by J M Gregson
Hook grinned. ‘It’s a long step from a brisk exchange to murder. But I agree that there might have been evidence in that meeting that her frustration was simmering dangerously. Cooper seems to have thought so, from the notes he made about it.’
Rushton had a habit of leaving his prize suspect to the last. He now said, ‘The man we can’t ignore has to be the head chef, Hugo Wilkinson. He’s pretty certainly going to face serious child pornography charges. We know from Cooper’s notebook that he was on to him and proposed to report the matter to the National Trust. Wilkinson could not only have lost his job here but found it difficult to get another one if he’d been forced to leave in those circumstances.’
Lambert had listened to all of this with an air of abstraction. He now said quietly, ‘Come and look at this.’
It was an innocent-enough looking item. He was looking hard at a sturdy flowering cherry tree, probably transplanted to here in the early spring. It had a stake beside it, but nothing to secure it to that stake. The point he was studying was five feet up both the tree and the stake, where slight wear indicated that they had once been tied together.
Rushton was no gardener, but Hook was. ‘The tie’s missing,’ he said immediately.
Lambert nodded. ‘It might have been removed merely because this tree is now sturdy enough to rely on its own roots, of course. What did forensic and the pathologist say about the murder weapon?’
Rushton had an almost photographic memory for detail. He leapt in eagerly. ‘The tourniquet wasn’t a cord or a wire. It was something broader, almost an inch wide – about two centimetres was the metric estimate. That’s why it didn’t cut deeply into the victim’s neck as he was asphyxiated.’
Lambert nodded. ‘I think we have our murder weapon. A simple tree-tie. Possibly the one which has been removed from here.’
EIGHTEEN
It was the first time Alison Cooper had visited Peter Nayland in his own house.
They had spent a curious but ultimately satisfactory night together. Things had been awkward at first, with the harsh fact of Dennis’s death standing between them like a physical barrier. But they had stroked each other between the silk sheets of the big bed and then held each other hard. Touch was better than words. They had eventually made love in a relaxed, unhurried, affirmative way which was quite new to them.
Peter was up before her in the morning. He had appointments at work which he needed to keep. She stretched luxuriously in the bed, then used the power shower and the thick bath towel he had left ready for her in the bathroom. Everything here was the best; all the equipment was highly efficient, all the fittings and furnishings were luxurious.
Affluent but anonymous. It was obvious that someone with plenty of money lived here, but there was not much of a personal imprint. Alison decided she liked that. She wondered if she was determined to like everything about Peter, then decided that there was more than that involved. She was pleased that there was no woman’s presence evident here. That might have meant that she was one of many, just the latest in a string of women that he had brought here, but she was confident that it was not so.
There had been other women, of course, but they had meant nothing, compared with what he now felt for Ally. He had told her that, and she believed him. And he told her he had not brought those other women here, because this was his own patch and he had wanted to keep it that way. Bringing her here was another commitment, another step towards the way he planned to live the rest of his life. She believed that too.
She didn’t like the things the police had told her about Peter and the way he made his money. No doubt they’d exaggerated, the way they did when it suited them. But if there was anything in it, she’d get Peter to change his ways. She was no angel, but she didn’t want her man involved in serious criminal activity. She was confident that she could change him; like most women in love, she believed she could exercise a massive and beneficial influence upon the man in her life. She dismissed clichés about leopards and spots resolutely from her mind.
She’d already said she didn’t want a cooked breakfast. She enjoyed a ‘full English’ in hotels, but she rarely had more than cereals and coffee in her normal life. She liked that phrase; her normal life was going to be with Peter from now on. He had her favourite muesli on the table and there was brown bread in the toaster. How pleasantly domestic. They made conversation a little cautiously, as was appropriate for this time in the morning. You could enjoy even the routine things, when you were with someone you loved, Alison told herself sentimentally.
There was a clatter of post through the letterbox. Peter brought in heavy envelopes. ‘I asked a few agents to send us details of the properties they currently have on their books. You might like to have a look at them and pick out any you’d like to view. They’re mainly in Solihull and the surrounding area: I remembered you said you didn’t want to be too far out of the city. Take them with you and study them at your leisure.’
She opened one of the packages and noted from the accompanying letter that Peter had asked for details of ‘properties in the two million to three million pound bracket’. She was moving into a lifestyle she had never experienced before and, far from feeling guilty, she was thoroughly looking forward to it. Dennis had always said she was shallow, but she didn’t have to give a bugger about Dennis and his opinions now.
Peter encouraged her to stay behind and leave at her leisure, but she went out at the same time as him. She felt obscurely that it was too early to accept this trust, this invitation to explore his privacy. Besides, she’d already noted that the flat was luxurious but anonymous; she wouldn’t find out much more about Peter and his business life by staying behind when he left.
She was to spend the morning shopping for clothes in Birmingham. She stood beside her little white Fiat whilst Peter backed the big maroon Jaguar out of the garage. ‘Get yourself a super wedding dress!’ he called through his open window as he drew alongside Alison.
‘Not likely! I’m not going to be mutton dressed as lamb.’
‘Not even with an eager old ram like me waiting for you?’ He gave her a valedictory smile. ‘Whatever you choose will be fine by me, Ally. And don’t even consider being economical, my love. This is the last time either of us will do this!’ He waved his hand and left on that appealing thought.
Alison spent a happy morning. She took the best part of three hours to buy herself a smart green dress for the wedding. It set off her dark-blonde hair and her blue eyes very well and discreetly emphasized her well-kept figure. It would be a quiet wedding but she wanted to look her best for it. Despite Peter’s injunction about economy, she shuddered at the price. But she’d be able to wear it afterwards on all sorts of occasions, wouldn’t she? It wasn’t like the heedless and ridiculous extravagance of a wedding dress which you’d never wear again.
Morning stretched into afternoon and she bought herself a light lunch in the restaurant at the top of the multiple store. She lingered deliberately over her coffee, then descended to the ground floor, where she indulged herself by buying a cashmere sweater and a silk scarf. There’d be no Dennis waiting when she got home, wanting to criticize her purchases and asking how she’d managed to waste a whole day over them. She felt not the slightest pang of regret about that.
Indeed, all she was conscious of as she drove back towards Westbourne Park was a gathering depression. She’d never liked the place, had always resented the way Dennis had taken her away from the amenities of city life and forced her into the quiet country existence she so abhorred. She felt more and more gloomy as she neared the gates of the estate and met the stream of visitors’ cars moving away from it.
A young uniformed PC was standing in the residents’ garage area as she drove slowly in. She thought for a moment that he was going to spring forward like a well-drilled hotel porter to open her driver’s door. Instead, he waited for her to park and then stepped forward respectfully. ‘Mrs Cooper? Superintendent Lambert would like to see you for a few minute
s in the Murder Room.’ He gave the venue awed capital letters; it was the first time he had been involved in as big a case as this. ‘It’s in the main house. You turn right by the ticket office and—’
‘I know where it is, thank you. It was in fact my husband’s office.’
The young man shuffled back apologetically, retiring from her presence like a courtier unable to turn his back on royalty. Ally felt a little guilty; she shouldn’t be peevish, after a night and a day she had enjoyed so much. Then she fell to wondering what it was the big cheese wanted to see her about, and the gloom she had felt as she approached Westbourne turned to alarm.
She slipped into her empty house, where she renewed her make-up and tidied up her hair. She was pleased to see that she looked trim and composed in the mirror. The dignified widow was the image she wished to present to the CID. Her feet were hurting after her day in the shops, so she slipped on her most comfortable shoes, with heels slightly lower than the ones she had worn in Birmingham.
Lambert gave her a cursory greeting, as if he was preoccupied with other matters. It was Hook who settled her on the upright chair in front of the big desk where Dennis had once held court. She felt her first little stab of sorrow at the departure of her husband from this familiar place. Dennis hadn’t really been a bad man, just the wrong man for her. Her regret lasted no more than an instant; it was replaced by the more familiar feeling of relief that the husband who had denied her access to lasting happiness was now permanently off the scene.
The chief superintendent looked at her for only a couple of seconds before he said, ‘The extra information about Mr Cooper’s relationships with the people around him has proved most helpful.’
Alison did not know how to react to this. She waited for the tall man to go on but he said nothing further; he was obviously awaiting a reaction from her. Eventually she said carefully, ‘I’m glad you’ve been able to gather this information, if it’s going to help you to find who killed Dennis.’
‘Oh, it will do that. I’m certain it will.’
He made it sound like a threat. She said, ‘I’m glad you think that, because I haven’t really come up with anything myself. You asked me to think about Dennis’s relationships with the people who worked with him, but I haven’t been able to recall anything you won’t already know. As I think I told you yesterday, I didn’t take much interest in the work Dennis did here, so I don’t know much about the people he worked with.’
‘You did say that, yes. I didn’t believe it was true at the time.’
It was blunt, uncompromising and all the more cutting for being delivered quietly and calmly. Alison tried again to refute it. ‘I don’t know why you should think that. I—’
‘I’m sure you read your husband’s notebook quite carefully before you delivered it to us.’
‘You’re still on about that notebook? Well, I’m not surprised that he kept notes, as I told you yesterday. He was a rather secretive man and he liked to know as much as he could about those around him. It gave him increased power, and he liked that.’
‘He kept the book here in his office, but you removed it to see if he had written anything about you and if he knew about Peter Nayland. I believe that when you had examined its contents and found it contained nothing personal, you decided that we should have it. It would have been better if you had simply brought it here by day, instead of sliding it into the main office letterbox at dead of night.’
He seemed to know everything, this man. He would be telling her next how fiercely her heart had been beating as she had crept along the familiar path to the reception area whilst everyone slept. She said dully, ‘I thought you should have the information that the notebook contained.’
‘And you were right. However, the manner of delivery raises certain questions about your motivation.’
Further denials would obviously only lead her into deeper waters. Alison said dully, ‘How did you know that notebook came from me?’
‘It’s a fairly obvious deduction, Mrs Cooper. Of those nearest to this death, you are the only one not included in those pages.’
‘I see.’ It was so obvious that she felt foolish. ‘Dennis knew far more than I thought he did about a lot of the people here. I decided you should have that information.’
‘And you were obviously right. But I have to insist that the secretive method you adopted to deliver the notebook raises questions about your own motivation.’
‘I don’t follow you. I merely wished to distance myself as far as possible from my husband’s death. And I didn’t want anyone here to think I was trying to throw suspicion on to them.’
‘Really? The other interpretation of your actions seems to me much more convincing. I believe you read the notebook and found nothing within it which could damage you but a lot of things which could incriminate and embarrass the other people whose secrets are recorded within it. I believe you delivered this information into our hands to incriminate other people and to divert suspicion from you and Peter Nayland.’
‘Peter had nothing to do with this.’
‘That’s what you’d like us to think. We have our own views about Mr Nayland, whether or not he is innocent in this matter. I notice that you don’t claim innocence for yourself.’
‘I didn’t kill Dennis. I accept his death is convenient for me, but you mustn’t assume I killed him because of that.’
Bert Hook had so far studied the widow keenly but remained silent. Now he said quietly, ‘We’d be more prepared to accept that if you hadn’t tried to implicate other people by the way you slid this notebook back into our hands. You had a duty to produce it, but your melodramatic delivery of it suggests that you had things of your own to hide. A plot with Mr Nayland to remove this inconvenient obstacle to your plans, perhaps.’
She protested her innocence again and they let her go without further comment. She spent an hour sitting miserable and lonely in the house where she had lived with the murder victim. She would ring Peter tonight, despite his insistence that they should keep such contacts to the minimum.
She wondered again just what part Peter Nayland had played in this death he had found so welcome.
Another fine day. Warm, but not too warm. Ideal for visiting gardens. Superb weather, in fact, for moving through the various ‘garden rooms’ which made up the horticultural masterpiece which was Westbourne Park. Long lines of people did just that, waiting with cheerful patience whenever the numbers demanded it.
The restaurant was busy throughout the lunch period, with queues waiting at the door for vacant tables and a rising decibel level in the multiple conversations. Curious how the noise level always rose steadily through the three hours or so when the place was full, thought Hugo Wilkinson, as he worked swiftly but methodically in his kitchen.
He would have liked poorer weather, even a thoroughly wet day, because he wanted to get away from his kitchen as soon as possible. He had things to do, vital things. He had to get rid of the evidence. That had been the advice the leader of the group had given him last night. You’ve enjoyed it, now ditch it; there was no choice. Get rid of anything which could incriminate you and deny all knowledge of the group and why they met. The police probably wouldn’t believe you, but without the evidence they couldn’t pin anything on you. It was a pity he’d even admitted to being a member of a photographic club.
Work was normally a release for him. A kitchen working flat out is a stressful place, but this was the kind of tension he had been used to all his working life. It occupied you wholly, so that you had no time to think about the disturbing things in the rest of your life. He liked the total absorption and total concentration that he had to bring to the task. Yet today he could not cast aside the nagging fear that he should already have acted, should have cleared his flat of all the things which could land him in trouble. He should have taken it as a warning when that bugger Lambert had challenged him during the murder investigation, should have cleared the evidence ruthlessly then.
As s
oon as the last main courses had been served, he muttered an excuse about having to do some ordering and slipped away from the kitchen. He hurried quickly along the short path to the residences and arrived at the front door of his cottage at almost the same time as three men. ‘This area is private,’ Hugo said desperately. ‘The main entrance to the gardens is over there.’
The leader of the trio did not immediately reply. Instead, he slipped his hand within his jacket and produced a warrant card and a larger document. He did not even trouble himself to look into Wilkinson’s eyes. It seemed that it was important to him to be as impersonal as possible about this, to establish as little contact as humanly possible with the man before him. ‘Mr Wilkinson? I’m DI Norman from the West Midlands Child Pornography Unit and these are my colleagues. I have here a search warrant which entitles us to enter your home and remove any materials we find which are obscene or pornographic, possession of which may constitute a breaking of the law. You are welcome to observe our search and witness that nothing is planted here and no unnecessary force is used.’
He pronounced the phrases with a cold formality, like a judge passing sentence. He still had not looked Wilkinson in the eyes. Hugo led them into the cottage, moving with the slow, steady paces of a sleepwalker.
He stood motionless and observed their movements, watching his life disintegrate before him. One of them eventually suggested that he sit down and he did so immediately, as if responding to a command.
They went through his bookcase swiftly but thoroughly, shaking each book to see if it concealed anything between its leaves. A couple of photographs fell from one, pictures of naked children he should have dispensed with long ago. The youngest of the men looked at him with a cold contempt, then slipped the photographs carefully into a polythene sleeve. Hugo wondered if the officer had children of that age himself.