by J M Gregson
Davies diverted them to his secretary in the outer office, and they got some brisk and efficient action immediately. In under two minutes, she had tried Taggart’s personal tutorial room, the Senior Common Room, and his home, and located him at the last.
Lambert offered to drive out to see him, but Taggart said he would meet them in forty minutes in his tutorial room, leaving them wondering why he did not wish them to come to his home. Policemen are professionally curious, sometimes professionally cynical. There were a number of possible reasons why he should wish to meet them here, most of them perfectly innocent.
Lambert refused the secretary’s offer of tea, much to Hook’s unspoken disgust. The two of them wandered blinking into the bright sun outside. The few students who were lying individually or in pairs with books looked up at them curiously from the grass. Perhaps they thought they were parents, come with the family car to take away the bulky necessities of student existence, like television sets, hi-fis, computers, even the occasional couple of books. More likely the worldly wise youth of the new century recognised them as plain-clothes coppers, thought Hook: they didn’t look friendly.
Then he realized that this wasn’t a desultory stroll to pass the time. They were at the hall of residence where they had met James Lawson, the defaulting student who had been one of the last people to see Upson alive. They passed through the deserted entrance hall and up three flights of stairs at an accelerating pace. Bert tried to disguise his panting, in the face of Lambert’s scarcely affected breathing. He didn’t know that his chief had felt a familiar stab of pain in his chest outside, that he was attempting to shrug it away from mind as well as body with this physical exertion.
They found Lawson’s room without difficulty: he had told them he lived on the top floor, and the names were on the doors in neat brass slots. Lambert rapped sharply and they heard a muffled noise from within, the sound of something falling. Lambert threw open the door and walked in.
James Lawson lay face downwards on the bed. His head had turned towards the door at the sound of the knock, the book which had been lying face down beside him had slid on to the floor with that movement. He looked amazed by this sudden presence in his room, like a man aroused from a deep sleep in the middle of the night. But this was four o’clock on a bright June afternoon.
‘I said we might need to speak to you again, Jamie,’ said Lambert breezily, ‘and here we are.’
The young man peered at them blearily, too confused even to register hostility. He swung his legs cautiously to the floor, held his forehead between his hands for a long moment. ‘I told you all I could tell you when I saw you last time,’ he said dully, without moving his hands.
‘I don’t think so, Jamie. Things have moved on since then.’ Lambert motioned to Hook, who walked over to the window and opened it to its widest, letting some air into the stifling room.
Lawson shivered, crossed his forearms across his chest, stared resentfully not at Hook but at the window and the curtain moving softly in the breeze. ‘I was having a kip,’ he said unnecessarily.
‘As a rest from your intensive labour in getting your dissertation completed, I suppose,’ said Lambert, glancing at the blank pad of paper on the table to his left. He pulled out the upright chair from beneath the table and sat down heavily, leaving the room’s single armchair to Hook and his notebook. Lawson stared dully at that object as Bert turned ostentatiously to a new page.
As he tried to collect his senses, the boy became more defensive. ‘Had a bit too much to drink at lunchtime,’ he said with an attempted smile. ‘One of my friends was off for the vac and we had a couple of pints. Then I must have dropped off.’
Lambert studied the white face while the words dried up. The boy took a gulp of air, tried to frame another thought. But before he could speak, Lambert said harshly, ‘You weren’t drunk, Jamie Lawson. You were drugged. I could do you for possession right now, if I wanted to. Maybe more.’
Lawson was in no shape to conceal anything. His eyes darted automatically to the chest of drawers behind Hook, and they knew in that moment that they had him. His gaze flicked from one to the other of the two big men who had arrived so abruptly into his room. ‘It was only a bit of pot,’ he said defensively. ‘We all do it. All students do it. You must know that.’
‘Not all, Jamie. Not even a majority. And you do more than pot, don’t you?’
Again the swift, desperate shifts of his eyes, like a cornered animal seeking escape from a predator, told them more than words. He said desperately, ‘You said yesterday you were interested in Matt Upson. Why aren’t you chasing a murderer, instead of persecuting a small-time user like me?’
‘Oh, but we are, Jamie. The trouble is, you see, that we’re beginning to find out things about the late Mr Upson. Things which may involve you.’
‘I don’t know what you mean. I can’t help you. I’m admitting to using a bit of pot, but nothing more.’ His face set like a child’s in denial.
Lambert did not take his eyes from the young face as he said, ‘Have a look in those drawers, will you please, DS Hook.’ He saw the fear start into the widening eyes, followed by a hopeless apprehension as Hook drew open the bottom drawer.
Removing the thin disguise of underpants and socks, Bert withdrew polythene bags, with smaller bags inside them, placing them on the table beside the blank writing pad with slow, relentless care. Jamie Lawson watched his movements as though hypnotised, then looked back at Lambert, willing him to break the tension in the room, which was still warm but which felt to him so cold.
It seemed a long time before the Superintendent reached to the nearest packet, drew aside the top, sniffed it to confirm what he already knew. ‘Cocaine, Jamie. Enough for a serious pusher, not a user. Enough to put you behind bars, for years. You’re in real trouble now, aren’t you?’
This time there was no denial. Lawson had ceased even to look at his tormentors. His eyes were on the floor. Presently there came a sound which tugged at the heart of Bert Hook, whose own boys were at the opposite end of adolescence from this broken boy-man. It was the low whine of weeping.
Whatever flimsy resistance there had been was broken now. Lambert said gently, ‘You were supplying this to students on the campus, weren’t you?’
A nod, an attempt to speak which never reached the mouth, a hopeless sagging of the shoulders. ‘And who was supplying you, Jamie?’
A vigorous shaking of the bent head, as if he could jerk away this nightmare. Lambert’s calm voice, as relentless as the flow of a stream, pressed on. ‘It was Mr Upson who fed you what you needed, wasn’t it? You were his pusher here, weren’t you?’
Silence for a moment, then a despondent nod, still without the head being raised. ‘One of them.’
‘And where did he get the coke from?’
‘I don’t know. Honestly, I —’
‘And why was he killed?’
‘I don’t know. I was as shocked as anyone when he disappeared. I didn’t think he was — well, I…’ His words petered out and he lapsed again into tears.
Lambert glanced at his watch. They were already late for their meeting with Charlie Taggart. He looked back at the abject, incoherent figure in front of him. ‘Have you any more of this stuff around?’
The weeping figure shook its head; the hands remained clasped over the face.
Lambert said, ‘We shall take this away and weigh it, Jamie. We shall be back in the morning. There will be charges, very serious charges. What happens to you is out of my hands, but it will be affected by how much help you are able and willing to give to the people who question you. I advise you to consider your position very carefully indeed.’
They saw the top of the head nodding its assent. Lambert was reluctant to leave him like this, but the combination of drugs and emotion meant that that he would produce nothing more than wild and whirling words about the shadowy drug world behind these bags of innocent-looking white powder. Meantime, the murder of Matthew Upson, which might or
might not be related to this scene, awaited investigation.
Jamie Lawson looked up as they were at the door. He held out a thin, supplicating hand for a moment, then dropped it. Lambert said impatiently, ‘What is it, Jamie?’
‘It’s just that I — I — oh, nothing!’ He threw his face into his hands in disgust.
Lambert looked at him impatiently for a moment, then at Bert Hook, who had found a Sainsbury’s bag to give anonymity to his odd burden. ‘We have to go. We’ll see you tomorrow morning, Jamie. Early.’
They could hear the soft keening from behind his door even when they reached the end of the corridor.
Nine
Charlie Taggart’s tutorial room was a comfortable place.
One wall was lined from floor to ceiling with well-tilled bookcases. Foliage plants and a number of small glass ornaments in brilliant blues and greens gave individuality to a room which might have seemed anonymous. There was a large desk and a filing cabinet, but a window which extended almost from floor to ceiling let in plenty of light to glint on the glass. It also afforded a pleasant view over the fields at the edge of the site. Sixty yards away, a Hereford cow chewed meditatively and stared over the fence at this latest manifestation of man.
Much to Bert Hook’s delight, there was a pot of tea and a plate of biscuits waiting for them. ‘It wasn’t difficult to arrange,’ said Taggart when they thanked him, ‘there aren’t too many people around today to call upon the refectory’s services.’ If this was a reference to being called back into work at four o’clock on a Friday, he gave no signs of being annoyed.
He seemed, indeed, more alert and friendly than when they had seen him three days earlier, when he had on his own admission been suffering from a hangover. His still pale face was considerably more animated, his startlingly black and undisciplined eyebrows moved unpredictably as he handed them their tea and biscuits. ‘I gather from the phone call that things have moved on in the Matt Upson investigation,’ he said.
Since it was obviously possible that a friend of Upson’s might well have been involved in the dead man’s illegal activities on the campus, Lambert had been watching for signs of anxiety since they had entered this comfortable room. So far there had been none. He tried to surprise Charlie Taggart. ‘We’ve just been talking to Jamie Lawson.’
The lecturer was pouring the last cup of tea for himself. The stream of amber fluid did not waver. He said, ‘And did you get much sense out of Matt’s recalcitrant student? I hardly know the lad myself.’
A careful disclaimer. Yet although he had never taught the boy, he had known immediately whom they meant. Lambert asked him why.
Taggart wasn’t ruffled. ‘I’m afraid the Lawson man has been a notorious backslider throughout this year. You get to know the names of students like that, even if you don’t have to deal with them yourself. Their names tend to come up at Faculty meetings. You get a kind of advanced notice that you might have to consider their academic futures at the end of the year.’ He smiled. ‘I found a missive intended for Jamie Lawson put in my pigeonhole by mistake earlier in the year — an official warning that my course might be terminated if I didn’t pull up my socks, as a matter of fact. I had to check the envelope before I realised it wasn’t meant for me. That kind of thing tends to pin up the name on your mental noticeboard.’
Irrationally, Lambert found himself irritated by this man’s urbanity. Taggart knew this academic world far better than he did, and was making the most of it. ‘And did any errant missives arrive from the people who were using Jamie Lawson to peddle cocaine around the campus?’
This time he had surprised him. The black eyebrows flew high and the deep-set eyes looked up quickly as the steaming tea was forgotten. ‘Pushing drugs, was he? The young fool! Well, it’s no surprise to find students using drugs these days, I’m afraid, but I’m appalled that anyone should be pushing the hard ones among his companions. Students know the risk of hard drugs, better than most.’
‘And it comes as a surprise to you that Lawson should be involved in this way?’
‘A complete surprise, Superintendent. I told you, I hardly know the lad.’
Lambert wondered how much that ‘hardly’ covered. ‘Would you be equally surprised to hear that Matthew Upson was involved in the distribution of drugs on this site?’
Taggart paused for thought, looking from one to another of the expectant faces. Then he sighed. ‘No, I wouldn’t, Mr Lambert, to be perfectly honest with you. I would never have called myself a close friend of Matt’s. But in the last eighteen months or so, we’ve become less close.’
‘Did you have some kind of disagreement?’
He smiled and shook his head, his plentiful dark hair moving vigorously. ‘No. Nothing like that. I just saw less of him, that’s all. We’d occasionally had a drink together, swapped information about was going on, enjoyed a bit of mutual whingeing over the blindnesses of our masters. You know the kind of thing. Well, Matt seemed to become preoccupied with other things. Clare Booth, for one. We just didn’t seem to find the time to get together, lately. I regret that now: I suppose you always do, when someone dies suddenly.’
Lambert wondered if he was deliberately distancing himself from a man he had just been told had been involved in illegal activities. But they had found nothing as yet to connect this man with the drugs operation; Jamie Lawson certainly hadn’t mentioned him, but they might find more out from the student on the morrow, when his brain might be fully alive to his dire situation. ‘Were you aware of a serious problem among the student population?’
Taggart shrugged his shoulders beneath his dark green short-sleeved shirt. ‘What is “serious” nowadays? I knew there was a certain amount of drug-taking, of course. Some of the students talk about highs now as we used to talk about drinking sprees in my student days. And I understand it’s now cheaper to get high on cannabis than on alcohol, which seems dangerous, to me. But where I’ve come across it, I’ve assumed there was nothing more serious than pot involved.’
‘And that really is as much as you know about it?’
The dark, deep-set eyes stared him evenly in the face. ‘It is. I come in here each day, do my job to the best of my ability, and go home. If you want to know what goes on round here at nights, you should talk to the resident wardens of the student halls of residence.’
It was a fair enough point, but it sounded, as he delivered it, like a prepared statement. Lambert said, ‘We shall be doing that. And I’ve no doubt young Mr Lawson will be able to give us lots of information as well, in the morning, when he realises the seriousness of his situation.’
For the first time, he got a reaction, fleeting but definite. Some emotion — whether excitement, or fear, or merely interest, it was impossible to say — flitted briefly across the heavy features of the pale face. Then Taggart said with an effort, ‘I shall be interested to find out what has been going on, and no doubt I shall, in due course. Particularly as you say Matt Upson was involved.’ He paused, then said thoughtfully, ‘Jamie Lawson was one of the last people to see Matt alive, wasn’t he?’
‘Yes. On that last Friday afternoon. Just after you, apparently.’
If he saw anything insulting in the reminder, he chose not to react to it. ‘Just after Matt refused to go for a drink with me, yes. I think I told you that when we last met. You haven’t found anyone who saw Matt after that?’
‘No one has admitted seeing him, no. It may be of course that whoever he was meeting killed him. We’re now pretty certain he was dead by the end of that Friday.’
‘It could have been these drugs people, couldn’t it?’
‘That’s a very vague phrase, isn’t it? But understandably so. The people who make the big money out of what is a dreadful but highly lucrative trade keep themselves very anonymous. And you’re right: it’s a highly dangerous trade to become involved in. People who are in a position to help the Drugs Squad often die mysteriously. That’s why it’s essential that you tell us anything you can think of
that connects Matt Upson with the supply of illegal drugs.’
Charlie Taggart gave the matter serious thought. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t help you. What you say makes sense, as soon as I hear it. Matt did seem to be busy with other things. He didn’t seem to be as concerned about his job and its problems as he’d been when I first knew him. I thought he was preoccupied with things in his private life. But he did seem suddenly much more affluent.’
‘Did you see him at any time with people from outside the university? People who might have been involved in the supply of drugs?’
‘No. I’d like to be able to help you, but I can’t. I told you, I saw less of him in the last year or two, and what I did see was on the campus, mostly with students and other members of staff.’
‘If anything occurs to you in the days to come, please contact Oldford CID immediately. It may be that now that your mind has been set running on this, things or people may seem significant which passed you by until now. But please keep this information to yourself: we don’t want people put on their guard. Remember that drug dealers are not only involved in an evil trade but may include the person who ended the life of your friend Matt Upson.’
Taggart nodded, agreed to think hard, listened to their warnings about playing amateur detective. When they had gone, he sat for ten minutes in his chair without a movement. Then he made a single phone call. ‘They think Matt died on that Friday night. And they know he was involved with the supply of drugs.’
His voice was carefully neutral. It would have been impossible to decide from his tone whether he thought this was a good or a bad development.
*
Friday night, and nearly eight o’clock. The sun was sinking on a balmy summer evening, gilding the ridge of the Malverns in the distance. All breezes had dropped away, even on the highest part of the golf course at Ross-on-Wye. A wonderful, calm English evening, as peaceful and as soothing to the spirit as anything in the world.