by J M Gregson
‘I thought you’d originally planned to come home tonight,’ said Trevor. He bit fiercely into a scone, as though to divert himself.
David thought that sounded like an accusation, a tedious wife’s complaint about the fracturing of the domestic idyll. He must be under more strain from the week’s events than he had thought. ‘The police want us to stay on. They’re still investigating these crimes. They don’t tell you much, but I get the impression they haven’t made much progress so far.’ He tried not to sound over-pleased about that. Trevor was bound to pick him up if he got the notion that David was glad that the police were baffled. Tact wasn’t Trevor Fisher’s strong point. Deeney tried to feel affectionate rather than displeased by that.
‘Will you be home tomorrow night?’ Trevor asked ingenuously.
‘I don’t know yet, do I? The police will tell us when we can leave the scene of the crime.’
In fact, they would probably have allowed him to go home, even tonight, as he lived only in Oxford and could be readily available to them there. But he didn’t wish to leave the group. There was an obscure feeling of safety in numbers and he needed to know what was going on as far as others’ dealings with the police were concerned. He said gruffly, ‘I’ll let you know what’s going on. I’ll give you a ring tomorrow, if there’s anything to report.’
Trevor buttered and jammed the top half of a scone meticulously, then slid it on to his companion’s plate. He looked past David towards the river and the distant bridge downstream. ‘Who do you think killed these people?’
He was like a child picking at a sore, David thought irritably; he couldn’t bear to leave alone a matter which his companion had made plain he did not want to discuss. He knew that was unfair: it was only natural that his partner would want to talk about the sensational events of the last few days, especially when his normal life was so humdrum. He was being oversensitive. But Trevor should have expected that, after he’d so stupidly told the police about how his partner had disposed of his ‘almost new’ trainers in odd circumstances. Surely he should see that the proper course now was to keep off the subject of murder and discuss something safer and more anodyne. David said evenly, ‘I’ve no idea who killed Sam and Ernie. That’s police business and they’re getting on with it at this moment, I expect.’
‘That’s rather a thrilling thought, isn’t it? I’d have thought you’d be intrigued to know who’d killed the two of them – especially if it’s someone you’ve worked with every day over the last few weeks.’
That was a fair point, of course. They had all been looking at each other speculatively across the dinner table on the last few nights, apart from Peg Reynolds and James Turner, who seemed to find their own problems even more pressing. David Deeney took a deep breath and addressed himself to the problems of his own relationship. ‘You’re right. I’m sure each of us is making all sorts of wild hypotheses. It’s a relief when we have to think intensely about our acting. You have to concentrate to do that and you have to be aware of others and work with them. It’s been a positive relief to have location scenes to concentrate on this week.’
‘Yes. I think I can see that, even though I’ve never acted myself.’ Trevor Fisher looked past his lover again, to where the smooth surface of the river was broken by a slowly cruising swan. ‘If you’d killed these people, you know, I’d understand. Sam Jackson was horrible to you. If he’d said something unforgivable and you just couldn’t bear it, so that you lost your temper completely. I’d stick by you.’
The swan was drifting downriver now, close to his mate and seemingly oblivious of all else.
SEVENTEEN
John Lambert went out into his garden to inspect the spring blossom on his flowering cherries and the promising buds which were massing on his rose trees. It was his normal way of switching off at the end of a week, of announcing to himself as much as to others that Chief Superintendent Lambert was to be set aside in favour of John Lambert, husband, father and grandfather.
Christine watched him through the window as he appeared and disappeared amongst the shrubs and trees. He was looking older; there could now be no doubt about that. The tall man’s slight stoop was a little more pronounced; the determined adoption of an upright position took a little longer than it had done a few years ago because of the stiffness which was invading the tall frame. It was to be expected, but that didn’t make it any more agreeable to her.
There was no use repeating the conversation they had undertaken several times over the last year about retirement; it was one of the issues on which they had agreed to disagree. He wouldn’t welcome it, it would lead nowhere, and both of them would be irritated and dissatisfied. Much better to let the suggestion of weariness and retirement come from John himself, but he was as usual stubbornly recalcitrant about such things.
Christine knew her man, which meant that she knew also that he wasn’t going to be able to switch off for the weekend on this Friday night. The headlines about what the press had elected to call the ‘Herefordshire Horrors Murders’ had grown larger and blacker as the week progressed. Radio and television had all sorts of shots of the familiar principals of the Inspector Loxton series to sustain interest, which had been renewed and increased with the second murder on Thursday. Even the man who had made a reputation as the ‘Super Sleuth’ was baffled by the week’s sensational happenings, the media trumpeted with satisfaction.
‘Any progress?’ she asked tentatively as John came back into the kitchen. He would expect her to ask, but too much media attention always made him tetchy.
He made himself stop and be polite, knowing that Christine meant well. As a young, thrusting CID man, he had shut her out of his working life, refusing to comment at all on cases, preferring indeed that she had no idea what he was doing. She had guided their two girls through their infancy with very little assistance from John, who had rarely been around when it mattered. Younger officers saw the Lamberts’ marriage as rock-like, but Christine alone knew how near it had come to foundering in those early years. ‘They’re a funny lot, these actors and directors,’ said John. It was the nearest he could get to an affectionate rejoinder.
‘Aren’t they affected by the thought that someone in their midst, someone they know and perhaps like, has killed two people?’
‘I suppose they are. But that’s what I mean when I say they’re a funny lot. When they’re acting, they seem to be able to switch off all other emotions and just concentrate upon the matter in hand. I’ve heard them actually congratulating themselves on what they’ve achieved this week. It’s almost as if two murders in their midst are a secondary consideration.’
‘They’re lucky, I suppose, being professionally engaged in something which demands absolute concentration, with no room for anything else.’
‘I suppose so. But it’s no help to people like Bert Hook and me. We need their full attention on two killings.’ He sat down at the table and sighed, shaking his head at the pans on the hob and the signs of busy, innocent domesticity. ‘I’ve felt all day that we’re very near a solution, that I’m missing something which is staring me in the face. But so far the penny hasn’t dropped.’
‘You’re tired, John. Have a decent meal and watch a bit of television. Switching off completely is often the prelude to something striking you which has escaped you until then.’
She was the rock of common sense which every senior copper needed. It had taken him far too long to realize that, he thought. ‘I smell curry, which I shall enjoy, as always! And you shall select the television programmes for the evening. I shall avoid all executive decisions.’
It was light-hearted and conciliatory, an acknowledgement he did not make often enough of how important she was to him. He did not realize at that moment how important a decision it would prove to be.
Peg Reynolds found a very different James Turner when she got back to the hotel. After his attitude over the last few days, she had been dreading confronting him, wondering indeed when and how she could end
the whole messy and painful affair.
‘A man called Datchet has been in touch from the Coventry Playhouse. He wanted to know if you’d be available to play St Joan.’ James sounded exultant, almost boastful to impart such exciting news.
‘At Coventry? That’s brilliant! I hope you didn’t sound too eager.’
She felt suddenly guilty that she had been contacted about this whilst James had nothing, but he was more enthusiastic than she had seen him in many weeks. ‘I knew you hadn’t an agent at the moment, so I took over. I told him you’d other possibilities on the table and that you would need a definite offer before you could even consider it.’
‘James! If you try to be cavalier with them, they’ll offer it to someone else. Everyone wants to play the Maid.’
‘It’s all right. He’s been back to me three times during the day. It’s now a definite offer and the money’s been doubled since the first figure was named. Half an hour ago, I secured you the right of veto over who is going to play Warwick, Cauchon and the Dauphin. In effect, you can almost cast the important parts yourself.’
‘James, you shouldn’t joke about things like this! It’s too important for jokes.’
‘No jokes, darling. This is absolutely serious. I really think I might be rather good at it. Bloody sight better than I am at acting, with any luck. But you’ve got a definite offer, at a salary which is four times anything you’ve earned before for stage work. They’re putting it in writing and you should have it by Monday at the latest.’
He was a transformed creature from the tortured individual she had left that morning. His eyes shone and he had a bright, excited smile. ‘I think I might have actually discovered something in this agent business. The lines all came quite naturally to me and I thoroughly enjoyed delivering them. Of course, I was conscious that I had something very desirable to sell, so I made the most of that.’
‘I can’t believe it!’
‘You’ll have the evidence in writing in the next day or two. Possibly tomorrow morning. I think we should celebrate, don’t you?’
He took her to bed and it was like the early days, the ones which had made her lose her head over him. He was tender and gentle at first, then more vigorous and forceful when she demanded it and her body arched urgently backwards beneath him. It was a long time since he had been so relaxed and so attentive to her needs.
They showered and dressed slowly, as if to prolong the atmosphere between them. It was James who said, ‘I think we should eat with the others tonight. It might be our last night together. That’s if they’ll have me – I know I haven’t behaved very well towards them.’
‘They’re rather protective of me, that’s all.’ She could have bitten her tongue off. It wasn’t a tactful thing to say, and tact had been very necessary with James Turner over the last month or two.
But he didn’t react badly. He nodded ruefully and said, ‘You need your friends and I’ve kept you away from them. I’ve got reparations to make. I know that.’ He reached up and held her softly against him, stroking the bruises on her back and at the top of her arms with an exquisite tenderness. People said the violent leopard never changed his spots, but she felt now that there was hope. She said softly, ‘Some of the people who left RADA at the same time as me still haven’t got agents. I could let you know which ones I think are really talented and will eventually make their way in the profession. They wouldn’t bring much to you at the moment, but I think three or four of them have great potential.’
‘Thank you. You never know: perhaps all they need is a really good, really energetic agent!’
She was proud to go down with him to dinner. He looked even more handsome than usual, Peg thought, now that he was relaxed.
Turner got a muted welcome from the other woman in the party. Sandra Rokeby had experienced all sorts of men in her time and the violent ones were the worst. He had a long way to go to earn real forgiveness, in her view. Meantime she would give him the benefit of the doubt and merely watch his conduct with Peg Reynolds carefully. At least he wasn’t a candidate for murderer; he’d been miles away when Sam Jackson had been strangled. Sandra was almost regretful about that. But then who was there around this increasingly noisy table whom one could entertain seriously as a killer?
Martin Buttivant? She wondered if you always thought of the leading man in a television series as the likeliest candidate. Was that sexist? Was it theatrical? Probably – the idea that an actor playing a leading part was somehow more likely to kill than someone in a small role must surely be stupid, mustn’t it? She glanced across at Martin who was in animated conversation with John Watts. She was admiring his Savile Row suit when she caught his keen blue eyes for a moment and reflected on how far he had come since they had both been desperate enough to leap between those off-white sheets and into that stupid porn movie all those years ago.
Martin had certainly moved on a long way since then. Playing Ben Loxton in this series had been the making of him as an actor and even more as a big earner. Martin would have lost more than anyone if Sam Jackson or Ernie Clark had blown the gaffe on him. But the idea of him as a ruthless killer still seemed ridiculous. Perhaps you could never entertain the idea of a lover as murderer, even though it was all those years ago since their relationship.
John Watts was perhaps the person at the table who looked most like a murderer. Sandra allowed herself a small, private smile at that ridiculous concept. What on earth was a murderer supposed to look like? Like Crippen? Like the Yorkshire Ripper? Like the notorious Fred West, who had operated in these parts for twenty years? John Watts had a thin face, very deep-set eyes, and a small beard which tended to wag frantically when he spoke. Why did that look like a murderer’s physiognomy to her? Didn’t that say more about her than about John Watts?
Still, even if you discounted his appearance entirely, John had some of the qualifications for the perpetrator of these crimes. He was very able – probably in the general sense of coping with life and its challenges he was the most capable person at the table. They’d lost both their producers this week, and producers were in one sense the most vital people of all in any theatrical enterprise, because they provided the money and the resources and the organization which got it off the ground and then kept it moving.
Yet John Watts had made the transition from a serene past with the secure backing of his producers to an uncertain future with scarcely a tremor. He had been responsible for the direction of the Ben Loxton series from the start, but he had now added a much wider dimension of responsibility. Already finances and support for the future had been ensured, with Richard Aitchison enlisted to finance them. Watts was going to make more money and become more of a television entrepreneur himself: the others said he was going to do very well out of the new arrangements.
Yet that was surely fair enough, wasn’t it? He’d stepped in and sorted things out in the crisis, as no one else had had the skills and the knowledge to do. The translation from the egregious Sam Jackson to the new regime had been almost seamless. Almost as if John Watts had known that it was coming, in fact. Sandra tried not to dwell upon that thought.
She glanced reflectively at Sir Bradley Morton, whom she had taken to hospital that morning. He was such a lovable old fraud most of the time that you couldn’t be certain how ill he really was. He was certainly looking older, but when you were well into your seventies and at the end of a week’s location filming that was only to be expected. He’d been quiet on the way back from the hospital and she’d thought at one stage that he was on the point of confiding the details of his illness to her. Perhaps it was something like prostate trouble which he didn’t want to talk about because of its sexual connotations. When you had a reputation as a lively old roué with a history of conquests and a reputation for easy success with females, you didn’t want to talk about things like that, she supposed.
It surely couldn’t be Brad who’d seen off Sam and Ernie, could it? National institutions didn’t go around killing people. And Sir
Bradley Morton had less to fear than anyone from whatever revelations Sam Jackson or Ernie Clark might make about him. When you were a national treasure, you were almost unassailable. The person who made any unwelcome revelation was more likely to be assailed than you were, for daring to sully your image. Sir Bradley Morton must be almost scandal-proof by now.
David Deeney must be a possibility for these crimes, she told herself. He was a quiet man, though a highly competent actor – not a common combination, that! Sam Jackson had probably been more horrible to him than to anyone here, principally on account of his being openly gay. That was common enough among actors, God knows, but Sam had affected to take a particular exception to David, perhaps because he was quiet and self-effacing. But quiet people like anyone else can be driven beyond the bounds of endurance. Perhaps Sam had said something or made some threat to Deeney which had been the last straw and caused him to erupt into violence. It seemed at least as likely as any other of the highly unlikely possibilities which presented themselves to her around this convivial table.
That was a fair word to describe it. The noise level was rising steadily and there were more bursts of laughter around the table as the meal proceeded. Peg Reynolds was radiant tonight. Her always impressive black hair looked even more lustrous with the dining-room lighting immediately behind her; her large brown eyes seemed wider than ever as they glittered with pleasure. The femme fatale who had despatched the villainous Sam Jackson? A cliché which seemed less likely as she saw how happy and unstrained Peg looked tonight. Her torments had come from a different quarter than Jackson or Clark. James Turner had been her torturer, but tonight the pair seemed at least for the moment to have resolved all that.
They were almost opposite Sandra and she could hear most of their conversation. Turner was reassuring Peg: ‘You can rely on getting Saint Joan, really you can. It’s a matter of when, and how much they pay you, not if.’ He turned to David Deeney on his right. ‘Would you be interested in playing Warwick if the part were to be offered to you?’