Dead on Course

by J M Gregson

  ‘Did you find any overt connection with this case?’

  ‘No. The company was prosecuted and went out of business. Or changed its name and found another place to operate.’

  Lambert frowned, pondering the unanswerable question: had this titillating bit of information anything to do with a murder committed twelve years later? Or should it be consigned with the other ninety-five per cent of CID research to the tray marked irrelevant? Any detective who could spot that right five per cent quickly was assured of long-term success. ‘Any suggestion from your work on the dead man that he knew about Meg Peters’s work in blue films?’

  ‘No, sir. But we’d be lucky if that showed up anywhere on paper. And we haven’t had the chance to question anyone about it; the information only came through this morning.’

  ‘I’ll see Miss Peters myself. Harrington knew about her drugs conviction. It will be interesting to know whether he knew about this. And whether anyone else in the group who came here this week knew.’

  Lambert adjourned the conference once he ascertained none of the group had any more ideas to float. It had run longer than he planned, and left him with much to do. He didn’t mind that: it was to point the way forward that such meetings were held. The Munros had to be challenged about several issues, particularly Sandy’s moving of the body. The small but possibly significant connection of Goodman’s daughter with the dead man had to be checked out.

  Nash’s determination to be here this week, when he was not in the original party, needed to be investigated, alongside his perturbed state on the morning after the murder. So did Meg Peters’s participation in an unsavoury industry, and whether any or all of the golfing party knew of it. He needed to be clear about Marie Harrington’s possible involvement in the murder, and her views on several of the other issues now raised. He paused for thought there: he had the feeling that the cool and unconventional widow of the victim might be the catalyst in the final stages of this investigation.

  He was being drawn towards a late lunch by a resolute Bert Hook when the phone rang. ‘Chief Constable for you, Superintendent,’ said the DC who took the call on the murder room line, suitably awed by the voice of divinity.

  The CC was as urbane as ever, and as difficult to turn aside from the course he had determined for his staff. ‘I’ve arranged a press conference for four o’clock in Gloucester,’ he said. ‘I need you there, John. I’ve held them of as long as I could. We need the PR. They’re making my life hell about those child abductions. We need a—a diversion. Yes, I admit it.’

  ‘But, sir, this case is just—’

  ‘No buts, John. Your cases are always at a crucial stage when there is any interruption. We have to carry the public with us and this is part of it. Bring young Rushton with you. He’s always good at telling them about the labours of Hercules that go on behind the scenes. Not many of them print it, I know, but it impresses them with the work being done and keeps them off our backs.’

  ‘I can’t keep my leading suspects here much longer, sir. Perhaps one more night is as much—’

  ‘Sorry, John, we must have you. Surrey isn’t a million miles away, if they do have to leave the scene of the crime.’ He sounded curiously like Marie Harrington, the intelligent, sardonic woman he had been planning to see that afternoon.

  Then the CC went on inexorably, ‘I think the TV cameras for Central South will probably be there.’ In the face of such a media presence, Lambert knew further argument was useless.

  18

  A mile away from the Wye Castle, Marie Harrington was becoming tired of her hotel room.

  It was neat, clean, characterless and claustrophobic. In the confined space, the matching Laura Ashley bedspread and curtains seemed increasingly twee. The en suite bathroom was a useful contribution to privacy, but the conversion had made the bedroom even smaller. The steady drip of the tap into the tiny washbasin, which for two days she had scarcely noticed, seemed unnaturally loud in the quiet of the warm afternoon.

  She fancied she was the only one in this area of the hotel. The overnight businessmen had long departed, the tourists were making the most of the unbroken sun, the hotel staff had cleaned the rooms and changed the sheets during the morning. She listened, until the silence seemed a tangible thing, surrounding her, awaiting with interest her next move.

  Quiet as the grave, they said. It was an unfortunate simile for a widow who had not yet buried her husband. Even for a widow who welcomed this death as unequivocally as she did. She had not wavered in that at least. Not even a fleeting nostalgia for old and better times had diluted her relief in the days after Guy’s death. There had not been many good moments, even in the first years of their marriage, and any regret for their passing had been exhausted long before her husband’s death.

  Increasingly, though, she wondered about her determination to stay here until after the inquest, to see the remains of her husband burned before she resumed and developed the life his death had interrupted. There was something superstitious in her resolve to suspend that new life until the formalities of the one with her husband were officially concluded. She was aware of that, but once she had determined upon a course of action she was not easily diverted from it.

  Certainly not by a little boredom, she told herself firmly. She addressed herself again to her book, though she had not turned a page for twenty minutes. Nor did she now. Against her wishes, her thoughts turned again to her husband’s killer. She had certainly not come here to unmask a murderer, she told herself. For a while she had thought she did not even want to know; then a natural honesty had made her acknowledge that something, perhaps little more than curiosity, had impelled her towards the knowledge she now held.

  For she was sure she had determined the identity of her husband’s murderer. Her conversation with George Goodman had confirmed her suspicion, though she was not sure whether he was aware of that. He had seemed too preoccupied with his own problems to be conscious of what he revealed about himself and others to a woman listening closely and making her own deductions. But she half-wished she had not asked him to meet her in the Cathedral; the knowledge she now had seemed more and more a burden.

  She would not reveal her secret; and not only because the killer had rendered her a welcome service. There had been good reason for this death: in the murderer’s shoes, she might well have taken the same opportunity. Now she was relieved of the temptation and grateful to her deliverer. As far as she was concerned, the death could remain the work of a person or persons unknown.

  It was the third time that afternoon she had told herself that. She returned to thoughts of the life which her awaited her back in Surrey. She was not sure how seriously involved she was with the man who was her lover. Or how much more seriously she might wish to become involved, in these new circumstances: death altered everything. It was a dilemma she found not unpleasant, though like other things in her new life she was trying to postpone consideration of it until Guy was finally and officially dispatched.

  Perhaps in that quiet room she was more on edge than she knew, or admitted to herself. For when the knock came at the door, she started so much that her book leapt from her lap to the carpet. She checked her hair automatically in the mirror of the small dressing-table as she went to the door. The strain in the face she chose not to see.

  She did not recognise the figure which almost filled the doorway. A stolid figure, with blue, observant eyes. Powerful shoulders, large, flat hands, waist thickening a little with early middle age. Observant, wary, courteously careful in his attempts not to threaten a woman on her own. He said awkwardly, ‘My name is Hook. Sergeant Hook, of the CID. We met briefly at the Wye Castle, when you spoke to Superintendent Lambert on the day of your husband’s death.’ His careful delivery had the soft, warm vowels of Gloucestershire.

  She said, ‘I remember you now. I didn’t at first. Please come in.’

  He came awkwardly into the room, his eyes studiously avoiding the bed which dominated its small floor area, as i
f by acknowledging it he would be hinting at intimacies beyond his brief. She indicated the room’s single armchair and perched herself adroitly on the stool by the dressing-table. It was a small armchair, and he parked himself uneasily on the edge of it. She thought he looked like a newly appointed school prefect coming for the first time into the headmaster’s study.

  ‘I really only want to arrange for Superintendent Lambert to see you. Only the phone was out of order, see. I tried three or four times. They said you were out.’

  ‘I’m afraid I told the hotel switchboard to say that, Sergeant. So that I wouldn’t be disturbed.’ She almost added the ‘see’ that he had attached to his explanations; the habit was catching, and she had an idea that he was deliberately playing up the countryman in himself. Perhaps he wanted her to think him less acute than he was. ‘I wasn’t anticipating anything as grand as a CID visit, I must confess.’

  ‘It’s Mr Lambert who needs to see you, really. I wouldn’t have come at all if I could have arranged it on the phone.’

  ‘No. I’m sorry about that. Well, when would the great man like to see me?’

  ‘Tomorrow morning. First thing, if possible.’ Visions of flimsy nightwear flashed before Bert’s suggestible eyes, and he said hastily, ‘That’s to say, just after breakfast. About half past nine?’

  ‘Nine-thirty would be fine, Sergeant. May I ask what is the line of these mysterious inquiries?’

  The grey, humorous eyes teased Hook, as if they appreciated immediately his dilemma. If he could find out anything useful today, the chief would be only too pleased; Lambert was the least sensitive of men when it came to the protocol of an investigation. But since he had expected merely to make a telephone appointment for the morrow, he had not thought out his approach for an interview. He said, ‘I think he wanted to know a little more about your husband’s factory and those he employed. But I’m sure—’

  ‘Any particular employees, Sergeant? I am only too anxious to help the police the course of their inquiries, you see.’ With her use of the cliché, she was gently mocking him, and both of them knew it.

  Bert decided she was having things rather too much her own way. His air of cosy rusticity dropped away as he said, ‘Mr Nash, for a start. I believe he didn’t like your husband, and didn’t choose to disguise the fact over the last few months.’

  ‘I’ve heard reports to that effect, yes. Not many people liked Guy. I don’t know why Tony Nash should have grown so open about it recently.’

  He waited, feeling she knew at least a little more, but she did not enlarge on the matter. Lambert would press her harder the next day, he felt sure. He said, ‘Mr Munro worked for your husband, as well. Was he happy doing so?’

  ‘No.’ She smiled at him openly. ‘Sandy Munro is a poppet, Sergeant. Perhaps that’s not the expression you would use, but accept my word for it.’ She was smiling at him now, teasing him openly. ‘But he isn’t the most forthcoming of men, as perhaps you’ve found by now. He’s got a nice wife: perhaps you could get something out of her. But I mustn’t try to teach you your job.’ Her smile was wide and empty; Bert remembered similar expressions on stonewallers who had frustrated him for hours at cricket.

  ‘What about Mr Goodman?’

  For a moment she looked blank; perhaps she had expected to be pursued harder on the Munros. ‘He didn’t work for Guy. He’s an architect with his own practice. I think he did occasional work when it was commissioned, but they didn’t fall out about it. As far as I know.’

  ‘What about Mr Goodman’s daughter. Didn’t she work for Guy?’

  ‘Did she? It could only have been for a short time. Of course, Guy’s was quite a big works, employing about three hundred people in all.’

  ‘You didn’t know about her working there?’

  ‘I’m afraid I didn’t, Sergeant. Is it important?’ Her smile was blander than ever.

  ‘Probably not. In which case, can you tell us anything about Miss Peters which might be of relevance?’ Bert was quite pleased with the result of his abrupt transfer to a different subject. Marie Harrington’s smile disappeared abruptly and she looked at him sharply; it was the effect he looked for from the ball he reserved for stonewallers, dug in a little short and delivered with extra pace. For a moment, the woman opposite him looked agreeably like a batsman who has seen a ball whistle past his nose.

  Then she said, ‘She was one of Guy’s women. I expect you have discovered that. I’m not sure I can tell you a lot more.’

  ‘She is going to marry Mr Nash.’

  ‘So I understand. I hope they will be very happy.’ She was annoyed with herself: the little ironic barb was her first unguarded moment. ‘I don’t think I can tell you any more about the handsome Meg Peters, Sergeant. As to whether Tony Nash resents her past, you are no doubt closer to that situation than I am.’

  Hook said, ‘Did you resent Meg Peters yourself, Mrs Harrington?’ He had met a succession of smartly dressed, slightly patronising women among the governors of the Barnardo’s homes where he had been brought up. Thinking of Marie Harrington as one of these might be unfair, but it enabled him to be brusque: he had a few scores to settle with the breed.

  If his aim was to rattle her, he was successful, briefly. She said, ‘That is hardly your business.’

  ‘Not unless it is relevant to a murder inquiry, Mrs Harrington.’

  ‘That, I assure you, it is not. I had learned to pity rather than envy Guy’s women a long time before Meg Peters.’

  Hook paused, meeting her gaze. Both of them could hear that irritating tap dripping a few yards away. He said quietly, ‘You will appreciate on reflection that we cannot accept anyone’s assurances at the moment… Can you tell me about your own movements on the night of your husband’s death, please, Mrs Harrington?’

  He had taken her by surprise this time, quite certainly. The fast Yorker following the short-pitched ball, catching the opposition on the back foot. She said, ‘If you like. I went out to dinner with friends in Camberley. No doubt they can confirm that, if you need to be convinced.’ Her asperity signalled a small victory for him in their exchanges. ‘And the group broke up at what time?’

  ‘Quite early. I suppose about ten-thirty.’

  ‘And did you then return to your home?’

  ‘Sergeant Hook, what is the point of this?’

  ‘In cases of homicide, it is routine police practice to check the whereabouts of those closest to the deceased. The more people we can eliminate from the inquiry, the greater the resources we can bring to bear on the people who might have committed the crime.’

  It was efficiently deadpan, as it should have been. He had explained the position often enough before, to less intelligent and cooperative women than Marie Harrington. She looked at him curiously, weighing the comfortable village-bobby exterior, deciding it was a convenient disguise. Then she said, ‘I spent the evening with seven friends, then went home to a cold and celibate bed. I could not possibly have killed Guy. Have you any justification for this line of questioning?’

  Hook was wondering how he had got in so deep; he had intended when he came merely to follow Lambert’s instructions and arrange a meeting for the morrow. He decided there was no point in suspending operations at this point. ‘We have a witness who thinks you did not return to your house until around two-thirty a.m.’

  The woman in front of him did not gasp or protest. The large grey eyes widened, and for several seconds she said nothing. Perhaps she was doing the same arithmetic the police had conducted about journey times between Camberley and the Wye Castle; perhaps she was speculating about the identity of their informant. Hook had carefully avoided revealing the sex of the neighbour, but something told him Marie Harrington would be able to make an accurate guess in the matter.

  Eventually she said, And you think that in that time I might have driven to Herefordshire and killed my husband? It’s possible, I suppose, in theory.’ She mused for a moment, then took a decision. ‘I was with a man. A man I may wish
to marry when all this is over. I don’t wish to give you his name: for reasons I won’t go into now, it would embarrass both of us. But if I have to, I will.’

  Hook thought he had gone far enough for the moment. ‘That will be up to Superintendent Lambert. We may need to check out the story, to eliminate you from our inquiries. If it has no bearing on the case, there is no reason why the information should not remain confidential.’ It was another of his prepared formulae. He stood up stiffly and launched into another, valedictory one. ‘Well, I won’t take up any more of your time for the present, Mrs Harrington. I shall probably return with Superintendent Lambert to see you in the morning. Unless you would prefer to come to see us? We have set up a Murder Room at the Wye Castle.’

  ‘Here will be fine, thank you, Sergeant. I’m not sure that it is an appropriate sentiment in the circumstances, but you may tell Mr Lambert that I look forward to the renewal of our acquaintance.’ She had recovered her poise at the last, just as Hook departed with a resumption of his awkwardness, manoeuvring his large frame through the scanty spaces between bed, stool and chair as if he were in a doll’s house.

  When he had gone, the woman he had questioned sat for a while in the chair he had lately occupied, her book unopened on her knee. Surely they couldn’t really think she had killed Guy? That would be ironic indeed, when she could tell them if she chose where to look for their killer.

  Had she given this Sergeant who was so much shrewder than he chose to appear any clue to the identity of that killer? She didn’t think so. She was glad he had mentioned all the people in the group at the Wye Castle, so that she had been blankly unable to help on each one, with a sort of negative neutrality. Had she had Bert Hook’s background, she would no doubt have congratulated herself on playing a consistently straight bat.