by J M Gregson
‘Here, mostly.’ Perhaps the surprise they had trained themselves never to show broke through on their faces with the thought of that formidable female upstairs. Jason felt compelled to explain. ‘I have the place to myself at certain times, you see. Barbara works late three nights of the week. Mondays, Tuesdays and Thursdays. The library is open until eight and she does an hour of cataloguing and ordering after that.’
‘And your affair was still going on at the time of Alison’s death?’
‘No.’ His horror and surprise showed on his face, and they realised that he must have believed that they already knew most of the details of the affair. ‘It only went on for one term, really.’ Curious how academics always thought of terms rather than months, thought Lambert. But terms were the landmarks of progress and achievement by which they steered their lives, he supposed.
‘Who ended it?’
For a moment the small, handsome features wrestled with a spurt of male pride. Then he said, ‘She did. When I look back on it now, I think it was just the glamour of being pursued by a tutor which was the main thing for Alison.’
‘Pity you didn’t recognise that when the affair began. It would have saved you a lot of embarrassment and us a lot of work.’ ‘Will — will this have to come out?’
‘Probably. Certainly, if it’s connected even remotely with Alison Watts’s death.’
‘It could ruin me.’
‘You should have thought of that when you put your hand up a schoolgirl’s skirt, Mr Bullimore. Especially with your previous record in such matters. The professional implications aren’t my concern; you’re not the first randy teacher to stray into forbidden areas. But this is a murder investigation. I can’t guarantee things like this will be hushed up. Did you strangle Alison Watts?’
The abruptness of the question hit him like a blow in the face, as Lambert had intended it should. ‘No. No, of course I didn’t. How can you —’
‘The older man rejected by a pretty young girl. Jealousy setting in. The green-eyed monster, gnawing at the heart, as he sees her with other men. Violence leaping from his mind to his hands as she laughs at her former lover. Classic scenario.’ This was Bert Hook, coming in on cue, surprising the man with an attack from the quarter where he had least expected it, painting a melodramatic picture which his chief had to admire, even throwing in a phrase from Othello for the benefit of the teacher of English.
It was surprisingly effective with Jason Bullimore, who was thrown off balance from the start because his vanity had never permitted him to think of himself as the older man. He faltered, ‘It — it wasn’t like that. Not like that at all.’
‘Then tell us how it was, Mr Bullimore. In detail. Take all the time you need; we shall stay here as long as is necessary.’
The last assurance emerged as a threat, and Lambert was content that Bullimore should take it so. Jason tried to take his time, to re-group. He was supposed to be an expert on words, he reminded himself. He should be able to put a case that these surprisingly knowledgeable men would accept. But his brain would not work as it should with those four watchful eyes unashamedly on his face. He looked at the surface of the coffee table between them, working furiously for concentration: he must not make a mistake now. ‘Alison was young. She was still growing up. In fact, I saw her develop even during the term or so we had together. I realised eventually that I had been something of a trophy for her.’ He blushed, keeping his eyes resolutely down. ‘She said the girls all found me ‘dishy’. I think it gave her confidence and an enormous lift when she found that I was attracted to her.’
‘But it didn’t last.’
‘No. I see now that I shouldn’t have expected it to. I had romantic thoughts that we’d continue together, that later, when she’d finished at school, we would be quite open about our partnership. I even toyed with the idea that we might eventually marry.’
And they thought women in love were blind, thought Lambert. In his experience, infatuated men were the most gullible and vulnerable of all Cupid’s victims. ‘Did Alison reciprocate these feelings?’ he asked quietly.
‘No. I don’t think so, not now. I kidded myself at the time that she did, but she wouldn’t even talk about anything long-term. I was reduced to writing her notes to tell her about my feelings.’ He smiled wryly. ‘I even sent her the odd love poem. Not very good, I’m afraid.’
Lambert, remembering his own futile efforts at verse for girls in his youth, was filled with a sudden sympathy for this foolish man. ‘Tell us the rest of the story please.’
‘There isn’t really very much to tell. The sex was good, very good. I kidded myself at the time that there was more to it than some intense sexual couplings. Alison developed through the affair and went on to other things. I see now with the benefit of hindsight that that was probably inevitable.’
Lambert wondered if the young man who stared so fixedly at the surface of the low table between them was really as philosophical about this as he now pretended. Passion seldom ebbed at the same rate on both sides; that was why love made life so untidy. Had this man really been able to let go of the affair as completely as he now pretended? He said, ‘You say that Alison developed and went on to other things. What other things, Mr Bullimore?’
Jason glanced up at them, for the first time in minutes, wondering again how much they knew. They noted the wariness that crept into his face as he said, ‘I don’t know. Really I don’t. I got the impression that there were other men around, rather than any specific one. She talked airily about ‘playing the field’ and ‘not being tied down’ when I tried to get close to her again. At the time, I thought she was just taunting me: I never saw or heard of any specific new man in her life.’
‘When did you last see Alison Watts?’
‘On Thursday, the twenty-second of July, in school. There was school on the morning of Friday the twenty-third, of course, the last day of term, but as it happened I wasn’t teaching Alison’s group that day.’
The answer had come promptly, perhaps a little too quickly. But then he must have expected to be asked this, must have thought about how he would answer. Lambert’s grey eyes bored into his face, testing his honesty, trying hard to see what he was holding back. Jason found this moment of silent, unashamed assessment the worst of all. Eventually Lambert said, ‘Alison had a boyfriend of her own age.’
He nodded. ‘Young Jamie Allen. Bright lad — should make Oxbridge, if he wants to. She was with him before we had our affair. I suppose I should have felt guilty, but we seemed somehow to be set apart from that. I never took Jamie as a serious rival; I thought of it as the kind of adolescent boy-girl relationship which had been transcended by our more intense affair. She went on seeing him all through the term when we were meeting here — it just seemed something quite separate.’
‘And a useful cover for your clandestine relationship, no doubt,’ said Lambert drily. Yet he didn’t really think there was much calculation in this man; despite his intelligence, he was in some senses more vulnerable than Jamie Allen. And thus possibly more dangerous; all cornered animals, even the most civilised, can turn violent. ‘Jamie claims that Alison was still seeing him at the time of her disappearance. Is that correct?’
For a moment, Bullimore’s too-revealing face showed the hurt of the idea that this gangling youth could have retained some sort of relationship with the girl long after his own tempestuous intrigue had been concluded. ‘Yes. As far as I know, that is. Alison always said that she needed Jamie to come back to, whatever was happening in the rest of her life. She never cut him off. Whether she was just making use of him, you’ll need to decide for yourself.’ It was the first shaft of real bitterness he had permitted himself in speaking of the dead girl, and he glanced quickly at their faces, as if aware of a mistake.
‘Do you think Jamie killed Alison?’
‘No. Of course not.’
‘Someone killed her. You say you didn’t. If not Jamie, who else?’
He shook his head do
ggedly. ‘I don’t know. Perhaps someone she only met on the day she died.’
It was the solution all those who had been close to Alison Watts seemed to want. Lambert, looking at the severely discomforted Jason Bullimore, was more than ever convinced that it wasn’t the real answer. Something, some tiny detail, had jarred in his mind, but he couldn’t pinpoint the moment.
Chapter Eleven
DI RUSHTON was as spruce and businesslike as usual when they reached the murder room. He might live on his own now, his marriage a victim of the demands of the job, but his striped shirt was as immaculately laundered as any man’s in the station. Christopher Rushton had always been a modern man, a man who had shared the domestic tasks with his mate, a determined feminist in a force that had had to learn the facts of equality slowly and laboriously. In short, a great loss to the world of marriage; most of the women about the station were agreed on that, though none had rushed in to claim this prize when it became available.
He came forward a little self-importantly with the information they had requested. His every movement proclaimed that even if it was Saturday and less dedicated policemen were at home with their families, Detective Inspector Rushton, like crime, paid no attention to the days of the week. ‘No problem tracing that phone number. It’s a singles club. Cotswold Rendezvous, they call themselves. ‘The professional introduction agency for professional people’, their advertising copy says.’
‘Now what would a pretty young girl be doing with a number like that in her school locker?’ said Lambert. ‘Girls of that age don’t use agencies.’
‘We don’t know that she did,’ Hook pointed out. ‘Anyone could have put that slip of paper in there.’
‘Indeed. But it’s difficult to see how it could have got into a locked metal cubicle like that by accident. Anyone who put it there did it for a reason. And what reason could anyone have for doing that? There was no guarantee that it would be found. It was stuck right at the back and out of sight. If I’d been planting it, I’d have wanted to make sure it was a bit more obvious.’
Rushton cleared his throat, picked self-consciously at the already immaculate cuffs of his shirt. ‘Some of these introduction agencies are not quite what they seem, John.’ The first name came out a little too deliberately; it was only because Lambert had insisted upon it that he used it at all. Chris Rushton was a man more comfortable with the handles of rank or the simple ‘Sir’ than with forenames: even the ubiquitous ‘Guv’nor’ of the force did not come easily to him.
‘Knocking shops, are they?’ said Lambert. ‘Well, of course, you’d know more about that than me, Chris. Or even old Bert, I expect.’ He produced his most innocent and open smile.
‘I haven’t sampled any of these singles clubs, you understand, John,’ Rushton said hastily. Because he was basically a humourless man, he found it difficult to deal with these two old sweats in tandem. ‘But you must be aware that there have been instances of businesses which supply women for immoral purposes under the guise of being introduction agencies.’
‘Knocking shops,’ said Lambert with satisfaction. ‘Run with-out the expense and danger of setting up premises as brothels and inviting police interest. Of course I’m aware of it. I’m also aware of the frustration of the vice squad that nothing has been proved as yet. Not on our patch.’
Rushton nodded, wondering how to push his ideas without giving the impression that he knew more than he cared to admit about singles clubs and the like. ‘The suspicion is that girls have been recruited to provide sexual services for men with the money to pay. Young girls, not established prostitutes. And young men of eighteen to twenty-one. Children too, perhaps, for the pederasts in our splendid community. But it’s all very vague.’
Lambert nodded. ‘It’s a potentially lucrative trade, catering for people’s sexual preferences, especially if you can provide a comprehensive service. And who are the men you think might be behind this enterprising development?’ He had his own names in mind, from his exchanges with other senior officers, but he was curious to know how much had seeped down as far as Inspector level. A good CID officer was usually aware of the serious villainies abroad in the area, whatever his sources of information might be.
DI Ruston did not disappoint him. ‘The rumour is that Eddie Hurst is developing a ring of sexual services. But he keeps far enough away from things to make it very difficult to get evidence.’
‘Hurst the worst,’ said Hook, producing one of the schoolboy rhymes beloved of frustrated policemen.
Lambert’s nose wrinkled fastidiously at the banality of it. ‘Yes. If we’ve got to have rhyming slang, I’ve always thought it would have been more appropriate if that bugger had been called Hunt.’
Rushton was not quite sure how to react to this. He said hastily, ‘Of course, Cotswold Rendezvous may have nothing to do with Eddie Hurst. It may be a perfectly straightforward and respectable introduction agency. I only mentioned other possibilities because you invited us to speculate about how Alison Watts came to have this phone number, and —’
‘Yes. Quite so.’ Lambert’s face brightened suddenly as he glanced round the almost deserted Saturday murder room. ‘Well, there’s only one way I can see to test the water,’ he said cheerfully.
Bert Hook as usual was on to his chief’s train of thought faster than anyone else. ‘You mean we need to test the agency out,’ he mused happily.
‘Plant someone,’ said Lambert.
‘Someone single?’
‘Perhaps divorced or separated. We need the typical customer if they’re not to suspect.’
‘But personable.’
‘And not too old. Early thirties, would you say?’
‘Absolutely. And with the right bearing and appearance. Must be able to pass himself off effortlessly as a professional man.’
‘Mean inspector rank, I’d say.’
‘Agreed… I wonder who could possibly do the job?’
Two beaming faces turned their full bonhomie upon DI Christopher Rushton. Two pairs of eyebrows raised themselves as if drawn by a single string.
Rushton might have retarded humour cells, but he was not stupid. Indeed, he was an intelligent and occasionally resourceful officer, and he had seen the way this bizarre cross-talk act was going long before its conclusion. ‘If you should mean me, it’s not on!’ he said in consternation. ‘I couldn’t possibly carry it off. And besides —’
‘Chance I never had,’ said Bert Hook sadly. ‘Meeting young women at police expense. Pocket full of money and introduction to a pretty woman. Good thing the taxpayer doesn’t know what his money’s being spent on.’
‘And the chances are the whole thing is perfectly innocent. Probably the lucky man selected for the task will meet some luscious but frustrated young woman who’ll be just dying to get at his lean young body and have her way with him. Chance of a lifetime.’
‘For the man lucky enough to be selected,’ said Hook dolefully. ‘Only wish I wasn’t too old and too ugly and too married to put myself forward for the job.’
The two faces beamed again at an inspector who was now full of trepidation. He had always found it difficult to know when his leg was being tweaked. His rise in rank had been a protection against that: in a service acutely conscious of hierarchy, not many people were in a position to extract the urine from an inspector. But he could never be sure of his ground with these two; old John Lambert seemed at times to encourage an unseemly levity. And that Bert Hook had turned down the chance of promotion to inspector rank, years ago, as well as doing an Open University degree now: one could never be certain of a man like that.
There seemed to Chris Rushton an awful possibility that they might be serious in their suggestion. ‘I couldn’t possibly do it,’ he said desperately. ‘I look far too much like a policeman. It would be a dead giveaway. And —’
He stopped. The grins before him had broadened, like twin Cheshire cats leering at him out of Alice’s trees. All three of them knew he didn’t look like a polic
eman. He had prided himself upon that in the past. With his slim build, his brown hair without a trace of grey, his keen hazel eyes, his smart dark suits and fashionable ties, he was more dynamic sales manager than detective, he looked much more the young executive than the dutiful police bureaucrat he was in fact.
Lambert set his head on one side, considered his detective inspector critically for a moment. ‘Wouldn’t spot him as a copper in a million years. Would you, Bert?’
‘Never. Industrial whizz-kid maybe. Future company chairman, perhaps. But copper, never.’
They turned their heads and beamed for a moment at each other, then turned their gaze in unison back to their victim. Rushton found it most disconcerting. He said, ‘But seriously, Superintendent Lambert —’
‘John.’
‘John, then. You can’t really expect me to undertake this — this masquerade.’
‘Expect, Chris, yes. But not compel. No one would wish to force you into undertaking such an interesting and responsible mission. This needs a volunteer, of course. I should have to get permission from above to spend good money on such an unusual enterprise. But if I were to be asked to suggest a name for such a perilous and ultimately prestigious exploit, I could think of no one more appropriate or deserving than your good self. Now that the possibility has presented itself, of course.’
‘Lots of kudos, I should think, for the man who brings it off.’ Bert Hook kept his gaze resolutely upon the wall behind Rushton as he mused. He shook his head sadly at the thought of the opportunity which was not for him. ‘Promotion, I shouldn’t wonder.’
‘High profile, certainly. Bound to reach the ears of the Chief Constable, if someone brings it off,’ said Lambert. ‘Indeed, I should think it no more than my duty to make sure he was aware of the versatility of an officer who could bring us the information we need from a situation like this.’