Free Dusty Death by J. M. Gregson Page B

it’s a long time ago. Is it important?’
    It was Lucy Blake who answered him, her lighter voice perfectly clear as the symphony in the concert hall reached its climax. ‘I think you know it is, Matthew. Have a good night’s sleep, and then give the matter your fullest possible attention, please. Anything you can recall about the people who shared that house with you may be quite vital.’
    He looked at her, trying to follow her thoughts, but weighed down now by a great fatigue. He repeated doggedly, ‘How did she die?’
    â€˜It seems that she was murdered, Matthew. By person or persons as yet unknown.’
    They watched his face closely as it crumpled into silent, wracking tears.
    Each of them had the feeling that Matthew Hayward had known all along that the woman would have died like this.

Eight
    â€˜Still no identification of this demolition site corpse? I hope you aren’t slacking on this one, Peach.’ Superintendent Tucker jutted his jaw aggressively towards the industrial world outside the long window of his penthouse office. To his mind, a bright Thursday morning at the end of February was the ideal time to be letting his staff know who was in charge.
    The silly old sod’s trying to bollock me. Must have another day on his hands with not enough to do, thought Percy Peach. He tried not to sound aggrieved as he said, ‘We were over in Manchester until ten o’clock last night, sir, DS Blake and I. Didn’t get to bed until nearly midnight.’ We made up for it then, though, didn’t we, Lucy and I? Percy tried hard to control the smile which forced its way on to his lips with the recollection.
    Tommy Bloody Tucker did not consider the notion that his bête noir and the delectable Lucy Blake might have been in the sack together; it was yet another feature of Brunton police life with which he was out of touch. He said grumpily, ‘No doubt the overtime budget is taking a bashing again.’ He sighed. ‘I don’t know how my DCI expects me to keep the finances in balance, when he goes racing off to Manchester at the drop of a hat.’
    â€˜It’s not bloody Barbados, sir.’ Peach lapsed into a rare moment of open resentment at the injustice of life with Tucker.
    â€˜Indeed it isn’t, Peach! And I’ll thank you not to swear at your superior officers!’
    â€˜Sorry, sir. It must be the fatigue, sir.’ But he knew irony would never work with Tucker. That was what had betrayed him for a moment into something much more blunt.
    â€˜What on earth were you doing in Manchester, anyway?’
    â€˜Attempting to determine the identity of the corpse on the demolition site, sir. The one you were asking about. Trying to establish the framework for a murder investigation.’
    Tucker recognized dimly that he might have been a little unjust. It only made him more tetchy. ‘Pity you couldn’t do that in Brunton. Pity you had to do it at that hour of the night.’
    â€˜Yes, sir. Exactly what DS Blake and I said, when we were driving back over the moors beyond Darwen in freezing fog.’
    Tucker peered at him suspiciously. ‘What were you doing in Manchester anyway?’
    â€˜Interviewing a pianist, sir. Matthew Hayward. At the Bridgewater Hall. He was a soloist with the Hallé. Going to be as good as Alfred Brendel, some people reckon.’
    Music was not one of Tucker’s enthusiasms; he even wondered if the great Alfred Brendel might be an invention of Peach’s. ‘What on earth were you doing swanning off to Manchester to interview a pianist?’
    â€˜Possible murder suspect, sir.’
    â€˜A soloist with the Hallé orchestra?’
    â€˜That’s right, sir. Evening dress and all that. Matthew Hayward. Very good, he seemed, from what little we managed to hear.’
    Tucker didn’t like the sound of this at all. A high-profile suspect, and Peach wandering round like a loose