m sure it’s of any consideration, but I was away on business in Cambridge. A friend of mine was opening his latest venture. I was in attendance for the soiree, shall we say.”
“You can corroborate this?”
Peters clicked his fingers and the maître d’, who had been standing by the door to the room, scuttled back over, leaning over whilst Peters whispered something in his ear. His orders received, the maître d’ bowed and exited the room. Peters spoke again, ignoring the question. “Of course, I’m sure regardless of my whereabouts on the night in question, you’ll wish to ascertain more to remove this absurd finger of suspicion that points my way.”
“Tell me what you know of Gerald Trainer.”
“I don’t.” The answer came with a nonchalant shrug, but nothing more.
“Well, we know that to be a lie. We know that the day after the murder you were asking after him.”
Peters reached into his inside pocket and pulled out a pocketbook and pen, mirroring Joseph. He made a quick note before placing it back into his pocket.
“Do you mind me asking what you just wrote down?” Ray asked.
“I do.” Peters face remained blank, giving nothing away.
“Because I think you just made a note to follow up with whoever you were asking about Gerald Trainer.”
Peters looked blankly back at them. The maître d’ returned, a clutch of newspapers in his hand. “Sir,” he said, placing them on the table in front of Peters, who bent forward, shaking the paper open. Slowly, he turned through the pages until he found the one he wanted. He placed the paper down on the table, rotating it so Joseph and Ray could see.
Joseph picked it up and began to read. It was a regional newspaper from Cambridge dated November 11th. The page Peters had shown them had an article about a club opening in the city on the 9th, accompanied by two photographs of the attendees. One claimed to be the new owner, a smiling round-faced man. He had been photographed shaking hands with a guest of his. Christopher Peters. The second photograph showed a general scene from the club. Men mingled whilst women danced. It all looked relatively upmarket. Not the sort of place that would attract a younger, rowdier crowd, although most of the women seemed a generation removed from the men. Joseph passed the paper to Ray for him to examine, whilst he spoke with Peters.
“What time were you at the club until?”
“It was a late finish. Past midnight. But this was a private venue, with no alcohol licence and thus exempt from closing times.”
“Least of our worries.” Ray wasn’t letting them get off track as he folded the paper and placed it on the table. “Where did you go afterwards?”
