by J M Gregson
Lambert said with some relish, ‘You may indeed, Mr Preston.’
He nodded to Bert Hook, who delved into his briefcase. He produced a single sheet with a terse message in large black letters, within a transparent plastic sleeve, and passed it across the room to Preston. There was a moment of tense silence before Lambert said calmly, ‘That is a letter delivered by hand to Sue Charles. Identical messages have been delivered to Marjorie Dooks and to Ros Barker. Can you tell us anything about them?’
Peter studied the sheet impassively for a moment, feeling the tension building around him in the quiet room. Then he said, ‘Excuse me for a moment, please.’ He rose and left the room and they heard him climbing the stairs to his study. He was back within seconds, holding an identical white sheet to the one Hook had just shown him. He set it before his visitors without a word.
RESIGN NOW FROM THE FESTIVAL COMMITTEE IF YOU WISH TO REMAIN ALIVE
Lambert looked into the lined, anxious face, which had now lost all traces of pretension. ‘When did you receive this?’
‘It was delivered by hand, at about four o’clock yesterday afternoon. Edwina was out, but I was upstairs in my study. I heard the sound of the letter box but I assumed it was just a circular. As a result, I didn’t find this for another hour.’
He watched fascinated as Hook inserted the sheet carefully into a plastic sleeve identical to the one around Marjorie Dooks’s letter. He started a little as Lambert said quietly, ‘What were you intending to do about this, Mr Preston?’
‘I didn’t take it very seriously. I suppose I considered it preposterous that anyone should be intending real violence towards me.’
Lambert did not give voice to the thought that from what he had seen of Preston he thought it by no means unlikely. Instead, he pointed out, ‘Nevertheless, you chose to retain this message rather than to destroy it.’
‘Yes. My first concern was to keep it from Edwina, who would probably have been much more disturbed by it than I was. Then, as tends to happen during the dark and silent hours of the night, it began to seem a little more serious. I was wondering exactly what I should do about it when the phone call came this morning, announcing that I was to receive a visit from the district’s leading policeman. Dilemma solved, I thought.’
‘Have you any thoughts on the origin of these letters?’
‘Well, my first reaction is a selfish one. I am happy that I am not alone as a recipient. If all and sundry are receiving them, there can surely be no serious threat intended.’
‘That is logical. I think you and the other three people who have received identical letters can take it that this is probably an ill-judged and tasteless prank. But that cannot be the end of the matter for us. You can imagine the impact of this threat on someone like Sue Charles, an elderly lady living alone. She was very disturbed by it. The police cannot allow anyone to threaten people with violence and get away with it.’
‘I’m glad to hear it. You asked me where these might have originated. I would think from their content and their recipients that they must have a connection with the literature festival committee. I–I don’t think I would care to speculate on the sender. I’d rather leave that matter in your capable hands.’
With this shameless piece of flattery, he released them from their uncomfortable tenure of his chaise longue. Lambert left him with the routine instruction to contact them immediately if he had further thoughts on the issue.
Hook reversed the car out of the drive and drove carefully down the tree-lined avenue beyond it before he spoke. ‘I heard you volunteer yourself to be on that platform at the festival, as the representative of real policing.’
‘These things are confidential, DS Hook. There is no reason why my moment of weakness in the face of a very annoying man should be taken any further.’
Bert stared ahead at the road and the burgeoning trees as steadily as his chief, but a smile broke steadily over his rugged features. ‘I think you did the right thing, John. You are much the best man for the task. It’s good to have the matter settled.’
There were long minutes of silence which Hook enjoyed and Lambert did not. Then Hook said, ‘Christine’s on that committee.’
Lambert nodded. ‘And I can confirm first that she has not received one of the notes and secondly that I am confident she is not the sender of them.’
‘The local press will be disappointed about that. It would have given them a lurid story.’
‘If we rule out Christine, it leaves only one member of the committee who has not received one of these threats.’
‘And who thus becomes the leading suspect for the crime of sending them. The man I interrogated about drug offences yesterday. Young Sam Hilton.’
TEN
‘It looks like a squalid little side-show, but we’ve got to follow it up. We can’t allow idiots to go round threatening people, if only because the odd idiot might turn out to a psychopath.’ John Lambert, sitting in his favourite armchair, delivered this judgement on the anonymous notes to his wife.
Christine smiled. ‘Or a paranoid narcissist. That seems to be the latest one for a dangerous man with a firearm.’
‘Do you think there’s anyone on that literary festival committee of yours who’s a potential danger to society?’
‘I notice that as soon as there’s a problem it’s become my committee.’ But Christine was secretly rather pleased; it was the first time in the long years of his police career that she’d had a direct involvement in one of his cases. ‘For what it’s worth, no, I don’t. But that view’s worth very little; sometimes even wives and husbands know nothing about the secret lives and desires of their spouses, so what can we really know of people we meet once every two or three weeks on a committee? You’ve much more experience of the criminal mentality than I have.’
‘Yes. It’s amazing that I remain the relaxed, even-tempered, balanced individual that I am, isn’t it?’
‘Self-delusion must be one of the dangers of prolonged contact with crime, I suppose.’
‘I don’t want this business to get out to the press. Peter Preston may not be paranoid, but he’s certainly a narcissist. If it suits his purpose, he’ll have the local press, and probably radio and television as well, reporting that he’s been threatened — probably with an addendum about police incompetence and insensitivity.’
‘Is there anyone on that committee apart from me who hasn’t received one of these damned notes?’ She noted his hesitation and grinned. ‘I can easily find out, you know. Once you start questioning people, the word spreads pretty quickly.’
The television news and weather were over. Lambert watched three seconds of a lurid trailer for a programme about Miss Nude Australia and switched the set off decisively. ‘Sam Hilton seems to be the only one who hasn’t received one.’
‘So you think he must have sent them.’
‘I don’t think anything. I think the situation has to be investigated. What do you think? You know the young man; I’ve never even met him.’
‘I knew him better when he was ten and in my class at school. He was a rather secretive boy, but good with words. And fascinated by them. He loved poetry. And he loved writing bits of verse of his own, even then.’
‘So at twenty-two, he might well be a writer of anonymous threatening letters.’
Christine Lambert shrugged, wanting to reject the idea but unable to find any strong argument against it. ‘I wouldn’t think so, but you’ll have to decide for yourself. Who knows what goes on in that secret self that we don’t care to show to those around us? I suppose if he wanted to make mischief, words would be the first weapons to suggest themselves to him. I only know that Sam Hilton is now producing some quite interesting poems.’
And supporting his muse by selling illicit drugs, thought her husband. Police work didn’t give many grounds for optimism.
Ten hours later, Chief Superintendent Lambert was preparing to make his own judgements on Sam Hilton.
Nine a.m. prompt.
Young men who might have a drug habit were rarely at their best in the first part of the morning. Study them at your leisure, learn whatever you could from their actions and words when they were least prepared for you. None of this was voiced; Lambert and Hook knew each other and their strategies far too well for that.
Hilton lived in the least salubrious area of Oldford, but in a small town no street is as squalid or as desperate as those to be found in the great cities of the country. He lived on the ground floor of a late-Victorian semi-detached house, in what had been one of the most prestigious roads of the town when it had been built. The area had descended steadily in status over the last fifty years. The houses here were now divided into much smaller living units, with transient occupiers, who moved in and out of their rented properties with great frequency.
Generally speaking, this rabbit warren of residences was peopled by a motley assembly of life’s underdogs: men who had lost wives, families and houses and had to find for themselves the cheapest possible accommodation; European immigrants who picked up whatever work they could and sent home as much money as they could; young men and young women who passed through a variety of jobs because they were feckless or unreliable; petty criminals and others who lived on the edge of the law, who either prospered and moved on or failed and entered prisons.
And then there were sundry others. Would-be poets who wanted to live as cheaply as possible whilst making a reputation were too rare to be a group in themselves. Sam Hilton was bleary-eyed and suspicious, but to the expert eyes now assessing him he did not look like an addict. He had decided after his interview with DI Rushton and DS Hook that it didn’t pay to antagonize the pigs, but that didn’t now prevent him being cautious, even surly. He addressed Hook rather than the senior man. ‘I don’t know what you want with me. I told you everything I know when you had me in the nick and grilled me.’
It was Lambert who replied. ‘This is about a different matter entirely. You may still face charges for dealing in drugs. We are here this morning about something even more serious.’
‘What am I supposed to have done now?’
‘That is what we are here to find out, Mr Hilton. It will pay you to be completely frank with us. Obstructing the police in the course of their enquiries can lead to very serious charges.’
They looked round at the place where he lived whilst Sam tried to gather his resources and prepare himself. It was a bedsit rather than a flat. The long, high-ceilinged room, which had once been an elegant Edwardian dining room, had a bed against the wall at one end and a tiny electric cooker beside the scratched steel sink at the other. The wallpaper was at least twenty years old, the light-fitting plastic where once there would have been patterned glass. The single painting of a Scottish Highland scene would have benefited from a good clean. The air smelt stale; the tall sash window did not look as though it had been opened for a long time.
Yet there was no real evidence of squalor in the occupant of the room. Hilton wore a tee-shirt and jeans, both well-worn but clean. His brown hair had been combed, his eyes were alert, and his hands and nails were perfectly clean. The cereal bowl and beaker he had used for his breakfast were washed and draining upon the sink. He was a slight figure, whose nervousness manifested itself in an inability to keep his arms still. Neither the man nor his surroundings were affluent, but Hilton did not look or behave like a druggie. As if he read this thought, he said, ‘I shan’t be dealing any more and I can’t tell you anything more about the people who supplied me. I don’t know why else you should be here.’
Lambert nodded at Hook, who produced the letter with its chilling threat. ‘What do you know about this, Mr Hilton?’
He stared wide-eyed for long seconds at the large black print with its threat of death. He said through dry lips, ‘Nothing. Why should I know anything?’
‘It was sent to Sue Charles, a member of the literature festival committee. Have you seen it before?’
‘No.’
‘Have you seen anything like it before?’
‘No. Never in my life. You read about-’
‘You haven’t received one of these yourself?’
‘No. I thought you said it was sent to Sue Charles?’
‘This one was. There’ve been others, as well as this.’
He looked from one to the other of these very different men. Fear began to replace bafflement on his face. ‘I’ve never seen this or anything like it before. I don’t know anything about these letters.’
Lambert’s grey, steely eyes seemed to be looking into his very soul. After a few seconds he said, ‘Then who do you think might have sent them?’
Sam Hilton looked round desperately at the sink with its draining pots, at the radio and the battered television set in the corner, at the black and white drawings of Keats and Tennyson that stood incongruously beside the photograph of his mother on the shelf over the electricity meter. ‘Who’s received them? You said there were others, as well as Sue Charles.’
Hook glanced at his chief, then leaned forward towards Hilton. ‘Normally we’d tell you we’re here to ask questions, not to answer them. But I can tell you that these threats have been delivered by hand to several members of the literature festival committee. I’m now asking you to give some thought to who you think might be responsible.’
Sam tried to do as he was bidden, but he was still too shaken to think clearly. ‘Mrs Lambert is on that committee. She taught me, years ago, in my last year at primary school. I like her. I’ve always liked her.’ He had no idea why he’d said that. Perhaps he was talking just for the sake of talking, for the sake of trying to convince them that whatever else he’d done, he’d never have sent these letters. Yet this quiet, seemingly friendly man had questioned him only yesterday about dealing in drugs, so he could scarcely have any credit left.
They left him to suffer for another few seconds, which seemed to him more like minutes. Then Hook smiled and repeated his query. ‘Who do you think might have sent them, Sam?’
Suddenly, as if someone had turned a switch, his mind began to work again. Not only to work but to race, as if trying to compensate for earlier omissions. His eyes fixed on the twelve black words within the plastic sleeve. ‘Am I the only member of that committee who hasn’t had one of those?’
‘You’re asking the questions again, Sam. But all right. Apart from Mrs Lambert, yes, you seem to be the only one who hasn’t received one. Does that help you with your thoughts on who might have done this?’
The young poet frowned, then shook his head, seemingly as much in annoyance as puzzlement. ‘No. It’s difficult to have any idea on the sender, because the whole idea seems so bizarre. I was actually going to say that the only person I know who might be malevolent enough and warped enough to do this is Peter Preston. But if he’s been threatened himself, it can’t be him, can it?’
Hook didn’t respond to that. ‘What about someone from outside the committee, Sam? It might be just a coincidence that everyone who’s been threatened so far is a member of it.’
‘But look at the words. “Resign now from the festival committee if you wish to remain alive.” It’s very specific, isn’t it?’
‘It is indeed, Sam. And it’s led us to you, as the only member of that committee apart from Mrs Lambert who hasn’t received one.’
‘But I didn’t send them. And now that we’ve eliminated Mr Preston, I can’t think of anyone else who’d have been malicious enough to do anything like this.’
Lambert’s eyes had never left Hilton’s face, even though it had been Hook who had done all the questioning in the last few minutes. He studied the young man for a few seconds more, then levered himself rather stiffly to his feet. ‘Keep thinking, Mr Hilton. It’s very much in your own interests as well as ours that you do so.’
They were almost back at the station before he said, ‘You think Hilton’s innocent of this, don’t you, Bert?’
‘Yes. But I don’t know who else we should suspect.’
‘I thin
k you do.’
Hook didn’t take his eyes off the road, but allowed a smile to infuse his rugged features. ‘You think one of the people who’s received a letter could be the perpetrator of this? It would be the obvious thing to do to divert suspicion, wouldn’t it?’
‘Indeed it would. I think we should pay another visit to the self-regarding Mr Preston.’
It was just eleven o’clock when they drove into the tree-lined avenue where Peter Preston lived.
Building land had been readily available in the nineteen thirties, when these tall, mock-Tudor houses had been built, so that the plots were spacious enough to show each house to its best advantage. The gardens had matured around them over the years, so that each residence had acquired the privacy from its neighbours which had always been envisaged. In May, the foliage and the late spring blossom were at their most abundant, so that the front elevation of the house was not visible until Hook had swung the car between the high gateposts and into the drive.
They had not phoned ahead to arrange a meeting, as was their usual practice. Lambert had preferred to surprise this patronizing self-appointed guardian of culture, in the hope of shaking his self-confidence. There was no reply when Hook pressed the bell, which they could hear ringing faintly in the interior of the big house. He knocked hard on the oak door, but the place sounded very empty. With a habit bred by years of police work, they walked to the side of the house to look for any sign of a human presence. There was a garage at the rear of the house, but the ageing Ford Granada stood outside it. A man’s car, almost certainly Preston’s; they did not need to voice the thought.
‘There’s a window open upstairs,’ said Lambert. ‘He shouldn’t be far away.’
They walked to the rear of the house. A long garden, with an unkempt lawn but carefully tended borders with a variety of shrubs and perennials, ran away for forty yards of level ground to a rose bed where the stems were swelling with promising buds. The nearest grass was carpeted with the pink blossom which had fallen from a flowering cherry. A blackbird shrilled its song and blue tits shot in and out of a nesting box in the bole of a tree. There was no sign of a human presence.