by J M Gregson
In Lambert’s spacious bungalow, breakfast was a less frantic meal than at the Hooks, because his children were adults. The daughter who was unexpectedly back home with them had provided her own excitements over the last few days, but they were of a different and more complicated nature than those visited upon Hook by his spirited schoolboy sons.
John liked silence best in the mornings, and his wife knew it. Christine slid toast on to the table beside him as he finished his cereal, but was not sure whether his noncommittal grunt was thanks to her or derision for the latest politician’s non-speak in response to James Naughtie on the Radio Four Today programme. He was buttering his toast methodically when the phone shrilled in the hall. He sighed resignedly and went to answer it.
It wasn’t for him, as he had expected. His whole body stiffened as the speaker on the other end of the line announced himself. ‘I’m not sure whether she is available,’ he said coldly. ‘If you hold the line, I’ll see what I can do.’ He put the phone down carefully, stared at it for a second before he turned reluctantly away from it.
Jacky was standing beside him at the door of her room. He had not known that she was there, and he started as he saw her. He glanced back towards the phone, then half- mouthed and half-whispered to her, ‘It’s Jason.’
She gave a tiny smile at his distress, then said in a normal, even voice, ‘It’s all right, Dad. I’ll take it.’
She listened for what seemed to him a very long time. He realized that Christine had come out of the kitchen and was standing at his shoulder. For some reason, he was reminded absurdly of the wedding photograph just a few yards away from them, when a young and pretty bride had stood unbruised by life at his shoulder and the world had seemed a place of infinite possibilities.
Jacky listened quite calmly to the increasingly uncertain male voice on the other end of the line. Then there was a pause. And then she said very evenly and very clearly, ‘Jason, I’m only going to say this once. You can piss off!’
There was another long, increasingly agonized and insistent outburst on the other end of the phone, which became so strident that Jacky held the instrument a little away from her ear.
Then she exercised her female prerogative to contradict what she had said and repeat herself. ‘Jason, will you please piss off’ Although she did not look distressed, she was trembling a little in spite of herself as she slammed down the phone and turned to face her parents. Christine said automatically, ‘I’m sorry, we shouldn’t have been listening. It’s just that—’
‘I’m glad you were. Glad that you witnessed the final brief, undignified ending of it all. I’m all right, Mum, honestly I am.’
Her mother went forward and took her into her arms. Jacky trembled a little still, but over her mother’s shoulder, she gave her father a most unexpected wink.
Chief Superintendent Lambert drove to work in high spirits.
By the time Bert Hook reached Oldford CID section, the idea had emerged from his subconscious and crystallized into something much more definite. He could scarcely believe it; he told himself that it was slim evidence on which to base an accusation of murder; yet he found himself increasingly convinced that he was right.
Meanwhile, Detective Inspector Rushton was collecting a much more tangible item of evidence from a charity shop in Gloucester. He should have sent a junior constable to collect it for him, but Chris could not bear to send a minion to collect what might in due course become a key exhibit in court. An item, he told himself immodestly, which derived wholly from his initiative.
After several high-profile cases, John Lambert by now had a national reputation to complement the local one he had enjoyed for many years. That reputation had secured him a Home Office extension to his service a little while ago. Chief Superintendent Lambert had always paid generous tributes to the large teams involved in the solutions of serious crimes, but there was no doubt that his individual insights and attention to detail had been crucial on many occasions.
This time, it was the two people who worked most closely with him who provided the crucial thinking, as well as the evidence which would send a murderer to jail. Lambert would pay handsome and specific tribute to his subordinates in due course, but the press, who love their police heroes to be individual and uncomplicated, would pay little attention to his words.
The latest forensic evidence was interesting but not conclusive. Various hairs and clothing fibres which did not belong to the dead man had been found on his corpse. Wherever DNA was possible, it had been taken and retained, ready for future matching with that of whoever was eventually accused of this killing. ‘We’ve got a DNA match with the two youngsters, Jack Dawes and Becky Clegg,’ said Chris Rushton, ‘because we already have DNA profiles from them on file, as a result of their previous crimes.’
Bert Hook shook his head slowly. ‘I told you before that I doubt whether you’ll be able to use DNA matches from anyone who took part in the rehearsal on the night when Logan died. He was moving among us during the first court scene, pushing us into exactly the spots he wanted us to adopt on stage. It was important for him to position people exactly, because there were a lot of people involved in that scene and the stage in the village hall is quite a small one. He must have brushed against most of us.’
Rushton nodded impatiently. Normally, his inclination would have been to push the case against the two youngest suspects, who already had criminal records. But he knew that he had a more weighty and significant piece of evidence and a bigger fish to fry, when he judged that the moment was right.
He continued his summary of the newly arrived forensic findings. ‘As we already knew, Terence Logan died from a single efficiently administered cut to the throat. The weapon was a single-edged knife which has not been found - indeed, probably never will be found.’ He frowned in distaste at this uncharacteristic departure from the facts into speculation of his own. ‘Logan was almost certainly killed from behind and taken by surprise. This means that no great strength was involved, so that his assailant could have been either male or female. There were spots of blood upon the deceased’s clothes, and so almost certainly upon those of his killer. Although we must bear in mind that at the key moment his attacker was behind Logan, forensic think it likely that there would be blood on at least the sleeves of the murderer’s clothing.’
‘Which he or she has probably now disposed of or destroyed,’ said Lambert, gloomily thinking aloud.
Rushton continued without comment. This list of the laboratory’s findings from what had been gathered at the scene of the crime was after all just a prologue for his own sensational coup. ‘There was blood on the dead man’s shoes and on the gravel nearby. It has now been analysed, but as we expected, all samples came from the dead man and none from his assailant.’
Three faces nodded glumly at this expected blank. There had always been a chance that the victim had tried to defend himself and had diverted the knife to cause a cut on the murderer’s hand or arm. But none of them had expected such assistance on this occasion. Lambert noted the eagerness which Rushton was trying ineffectively to conceal. He said quietly, ‘Have you anything else to report, Chris, apart from the forensic findings?’
‘We’ve had uniform out to check on the whereabouts of people on Wednesday night. Ian Proudfoot was in the Crown Inn at Calford, as he told us he was. The landlord remembers a man answering his description; he says Proudfoot seemed very preoccupied with something at the time. No one in the pub can remember seeing him there after about ten o’clock, so he could have left at any time after that and still had ample time to wait for Logan to emerge from Mettlesham Village Hall.’
Lambert nodded. ‘But at least his story checks out. He was where he says he was, for at least part of the time between when he left the rehearsal at nine and the moment when Logan was killed, at some time between eleven and twelve.’
DI Rushton tried and failed to keep exactly the same non-committal tone for his next item. ‘On Friday, I took it upon myself to
circulate the charity shops throughout Gloucestershire and Herefordshire, asking them to notify us of any shoes which have been donated to them since last Thursday. It was a long shot: we know that anyone with blood or other incriminating matter on shoes or clothing would be well advised to destroy the items, or at least make sure they were binned and dumped. But murderers don’t always think as we do. They’re sometimes not habitual criminals, so they don’t dispose of evidence in the way that experienced villains would.’
Lambert tried hard not to smile at this earnest little lecture. He said impatiently, ‘I gather that your initiative has paid off, Chris. Let’s have the news.’
Chris reached under the desk, produced the plastic bag, and extracted the innocent looking shoes; he had the air of a conjurer completing a trick. ‘They’ve been cleaned, but forensic may still find blood upon them. There’s certainly a little mud and grit on the inside of the heel, which I think will match with samples from the car park at Mettlesham.’
Lambert gazed hard at the unremarkable footwear. ‘So we look for a Cinderella whose feet will fit these. Or more properly an ugly sister, as this is murder.’
Bert Hook had been silent for a long time. Now he said slowly, ‘I’ve a good idea who might have worn these.’
Then he surprised them with his theory and the source of it. There was a long pause before Lambert said, ‘I think we’d better get round there right away, Bert.’
Twenty-Two
The wheel had come full circle, thought Bert Hook. This strange business had started with Councillor Margaret Dalrymple descending upon his home to persuade him to take part in Hamlet.
Now it was ending with John Lambert coming to her much more imposing house, to make an arrest for murder. The detached, double-fronted Edwardian house stood impressively on its gentle rise. The CID duo studied it for a moment after climbing out of the police Mondeo at its gate. The rich dark red of the Virginia creeper had diminished a little since their last visit; dead leaves drifted steadily from it now, even though there was little wind on this calm, mild November day.
They were well into the second half of the month now, but there had still not been an overnight frost. Dahlias still blazed their unseasonal brightness in the borders beside the path to the front door, as if revelling in this reprieve from the winter which was waiting. The pink and red of climbing roses bloomed defiantly against the mellow bricks of the house’s high front elevation, as they rang the bell beside the broad oak front door.
It was Andrew Dalrymple who opened it. He said breezily, ‘Thank you for coming here rather than to the works. My staff would begin to talk if they saw me entertaining the CID on successive working days.’
They did not respond to his bonhomie.
Nor did Councillor Margaret Dalrymple, JP, who was in the high, dark hall as they entered. She gave them a token smile and led them into the spacious dining room at the front of the house. They sat down beside the huge, antique mahogany dining table and found the Dalrymples positioning themselves formally on the other side of it. They seemed a long way away across that dark gleaming surface; Detective Sergeant Bert Hook reflected that there could scarcely have been a greater contrast between this quiet, spacious setting, with original oils and watercolours upon the walls, and the claustrophobic box of the standard police station interview room, in which he had conducted so many hundreds of interviews over the years.
Andrew Dalrymple eventually broke the silence he could not endure. ‘We’re ready to offer any help we can, of course. As each of us has told you individually, we are not going to grieve for Terry Logan. But my wife has some experience of the law, and we both realize that it must be upheld at all times.’ He glanced sideways at the white-faced Maggie. ‘We both recognize that whoever killed Logan must be brought to justice. Nevertheless, I doubt whether we can add anything useful to what we have already told you.’
He was looking hard at the intense face of Lambert, but it was the less menacing figure beside him who now spoke. Bert Hook said evenly, ‘Mr Dalrymple, when we saw you on Friday, you told us that you were glad to see Terence Logan dead.’
Andrew glanced quickly again at the woman beside him, then slid his hand over hers beneath the edge of the table. ‘I’m not disputing that. I detested the man. By the time he died, I think both of us hated him.’
‘Where were you last Wednesday night, Mr Dalrymple?’
Margaret answered quickly, almost before Hook had delivered the question. ‘He was here. We’ve told you that before. I got in at about half past nine and he was here waiting for me.’ She spoke firmly. But curiously, her very vehemence told against her. She sounded as if she was mouthing some sort of ritual, hoping that its very familiarity would give it weight.
It was Andrew Dalrymple who said unexpectedly, ‘It’s all right, Maggie. They probably know that’s not true. I expect I was sighted that night.’
Hook looked at him curiously. He didn’t have his usual notebook at the ready to record things today: events had moved beyond that point. He recognized the form of the ritual and played out his part in it. ‘You’d better give us the details of where you were.’
‘I was in the Lamb and Flag pub in Gloucester.’
‘And no doubt you have witnesses to that.’ Dalrymple looked at him curiously, sensing an oddness in the man’s tone, knowing that something had gone seriously wrong, but unable to pin down exactly what it was. ‘I expect you could turn up people who would confirm that I was there, yes. I chatted to the landlord for a little while. The place wasn’t as busy as it usually is.’
Maggie felt the tightening of Andrew’s hand on hers. She said in her most masterful manner, ‘So he couldn’t have been out murdering Terry Logan, could he? I suggest you go and talk to the landlord of that pub and his clientele, and confirm that my husband was nowhere near the scene of this crime.’ Hook looked at her. The wheel had indeed come full circle: he felt a curious sympathy now for this woman who had so intimidated him at the outset of these events. ‘I’m sure that we shall find people who will confirm that you were in the Lamb and Flag last Wednesday night, Mr Dalrymple. No doubt they will also inform us that you left with ample time to get to the village hall at Mettlesham before the murder victim left it.’
‘Possibly. That doesn’t make me a murderer.’ Andrew felt that the blood was draining from his normally rather florid face. He wondered if that was visible to the enemy, wondered if they could see the paling which he felt in his cheeks.
‘You admitted to us on Friday that you hated Terence Logan because of the affair he had conducted with your wife and the way he had treated her at the end of that affair.’ Andrew glanced automatically at Maggie, looking for a reaction in the way he had done when anyone mentioned Logan’s name in company over the last four years. This time she was as still as marble. He strove for a little of his normal aggression. ‘That is correct, yes. I hated him, and so did Maggie. This is merely repeating what I told you on Friday.’
‘Who was it who financed this ambitious theatrical enterprise?’
It was Maggie who answered. ‘We hadn’t got as far as that. Costumes and publicity for Hamlet would have been expensive, it’s true, but—’
Hook did not even glance at her, but kept his eyes steadily on the face of his quarry. ‘Who paid for the hire of the village hall in Mettlesham, for two nights a week for the entire rehearsal period?’
Dalrymple’s voice dropped a full octave. ‘You obviously know the answer to that. I did.’
‘You were anxious that your wife should never meet this man again. And yet you set up the opportunity for her to meet him repeatedly over a three-month period. Maggie told me that at the outset, when she came to my house to recruit me for the play. I should have recalled that fact much earlier than today.’
Maggie Dalrymple remembered that. Remembered how her tongue had run away with her as she pressed hard for the Polonius she wanted to play alongside her. But she’d had no thought then that Andrew was planning this, that th
e hatred she had seen in him would lead to this awful climax. ‘My husband knows how interested I am in the theatre,’ she said desperately. ‘He knows that I have yearned for years for the chance to appear in Shakespeare. He was an indulgent husband, and nothing more than that.’
She looked at Andrew, tried to give him a loving and affectionate smile of gratitude. But the unthinkable suspicion which had haunted her since last Wednesday night was becoming reality, and she could not do it. She turned back to this rubicund, comfortable detective sergeant, who would have made such a good Polonius, who was now transformed into such an intractable foe. ‘Terry Logan was a very good director, you see.’
The leitmotiv of this investigation, the theme which each of the principals involved had in turn delivered to them. For the first time it rang hollow. Hook addressed himself to Andrew Dalrymple. ‘You would never have put your wife in close contact with Logan again. Not without some other motive. You were setting up the opportunity to dispose of him.’
Andrew Dalrymple felt Maggie’s hand slide away from beneath his. He said dully, ‘I was in the Lamb and Flag in Gloucester. They’ll tell you that - the staff there, the landlord.’
‘I expect they will. I expect you took good care to establish the fact that you were in there on that night. What time did you leave? Ten o’clock? Ten thirty? I’m sure we won’t find anyone who saw you late on in the evening.’
There was nothing conclusive about that, Andrew told himself. They couldn’t make anything stick in court without more evidence than that. He fought against the overwhelming sense of hopelessness which had fallen upon him with this accusation about him financing the enterprise. He heard his wife say what he should have said himself: ‘You need more than this. You can’t say that Andrew killed Logan just because he left the pub at a certain time.’
It was now that Lambert spoke at last. ‘You took some articles into the charity shop on Eastgate in Gloucester on Saturday morning, Mrs Dalrymple. The lady there remembers you.’