by J M Gregson
Lambert was not exactly a law unto himself, but his seniority and reputation had secured him certain privileges. He had been able to retain Bert Hook as his detective sergeant for much longer than would normally have been the case. The situation had been consolidated by Hook’s surprising refusal to accept the inspector status which could undoubtedly have been his, in favour of retaining the work he enjoyed as Lambert’s assistant. It had never been openly stated, but each of them clearly understood and respected the fact that their virtues complemented each other’s.
One of Bert Hook’s advantages was that the criminals and others he came into contact with in CID work consistently underestimated him. They accepted too easily the stolid village-bobby exterior and manner as the reality of the man, and missed the shrewd intelligence which his manner and appearance concealed. That was useful to Lambert in his work, but he was delighted to be here today to witness the formal recognition of Hook’s intelligence and application in the conferral of an excellent degree, achieved by part-time study in conditions which would have defeated lesser men.
Eleanor Hook and Christine Lambert had awarded themselves new dresses to celebrate this joyous occasion. Jack and Luke Hook, who had known Lambert as ‘Uncle John’ since their early childhoods, were a little awkward with him now, as befitted their teenage status. In truth, they were rather in awe of his local fame as a solver of serious crimes, including the murders which always dominated the headlines. However, being fifteen and thirteen meant that they could not really acknowledge their awe of anyone, except the pop stars and top sportsmen they would never have to meet. But they were immensely proud of their father, though of course they could not demonstrate that in his presence. But there would be no more enthusiastic applause in the hall than theirs, when Bert eventually went forward for his degree.
The person least at ease in the group was Bert Hook himself, sweltering in his best suit beneath the blue and gold gown of the soon-to-be graduate. He had enjoyed his studies, in literature and history particularly, far more than he had expected to, but the formal reception of his degree was less to his taste. ‘This is like a school speech day,’ he said gloomily, looking round at the plethora of gowns like his. He grinned weakly at John Lambert. ‘Do you think Lord Wotsisname will ask if we can have a half-holiday?’
‘They don’t have school speech days any more. Mrs Fisher says they’re elitist because they single out the most able,’ said Luke Hook piously.
‘Your Mrs Fisher has a lot to answer for,’ said his mother darkly.
‘She doesn’t approve of Open University degrees. She says they’re too easy because you can pick them off in modules.’
‘That young lady talks too much about things she doesn’t know anything about,’ said Eleanor Hook. Then, thinking that she might be undermining the teacher’s position, she added guiltily, ‘Not that she doesn’t know her own subject and teach it very well.’
‘She’s a. . a bit of an idiot, really,’ said Jack. He blushed furiously, because he’d only just prevented himself from saying ‘tosser’ and shocking the delicate sensibilities of these adults. ‘She doesn’t think sport should be on the timetable and wants playing fields sold to build affordable housing.’
‘You’ll be able to tell her she’s an idiot at the parents’ evening, Mum,’ said Luke cheerfully. He turned to his father. ‘Perhaps now that you’re going to have time on your hands, you could come along in your gown to argue with her about the OU, Dad.’
‘This is the one and only day you’ll see me in this thing,’ said Bert Hook firmly, raising his arms beneath the gown and then letting them fall helplessly to his sides. ‘It’s hired at a ridiculous fee for this occasion and this occasion alone.’
‘Then I’d better take your picture whilst we have the opportunity,’ said Christine Lambert cheerfully, producing her digital camera determinedly from her handbag. She set the group beneath an aged oak tree and took several photographs of various combinations, including one of Bert Hook smiling shyly with an arm round each of his sons, which would later turn out to be unexpectedly impressive. ‘And now the one to be framed and put on the mantelpiece,’ she said, when Bert thought she had finished. He refused all requests for a picture wearing his mortar board, but she eventually persuaded him to sit alone in his gown with the offending headgear in his lap, in the conventional pose of the newly recognized graduate.
Twenty minutes later, he walked across the stage, with that rolling gait he had used so many thousands of times to walk back to his bowling mark, before making the best amateur batsmen in the country hop about a bit. Then the announcer told the audience that Herbert James Hook was a policeman, and there was surprised applause from the public to support the more raucous enthusiasm from his own group of determined supporters.
When the assemblage of proud relatives and friends emerged blinking from the hall into the sunlight, Bert was sent off to renew acquaintance with the group he had met with regularly over the last year. And this group of mature men and women laughed their delighted recall of incidents during their studies, for all the world as if they were twenty-one-year-olds giggling their delight and relief on this day of triumph. When they had set out so diffidently on this academic journey, this day had seemed distant, even impossible, to all of them. The day and the ceremony were all the sweeter for that. Both seemed afterwards to have passed very quickly.
The women said they would drive home, in view of the bottle of champagne which had concluded events at Hereford. Bert and the boys were surprised when Eleanor turned off the road five miles outside the ancient cathedral city, following Christine Lambert as the two had arranged. They were even more surprised to find that a table had been booked for the six of them, with gleaming cutlery and glasses laid out in readiness. ‘My treat,’ explained John Lambert shortly. ‘In recognition of your efforts over six years, and the pleasure you have given us over one day in gown and mortar board.’
The meal was a great success. Jack and Luke were allowed a minimal quantity of alcohol, the ladies a responsible small glass of white wine each, whilst the two men sank rather a lot over the two hours’ traffic of the meal. Well, they weren’t driving, were they, and if you can’t indulge yourself when a detective sergeant is awarded a 2:1 honours degree, when can you?
The two boys had never seen Dad and Uncle John, the great detective, so relaxed before. They were delighted by the experience. They didn’t use the word ‘relaxed’, of course. But as their mother told them in the car as she drove carefully home, the word ‘pissed’ was very rude, as well as a gross exaggeration.
Throughout the long bright day of DS Hook’s graduation ceremony, the blue Jaguar of Martin Beaumont stood still and undisturbed. In the quiet wooded area where it was parked, there were few people about on an ordinary Thursday morning. As the long day passed, no one noted that the big car had now been there for many hours.
The twelve-mile long ridge of the Malvern Hills runs from north to south. It is not ranked among the country’s major mountain ranges, but its dominance of the local landscape is far more dramatic than that of many greater elevations. Its flanks rise very steeply from only three hundred feet or so above sea level, making it the commanding feature for many miles around. The rivers Severn and Wye rise almost within hailing distance of each other in the Welsh hills, but run through very different country on opposite sides of the Malvern ridge. From the wide flat valley of the Severn on one side and the less regular country of the Wye Valley on the other, the spectacular outline of the Malverns is visible at most points, defining the limits of the visible landscape.
For those who care to walk the ridge, a modest effort is rewarded by extensive views over some of England’s most historic country. Here were fought the decisive battles in the two internal struggles which rent the country, the Wars of the Roses and the English Civil War. Ridge walking is always enjoyable, with views available on both sides as one moves along the backbone of the height. The northern extremity of the ridge, with Malv
ern itself immediately below it and the ancient city of Worcester faintly visible to the north east, is the most frequently walked.
The southern extremity of the Malverns, the last of the sharp rises which constitute the ridge, is the lower height known as Chase End Hill. This is much less frequented than the greater heights to the north, though its sides rise with the characteristic Malvern sharpness on its western and eastern slopes.
A small lane skirts the western side of the hill, and the lowest of its slopes are wooded. The blue Jaguar was just off this road, on an unpaved track which ran beneath the fresh foliage of forest trees. It was just visible from the lane, but probably only to pedestrians or passengers, because drivers would be too busy peering towards the next bend on their winding route to spot the patch of blue metal in the shade beneath the huge chestnut.
And so for all of the long May day the big car stood unremarked. As the sun dropped away to the west, it caught the side windows of the vehicle, which sparkled brilliantly for a few minutes. But there were no eyes there to notice the car, or to speculate on why it had not moved for so long. Twilight, then dusk, and then the full darkness of the warm spring night, enveloped the quiet scene.
There were insects in the car, though all the windows were tightly closed. Insects always find their way in, in circumstances like this. Busy insects, concentrating on the blackening blood which had brought them there.
Martin Beaumont lay where he had lain now for many hours, slumped sideways in the driver’s seat, with the left half of his head shattered by the bullet which had ended his eventful life.
TWELVE
On Friday morning, Bert Hook was pleased that he had had the foresight to take two days of his leave for his graduation ceremony rather than the one he had originally planned.
As a young man, he had prided himself upon his capacity for beer drinking. But he wasn’t used to champagne and white wine and red wine in yesterday’s quantities, and the final brandy had definitely been a mistake. It must be because he wasn’t used to such things that he had a thick head this morning. It couldn’t possibly be anything to do with the advent of middle age now that he was past forty.
He was glad that this was a school day for the boys. He loved them dearly, but this wasn’t the morning for their boisterous jocularity. He listened to the agreeably distant sounds of domestic contest between Eleanor and the boys and left it as late as he could to join them at the breakfast table.
Jack glanced at his father as he came into the kitchen in his dressing gown. He winked at his younger brother before giving the paternal countenance more prolonged and delighted study. ‘A little the worse for wear are we this morning, Dad?’
Luke glanced towards the door of the utility room, where his mother was loading the washing machine, and decided she was safely out of earshot. ‘I told you he was pissed!’ he insisted delightedly to Jack.
‘Get on with your breakfast, or you’ll be late for school.’ Bert reached for the cereal, poured a helping from the newly opened packet, and found surplus corn flakes dancing across the table.
Jack reached across the table and swept the surplus expertly into his own dish. ‘Drink’s bound to have more of an effect at your age, Dad,’ he said sympathetically. Then, much too loudly, he yelled almost in the paternal ear, ‘Mum? I think we’re going to need the Alka-Seltzer in here!’
His mother entered abruptly and ordered him to look to his own needs. ‘You’ll be at the last minute for that bus as usual, the pair of you.’ She chased them up to their rooms to gather their gear for the day, and came back into the kitchen to catch her husband wincing at the sound of the thundering hooves upon the stairs.
‘Jack might have a point,’ she said with a sigh. Moments later, a fizzing glass was planted beneath Bert’s nose. The sound of bursting bubbles was deafening in his ears. He downed it, stifled a burp and managed his first smile of the day, half relieved and half apologetic.
‘You all right?’ he said.
‘Of course I am. I wasn’t able to drink, was I? I had to drive the family safely home, if you remember. Which of course you may not.’
‘I do. But I overdid it a bit, didn’t I? I’m sorry about that.’
She put an arm round his shoulders and hugged him gently, carefully avoiding his breath. ‘You snored a bit more than usual, and I couldn’t get you to turn over. But you’re allowed to indulge yourself, on an occasion like that.’
The stampeding of the cattle resumed, more headlong this time, as the steers descended the stairs. ‘So long, Dad. Hope the hangover improves,’ called Jack solicitously.
‘There’s no hangover and you’re going to miss that bus!’ said Bert, reckless of the sharp agony which coursed through his forehead.
‘So long, Dad. I won’t tell Mrs Fisher you got pissed!’ Luke called defiantly from the front doorway, and disappeared in a blur of grey flannel before his mother could tax him with the offending word.
‘They’re good lads, but sometimes even better in their absence,’ said Bert Hook, as a blissful silence crept slowly back into the house.
Eleanor left him alone with his thoughts and his slowly diminishing headache. He munched a slice of toast and marmalade at half his usual speed, seeking to restore the world to normal through the steady rhythm of his jaws. He was on his second mug of tea when the phone rang behind him. He hesitated, unwilling to resume contact with the outside world; the ringing was offensive enough in his head to make him realize that his recovery was still at the fragile stage.
‘The Hook residence. Bert speaking,’ he said, in that snooty voice which was a parody of something he had now forgotten.
‘It’s DI Rushton, Bert.’
‘I’m off duty, Chris. On official leave.’
‘You might want to revise that, when you hear this. There’s been a suspicious death. A man shot through the head in his car.’
‘Sounds pretty suspicious, that, right enough. Where?’
‘Not that far from you. Near a hamlet called Howler’s Heath, at the southern end of the Malverns.’
‘Sounds vaguely appropriate.’
‘Chief Superintendent Lambert said I was to let you know.’ It was always safer to pass the buck upstairs, when you were interrupting a man’s leave.
‘Quite right, too. They don’t pick their moments, do they, suspicious deaths? A man can’t even have a peaceful day off.’
But as always, the CID man in him was intrigued. It sounded as though a hunt was beginning, and Bert Hook didn’t want to be left out of it. He drained his beaker at a single gulp and went to get dressed.
Hook was combing his hair in front of the mirror when John Lambert rang. He would pick him up in ten minutes.
At Abbey Vineyards, it was ten o’clock. Martin Beaumont’s PA was wondering whether she should contact his home when the call which made all such considerations irrelevant came through.
Fiona Cooper was an experienced aide to senior executives and directors. She knew when to ask questions and when not to, when to be discreet and when to be forthcoming. But with the police, there was no room for diplomacy, let alone concealment. You had to be forthcoming.
When the cool, detached voice of the man who had announced himself as Inspector Rushton asked her if she knew of the whereabouts of her employer, she did not even think of evasion. ‘I don’t know. I was getting anxious about him myself. I had expected him to be here before now. He has an appointment in half an hour and he usually wishes to make sure that he is well briefed for such meetings.’
‘You will need to cancel all his appointments, unless you think someone else can stand in for him.’
‘Why? What’s happened?’
There was silence at the other end of the phone whilst Chris regrouped. It was a long time since he had done this. Normally he would have sent someone round to break the news of a death, as someone had indeed already been dispatched in search of the wife. But a junior officer might not get the right response and he was anxious to get as many
basic facts as he could, as quickly as he could. ‘I have to tell you that a body has been found. A body which we think is almost certainly that of Mr Beaumont. I should be glad if you would keep this information to yourself for the moment. I shall get in touch with you when we have more facts, probably later in the day.’
‘Was this an accident?’
There had been a long pause from the PA, but no tears, no hysterics. Rushton was thankful for that. ‘I am afraid that I am unable to reveal any further details at the moment, Mrs Cooper. Could you tell me when you last saw Mr Beaumont, please?’
She felt curiously without emotion. This was a man she had served for the last five years, and yet she felt nothing except a profound shock. Perhaps the other things like grief would come to her later. ‘Late on Wednesday afternoon. He was still in his office when I left at five thirty. He told me to go and I think he was almost ready to leave himself.’
‘That is over forty hours ago. Did you not think it strange that you did not see him for the whole of yesterday?’
‘No. Mr Beaumont is the owner of this firm and its chief executive officer. It is his habit not to arrange any appointments for Thursdays if they can possibly be avoided. That leaves him free to visit other parts of the country, other concerns. Perhaps to develop new lines of business. To do anything, in fact, to further the interests of the company.’
‘Or perhaps to pursue more personal concerns?’
Her instinct was to be loyal to her employer. But this was a senior policeman, and a situation which was outside even her wide-ranging experience. She said as severely as she could, ‘It was not my business or my concern to know where Mr Beaumont was and what he was doing for every minute of his day. All I can tell you is that a considerable amount of business has accrued over the years from his Thursday activities.’