by Gregson, J M
‘I didn’t steal the money,’ he said sullenly, with his eyes cast down.
‘Then how did you come by it?’
Smith opened his mouth, but no words came, even in the silence which they stretched like an accusation. He shook his head stubbornly.
‘We’re going to need an answer, you know; you must see that.’ Lambert watched the young features setting like marble, then moved out into the sunlight. Smith followed his two tormentors as if attached to them by a string. Lambert looked up at the house; there was no sign of Jim Pritchard. ‘When did you last see Mrs Pritchard alive, Mr Smith?’
The gardener appreciated the implication of the adjective, but he had no idea how to react to it. Eventually he said hoarsely, ‘Monday afternoon. The one after Mr Pritchard went off on holiday. She said to come then rather than Tuesday, because she might be going away.’
Lambert and Hook donned their professional inscrutability, automatically concealing the fact that this was vital information. For the first time, they were going to be able to place the time of death with some accuracy, especially as no one in the village had come up with a later sighting than this. There had been considerable deterioration of the corpse in the river, which meant that Laura Pritchard could not have lived much beyond that Monday afternoon when she had worked here with Smith. Probably she had died in the twenty-four or thirty-six hours after that.
‘Did she seem normal to you on that afternoon?’
‘Normal?’ Smith was suddenly obtuse.
‘Yes. Did she seem preoccupied? Apprehensive? Nervous about anything? On edge in any way?’ Irritation mounted in Lambert’s tones with the repetitive phrases.
‘No. She was normal.’ The slim shoulders turned away from them, and Lambert almost reached out to swing him back face to face, wishing in that moment that he had the man in an interview room.
But Hook was watching their quarry: he had moved round to the other side of him, his steps noisy on the gravel, so that when Smith began to walk he looked almost as though he was under arrest. They caught a glimpse now of Jim Pritchard’s high-domed face, staring curiously at this ill-assorted threesome from the drawing-room of his house. Lambert said, ‘Think carefully about this next question, Mr Smith: it will be very much in your own interest to give us whatever information you can. Do you know of any person or persons who was an enemy of Mrs Pritchard?’
‘No.’ The monosyllable came on the heels of the last word of the question, despite the injunction that he should take his time. As if he realized his mistake, Smith said clumsily, ‘She seemed all right to me. I didn’t know her all that well, you know.’
‘What did you do that afternoon?’
‘I mowed the lawns and cut the edges. Takes a good two hours, that.’ Again the answer tumbled out too readily, as if he had been waiting for the question. They were walking on those lawns now, almost as far away from the house as they could get.
‘And what did Mrs Pritchard do?’
This time Smith did not speak immediately; his stride faltered for a moment, as if reflecting the confusion in his mind. ‘I — I’m not sure. She was in the house for part of the time.’
‘But you said she usually worked with you, Everton.’ This was Hook, gently insistent, his voice a little puzzled, as if he was concerned to keep his notebook records of these things clear.
‘I think she did a bit of weeding. And — and she was in the greenhouse. Yes, that’s it — I remember now. She was in the greenhouse, getting the bedding plants ready to plant out.’
That innocent structure was beside them as he spoke, for they had turned back now from the laurels at the boundary of the garden. All three of them turned and looked at its glass walls, as if they could confirm the words of the speaker. Lambert said, ‘And exactly where did you last see Mrs Pritchard alive, Mr Smith?’
‘On the steps at the back of the house.’
‘And she paid you your money?’
For an instant, there was panic on his face. Then it cleared, as if he had suddenly understood their meaning, and he said, ‘Yes. She paid me in cash. She always did that.’ He stared hard at the ground. At that moment, he seemed near to tears. The emotion did nothing to clear him in their eyes. Weeping reflected guilt or remorse or even extreme tension quite as often as mere compassion, in the extraordinary experience of the CID.
They were standing now by the steps on which he claimed he had had this last exchange with the dead woman. Hook said with gentle insistence, ‘And you didn’t notice anything unusual in her manner or what she said as you left her here?’
‘No. She was normal.’ He stared hard at the bottom of the three steps. Again the negative had come too quickly upon the heels of the question to carry conviction; he was refusing even to contemplate the suggestion they were putting to him. To Lambert, he sounded in his stubbornness like Peter denying his Christ; that fanciful thought set the superintendent wondering again how close this relationship between a middle-aged, middle-class woman and her young working-class employee had been.
‘And presumably she said that she would see you as usual when you came back later in the week?’
Smith glanced up at the simple question with something very like panic in his eyes. Perhaps he was convinced now that they were trying to trap him. Or perhaps he really had something to hide. ‘No. I think she was going away, from what she said. But I told her I didn’t want to come twice in that week.’
‘Why?’
They had expected him to hesitate, but the answer came pat. ‘I had some other work on.’
‘What other work?’
‘I was decorating. Painting a house. I can take you there, if you want me to. Bloke wanted it done before the weekend, so I couldn’t take the time off to come to The Beeches. I told Mrs Pritchard, and she said it would be all right, so long as I didn’t miss more than one of my days.’ From saying too little too quickly, he had moved to offering almost too much; the phrases tumbled out, as if he was glad to have the explanation to hand. Perhaps he eventually realized how breathless he sounded, for his words stopped abruptly. He still carried the rag on which he had wiped the oil from his hands after cleaning the starting plug; he drew it incessantly through the fingers of one hand with the other, like a conjuror setting up a trick.
Lambert, conscious that Pritchard was again watching them from the window, said, ‘We shall need to talk to you again in due course. You’re going to tell us where that money came from, for one thing. However, we shall let you get on with your work now.’ Smith’s relief was manifest as he turned away from them. He had moved only a pace when Lambert said, ‘Before you go, we need one more answer immediately. Did you see anyone around this house in the weeks before Mrs Pritchard’s death whom you hadn’t seen before?’
Smith turned back to them, his eyes narrowing a little against the sunlight on his right. ‘I did see one man. Funny looking bloke. He gave me quite a start when I turned the mower off. I hadn’t noticed him until then. He was standing on the other side of my bike, you see, looking at it. For a moment, I thought he was thinking about pinching it.’
‘And was he?’
‘No. I don’t think he was interested in it. He asked me if Mrs Pritchard was in. Said her name in a funny, deliberate sort of way, as if he thought it was funny.’
‘Stressed it, you mean?’
‘That’s right. As if it had some meaning I didn’t know about. Strange bloke, he was.’
‘When was this?’
‘That Monday, I think. When Mrs Pritchard was in the house. I asked him what he wanted, but he just shook his head. I put the mower away in the shed, and he wasn’t there when I came out again.’
‘What did he look like?’
‘Tallish bloke. Long overcoat on, even though it was quite warm. Long hair. Scruffy shoes and trousers; and he was none too clean, I’d say, as if he’d been on the road, or sleeping rough.’ Smith brought out the details with some eagerness, as though genuinely anxious now to be helpful. Perhaps
he was relieved to be moving away from the areas of questioning which had distressed him.
‘Old?’
‘No, quite young. Not more than thirty. Perhaps less; they look older when they’re scruffy, don’t they? He was carrying something, in a sort of black box. Not very big, and it didn’t seem heavy.’
Perhaps Everton Smith, bred on gangster films by a father who thought them ideal fare for young boys, suspected the mysterious visitor might have been carrying an automatic weapon. Lambert recalled Rushton’s account of the interview he had conducted in London. He said slowly, ‘Do you think it could have been a violin case?’
Smith’s eyes widened for a moment in his face, then contracted to normal, as if he did not wish to acknowledge this surprising acuity in the police. But he could not keep a tiny touch of wonderment out of his voice as he said, ‘Yeah. A violin case: that’s what it was.’
*
The man was uneasy on the journey. There were not many passengers on the train; he had no one beside him or opposite him as he sat at the table and looked through the big window at the racing countryside. He had almost forgotten how green English fields could be during his years in the centre of the city. The Cotswolds were very lush at this time of the year; the cows stood motionless beneath the new canopies of leaf beside a lazy stream as if posing for a Constable. Everything seemed a prologue to the long summer days which lay ahead.
But he scarcely saw the scenes he would once have enjoyed. The high-speed train was rushing him far too rapidly towards the district his instincts told him he should avoid. And he was not used to having to keep still like this. He wanted to stand, to move about; but he had been to the toilet already, and he thought the few passengers had stared at him curiously as he moved down the centre aisle of the swaying carriage. He did not wish to attract their attention again.
When the train ran into Gloucester, he let the others who were alighting get out before him. As he shambled down the platform past the long chain of carriages, he undid the buttons on his long overcoat. It was much too hot for it this morning, but he did not think of taking it off; his father had always said that it was easier to carry a coat on your shoulders than over your arm. And he had other things to carry: a plastic carrier bag, as well as the instrument which went everywhere with him.
The man in the British Rail hat at the barrier seemed almost surprised to find that he had a ticket. He went out into the streets he had once known so well, half expecting to find people waiting there who knew him. But he met neither friendly greeting nor hostile challenge.
He had no need to ask the way. The streets were busier than he remembered them, and part of his route took him through a pedestrian precinct which had not existed when he last came here. But most of the tall buildings had been here since long before he was born, and he gathered a little confidence as he moved among them.
The cathedral was dark and cool after the sunlight in the close. He moved automatically towards the rich colours of the east window with its massive stone traceries, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the reduced light. Then he turned towards the spot where an enterprising Abbot had interred the body of Edward II in 1330, securing this ancient place as a centre of pilgrimage two centuries before it became a cathedral.
He had a moment of panic when he thought that she was not there. It was already after the time they had agreed. This was the place she had specified for their meeting, surely? Then he saw her, standing looking at the tomb with the child’s hand in hers; there were no chairs here.
Joyce Warner slipped her other hand into her brother’s as he moved beside her, then smiled encouragement into the anxious face above her. She said softly, ‘We must get our story straight, Peter, if we are all to get the benefits of Mother’s death.’
Chapter Fourteen
The availability of capital was already apparent at Warner Plastics. It manifested itself in small things, but they were good for morale. Mark Warner’s secretary had the new carpet and curtains in her office which she had despaired of ever achieving. She had even been offered a smart new notice for her door with the magic words ‘Personal Assistant to Chief Executive’, but she had said that her old title was good enough for her, unless there was a rise involved. And her employer was secretly pleased with her for her old-fashioned attitude, as she had known he would be.
Mark was putting the finishing touches to the company’s smart new brochure on its products and services. He moved briefly among the men at their benches, letting them have their say on their specialisms, as was his wont. He was childishly pleased when they were impressed by the colour photography in the illustrations. He dared not tell them that a week ago it would have been impossible to contemplate even the modest expenditure involved in printing and distributing these brochures.
As soon as he returned to his office, his secretary announced Superintendent Lambert, and the sunlit day acquired a sudden chill. A moment later, the tall, dark-suited man filled his doorway, and Mark’s overactive imagination was filled with images of messengers of doom. Lambert refused tea and sat down quietly in the armchair which was offered to him. Warner had the impression that his every move was being studied very closely; he could feel his sense of foreboding wrapping itself like a cloak around his shoulders. The CID man seemed in no hurry to speak; he waited still, watchful, expectant, until Mark settled himself at his desk.
Mark had determined that he would not begin the conversation, but eventually his nervousness made him say, ‘And what can I do to help you, Mr Lambert?’ He was conscious of forcing the smile which accompanied this opening banality.
Lambert said, ‘You can tell me when you last visited The Beeches, for a start.’
‘Oh, it must be some time ago, now. Six weeks or more, I suppose. I could try to check with Joyce, if it’s important.’ Mark was quite pleased with his insouciant delivery of this. Then he saw Lambert reaching into the side pocket of his jacket.
The object he produced was concealed for a moment in his large hand. Warner did not see it until Lambert leaned unhurriedly forward and placed it on the edge of his desk. ‘Do you recognize this?’ he said. His grey eyes had never left the other man’s face throughout the manoeuvre.
It was a ludicrously unthreatening object; why then did Mark feel his pulse quickening as he looked at it? He moved a hand to pick it up, then thought better of it, as if mere contact with the innocent thing could increase his danger. His hand lay awkwardly for a moment, palm upwards on his desk. Then he raised both his hands and ran them quickly through his yellow hair. ‘There must be a thousand others around like that,’ he said defensively.
Warner’s eyes had fastened upon the object before him as if it held him by some sinister spell. Now Lambert’s eyes dropped for the first time to look at the thing he had produced. It was a small model car. A BMW, a tiny version of the one Lambert had passed in its designated space on the way in. ‘This one was found at The Beeches,’ he said.
For a moment, Warner looked as if he would continue to deny the obvious. Then he said, ‘It looks like one of Tim’s — my son’s — toys. He has a lot of cars. I expect he dropped it at his Granny’s.’ He produced the last word with an effort, as if even now the fact surprised him.
‘Recently,’ said Lambert calmly. It was a statement, not a question. His tone implied that a denial could only lead to further embarrassment.
‘Why do you say that?’
Lambert had the air of a patient adult explaining a new concept to a child as he said, ‘It was found in the open, in this condition. Had it been there for six weeks, it would certainly have needed a good clean to come up like this.’
Warner nodded, as if digesting a complex engineering idea. It was quite ridiculous, and Lambert was suddenly impatient with him. ‘It was found by our Scene of Crime team, on the gravel path beside the garage at The Beeches. The garage housing Laura Pritchard’s Astra. The car in which her body was transported to the Severn after she had been killed.’
The revela
tion had its effect. As Warner looked up into the face of his questioner, shock and fear flashed quickly into his too-revealing blue eyes. Perhaps the revelation about the macabre use of the dead woman’s car had shaken him; perhaps he was merely disturbed that the police had discovered this use. Lambert followed up his advantage. ‘There was a uniformed officer at The Beeches when you visited the house yesterday, Mr Warner. He watched you searching the grounds for a toy which was no longer there; it had been picked up with various other items of interest by our Scene of Crime team. What interests me is why you were so anxious to retrieve a toy car.’
Warner stared at the toy for a moment longer. Then he reached out his hand gingerly, put a finger on top of it, and rolled it slowly towards him, as if it were a snake whose venom had been suddenly removed. ‘I was at the house more recently, as it seems you know.’
‘When?’
‘At around the time when my mother-in-law died. Perhaps on the very day. I didn’t kill her.’ There was an appeal in the last phrase, but it brought no response from Lambert.
‘What day was that?’
‘Sunday. The day after Jim Pritchard went away to Spain.’
Laura Pritchard had been alive until the following day at least, according to Everton Smith. ‘Can anyone confirm that that was the day you went to the house?’
Warner looked surprised. He thought for a moment and said, ‘No. I had Tim with me, but no one else. I didn’t tell anyone else I was going, and I can’t see a two-year-old being much use as a witness.’
‘No. But without him and his toy car, we might never have known that you had been there at all. What was the purpose of this clandestine visit, Mr Warner?’
Warner sighed. ‘I went to ask Laura for financial help with Warner Plastics. It’s amazing how her death and the mere prospect of money has revived things, but I was quite desperate on that day. I took Tim because I thought the sight of a toddler and the knowledge that his future was at stake might make his grandmother provide the loan which we needed.’