by J M Gregson
‘He was a good director: I’ve never disputed that, have I? I’ve asserted it, in fact. I told you yesterday, that’s the only reason why I considered working with the man in Hamlet.’
Lambert reflected that it wasn’t just in the professional theatre that actors had huge egos. Bert had told him that Proudfoot was going to be very good in the play, and he suspected that he would have taken the part whatever he thought of Logan, because he desperately wanted to play the role.
Lambert tried to conceal his irritation with the man as he pressed him. ‘Tell us more about Logan’s work in the school and his relationships with his adolescent players, please.’
Ian pursed his lips, furrowed his brow, took his time, as if he was formulating his thoughts on the spot. It wouldn’t do to look too eager over this. ‘He wanted to get his hands on selected members of his various casts. Oh, I don’t mean he was a paedophile. He would never have lasted as long as he did in the school if he’d laid hands on under-age boys and girls or even sixth-form pupils. He played a longer and cleverer game than that. He made them his protégés, encouraged them to think that they might have a future in the professional theatre if they let him guide them. Then, when they were over eighteen and had left school, several of them ended up in his bed.’
Both the CID men felt the familiar frustration of a murder case: you could never have the victim’s views. They would have liked now to take this stuff back to Terry Logan, to see his reactions to some of the accusations being thrown at him by the people who had surrounded him. Instead, Lambert said a little sourly, ‘And how did the school react to your complaints?’
‘The then head teacher pretended to investigate and then said they were much exaggerated. He retreated behind the old smoke-screen of making allowances for the artistic temperament. He said that Logan had no doubt acted a little insensitively, but that he was a talented and valued member of staff, who must be allowed to make his own decisions when it came to school productions. He pointed out that the girl who had taken my daughter’s place was in fact very good, that she had enjoyed what he called a triumph in the part when the play was actually staged.’
Bert Hook came in now, his soft Herefordshire tones sounding less threatening than Lambert’s more urgent questioning. ‘You said earlier that what happened in the bank was connected with your complaints to the school.’
‘It was a direct reaction to it. You must understand that Logan was difficult to attack in his school persona. He wasn’t interested in promotion, or in anything beyond the teaching of drama and his school productions, because he had private money. So long as he could keep his job and exploit the contacts with young people which it gave him, he was quite content. Because most parents only knew him through the plays and musicals he produced, he had made himself a considerable reputation; he was both popular and successful.’
Ian let a little of his frustration come out in the bitter pronunciation of the adjectives; there could surely be nothing wrong with that, now that he had declared his hatred of the man. Hook brought him back patiently to the bank. ‘But he didn’t accept your complaints meekly, did he?’
‘No. I was just pointing out that he was pretty well invulnerable in his own professional life, because he was clever and talented and because he had money. But a couple of months after the incident at the school, I found that he could also be spiteful. He claimed that I had given him bad advice on a share purchase.’
‘And had you?’
Ian Proudfoot hadn’t expected any challenge so direct from affable Bert Hook, but he controlled his anger by forcing it into a bitter smile. ‘I hadn’t given him any advice at all, because he hadn’t asked for any. But he had bought the shares shortly after his account had been lodged with us and sold them a few months later at a substantial loss, so that he had the documentation to back up his vile remarks. He even suggested that I had been unloading the shares from other customers on to him, before the price fell. It was all lies, but it made life very difficult for me. He knew one of the bank’s directors and he dropped all sorts of nasty innuendos about me into his ears as well as writing in to complain.’
‘But you kept your job.’
‘Of course I did. I hadn’t done anything wrong and, whatever Logan might claim, no one could prove that I had. But it was a bad time. I had four children who were still dependent on me and I needed the job that was being put in jeopardy. I kept my job as a branch manager, as you say. But I’ve never been promoted to anything beyond that. I might have had a much more important post in the investment department of the bank by now if it hadn’t been for Terence Logan’s efforts.’ His resentment hissed out on the sibilants.
Hook nodded thoughtfully. ‘And yet despite this very serious difference between you, you chose to volunteer yourself for a production of Hamlet which was to be directed by this same Terry Logan.’
It was exactly what Angela had said to him so often over the last few weeks, in terms which were considerably less polite. At least he could respond honestly to this one - and shouldn’t Hook, as a fellow thespian, understand his eagerness? He ignored the keeneyed Lambert and addressed his remarks to the DS. ‘Amateur dramatics have been more than a hobby to me, when I look back over the years; they’ve been something nearer to a passion, Bert. There’s a small part of me that still wishes I’d had a go at becoming a professional when I was a young man, before my family responsibilities made that impossible.’
Hook stubbornly reiterated his point. ‘You are saying that your desire to perform on stage overcame even your dislike and distrust of the man you suspected of damaging your career?’
Put in these calm, questioning phrases, the argument which Angela had hurled at him so stridently seemed to have more weight. Ian strove desperately to convince this more objective listener. cI’ve never had the chance to play Shakespeare, apart from a couple of the comedies whilst I was still at school. Hamlet was a dream come true for me. Claudius is a wonderful role, which I never thought I’d get the chance to play. It may not reflect well on me, but I suspect I’d have taken it on whoever was directing the production. The fact that I knew that Terry Logan was an excellent director, whatever the state of his personal life, only made the opportunity seem more valuable.’
Bert Hook, who in his single evening of rehearsal had caught the merest whisper of the excitement which Proudfoot was voicing, judged that this yearning to play the role, this jettisoning of the normal moral canons of behaviour, was quite genuine. He was surprised at the depth of the passion in this man, who in his professional life was necessarily so quiet and reserved. Bert nodded a couple of times over his notebook, then said calmly, ‘What time did you get back here after the rehearsal on Wednesday night?’
‘About half past nine. I told you that yesterday.’ Ian hesitated. ‘My wife will confirm that for you.’
It was Lambert who now said, ‘We wondered if you might wish to change that time.’
Suddenly, after keeping calm so far, Ian was beset by panic. He could see Angela’s face, see her letting him down if they chose to press her on this. ‘I ... I might have got it wrong, I suppose.’
‘One of our team has found a witness who says that you were in the Crown Inn in Calford at around ten o’clock on Wednesday night,’ Lambert said. ‘Are you saying that this man has made a mistake, that you were in fact in this house at that time?’
Ian felt as if the blood was draining from his sallow face. ‘No. I was in the Crown as you say.’
‘You’d forgotten that?’
‘No. I’ve just been telling you that I hated Logan. I wanted an alibi for the time of his death. That’s why I told you I was home earlier than I was.’ He found that he was calm again now that the moment of his exposure had arrived. ‘I didn’t kill him, but I knew you’d have me down as a suspect once you discovered what had gone on between us in the past.’
‘Which you also attempted to conceal from us yesterday.’
‘Yes.’
‘In fact, very lit
tle of what you told us yesterday was true, was it?’
‘I suppose not. I can only say that I saw it as concealing embarrassing facts, rather than telling you lies.’
‘A rather peculiar moral viewpoint. And one which has now landed you deep in trouble. When did you leave the Crown on Wednesday night?’
Ian wondered how closely this anonymous observer had monitored his movements in the pub. He had sat alone in one of the alcoves and had spoken to no one. Perhaps he should have realized that a stranger would always be remembered on a quiet Wednesday night in a country pub. ‘About half past ten. I don’t think the landlord had called last orders.’
‘And what were your movements then?’
‘I drove straight back here. I’m pretty sure I was in before eleven - the exact time didn’t seem important, at the time.’ He was glad he had put that phrase in: it was surely what an innocent man would have said. He had more sense than to say that Angela would confirm this, when he had earlier in effect asserted that his wife was prepared to lie for him.
Lambert stared at him for a long, unembarrassed moment. ‘It would obviously be in your interest to produce someone who can confirm that you were nowhere near Mettlesham Village Hall at the time when Terry Logan died. I imagine that that might be difficult for you.’ He spoke in a carefully neutral tone as he and Hook stood up. Then, using a favourite technique of throwing in a key question just when a man was relaxing in the thought of their departure, he said,
‘What was the name of the girl who took over from your daughter when she was dumped from that school play, Mr Proudfoot?’
Ian had thought they might already have known that. Perhaps they did; perhaps they just wanted to trip him up in yet another lie. Well, they wouldn’t do that. He had nothing to lose by being completely honest on this one. Rather the reverse, in fact, when he thought about it.
‘It was Becky Clegg,’ he said with a wan smile.
Seventeen
There were still roses blooming in John Lambert’s garden in this mildest of autumns. His headlights picked them out, unnaturally large on top of the bushes in the darkness.
On other nights he would have savoured these late blooms. Tonight he scarcely noticed them as he eased the spacious old Vauxhall into the garage. Normally, he would have savoured being home after a trying day. Over the last few years, he had taught himself to appreciate domesticity, to enjoy his isolation in the comfort of his home from the teeming and often harsh world outside it.
Tonight was different. He was beset by an overwhelming weariness, a reluctance to open the familiar door and join this smaller world beyond it. The selfish part of his psyche, which he felt was never far from the surface, told him that he had a right to expect calmness here, that he should not be having to deal with another crisis after the various stresses of his working day. A crisis which he had not prepared for, an emergency where he would have to improvise to meet the particular demands of a daughter whose life had been thrown into turmoil through no fault of his. In fact, if Jacky had listened to him all those months ago...
Lambert was taken over now by another more familiar emotion in his domestic life: an overwhelming sense of guilt that he should even be able to entertain such thoughts. He took a deep breath, summoned the false cheerfulness of a smile to his lips, and went through the front door and into his home.
Christine was in the sitting room and what he saw there made him stop dead at the door. It was like a scene from a nineteen-fifties women’s magazine, where wives were encouraged to be homemakers and to see their roles as ensuring maximum comfort for the breadwinner of the house. Lambert remembered seeing pictures of such scenes in his mother’s Woman’s Own, and wondering as a six-year-old why she sniffed so derisively at them.
Christine was sitting as if carefully posed in an armchair. His own chair was ready for him on the other side of the fireplace, with a bottle of beer and a glass on the small table beside it. Save for the absence of slippers and the flames of a coal fire in the hearth, it could have been that same vintage illustration he remembered. ‘I heard you putting the car away,’ said his wife with a cheerful smile. ‘Mine’s a gin and tonic, but I thought my old man might appreciate a beer.’
John Lambert sat down wonderingly. This couldn’t be true. It was some elaborate and tasteless period caricature conjured up by Christine to mock him. He realized that the prepared smile was still on his lips. He decided that he might as well play along with this. He sat down, poured the beer into his tilted glass with elaborate care to avoid excessive foam, and took the long, appreciative pull at it which the scene demanded.
‘Dinner nearly ready?’ he asked at length. He looked across at the gin and tonic and his wife’s elegant dress and wondered anew at this strange tableau. ‘I can give you a hand with things, if you like.’
‘No need for that. Jacky’s getting the meal tonight.’
‘She’s home from the hospital?’
Christine looked at her watch. ‘Three hours ago now. She insisted that she was going to cook tonight. I decided that it might be good therapy for her. Anyway, I’m not complaining, after what she’s put us through over the last day or two.’
An implied criticism of her beloved daughter from Christine Lambert? Lambert had more sense than to endorse it. ‘She’s been through a lot in a short time, since that bastard walked out on her.’ He glanced towards the kitchen. ‘Should I go in there and offer to help her?’
‘I’d leave her to it. I think concentrating on something ordinary like food is exactly what she needs.’
He ignored Christine of course, sauntering into the kitchen as casually as he could with his tankard of beer in his hand, trying to behave as if finding Jacky cooking the family evening meal for the first time in ten years was exactly what he had expected. She glanced up at him, gave him the wide smile which had once been her childhood recognition of his arrival. She gave no hint of the effort this was costing her. ‘How’s the world of detection, Dad?’
He dropped into an awful parody of black and white gangster movies which had been a joke between them when she was fourteen. ‘I’m playing a hunch, kid. Nobody ain’t saying nuttin’ to no one, but when you been in this game as long as I have, you gotta play your hunches.’
‘You ask me, that doll’s hidin’ something. You gotta go for the doll. With curves like that, it’s gonna be the blonde that did it, Mister.’ Jacky sashayed across from cooker to sink with a pan of potatoes, then dissolved into laughter that was a little too near to hysteria. ‘Your Bogart isn’t what it was, Dad!’
‘It was meant to be Robert Mitchum. At least I think it was. You won’t believe it, but those blokes were even before my time.’ He went and put his arms round her waist as she stood draining the water from the potatoes into the sink. ‘You’re going to be all right now, aren’t you, Jacky?’
It was half a question and half an order. She set down the pan on the side of the sink and turned round to him, managing a smaller but this time completely genuine smile. ‘I’m going to be all right, Dad. I’m not going to let the bastard grind me down, am I?’
He’d forgotten that he’d ever delivered that police cliche to her. It had been when she had left home to set up house with the man who had now deserted her. He had felt guilty for spoiling her happiness at the time, but his warning now seemed wholly justified. ‘That’s the spirit, girl!’ He tousled her hair and was stupidly comforted to find it still so glossy and healthy.
She sent him out whilst she dished up the food. The meal was, surprisingly, reassuringly good. Christine made the right conventional noises about how nice it was to be waited upon for once and John opened a bottle of claret to go with the braised beef, studiously avoiding his wife’s warning eye as he filled the glasses. Jacky drank very little of hers, then put her hand over the top of her glass when her father went to refill it. She grinned sardonically at Christine. ‘You needn’t worry, Mum, I’m not about to become a lush. Last night was a one-off, and the consequences were s
o embarrassing that I am duly contrite.’
‘It was your dad’s fault, if you ask me,’ said Christine Lambert, as if delivering a well- rehearsed line of dialogue. The happy trio all knew it wasn’t, but they were content to let mother have the closing words on the matter.
At ten o’clock, with the meal long over and a happy somnolence descending upon the diners, Lambert said he needed a breath of air and wandered round his garden with a torch. The night was still uncharacteristically mild for the second half of November. There was not a breath of wind to disturb the clear, moonless Gloucestershire darkness, but there was no danger of a frost.
John Lambert knew now that his daughter was going to be all right and the world seemed suddenly not such a bad place after all. He wondered why all the detectives he glimpsed on television seemed to be such tortured, insecure figures in their private lives.
‘There are still roses in bloom out there,’ he announced when he went back indoors.
Friday night and the end of the working week.
The cities of Gloucester and Cheltenham become noisy places, with young minds determined upon celebration and young bodies beset by booze and drugs. A busy night for the city police, who handle the routine noise and violence with practised hands and a slightly world-weary efficiency.
Away from the city, in a rural Gloucestershire many miles from the illumination of street lighting, things are so quiet that you would scarcely suspect a police presence. Nevertheless, the rule of law is represented here. It is admittedly represented so minimally, almost apologetically, that you would hardly register its presence, but it is here nonetheless.
PC Alan Jones is young and inexperienced. Indeed, he has been allotted the Friday night work which falls as naturally as autumn leaves to the young and the inexperienced, which the sergeant in charge of the duty rosters sees as wholly appropriate for the latest addition to his work force.