Die Happy lah-24

by J M Gregson

  ‘But not mine, I hope.’

  ‘Not yours. Can we now dismiss the matter and talk about happier things?’ Perhaps his face showed a certain reluctance to leave behind what he was now thoroughly enjoying, for she added a plaintive, ‘Please?’

  Sam Hilton grinned, the demons of old Daggers banished for ever with the plea of this pleasant woman from his best easy chair. ‘Of course. Bob Crompton is definitely coming. He says he’s looking forward to entertaining a different kind of audience from his normal Lancashire and Yorkshire ones.’ There was a gleam of devilment in his eye and his tone. ‘I presume the literature festival will go ahead, in spite of the death of Peter Preston?’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure it will. We shall take the decision at the meeting, but I’m sure we shall decide to press ahead with the festival. Please don’t quote me, but I’m sure Peter’s absence will facilitate progress rather than hinder it. Aren’t you?’

  They grinned at each other like mischievous children. They were conspirators now, rather than mistress of the establishment and rebel child, as he had anticipated before she came. He said, ‘It will certainly save time if we don’t have to argue fiercely with Peter over anything that is even vaguely modern!’

  They hadn’t even discussed who might have killed Preston, and it wasn’t until an hour after Marjorie Dooks had left that Sam began to ponder how deeply delighted she seemed to be to have Peter off the scene.

  At Oldford police station, the post-mortem report had been faxed into CID. Lambert reviewed it in his office with DS Hook and DI Rushton, who was coordinating the collection of data on the case. It did little more than confirm what they already knew.

  Preston had been killed approximately fifteen hours before the pathologist made his initial examination at the scene. Two bullets had been fired into the heart of the deceased and death had been instantaneous. The powder burns around the wound indicated that the weapon had been fired from very close quarters. Probably, indeed, it had been held against the chest as it was discharged, a likelihood that accounted for the two shots entering the torso at exactly the same point. The second shot and the absence of the fatal weapon at the scene ruled out any possibility of suicide.

  The bullets that had dispatched Peter Eric Preston had been found in the corpse. They were.38 calibre and the likeliest weapon was a now defunct Webley revolver. It was not the most efficient or accurate of weapons, but obviously lethal when employed at such close quarters.

  Stomach contents indicated that a meal of minced lamb and potatoes had been consumed by the deceased earlier in the evening. The digestive processes suggested that this had been approximately three hours before death. Obviously if they could ascertain when Preston had last eaten, they would have a pretty accurate time for his death.

  The scene of crime and the forensic findings so far reported were more interesting for what was not present than for any vital clue. In Preston’s study there were no prints save his, which bore out Mrs Preston’s statement that no one save the deceased was normally allowed access to that room. Lambert said thoughtfully, ‘Edwina Preston didn’t know where the key to his filing cabinet was kept. We now have it; the SOCO team found it on top of the picture rail in the study, which suggests that he secreted it where only he was likely to find it. We’ll let the forensic boys have first go, but I may want to examine the contents of that cabinet myself. I’ve a feeling they might tell us more about the secret thoughts of Peter Preston and his relationships with those around him.’

  Prints taken from the external and internal doors of the house were those of the deceased, his wife, and the lady who came in to clean for two hours on Fridays. There were different prints on the side door to the garage and the shed in the garden, but they would no doubt prove to be those of the gardener who came in once a week. There was no sign of a break-in. An intruder would probably have worn gloves, but everything seemed to indicate that the killer had been admitted willingly to the house by the man who had subsequently been shot.

  Almost certainly, the killer had been known to his victim.

  Something much more revealing came from the computer expert who is now a vital part of any forensic team. Preston’s PC had been easy meat to this man. He had discovered the password within twenty minutes and combed the files stored within the memory for anything which might suggest an acquaintance of Preston’s who had a score to settle with him. It was routine, boring stuff and it ate up an expensive amount of the professional’s time. It revealed nothing of real interest. The implication was that Preston was a novice with computers and their possibilities. This suggested that he preferred not to commit his private thoughts to what he thought of as a new and untrustworthy medium.

  There was, however, one highly interesting fact which emerged from the expert’s investigation of Preston’s computer activities. To most people, computer printouts are identical. Whereas the sheets from typewriters were almost as individual as fingerprints in the hands of an expert, computer print-outs are much more uniform. But not to the modern IT forensic specialist; Rushton was able to relay a most interesting discovery.

  The death threats that had excited very different reactions in Marjorie Dooks, Sue Charles and Ros Barker had all been produced on the PC and printer in the study of Peter Preston. He had presented the copy, which he maintained was a threat to his own life, purely in an attempt to divert suspicion from himself as the originator of the letters.

  ‘So Ros Barker was right,’ said Bert Hook thoughtfully. ‘She thought those letters were the sort of stupid thing Peter Preston might perpetrate.’

  FOURTEEN

  Policemen make good gardeners. Like many other comfortable assumptions, that has rarely been subjected to the harsh test of statistics. But the idea persists, even though the advance of technology has made modern policing a vastly different task from what it was fifty years ago, when the tradition took root. Perhaps it is the awful things they are compelled to witness during their professional day that makes coppers enjoy something as basic, innocent and consoling as gardening. Perhaps cultivating the soil and following the eternal cycle of the seasons helps to keep things in proportion. It must be instinctive, for few policemen are aware of Voltaire’s maxim that, whatever goes on elsewhere, ‘Il faut cultiver notre jardin’. John Lambert knew the quote and embraced it, but then Chief Superintendent Lambert was what is commonly known in police parlance as ‘a clever bugger’.

  He and Hook gave the garden around Sue Charles’s bungalow their cautious approval. Wallflowers offered their scented splendour in the border that ran the length of the front of the building, divided only by the path along which the pair now moved to the front door. The roses at the edge of the well-trimmed lawns were full of swelling buds, reminding them that the glories of late spring and summer were at hand. A cat dozed in the sun beneath the porch. ‘Good afternoon, Roland!’ said Bert Hook affably. The cat gazed at them disapprovingly for several seconds. He was apparently unimpressed by Bert’s recall of his name. Having completed his scrutiny, he disappeared round the side of his home with a quick lash of his tail.

  Sue Charles opened the door and instantly recognized DS Hook. She seemed pleased to see him again as he introduced John Lambert. It was an unusual reception for her visitors, who were more used to being received with hostility or a nervous caution. She had tea and homemade cake ready for them, another plus factor in Bert’s Hook’s assessment. He complimented her on her garden as she poured the tea. Sue said, ‘We’re lucky here — good Gloucestershire soil, with few stones and only a little clay. I have an old friend who comes in to do some of the heavier jobs when I need him, but I still enjoy doing most of the propagating and planting myself. I did that even when George was alive. He wasn’t as interested as I was, and he had a time-consuming job.’

  Lambert said, ‘Gardeners are like farmers, in my experience. Not many of them admit to having the ideal soil as you do, and the weather is never quite right.’ He was watching her closely through the pleasantries. This al
ert, competent grey-haired woman of sixty-eight was a possible killer, until cleared of suspicion, however unlikely that seemed. Even if she was dismissed as a suspect, they still needed to know how reliable she was, both as a witness of events leading up to Preston’s death and as a judge of character where other people were involved. Initial impressions were favourable. He could see her impressing judge and jury in court with her maturity, intelligence and precision.

  As if she were reading his thoughts, she said, ‘I’m sure you’ll find who killed poor old Peter Preston pretty quickly.’

  Lambert smiled and moved eagerly into the main purpose of their visit. ‘You speak of him with some affection. We’ve been told that you had good reason to dislike him.’

  ‘I suppose I had. But I had a soft spot for old Peter and his posturings. I felt sorry for him, in many ways. He was one of those people who’ve done good work in their youth but seem unable to move on. He was irritating at times, even insulting, but I couldn’t take him seriously enough to be really offended.’

  ‘Even when he denigrated your own work?’

  She smiled at him, an unexpected hint of mischief in the blue eyes beneath the grey hair. ‘You have an eye for human weakness, Mr Lambert. Few of us are completely objective about our own work. If you want to hurt someone who writes or paints or plays music, the thing to go for is their work.’

  ‘Which we hear Preston did with your detective novels.’

  ‘Do you, indeed? Well, I suppose Peter never made any secret of his prejudices. He enjoyed parading them in public. I disliked him when he did that — but dislike isn’t an emotion which translates into hatred and murder.’

  ‘I agree. But I expect we shall find a lot of people who disliked Mr Preston and very few who moved on from that to a murderous hatred.’

  ‘I shall be interested in the details of your investigation. I have what I suppose you could call a professional interest in this. I write about murder all the time, but I’ve never been even remotely connected with a serious crime before.’

  ‘Most murders are either gangland killings or domestic incidents among the victim’s family, as you probably know.’

  ‘I do, yes. I study the statistics. But one of the rules of writing is to deal with what you know, and I’ve no experience of gangland criminals, drugs, or prostitution.’ Sue was rather enjoying her exchanges with a real chief superintendent. This man didn’t seem to have much in common with the tortured psyches of most fictional creations. ‘Speaking of domestics, I do hope poor Edwina is coping with Peter’s death. She was very shocked when she was here yesterday morning, but that was only to be expected.’

  ‘Mrs Preston came here yesterday morning?’

  ‘Yes. I found her looking quite distracted in the supermarket car park. That’s how I heard about Peter’s death. I brought her back here for coffee and sympathy.’

  It was curious that Edwina Preston hadn’t mentioned that when they’d talked to her later in the day. But no doubt she’d been confused by the speed of events after arriving home to hear of Peter’s death. Lambert transferred his attention swiftly back to the crime novelist and decided that it was time to test this likeable woman’s composure. ‘Where were you yourself on Tuesday night, Mrs Charles?’

  ‘I was here. Alone, as I am on most evenings.’

  ‘Is there anyone who could confirm this for us?’

  ‘I’m afraid there isn’t.’ She looked affectionately at her cat, who had just strolled into the room with tail erect, glaring resentfully at the two large men on the sofa. ‘I can hardly invoke Roland to attest my alibi, can I?’ She watched Hook making a note, glanced at Lambert’s long, grave face, and said, ‘I’m sorry, I know this is serious stuff for you. And I’d obviously like to absolve myself as a candidate for murder, but I can only report the truth. The fact is that I venture out very little in the evenings. People tend to invite their visitors in pairs, so my social life has become constricted in the ten years since my husband died.’

  ‘We seem to be agreed that Preston was a man with many enemies. It’s almost material for one of your whodunits, Mrs Charles.’

  ‘Indeed. Except that I never put real people into my books. The other difference is that this situation is not imaginary but deadly serious. I still find it difficult to believe that Peter is dead, and even more so to imagine that someone took a pistol to his house and shot him. I believe that is what happened.’

  ‘It is indeed. And you summarize our major problem. We have to find someone who didn’t just dislike the man but who hated or feared him enough to kill him. Who do you think that someone might be, Mrs Charles?’

  She tried not to be shocked by the suddenness of the question. It was a query she had expected, after all, so she shouldn’t be put out by the manner of its arrival. ‘I’ve given it some thought, as you no doubt would expect me to, but I haven’t solved that conundrum. Everyone on the literature festival committee found Peter irritating, because he so patently wanted to be in charge of things and wasn’t. I’m sure all of us rejoiced when his pretensions were exposed and he was put in his place, usually by Marjorie Dooks from the chair. But I can’t think that any of us could have killed the man, annoying as he was.’

  ‘Everyone we’ve seen so far has said something similar. But as yet we haven’t found any recent contacts with people who might have been enemies of his in the past.’

  ‘I’m sure he made some very serious enemies when he was producing for the BBC and ITV. Rich and powerful people, some of them — people with the money and the contacts to employ a hitman to do their work for them.’

  She tried to make the suggestion without a smile. She had used the term occasionally in her books, but she was not sure she had ever produced the word in conversation before. Lambert didn’t smile. He said, ‘It’s a possibility we have to explore. We are checking on the activities of known professional killers. So far we have not been able to establish the presence of any of them in our area on Tuesday evening. What car do you drive, Mrs Charles?’

  Again the question was thrown in suddenly, almost brutally, on the back of a completely different train of thought. It was as if they were trying to catch her out. Sue found it was quite exciting, really, being involved in a real murder enquiry. ‘It’s a Fiesta. Two years old.’

  ‘Colour?’

  ‘Dark blue.’ She watched Hook recording this in his notebook and then reeled off the registration number with a mischievous ease. Her husband had never known the numbers of his cars; she had made a point of learning hers, as a small assertion of female competence.

  Lambert stood and said, ‘I accept that your experience of crime is largely or wholly fictional, Mrs Charles. But please do not let that inhibit you from making suggestions. If you think of even the smallest detail which you think might have a bearing on this death, please ring this number.’

  Sue Charles looked at the card and nodded. Then she looked up into the long, grave face and smiled. ‘I think you should call me Sue, Chief Superintendent. Particularly as I understand from Marjorie Dooks that I am to share the pleasure of your company on a platform at the literary festival in ten days time.’

  Hook contained his merriment until they were safely out of the presence of Sue Charles. He gazed solemnly at the road ahead of him as he said, ‘You’ve accepted the role of real-life crime authority at the festival, then.’

  ‘Not accepted. It was somehow conferred upon me. I don’t quite understand how it happened,’ said Lambert sourly.

  Poetry worked well with girls. It gave you an exotic appeal; it offered something outside the normal range of a young man’s attractions. It was, let’s face it, a powerful aid in getting girls into bed.

  Sam Hilton was quite prepared to face it. He was in bed with a girl by nine o’clock in the evening. The last of the daylight still showed beyond the threadbare curtains he had drawn before leaping eagerly between the sheets. He lay comfortably in that post-coital tristesse, which was still quite novel to him, and conside
red serious issues. The most disturbing and powerful things were the feelings stirring within his breast. Poetry was all very well as a means to an end, but what did you do if the unforeseen happened?

  Sam thought he was getting serious about Amy Proctor. But he had no idea how serious she was about him.

  They had been at school together, but they had been just mates in the sixth form then, members of a group that went around together. Since then, Amy had spent three years at Cambridge and he had spent three years acquiring experience in the university of life. Time seemed to have altered things; everything between them was more personal and serious now, rather than part of that glorious fun of their last year at school, when everything had been a laugh and the whole world had been there to amuse them and their peers. Sam gazed up at the high ceiling of his bedsit and reflected on the mysteries of love and life. Beside him, Amy Proctor stretched her delightful limbs and yawned luxuriously. She stroked Sam’s thigh to show that her yawn was a symptom not of boredom but of delicious content. She said, ‘Have you any readings lined up?’

  For once, Sam Hilton did not want to talk about poetry and its important position in the scheme of life. But you couldn’t let yourself down when you feared that the only reason this delectable girl was lying beside you was because of your verse. He said, ‘One in Hereford at the end of the month. One in Oxford early in June. And of course, there’s the literature festival in Oldford coming up.’

  ‘Yes. You’re on the organising committee for that, aren’t you?’

  The assignment he had tried hard to be rid off suddenly seemed important. Men of twenty-two lack gravitas, so that anything which seems to offer it must be seized. ‘Yes. They seemed to think I had something to offer, that my views on poetry and literature in general might be worth having. Just as part of a larger whole, of course.’ It was difficult to balance gravitas with modesty, but you had to try. In his so far limited experience, girls didn’t like blokes who took themselves too seriously.