by J M Gregson
She sought desperately for a reply. ‘You can search my flat. You won’t find any pistol there.’
Lambert gave her a faint smile. ‘You would be very foolish if you kept a murder weapon at your residence. But we may need to search your flat, in due course. For the present, you can get back to teaching history to those children you were so worried about.’
Tamsin Phillips sat alone in Peter’s room for minutes after they had gone, scarcely believing that they had not arrested her. Then she went across to the big desk and picked up the outside phone. The voice from the solicitor’s office was reassuringly mundane when it asked what she wanted. Tamsin tried to echo its calmness as she said, ‘I think I may need legal advice and representation.’
‘It’s high-profile, John, as we all knew it would be, this Logan murder.’ Douglas Gibson stood and poured a cup of coffee for his senior superintendent, treating him like one of the local dignitaries with whom he seemed nowadays to spend so much of his time. Well, John Lambert would be a civilian himself soon enough now, unless the anonymous powers that be above them relented on their decision to retire him.
‘Yes, sir. I’m grateful to you for keeping the media out of my hair in the last week.’ Lambert resisted the urge to enquire whether there was any news on his own situation. Much better to accept that he was going, that this would be his final case. He was here to report on the state of progress in his last murder case, and that is what he would do.
‘I haven’t got an arrest for you, or even a prime suspect, as yet. But we’ve narrowed down the options.’
Gibson grinned. ‘You should be dealing with the media yourself, John. Does “narrowed down the options” mean anything or nothing?’
Lambert smiled apologetically: he had been searching for a phrase which would convey how hard his team had been working on the boring necessities of elimination. ‘I’ll think aloud for you, as I certainly wouldn’t like to do at this stage for any media man. There are five major possibilities, in my mind. That doesn’t mean our killer couldn’t come from somewhere else, but I should now be surprised if he or she did.’
Gibson smiled his encouragement. The nature of his post meant that he was constantly receiving verbal reports on progress; John Lambert had a more lucid and ordered way of presenting things than most.
Lambert, for his part, was wondering how Gibson always managed to look as if his uniform had come straight from the cleaners, with the creases immaculate and the braid with a new-minted shine. The man must be the right shape, he thought without resentment; clothes never seemed to sit easily on Lambert’s tall frame.
He said, ‘Let’s start with the wife, Jane Logan, because we haven’t been able to eliminate her. She has a serious relationship going with a man who used to be Chairman of the Governors at Greenwood School. She concealed that from us at first. She says she’s planning to marry the man. She also says that Peter Logan would have opposed the relationship and refused to divorce her.’
‘Was Logan outraged by her affair?’
‘Not according to her. She doesn’t think he even knew about it. According to her, he was far too busy getting his leg over wherever he could.’
Gibson sighed. He was far too experienced to be shocked by a worthy head teacher’s private life, but sex always made for complications, threw too many people into the mix during a murder investigation. He said, ‘And what about the other party – this man who was Chairman of the Governors?’
‘Steve Fenton. Estranged from his wife; in the process of a messy divorce; anxious not to lose touch with his children. A crack shot, in the past. Didn’t need to be that to kill Logan of course, because he was shot at point-blank range. But he did have a pistol, which he claims to have given up years ago, after the Hungerford killings and the tightening of the firearm laws. He certainly hasn’t had a licence for the last few years, but there’s no record of his pistol being handed in.’
‘So either of them could have killed Logan?’
‘Either or both. They’re alibi-ing each other for the night in question. Claim they were in bed together for most of it. So naturally, no one to confirm their story. Incidentally, we had to prise all this out of them. They were keeping schtum about any liaison until they were forced to admit it.’
Gibson nodded. He was too old a hand to ask Lambert to speculate about what sort of people these two were. The CC was confining himself to the facts of motive and opportunity. ‘You said Logan had an eye for the women himself. No doubt that raises other possibilities.’
‘We’ve thrown up two. The latest girlfriend is a Liza Allen. Logan had taken up with her only a week before he died. She had the best opportunity of all: Logan was on his way to her house on the night he died. She knew just when he would be coming and where he would park. He’d rung her to confirm the arrangements only a few hours before he died.’
‘Motive?’
Lambert shook his head. ‘None that we’ve been able to establish so far. She’s young, attractive and I should think completely bowled over that a man as powerful as Logan in the school should even take notice of her. She’s a lab assistant, not a teacher. As I say, he’d only taken up with her a week or so before his death, so it seems unlikely that he was already planning to ditch her. And she came forward voluntarily with her evidence.’
‘She sounds like one of a string of opportunities. What about women scorned?’
‘Not women. Woman. We’ve unearthed a few previous conquests of Logan’s, but we’re satisfied that it’s only the last one to be ditched who’s a possibility for murder. Tamsin Phillips: thirty-three years old, single, teaches History and Business Studies at Greenwood School. She’d been conducting an intense affair with Logan over the past seven months. Found he was dumping her only days before he died. A fact that she concealed completely from us at first.’
‘And obviously she had the opportunity.’
‘Yes. And there’s more. Tamsin Phillips has a history of GBH. Not a criminal record, because it never came to court. But she was jettisoned by a previous boyfriend, five years ago, and attacked him with a knife. She was rather lucky she didn’t kill him, by all accounts.’
‘Then why no court case?’
‘The boyfriend in question refused to cooperate with the Thames Valley Police. No key witness, no case. Despite the fact that it was he who broke up the affair originally, he’s still smitten with Ms Phillips, who I have to say remains quite a dish. He’s been following her around for years. Making a nuisance of himself, she says. Which is why she threatened him with a revolver six months ago.’
Even grizzled and experienced Douglas Gibson grinned at the melodrama of it. ‘So you’ve relieved her of the weapon and are making plans for an arrest.’ But he knew they couldn’t be at that stage. Tamsin Phillips would have been under lock and key now, if it had been as straightforward as that.
Lambert gave a wry, answering smile. ‘She claims that it was a toy replica which wouldn’t have hurt anyone. A claim we can’t check out, since she says she threw the offending object away some time ago.’
Gibson added the name of Tamsin Phillips to those of Jane Logan and Steve Fenton on the pad in front of him. ‘That’s three possibilities. Four if you include this Liza Allen, but you obviously don’t rate her.’
‘Not unless we find anything else to implicate her, no. But there are two other possibilities. The first is our old bugbear, drugs. The Drugs Squad tell me there is a trade around the school, as you would expect nowadays. It’s no bigger than you would anticipate in a school of that size, with a sixth form which gets bigger every year, but a source of considerable profit, nonetheless. And there are kids from the school who are dealing in the clubs in Cheltenham: one was picked up yesterday.’
‘What’s the connection with Logan?’
‘There may not be one. Despite his private life, he was an energetic and conscientious headmaster. We’ve heard from several sources that he knew everything that went on in and around his school. No one knows ever
ything, of course, but we have now learned enough about Logan to believe he knew more than most. I think he knew something about the drug pushers, perhaps far more than was good for him.’
‘But is there any evidence of this?’
‘Precious little, I’m afraid. But I wouldn’t expect much to have been committed to paper. You know what parents think about drugs in schools, and what the press would make of any revelations. Logan was jealous of the reputation of his school; apart from any more unselfish considerations, his whole career was built on it.’
‘So you think he knew more than he was telling about drug trafficking as it affected Greenwood?’
‘I’m pretty sure he did. The question is, had he discovered enough to put his own life in danger? Not many people appreciate how dangerous a little knowledge of criminal activity can be, when it relates to drugs.’
Gibson shook his head glumly. ‘You may well be right. But if this was a drugs killing, we’ll probably never pin it on anyone. It would probably be a contract killer.’
‘I know. We’re following it up, with a view to getting as much evidence as we can before we make any move. There’s a local businessman involved, a man using a legitimate firm to cover his drugs activity. We’re liaising with the Drugs Squad so as not to put any of their undercover officers in danger.’
Gibson nodded gloomily. ‘Let’s hope this killing isn’t drugs-related, for the sake of our clear-up statistics. I wouldn’t like you to finish on a blank, John.’
Lambert noted the first reference to his impending retirement, but thrust it from his mind. ‘There’s another possibility, sir. Different, but equally unsavoury. A paedophile ring. Logan had contacted the National Paedophile Unit to arrange an interview with them because he had suspicions about a member of his staff. Possibly he was killed to prevent that meeting taking place.’
‘So he never named the man in question.’
‘No. But we’re pretty certain we’ve found him. Martin Sheene. Teaches science at the school. Logan caught him taking children into the junior science lab during the lunch hour. He denies he’s a member of a paedophile ring, but I think he’s lying.’
‘So what’s been done about him? We can’t have him near children, if his headmaster thought he was dangerous.’ For a moment, lurid headlines danced before the Chief Constable’s vision.
‘He’s been suspended by the school. I’ve put him under twenty-four hour surveillance. Expensive, but I still have a feeling that he might lead us to a ring. The National Paedophile Unit is pretty certain there is one in the Cheltenham area, but they don’t know where it meets.’
‘It’s a week tonight since Logan was killed, isn’t it?’
Lambert gave a sour grin. They were both well aware of the statistic which shouts that if a murder isn’t solved in the first week it’s unlikely to be solved at all. ‘I’m still hopeful that I won’t end on a blank, sir.’
Douglas Gibson sat back a little in his chair behind the desk. ‘And I’m still hopeful that this won’t be your last serious case, John. I’ve sent off a lengthy letter to support my contention that you should be a special case when it comes to retirement cut-off dates.’
Lambert found himself for once too embarrassed to look his man straight in the face. He stared out over the bright orange of the Gloucestershire autumn leaves from Gibson’s window. ‘Thank you, sir. I doubt they’ll even look seriously at your letter, though. Bureaucracy can’t make exceptions without bringing in a welter of other requests.’
Gibson recognized a man refusing to allow himself to hope. ‘You may be right, John. But I wanted for my own satisfaction to know that I’d done everything possible to keep you.’ He grinned. ‘My letter convinced me, at any rate. It made you a national treasure we couldn’t afford to retire.’
‘Thank you, sir. Perhaps the National Trust will adopt me. I’ll soon have plenty of time to visit their houses.’ He took his leave awkwardly. He had never requested favours, and he was uncertain how to respond to them when they were visited upon him like this.
When he was left alone, the Chief Constable stood looking out of the same window that John Lambert had stared through. He realized in that moment quite how much he would miss his senior CID man. Douglas Gibson hadn’t many more years to do himself now. He felt himself surrounded by young, eager officers, male and female, who had been recruited into a police force very different from the one he had entered as a raw constable in the sixties. John Lambert was a link with those years, able to pit his brains and his methods against the very best of the young officers, yet instantly aware of those very different times when he and the young Gibson had set out on this odd journey through crime.
The world of autumn colour on which the CC gazed took on a sudden shaft of impending winter.
Twenty-One
Catriona Logan was glad to be back at school. It was Tuesday morning, over a week now since her father had been killed, and she was finding that the routine of school was a help to her. The teachers had treated her with kid gloves when she had recommenced her studies at the end of the preceding week, but when she had come in after the weekend, things had seemed almost back to normal.
As she left the house at quarter past eight, she felt almost guilty to be so looking forward to school, so relieved to leave the house. Mum had been wonderful to her this last week, had understood everything, had encouraged her to take up the reins of her life as soon as she felt able to grasp them. As she fastened the gate behind her at the end of the path from the front door, she looked back and caught a glimpse of her mother’s white face in the doorway. It gave her an encouraging smile before the door shut and she was released to the wider world outside.
Catriona was so delighted to be rejoining her friends after a joyless weekend that she did not notice the car parked at the end of the road, nor the man immersed in his newspaper behind the steering wheel. He did not move for two minutes after she had disappeared. Then he eased the big Rover quietly forward and turned into the driveway of the house Peter Logan’s daughter had just left.
The front door opened before he reached it; the same white face which had made Catriona feel guilty greeted the visitor with an anxious smile.
For a moment, these lovers who had enjoyed every sort of intimacy did not know what to say to each other. Then Steve Fenton took Jane Logan clumsily into his arms and they held each other for a long moment without speaking, each feeling the rhythms of the other body’s breathing, each striving for an emotional closeness to match the physical one they felt.
‘I can’t stay long. I’ll have to be at the office by nine or they’ll wonder where I’ve got to,’ he said, as they slowly relaxed their holds upon each other.
So his first words were telling her he could not stay. Would it always be like this, when they had thought that Peter’s death would usher in an era of bliss? Jane shut her eyes and clung to him hard, not wishing in that moment to look up into his face and catch apprehension in his eyes. When she felt his arms drop to his side, she held on to him for an instant longer before she slowly relinquished her hold.
She could think of nothing to say but what he already knew. ‘I got rid of that bloody gun,’ she said.
‘Pistol,’ he corrected her automatically. The years of familiarity with weaponry died hard.
They were bickering like a long-married couple already, she thought wryly. ‘Do you want a quick coffee?’
He looked at his watch. ‘Better not, I’m running late already. But thanks for getting rid of the Smith and Wesson. It’s better that it’s not around, in the present circumstances.’
They couldn’t even mention the death which should be bringing them together now. It had become ‘the present circumstances’. She had never been tongue-tied with Steve before. Now she could not think of anything to say. Eventually, feeling like a nagging wife as the words came out, she said, ‘I was glad to see that pistol go. It made me shudder even to touch it.’
He smiled, forcing himself to sit for a min
ute on a kitchen chair, pretending to have the time he had just told her he could not spare. He was already regretting coming here at this hour, remembering the shame of hiding in the car until her daughter had gone. He took her hand, but found it was a deliberate rather than a spontaneous gesture. He said, ‘Have you said anything to the children about us?’
‘No. It’s too early yet. Peter was a good father to them. They need to get used to the idea that he’s gone. Have you told your two?’
‘No. We’re still arguing over my access to them, for most of the time. It seems best to keep it quiet until that’s been agreed.’
They had thought that the death would release them, but they were still being as secretive as ever. She forced herself to sit down opposite him, but found she could not produce a smile for him. Sensing his unease, she was now wishing – as he did – that he had not come here. She could think of nothing to talk about except the subject she had determined they would avoid when she had asked him to call in on his way to work. She could not look at Steve as she said, ‘That superintendent still thinks one of us might have done it, you know.’
He nodded, looking not at her but at the table and its uncleared breakfast crockery. ‘One or both of us. It’s understandable. We tried to deceive them about our affair, after all.’
He hadn’t meant it, but it came out as an accusation. He had wanted to be honest about their liaison to the police, whatever else they concealed, arguing that the CID would discover it anyway. Which they had, of course. She said, ‘We’ve just got to keep our nerve and wait for things to move along. Time is on our side.’
He wanted to question what she meant by that, to ask how time could possibly improve things with the police. But he sensed she would not have an answer, that she would take any query as criticism. They had never been careful about what they said to each other before, not since the very early days. He forced a smile as he stood up and leant forward to kiss her forehead, letting his dry lips linger there for a moment to try to transmit his love for her. ‘I must be on my way. We’ll have plenty of time together, soon enough.’