Bring Forth Your Dead

by Gregson, J. M.

  She nodded, aware that this was the core of his news, wondering if he was preparing her for the worst. ‘They affect the brain, don’t they?’ For a moment, she had a vivid image of John at a party months ago, pontificating about old age, asserting that the only thing he really feared was paralysis, demanding that if ever that happened the life-support machine was to be switched off…

  ‘Yes. Let me say at once that everything we are running on your husband seems positive at the moment. There is nothing which indicates that brain functions are affected. He was hit very hard, with what at the moment I can only call the traditional blunt instrument. Had it been a couple of inches lower, it would have hit the temple and I don’t think I’d have been talking to you now.’

  She let the full sense of his comment sink into her mind. Then she said stupidly, ‘There seem to be an awful lot of—tubes and machines.’

  He smiled, happy to be able to offer some genuine reassurance. ‘Yes. We tend to forget how frightening they are to people who don’t know their functions. Most of them are merely precautionary. His system has had a severe shock, apart from the actual injury. We’re trying to help it along for a bit. If all seems to be going well in the morning, we’ll take him off the ventilator and the venous line. If he progresses as I hope, the catheter will come out later in the day.’

  For the first time she felt he was going to survive this. ‘Thank you. When will you be sure of the extent of the damage?’

  He stood up; only now did her senses allow her to register how tired he looked. ‘Our monitors tell us quite a lot. But we can’t be certain about the extent of concussion, or the possibility of cerebral oedema. I won’t be completely happy until he recovers consciousness. I’m afraid it’s not easy to predict just when that might happen.’

  The sister met her at the door of the room where her husband fought so quietly for his life. ‘There’s nothing more you can do here, Mrs Lambert. You should go home and get some sleep. We’ll be in contact as soon as there is any news.’

  She nodded, docile now that she knew there was no more news to be had. ‘Thank you, I should speak to Sergeant Hook before I go, though.’

  ‘The Sergeant left whilst you were with Mr Hall, Mrs Lambert. He asked me to tell you he was going in to CID, to start finding who did this.’

  For the first time in her life she was comforted by what she had thought of as the male impulse to revenge. She insisted she was fit to drive, was surprised when she looked at her watch to find that it was after five. She stopped at the door to thank the sister for what they were doing for John.

  The sister smiled, glad to be able to resume her medical duties without lay presence, but full of tenderness for the woman going back to an empty house. ‘Remember, he’s in the best hands now!’ she said.

  22

  Rushton came in to CID before eight. He had already been in charge of the case for eight hours. GBH on a policeman cuts swiftly through red tape. It also unites a police force. The Chief Constable when he had been awoken with the news had been as angry as the humblest copper on the beat.

  The Detective-Inspector was looking forward to disposing his forces and preparing his strategy in peace in a quiet CID section. He had made the effort to get in at this hour after being up until three, so that he had the right to expect that. One obstinate presence was there before him. Had been there, in fact, since five, two hours before the cold December dawn. Grey with worry, looking old enough to be pensioned off, exuding the bitter determination that would imbue the section until the bludgeoner was brought to book. Bert Hook, fists clenched at his side, looking for a physical outlet for his frustration.

  Rushton’s first reaction was that he could have done without this. He said, ‘John Lambert is holding his own.’

  ‘I know. I came here from there.’ Hook made it sound like a reproof, as if Rushton had been remiss in his duties not to present himself at the stricken man’s bedside. The fact that Hook intended no such effect could hardly be expected to register with the younger man.

  ‘I’ve been too busy trying to arrest his assailant to go there,’ Rushton’s voice was ominously aggressive.

  Hook was too anxious for news to notice. ‘Have you got him?’

  ‘No. He didn’t go to his own house last night. We’ll get him when he goes in to work.’

  ‘If he goes in, you mean. The bastard could be miles away by now!’

  Rushton felt again an unspoken condemnation of his weakness. But he was curiously reassured to find Hook automatically assuming that this was their man. He had never spoken to David Craven himself, though he had read the transcripts of the various interviews with him. He said, ‘He could also be in some woman’s bed. We’ll wait to see if he turns up at his office before we put out a general alert.’ It was time to assert himself.

  ‘If I get my hands on the bastard—’

  ‘Don’t be stupid, Bert!’ Rushton cut in crisply with the official line: Hook had played into his hands. ‘You’re too old in the tooth for that kind of talk. I’ll take you off the case unless you can guarantee to control yourself.’

  ‘You can’t do that!’ Hook’s outrage outran logic. He was looking for a target for his frustration and anger.

  It was the sort of situation Rushton was good at. He said coolly, ‘I can and I will if you make it necessary. You know that perfectly well. Whether you like it or not, I’m your superior officer. If you go on talking like a raw young copper with a hot head, you won’t touch this case again.’

  Hook looked at him hard. The red veining in his eyes was accentuated by the darkness all around them. Thirty-six hours without sleep have more effect on a man over forty; he looked like a meths drinker sliding downwards. He said, ‘All right. I know the rules.’

  Rushton relaxed a little. ‘I suppose you’re confident it was David Craven?’ No one now was talking of the murder of Edmund Craven: the battering and possible murder of a superintendent had funnelled all police energy on to that violent moment in the darkness.

  Hook started to reply, then stopped and took a long breath. He had been warned once, and rightly, about being headstrong; he did not intend to offer the younger man any further opportunity to assert his rank. He said, ‘As confident as I can be. I think he killed his father to get his hands on his inheritance, because he knew he was about to be cut out of the new will. God knows why he tried to kill John Lambert. Presumably he knew we were getting close to him.’

  ‘Well, at least he’s played into our hands now. It shouldn’t be too difficult to get the proof—’

  ‘We’ll get a confession once he’s brought in,’ said Hook grimly. He made the fact that Craven wasn’t in a cell at this minute sound like dereliction of duty for the Inspector. ‘When we do, Bert, I shall interview him myself. Is that absolutely clear?’ Rushton’s tone was pure ice.

  ‘Can I be present?’

  ‘We’ll decide that at the time. No promises.’

  For the first time in years, Hook regretted turning down a decade ago the chance to move beyond sergeant’s rank. He might have been taking over this case himself, instead of accepting orders from some jumped up… But he knew that Rushton was right. He must prove he was in control of himself before he could be entrusted with interviewing the man who had struck down his chief. Better start now. ‘I’ve been looking on the Super’s desk,’ he said.

  Rushton chose not to take this as a challenge to his authority. Especially now. The Inspector said carefully, ‘And what did you find, Bert?’ The smile he added emerged as rather artificial, but he meant it well.

  ‘Not very much. I think he meant to interview David Craven again today, even before Craven asked to meet him last night. Presumably he felt we were getting near an arrest.’

  ‘We’re even nearer now,’ said Rushton grimly.

  ‘There was just one note in John’s diary in relation to this case,’ said Hook hesitantly. He had slipped into the first name again without noticing it; perhaps it was something to do with that lo
nely vigil at the bedside with Christine Lambert. He wondered if this byway was still worth exploring after last night’s dramatic turn in events. ‘He was planning to see the vicar of the parish church in Oldford.’

  Rushton raised his eyebrows. ‘Why?’

  Hook did not like to admit the extent of his ignorance. He occasionally resented Lambert’s tendency to keep his own counsel until he was sure of his ground: to say so now would sound like a betrayal. ‘I don’t know exactly. Old Craven fell out with his daughter over religion. Maybe the son too, for all we know. I presume John wanted to put some detail on that.’ For a moment he found himself waiting for his chief’s mock horror at the Americanism. It made him feel both alone and inadequate.

  Rushton stood up. Hook wasn’t the only one looking desperately for action in this situation. ‘I’d like you to follow that one up yourself, Bert. I’m going to be in Craven’s office to receive him when he arrives.’

  Hook was not sure whether he was being guided into a cul-de-sac while the Inspector took on the main action. He had a blind trust in Lambert which made him feel that this vicar might yet be important. It was action, anyway; and action of any sort must be better than waiting on events at the hospital.

  As if he followed the thought, Rushton said as he made for the door. ‘Call at the hospital on your way to the vicarage, Bert. Give me a ring on my car-phone to let me know how the Super is.’

  They did not let him in to see John Lambert again. The day sister was young, brisk, impersonal, and very firm. But no doubt highly competent: her summary of the situation would have been a model for young police officers. ‘He’s still unconscious, I’m afraid. We’ve slowed down the ventilator, without ill effects. Mr Hall will be seeing him in ten minutes, and I’m pretty sure he’ll take him off it altogether. Things are going as well as could be expected: perhaps rather better than that.’

  Hook rang Rushton with the news. The Inspector listened without comment. ‘That’s good,’ he said. ‘Perhaps he’ll recover consciousness later today.’ He sounded preoccupied, so that for a moment Hook thought he was doing no more than going through the motions of concern. Then he said, ‘It seems you were right about David Craven. He’s nowhere to be found. As far as we can tell, he seems to have left the area in a hurry last night.’

  23

  The Reverend Aubrey Allcock was now retired. Bert Hook decided within two minutes that this could only help the reputation of his church.

  The former vicar was short, portly, smooth-skinned and with the white hair that should have decked a man of his age and calling with venerability. Hook found instead an uncanny and disconcerting resemblance to a confidence trickster he had arrested four years earlier, who had wrought havoc among the savings of the elderly widows of Cheltenham.

  ‘Yes, I knew Edmund Craven, Sergeant. Rather well, at one time. He was quite a pillar of our church in his younger days.’ His hands caressed the memory of his departed parishioner.

  ‘So we were given to understand. But apparently he had some sort of disagreement with you a year or two before his death.’

  The vicar looked pained. Hook, resolutely banishing his image of the elderly confidence trickster, found it disconcertingly replaced by Dickens’s Mr Chadband: a quarter of a century earlier, Dickens had been one of the few authors universally approved in Barnardo’s homes. Allcock said, with the air of one determined to be charitable to a hostile world, ‘Disagreement would be too strong a word. Mr Craven found it difficult to be totally in sympathy with the modern ecumenical trend.’ He lowered his voice and looked at the walls and windows of his comfortable lounge, as if the Inquisition might be surrounding his little bungalow. ‘I sometimes feel there is something to be said for his point of view.’

  Hook considered now that it might perhaps have been the personnel rather than the doctrine of the parish church that had driven old Craven away. He said, ‘So he stopped coming to church because you were moving closer to other Christian communities?’

  ‘That would be a gross over-simplification of the views of a man who is unfortunately no longer in the land of the living to defend himself. But as a summary, it would serve, I suppose.’

  Hook was beginning to think that the Reverend Allcock might be the most appropriately named man he had ever met. He said roughly, ‘In particular, he had about as much time for the Roman Catholics as Ian Paisley, I’m told.’

  Allcock’s half-smile suggested the weary tolerance of a world which would have excited lesser men to condemnation. ‘It is correct that he was not of the Papist persuasion.’ His lips twitched, as if he intended to develop this thought into an anecdote; then he thought better of it.

  Hook was wondering desperately what Lambert had hoped to get from this old humbug, and wishing more fervently with each passing moment that the Superintendent-had been here to shoot down this strange bird himself. He said desperately, ‘And no doubt you know Mr Craven’s children as well.’

  ‘Alas, not as intimately as I did at one time, Sergeant.’ The adverb had inescapable News of the World connotations for a policeman, but Allcock’s eyes were fixed in fond remembrance upon the ceiling, as if he saw pictures there which were invisible to less saintly eyes. ‘Angela and David made the arrangements for the funeral; Angela mainly, as you would expect.’ Hook had been waiting for this moment to press his questions about David Craven, but Allcock moved on, speaking for the first time with animation. ‘Angela is much younger than her brother, of course. She was a wonderful sportswoman until she had the children. She had the build for it. Strong arms, strong legs; oh, a wonderfully—er—healthy girl, Sergeant.’ He brought forth the adjective with such breathy sincerity that it might have come straight from the Kama Sutra.

  ‘Yes. We saw some of her trophies when we interviewed her. Perhaps we could talk a little about her brother—’

  ‘A wonderful figure of a woman. Junoesque, I believe they would have said when I was a young man.’ He cast his eyes to the ceiling again in seraphic reminiscence; his expression suggested that what might have been lascivious recall in ordinary men was a remembrance imbued with Christian charitas in him.

  Hook knew that Allcock’s rather abrupt retirement from the ranks of the active clergy was rumoured to have had a priapic element. Fortunately, the girl had been well able to look after herself and there had been no charges: there was something to be said after all for the experience and robust approach of today’s youth. The Sergeant worried with some desperation how he was to move Allcock on to David Craven without antagonising him and making him uncooperative.

  Help came from an unexpected quarter. Allcock’s down-trodden sister arrived with the coffee he had offered his visitor with a lordly air when he arrived. ‘Put it down over here, Celia,’ he said, with an expansive sweep of the clerical arm towards the low table beside him. It was difficult to see another surface in the room which might have accommodated the tray, but the hunched figure did not seem resentful. She muttered a phrase about biscuits and disappeared to bring them; they could hear her opening tins in the invisible kitchen.

  Her advent had the effect of moving Allcock on quite abruptly from Angela Harrison to her brother. He said hastily, as if trying to give the impression that this had been his theme when they were interrupted, ‘We didn’t see much of David Craven after he got married. I suppose he was busy with other things.’ He sighed, as though treating with determined charity one who had sold out to Mammon. ‘But he came to see me about his father’s funeral. With Angela, of course.’ He seemed about to be side-tracked into lubricious nostalgia once again, but the re-entrance of his sister with the biscuits recalled him to the duller paths of duty. ‘They asked me to officiate at the interment, and I was happy to do so. David made a generous donation to the church just afterwards.’

  When he came into his eagerly awaited inheritance, thought Hook grimly. But Allcock intoned, ‘There is more joy in heaven over one sinner returned to the fold… But no doubt you can complete the quotation for yourself, Se
rgeant?’

  ‘Indeed I can,’ said Hook, who had had a succession of such tags thrown at him throughout his childhood years in the care of well-meaning housemothers. They had seemed then as they did now more appropriate for the needles of Victorian samplers than for a small boy full of largely innocent energy. ‘There was no talk at the time of a cremation?’

  ‘Oh no.’ Allcock shuddered as though the suggestion was quite indecorous. ‘Edward’s children assured me that that is what he wanted.’

  Hook noticed the small slip in the name with more resentment than he would have expected: he felt on the part of the dead man that it indicated that this old fraud was claiming a greater degree of friendship than had been the case. He said roughly, ‘If he disliked everything Roman Catholic so much, I thought he might have considered a cremation.’

  ‘Oh, you mustn’t assume anything like that, Sergeant.’ Allcock’s patronising smile indicated a serious flaw in detection here. ‘Many of my brethren—I always thought of them like that—chose what we must still regard as the traditional method for the disposal of one’s mortal remains. There are people who still believe literally in the resurrection of the dead when the eventual day of judgement comes. I was happy to find Angela and David quite insistent that that is what their father would have wanted. And David, as I say, was quite generous after the funeral.’

  I’ll bet he was, thought Hook. Sheer relief that the old man was in the ground, no doubt. He wondered what the long-legged Angela Harrison, so preoccupied nowadays with her children, would think if she knew she featured in the hot imaginings of this dubious representative of the cloth; probably she would be balanced enough to laugh it off, he thought. He said, ‘No doubt you have heard by now that Edmund Craven was murdered. What you probably don’t know is that my senior colleague, Superintendent Lambert, was struck down last night and is at present fighting for his life in Oldford Hospital.’