by J M Gregson
Die Happy
( Lambert and Hook - 24 )
J. M. Gregson
J. M. Gregson
Die Happy
ONE
Hindsight is a wonderful thing. Everyone says that, but it is true nonetheless. With the wonderful advantage of hindsight, Chief Superintendent John Lambert would never have accepted the assignment.
He could plead a particularly trying morning in his defence, but he knew that was no excuse; he would never have accepted it as an excuse from one of his subordinates. Policemen, and senior policemen in particular, were supposed to be able to deal with both ambitious young lawyers and wily old legal foxes. No one could quite say why, because little formal training in court procedures was afforded to policemen. This contrasted with the years of preparation undertaken by the sinuous minds which were recruited and rewarded handsomely to defend villains. Lawyers were well-paid and unscrupulous, in John Lambert’s not entirely unbiased view. The law said everyone had a right to be defended, and lawyers interpreted that precept with energy and enthusiasm. Was not the most ancient principle of British law that a man was innocent until proven guilty? So long as a villain did not openly proclaim his guilt to his brief, he must be defended to the hilt as an innocent man, whatever the lawyer’s private opinion on the case might be.
The more vicious the criminal, the more adept and versatile his counsel was likely to be. As you progressed up the unofficial hierarchy of crime, you, or those who employed you, could afford better barristers, whilst those acting for the Crown Prosecution Service were generally less experienced, less well briefed and certainly less well paid. Policemen went into court feeling they needed a cast-iron case, because the legal odds were stacked against them.
All of this was understood in every police station in the land. Indeed, it was reiterated daily in most canteens, with the addition of a few choice adjectives and adverbs for emphasis. John Lambert had been hearing the conversation and contributing to it for thirty years now. None of it was much help when you were called as a witness in the Crown Court.
Fraud was the most complicated crime of all to prove, and it was a fraud case in which Lambert was called to appear on this bright March morning. He knew his strategy: stick to the facts, say no more than you have to say and don’t allow the smooth bastards with the silly wigs to ruffle you. Lambert repeated that ancient police mantra to himself as he waited to be called. He was a tall man, taking care to walk erect and eliminate his recent tendency to stoop, carrying the carapace of experience around him as he moved to the centre of this legal drama. Yet his heart beat as hard and as fast in his seasoned chest as that of the youngest and greenest constable when he was called upon to make his way to the witness stand.
The barrister was mature and experienced in his craft, and operating in his own arena. He took Lambert steadily through the first small, mutually agreed facts of his evidence. The serious charge and the exalted setting gave a strange edge to what should have been a boring but necessary recital, with every professional in the court listening to the manner rather than the content of these brief questions and responses. Each question required no more than a three or four word affirmative. Everyone was agreed about this, the tone on both sides said. It was like watching a tiger creeping stealthily along a branch, moving nearer and nearer to the spot where it might pounce most tellingly upon its prey.
Yet there was no sense of dramatic movement when that moment came. The lawyer glanced down at his notes, as if preparing himself for one more routine query. Then he said in a voice of slightly puzzled reason, ‘Chief Superintendent Lambert, you obtained a search warrant and then proceeded to ransack my client’s home. From where you stand now, do you now consider this action an overreaction?’
‘No. The law protects members of the public against overreaction. Search warrants are not issued without due examination of the issues involved.’
A shrug of the shoulders, a slight shake of the head beneath the white curls of the wig, an amused professional smile, which counsel hoped took in the judge as well as his supporters. ‘You need not remind us here of what the law dictates, Chief Superintendent.’ He ruffled his papers, then looked at Lambert, like an adult disappointed by a child who has behaved badly. ‘Would you not agree that your team exercised excessive force and vigour in the way they conducted this search?’
‘No. Routine procedures were applied. The search was thorough and methodical, as the circumstances demanded it should be.’
‘Thorough and methodical.’ The defending counsel dwelt on each syllable, elongating the phrase to give it irony. Then, as though he were forced to raise an unpleasant matter against his will, ‘You wouldn’t attach any importance to the fact that Mr Murray’s wife and daughters were terrified by the actions of your officers?’
Lambert paused in his turn, looking completely calm, but struggling to shut out the murmur of excitement in the court and to find the words for a measured refutation. ‘A degree of distress is inevitable in these situations. I would dispute the word “terrified”. I should also like the court to be aware that the daughters you have chosen to mention are aged nineteen and twenty-three — hardly the fearful infants your question implied.’
‘I think the court will be aware that I suggested no such thing. I should be obliged if you will confine yourself to factual answers to my questions, Chief Superintendent.’
Lambert was too experienced to point out that his answer had been entirely factual. He gave the man no reaction at all, but merely stood mute and upright, awaiting further questions.
It had the desired effect. The lawyer studied him for a moment, then said, ‘Would you not concede that your prolonged and aggressive attention to my client over several weeks was excessive? Did it not, in fact, amount to police harassment?’
The well-worn, even threadbare, accusation. The word ‘harassment’ came from prisoners when you had them defeated in the interview room; when it came from a lawyer, you knew that he was desperate, trying to abandon his attack without losing too much face. Lambert permitted himself a small, mirthless smile. ‘There was no harassment involved. We conducted a methodical investigation and we observed the correct protocol. We did no more and no less than our duty to the public demanded.’
The lawyer nodded, affording Lambert the patronizing smile which acknowledged in the arcane rites of the English law that the witness had successfully defended his position. He kept any disappointment out of his voice as he said briskly, ‘No further questions.’
Lambert in his turn was careful to show no sign of relief and to leave the witness stand with measured step. For him, the strange little game was over, though the case would go on for many days yet.
His mood was not improved when he returned to the police station at Oldford. His partner in anti-crime, Detective Sergeant Bert Hook, was waiting for him to lead the interrogation of a drug dealer who had been arrested over the weekend. Important, certainly, but not likely to bring any spectacular success. People like Alfie Turner were arrested every week, but they were small fish swimming in a large and murky pond. The killer sharks who controlled this evil, lucrative industry were shadowy monsters, often not even permanently resident in the UK. People like Turner, who operated the lower outlets in the trade, knew it was literally more than their lives were worth to reveal information about people higher up the chain. The anonymous bullet in a city back street, the untraceable drowning; such victims swelled the serious crime totals, with successful investigations almost impossible.
It was a situation understood on both sides of the small square table as Lambert and Hook stared into the narrow face in the interview room. Lambert did not disguise the weary indifference the situation induced in him. Low-key might be the only possibility of suc
cess: get the little scrote off his guard and then wring some unwitting admission from him. He glanced at the notes in front of him and sighed heavily. ‘Well, Alfie, we meet yet again.’
He heard the old lag’s whine, which was Turner’s normal interview tone. ‘Don’t know why I’m ’ere, Mr Lambert. Don’t know why a chief super should be wasting ’is time on the likes of me. It’s a miscarriage of justice, this is.’
‘Not yet it isn’t, Alfie. DS Hook and I haven’t even decided what charges you will face yet. There is still time for you to save yourself, if you choose to offer us a little help.’
Bert Hook glanced sharply sideways and simulated surprise, even shock, at this leniency in his chief. ‘That would have to be your decision, sir. I couldn’t accept responsibility for that. Not with Mr Turner facing the near-certainty of a custodial sentence.’
‘I ain’t going down for this. It’s only a minor offence, this.’ But there was alarm in the high-pitched voice, as he looked from one face to the other and found no relief in this experienced duo, who had practised their tactics so often that they could play instinctively off each other.
Lambert affected to look at his notes again, though he knew there was nothing there with which to pressurize this small-time scum. He shook his head sadly. ‘Dealing in class A drugs, Alfie. Offering a choice of heroin and crack and methamphetamine. Doesn’t look good to me.’
‘I only sold the horse. And a little crack, just for recreational use.’
‘Even offered Rohypnol, our man says — at what he considered a grossly inflated price.’
The date-rape drug, the pills most in demand in the squalid twenty-first century society where men like Turner made their livings. ‘It ain’t bloody fair, coppers coming in filthy shirts and jeans to look for the likes of me.’
‘Whereas what you do is entirely fair, I suppose, Alfie.’ Lambert’s tone was suddenly harsher and less laid back. ‘Seen what happens to the people you sell these substances to, have you, Alfie? Seen what they do to get the money to pay the likes of you, once you have them hooked?’
Turner shrank back on his seat as if physically threatened. ‘It’s their own choice, Mr Lambert. No one makes ’em come to me.’
‘I can take you to the morgue in Gloucester, if you like, to show you how your customers finish life.’
‘It’s a free country. It’s their own choice.’ But Turner would not look at his adversaries as he muttered the cliches.
‘Sergeant Hook’s right, you know. Third time in court for dealing. You’ll go down this time. And probably a good thing too. One less rat in the sewer.’ He didn’t trouble to disguise his distaste for the man and what he represented.
‘It’s a minor offence. I want a brief.’
‘Oh, I’d go further than that. I’d say you need a brief, Alfie. And you shall have one, as soon as we decide upon formal charges. At present you’re just a member of the public helping us with our enquiries.’ He allowed himself a sour smile at that thought, and Hook beside him responded with a broader one of his own.
Bert sensed that this was the moment to take over. ‘You heard Chief Superintendent Lambert say that your only chance of avoiding a hefty spell in clink was to cooperate fully with us. I can’t say that I agree with such leniency, but he is my senior officer. So I have to suggest to you that your only chance this morning is to offer us useful information. We might then be able to enter a plea for leniency on your behalf.’
‘But I don’t know nuffing.’
‘Pity, that. Looks like you’re going down then, Mr Turner. Still, consider it from our point of view; one less rat rooting about in the sewer, as Mr Lambert says.’
‘What is it yer want?’
Lambert leaned forward. ‘Names, Alfie. Names from higher up the organization. Names that would show you’re helping us with our enquiries. I’m sure that your brief when he arrives would agree that a little information would be the only means by which you might help yourself.’
Except that his lawyer would probably be retained by the drug organization itself, which would certainly forbid any such revelations. Turner said hopelessly, ‘I don’t know nuffing. I’m small time, Mr Lambert. They don’t tell me nuffing.’
It was almost certainly true. They eventually wrung two names from him, names of suppliers on the next rung of the hierarchy. Lambert was pretty sure that the specialist Drugs Squad was aware of both of them, but equally sure now that Turner had nothing more to offer. They took the name of his brief and returned him to his cell, with the assurance that charges would be proffered within the hour.
Lambert reviewed a trying morning, looked at the paperwork which had mounted inexorably on his desk during his absence, and said glumly to Bert Hook, ‘Makes you look forward to retirement and cultivating your roses, a day like this does.’ At that moment, he almost believed himself.
He went home for lunch, which he wasn’t often able to do, and walked round the very garden he had mentioned, noting the crocus and the budding daffodils and rejoicing that another spring was at hand. He switched on the television, watched amateurs and their expert guides trying to make purchases at an antiques fair for two minutes, picked up the sports section of The Times, read of the latest demands of a multi-millionaire soccer player, uttered words even the most liberal editor could never have printed, and flung the newspaper petulantly aside.
His wife observed all of this surreptitiously, keeping the kitchen door ajar whilst she engaged herself in the politically highly incorrect processes of keeping her man happy. Thirty years of marriage to a policeman as he moved through the ranks to his present eminence had taught Christine Lambert many things. One of them was that men, whatever their professional successes and the accolades heaped upon them, are essentially children in the home.
This can be trying at times, even infuriating. But it is also a factor which that can be turned to a resourceful wife’s advantage. It is much better to use this weakness than to fight it. Such a sentiment was a triumph of pragmatism over feminism, Christine reflected, but it made domestic control and even domestic harmony much more attainable. She only taught part-time now, after a serious illness a year or two back, but she had many years’ experience of successful teaching, and she knew how to deal with children.
Cheese on toast, with slices of small, tasty cherry tomatoes blended into its amber surface. That had been John’s favourite lunchtime snack throughout their marriage and he didn’t change his opinions lightly. She served it to him not at the table but in his favourite armchair, a sure sign of indulgence. He ate with slow relish, his mood improving imperceptibly with each measured movement of his jaws. When she heard him switch off the television after the headlines of the one o’clock news, Christine brought her own plate in and sat down opposite him.
John Lambert glanced at her, feeling a sudden shaft of tenderness as he saw the lines in her still attractive face. As a young CID officer working round the clock and building a career, he had shut this woman out of his professional life, forcing her away from him, forcing her to retreat into her own job and the progress of her two young daughters. It had almost cost him the marriage that most of his younger colleagues now saw as rock-solid and a model for others. Those days were long gone, though on some days he still had to force himself to reveal anything to Christine of his life at work.
This was one of those days. Even with the slowly consumed cheese on toast sitting comfortably within him, he found it difficult to relay anything positive about his morning. Instead, he contented himself with gazing fondly at his empty plate and muttering with feeling, ‘Bloody lawyers!’
Christine smiled. ‘I’m willing to bet that some senior barrister who is enjoying a much better lunch than you is now saying, “Bloody superintendents!”’
Lambert was cheered by that thought. It had been a no-win situation, but he hadn’t done badly. He’d defended his goal stoutly; now it was up to the Crown Prosecution to score a late breakaway goal and win the game. They’d had all the ri
ght service from the police, if they could only produce a striker to kill the match off. He abandoned his over-strained metaphor, took an appreciative mouthful of tea from his favourite china beaker, and said again before he was aware of the words upon his tongue, ‘Bloody lawyers!’
It was good to see John’s safety valve working and being used so efficiently, Christine Lambert thought. She said with a smile, ‘I know all about you, John Lambert. What you need to stretch your talents is a good juicy murder!’
Lambert knew himself well enough not to disagree with the thought. He didn’t endorse it directly, but he shook his head and said, ‘Fraud cases are a damned nuisance. The minds lined up against you aren’t just unscrupulous, they’re clever as well. The investigation takes months, and just when it’s getting interesting you hand it over to the Fraud Squad.’
Christine slid him a plate with a generous slice of the sponge cake with lemon curd filling she had made that morning. ‘You need something else to interest you.’
He should have sensed the danger, but he was replete and relaxed, perhaps even a little drowsy. He looked out at the garden, at the industrious blackbird on his lawn, and said affably, unthinkingly, ‘You could be right there.’
‘We’ve been getting on with plans for the Oldford Literary Festival.’
He smiled. ‘I can hear the capital letters as you speak. It sounds very impressive.’
‘It is, for a small place. You’ll be surprised at some of the speakers we’ve got. Authors who are nationally famous, even internationally famous, some of them. It’s a tribute to the industry of Mrs Dooks.’
‘And of her energetic committee,’ he said loyally.
‘There might even be a role for you.’
At last, too late, he was on his guard. ‘Oh I don’t think I could-’
‘Just a small role. Nothing that would need much preparation from you.’