Brothers' Tears by J. M. Gregson Page A

hospital.’
    â€˜This man Tracey sounds like a dangerous man, Peach. You should regard him as a serious candidate for this crime.’
    â€˜Thank you, sir. Your overview of the crime scene in our area is as useful as it ever was.’
    Tucker looked at him suspiciously over his rimless glasses. ‘There were a lot of people at that dinner, Peach.’
    â€˜Sixty-two, sir. No doubt you considered that, before you decided to dismiss them to their homes on Monday night.’
    Tucker decided to ignore this; he had long ago developed a deaf ear to turn towards unpleasant facts. ‘There must be other possibilities as well as the two you’ve mentioned. I learned long ago that one mustn’t jump to conclusions when engaged on a murder investigation.’
    â€˜Another penetrating finding for your juniors, sir. We haven’t ruled out the idea that this may still be a domestic.’
    Tucker stroked his chin judiciously. It was a gesture he’d worked on over the last couple of years. He felt it gave him gravitas when speaking to television presenters. ‘That seems unlikely to me, Peach. But I suppose you know your own business best.’
    â€˜Very gracious of you, sir, I’m sure. The victim has a younger brother – six years younger. His name is Dominic O’Connor and he didn’t approve of the victim’s lifestyle. He called his brother a “chancer”, which he undoubtedly was. That and much more. I think Dominic had a much clearer idea of James’s businesses and the way he ran them than he cares to admit. That doesn’t mean he had anything to do with his death, of course.’
    â€˜Indeed it doesn’t. Dominic O’Connor is also a successful local businessman. He could do us a lot of damage if we offend him.’
    â€˜Even if he should turn out to be a serious criminal, sir?’
    â€˜No, of course not. But you’d better be damned sure he’s broken the law before you move against him, or you’ll have me to deal with.’ Tucker jutted the chin which he had lately stroked in what he had decided from ancient photographs was his Churchillian mode.
    â€˜Very well, sir. Just for the record, I have no reason to think at this point that Dominic O’Connor is anything other than the most upright of citizens.’
    Peach thought as he descended the stairs from Tommy Bloody Tucker’s penthouse office that life dealt the cards in a very random fashion. Simply because of the insufferable T.B. Tucker, he would now be delighted if he could dig some dirt on the unsuspecting Dominic O’Connor.

SEVEN
    Y ou wore plain clothes when you joined the exalted ranks of the CID. It was supposed to make you less conspicuous. In some cases the idea didn’t work. One of these cases was Detective Sergeant Clyde Northcott.
    When you were a lean six feet three inches and very black, people tended to remember you, whatever you wore. Most of the time Clyde didn’t mind that. His formidable physical presence made him feared. Clyde had grown used to that and secretly rather enjoyed it. He’d learned to survive in a harsh world before he became a policeman and it pleased him that people were nervous about what he might do to them. The police rules were strict and Clyde observed them. But people didn’t always know that, did they? There was nothing wrong with a little bluff, if it produced the right results. The fact that DCI Peach referred to his sidekick as a ‘hard bastard’ whenever the opportunity arose also pleased Clyde, who played up to the image whenever he felt it useful to him.
    But you couldn’t be at once a hard bastard and unnoticeable, as the job sometimes demanded you should be. When Clyde Northcott spotted something which interested him on that Thursday evening, he slid swiftly behind the wheel of his car. You weren’t as obvious in a car, especially when it was a routine silver Ford Focus. You might need