Mortal Taste

by J M Gregson

  The man in black was leaning against the side of his car with his keys in his hand, wondering where he should go from here, when he felt the hand on his shoulder. A voice said quietly, ‘Don’t turn round. Raise your arms slowly and place them on the roof of your car with the palms downwards.’

  There was pressure, steady but insistent, between his shoulder blades, until he felt his cheek pressed hard against the icy metal of his car. He felt his teeth chatter as he said, ‘My wallet’s in my side pocket. You can have whatever money I’ve got. Just don’t beat me up, there’s no point!’

  But he knew as he spoke that this wasn’t a mugging. It was not as bad as that, and yet much worse. He wasn’t going to be hit, wasn’t going to have his face pulped, his bones broken. But this wasn’t going to be the end of it. This was the beginning of something worse than a beating.

  The voice said, ‘We don’t want your money, sunshine. But thanks for inviting us to search your pockets.’

  It was the first time he knew that there were two of them. And they did not conceal their satisfaction when they turned out the heroin, cocaine, and Ecstasy. He should never have brought them here. He should have kept to the usual points of supply. It was that bugger Price, pressurizing him to increase his turnover. And he couldn’t even shop him, when he was taken in.

  He scarcely heard the words of arrest. Despite the steel of the handcuffs pinioning his wrists, it still felt like a bad dream as he rode in the police car to the station.

  It wasn’t very late – only just past eleven – but it might have been the middle of the night. There seemed to be no one abroad on these minor roads on this autumn Sunday night. Jane Logan was glad of that.

  It was safer at night than during the day on these narrow lanes, for headlights gave advance warning of any approaching vehicle. But after she had passed a couple of cyclists in the last environs of Cheltenham, the widow of the late headmaster drove for several miles without seeing another soul. It suited her that way. The thing in the plastic bag beneath her seat was not meant for strangers’ eyes.

  Her undipped headlamps caught the occasional flash of a familiar name on the old signposts: Deerhurst Walton, Lower Apperley, Bishop’s Norton. She remembered the names from happier times in this ancient part of England. She could have used the River Chelt for her purposes, but she drove on towards the wider and deeper waters of the Severn, feeling obscurely that the country’s longest river would afford her greater security.

  She knew where she wanted to go, but it seemed to take her a long time to reach the old stone bridge with its triple arches. The parking bay was deserted, as she had known it must be at this hour. Earlier on this glorious autumn day, people would no doubt have parked here to walk by the river, glorying in the wide sweep of the Severn’s bends beneath the majestic trees, with their first, full-leaved swathes of autumn colour.

  She could hear those leaves rustling softly as she slid cautiously from the car. There was a bright crescent of moon now, as there had not been earlier in the evening for the man in black, and stars diamond-sharp against the navy sky. She could just hear the soft surge of the river beneath her from the topmost point of the bridge, and the white, pure light of the moon picked up the occasional ripple where stones were near the surface fifty yards lower down its course.

  But beneath the shadow of the topmost part of the bridge, the river at its centre ran wide, invisible and deep. Jane Logan carried the plastic bag carefully, as if she feared that contact with its contents might in some way sully her. She paused for a moment by the keystone of the parapet, feeling her heart pounding, nerving herself for the simple act of disposal.

  Then she took the bottom corners of the bag between firm fingers and upended it vigorously over the waters. Time appeared to elongate itself, so that it seemed to her several seconds before she heard the soft splash from far beneath her. She forced herself back to the car on legs which were suddenly reluctant to propel her. But she had to sit for a moment or two with her eyes shut, listening to the gradual slowing of her heartbeat, before she could turn the key in the ignition.

  It was as quiet on her way home as it had been on the outward journey. She was into the outskirts of Cheltenham before she saw her first car, and there was only one light left on in her suburban avenue as she drove quietly along it and put the car into the garage.

  It was almost midnight, but Jane Logan did not hesitate to pick up the phone. And the tone came only twice before the receiver was snatched up at the other end of the line. ‘It’s gone!’ was all she said.

  Nineteen

  Tamsin Phillips found that the CID men were waiting for her after morning assembly at Greenwood Comprehensive School. She felt an electric shock of fear when she was told that the tall superintendent and his dozy side-kick wanted to speak to her again, but she controlled it.

  She didn’t think she showed her emotions to the School Secretary when that middle-aged matron brought her the news. She knew that she must appear perfectly composed when she met the CID. She went quickly into the cloakroom and checked her appearance. She was reassured by what she saw. The short black hair was as neat around the oval face as she had known it would be. She examined the minimal make-up around the large dark eyes. They had always been her best feature, those eyes. They were framed for more exciting things than deceiving policemen, but they might have to work for that, if it came to the pinch.

  By the time she strode into the room where they were waiting for her, she was confident about the picture she presented. They had been given Peter’s old room for the interview. She’d seen some action, here. But she took care to look around curiously at her surroundings, as though the room was quite new to her. Excitement was good for her, she told herself. Hadn’t she always thrived upon it? Couldn’t she handle excitement better than anyone else she knew?

  ‘I should be teaching now. There’s someone losing a free period to stand in for me, and children aren’t being taught properly.’ She had produced aggression without making any conscious decision to use it. A good sign, that: it meant she was carrying the fight to the enemy.

  Lambert studied her for a moment with his head a little on one side, for all the world as if she had been a naughty child in a tantrum. It seemed a long time before he responded, and she began to feel uncomfortable. Eventually he said, ‘It’s a pity about that. But even education must sometimes take a second seat to murder.’

  It sounded in that moment as if he was accusing her, and her words poured out like an angry denial. ‘I told you everything I had to tell last Thursday. This is a waste of time, for both of us.’

  ‘I think not.’

  ‘I was perfectly frank about my affair with Peter Logan. I came out and told you everything. Voluntarily.’

  Lambert actually smiled into her flushed face. She found herself wanting to strike him. The smug bastard! She clenched her fists against her thighs as she sat on the upright chair, forced herself to listen carefully as he pointed out quietly, ‘Ms Phillips, your initial statement to our officer was full of lies. You told us about your relationship with a murder victim only after we had received information about the affair from a third party.’

  ‘Darcy Simpson! You put more faith in the tales told by that sad weirdo than in what I had to tell you. I told you, I could have him for stalking, if I could be bothered to report the creepy sod!’

  ‘Perhaps. Nevertheless, we had to check out information brought to us by a member of the public. Until Mr Simpson made his statement, you were withholding information in a murder investigation. Made you a lady of exceptional interest to us, that did, Ms Phillips.’

  He was using the title she had told him irritated her on Thursday. Was he trying deliberately to rile her? But he must have spoken to dozens of people since then, so perhaps he’d simply forgotten. She mustn’t become paranoid. Must behave here as if she’d nothing to hide. She wrinkled her retroussé nose a little, the movement which Peter had said always made him want to reach out and touch her. ‘I do
n’t like “Ms”. It’s ugly, in speech. If we can’t have Tamsin, I’d prefer Miss Phillips.’

  He nodded, taking away from what she had thought was a tiny victory with his patient smile. ‘When we saw you on Thursday and confronted you with what Mr Simpson had told us, you admitted to a serious affair with Mr Logan. Do you now wish to revise anything you told us on Thursday?’

  He was treating her as a liar, picking his way around her with a careful choice of words and a tone of voice which might have come from a hostile lawyer in court. He had the air of a man who knows everything, who would be delighted if she now enmeshed herself in his net with further denials. But he couldn’t know everything, could he? She said, ‘I’ve nothing to add to what I’ve already told you. And I would remind you that I’m here of my own volition, helping police voluntarily with their enquiries.’

  There was a tautology there, born of her tension, which she was trying hard not to show. She looked from the superintendent’s grey, unblinking eyes to the heavy features of that lumpish sergeant, and gave the man the most sudden and dazzling of her smiles. She was shocked when Hook said, ‘I should warn you that withholding or distorting information would be most unwise, Miss Phillips. Perhaps you should take a moment to consider your position.’ He flicked his notebook to a new page and held his ball-pen at the ready, as if he expected much to be written before they left this quiet room.

  Tamsin determined not to show how shaken she felt. She gazed for a moment at the ceiling, suddenly reluctant to use her wide black eyes on these men who seemed so impervious to their charms. She then looked not at them but over their heads as she said, ‘I told you last Thursday that Peter Logan and I were having a serious relationship at the time of his death. I told you when I’d last seen him and in what circumstances. I’ve nothing to add to that. That’s not because I’m concealing anything. It’s because there is nothing to add.’

  There was a pause, which stretched until she could bear it no longer, and had to transfer her gaze back to Lambert’s face. He was watching her as closely as ever, and when he saw the movement of her dark eyes he said quietly, ‘You didn’t tell us that your affair with Mr Logan was over several days before his death.’

  She wanted to fly at him, to tear his face open with the nails she now felt digging into her thighs as she strove for control. He was bringing it all back, those last, outraged exchanges after Peter had ditched her, the way she had flown at him in her flat, the way he had held her arms above her head so that they should not touch him as she yelled her fury into his face. She could almost feel his strong hands upon her wrists now, almost hear the obscenities she had spat point-blank at the wide mouth she had felt upon hers so often.

  ‘It wasn’t over.’ The words were so low that she scarcely heard them herself.

  She looked up to check if Lambert had heard, found him raising his eyebrows as he said, ‘But hadn’t Mr Logan set his sights upon someone else?’

  ‘Liza Allen, you mean? That wouldn’t have lasted. She was just a young tart who flashed her legs at Peter. I’d have had him back. I wasn’t going to let him go off with that little bitch, was I?’

  ‘I don’t know, Miss Phillips. Tell me exactly what you planned to do when you found that Miss Allen had supplanted you in your lover’s attentions, please.’

  She was furious with his old-fashioned phrases, with the way he was probing her about this. Taunting her with it, wasn’t he? Throwing that flashy young bitch’s triumph in her face and enjoying it. ‘It wouldn’t have lasted. She opened her legs and gave him an easy shag, that’s all. He could never resist that, Peter. But I’d have had him back! He’d have bloody soon come back to me or I’d have—’ She stopped suddenly and belatedly, aghast at herself.

  ‘Or you’d have what? Killed him for attempting to leave you?’

  She almost rose from the chair in her anger. She wanted to fling herself upon him, upon either of these smug men, to release the anger she felt surging against the frail dam of her throat.

  She fought for the control she had been so confident she possessed when she came into this room, but found herself still panting for breath. She caught a glimpse of the photograph of Peter with his wife and family, still on his desk where he had always kept it. They had laughed at the farce of that conventional picture together, but now the faces of his family seemed to be looking up and mocking her, claiming the last laugh after all on her pretensions.

  It took Tamsin a long time to retrieve a measure of control. She said in a low, even voice, ‘Of course I don’t mean that I killed him! It’s ridiculous and melodramatic of you even to suggest it.’

  ‘Perhaps. But you have a history, Miss Phillips. Five years ago, you very nearly killed another man because he decided to finish an affair with you.’

  She felt the hopelessness of her position. She could hear the despair in her own voice as she stared at Peter’s desk and made the ritual denials. ‘That was different. And if it had been as you say it was, I’d have gone to prison, wouldn’t I? But the matter never came to court.’

  ‘Because Mr Simpson refused to bring charges or appear as a witness. There was no other reason. This time we shall call him, if we need him.’

  The wide black eyes which had brought her so many conquests were her enemies now, revealing her fear. She looked up into Lambert’s calm, lined face, which seemed to her not to have changed its expression since they began. ‘What do you mean? What can bloody Darcy Simpson possibly have to say now?’

  ‘He will testify, if called upon to do so, that you have threatened him with a firearm. A pistol very similar to the one which was used to murder Peter Logan.’

  ‘What?’ She heard a peal of laughter, mounting towards hysteria. It took her a moment to realize that it was coming from herself. ‘Darcy told you I’d threatened him, did he? Did he also tell you that he was making my life a misery with the way he followed me about? That the very fabric of my new life in Cheltenham was being threatened by this clown from the past?’

  ‘Do you deny that six months ago you threatened him with a firearm? That you told him that you would use it upon him, if he continued to track your movements?’

  It was falling into place like a malevolent jigsaw. And she couldn’t see what she could do to destroy the picture they were assembling. She tried to work up some spirit, to convey her feeling of mad farce running out of control. But her voice was flat and unconvincing as she said, ‘That’s ridiculous. Darcy Simpson was never in any danger from me.’

  ‘Do you deny that you threatened him with a firearm?’

  ‘It was harmless. A replica. I waved it at him to try to stop him following me about.’

  Lambert waited for her to look at him again before he said, ‘You can’t expect us simply to believe that, after the string of lies and half-truths you’ve given us so far.’

  ‘It’s the truth. I don’t care whether you believe it or not.’

  ‘Then you should care. Your position is now very serious. However, there is an easy way to resolve this matter. You can produce this replica pistol. It won’t prove that it was what you used when you threatened Mr Simpson, of course, but it would at least support your story.’

  She could hear the scepticism in his every phrase, sense how he saw her wriggling hopelessly in the face of the facts. She looked down, caught the photograph of Peter and his family again in her gaze. Jane Logan’s smile seemed to be mocking her now: the wife triumphant at the last over the mistress.

  Tamsin said dully, ‘I haven’t got it. I threw it away.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘I don’t know. Months ago.’

  ‘A very convenient disposal.’

  ‘Except that it wasn’t. If I had it now, I could show you how harmless it was.’

  ‘Maybe. Mr Simpson didn’t think it was harmless. According to him, it had the desired effect. He stopped stalking you.’

  She summoned up a smile, though she could not imbue it with the contempt she wanted. ‘Darcy knows
nothing about firearms, Superintendent. He was very easily frightened.’

  ‘Not surprisingly, as you’d almost killed him with a knife on a previous occasion. Did you know where Mr Logan was going to be on the Monday night when he was killed?’

  ‘No. How could I? You know now that he wasn’t seeing me any more.’ It was the first time that she had admitted that Peter’s rejection was final, even to herself, and it shook her more than she could have forecast.

  Lambert’s calm tones were inexorable. ‘You knew that Peter Logan was seeing Liza Allen, didn’t you?’

  She nodded, near to tears and despising herself for it.

  ‘And you know where she lives?’

  Her first impulse was to deny it, but they had exposed her in so much that it seemed futile. She said softly, ‘Yes, I knew. I’d taken care to find out. Women like to torture themselves in these situations, you see.’

  ‘And you knew that Mr Logan was at a conference in Birmingham on that Monday?’

  ‘Yes. Everyone in the school did. It had been announced in the staff meeting. It was a feather in the cap of the school that he was speaking as an expert on secondary education.’

  ‘And you had conducted a liaison with Mr Logan yourself over several months. You would know his habits. Didn’t it occur to you that he might take advantage of his day’s absence from Cheltenham to visit his new lover before he went home in the evening?’

  She wanted to deny it, strove hard to summon up the words to do so. But it was so exactly the pattern that their own affair had followed, so much Peter’s habit to snatch time like this after a day away, that argument seemed futile. She would have been naive not to see the possibilities Lambert was suggesting, and naivety was not her thing. She said, ‘So I knew he might visit his little tart on that Monday evening. So what? It doesn’t mean I waited for him near that park in Leckhampton and killed him.’

  ‘It means that you had the opportunity. You gave us a motive yourself a few minutes ago.’