by J M Gregson
‘And where did you go, Mr Morton?’
‘I came here. Went through my files whilst it was quiet, trying to find something to help me to challenge Martin. I know I could have done that during the day, but somehow I thought that if I had complete privacy I’d have a better chance of finding something.’ He paused, hearing how lame that sounded. ‘And all right, I hoped I’d be able to get into Martin’s own files, to find something from years back that I could use against him to make him deliver at last. I had a key to his office, but I couldn’t get at anything in there. Fiona Cooper is far too competent to allow access to her employer’s private affairs.’ Through his bitterness, there was a strain of reluctant admiration for the PA’s efficiency.
‘And what time did you return home, Mr Morton?’ No one would have guessed from Bert Hook’s quiet prompting that he was recording what might be the preamble to a confession of murder.
‘I can’t be precise. But it was definitely after midnight. There were no lights visible in the avenue and Amy was in bed and asleep.’
The three men in the room were silent, watching Hook’s swift, round hand record the evidence that there might be a murderer amongst them.
The scene was an appealing mix of ancient and modern. The small block of flats was new and the orange of its bricks still a little brash, even in the twilight. But it was framed by tall oaks on either side which had been there since they were planted almost two hundred years ago, after the Napoleonic wars had denuded the area of timber for the ships of Nelson’s fleet. The long reach of the Wye which ran softly sixty yards to the south had scarcely changed in two thousand years.
Gerry Davies wondered if the new red sweater he had donned as leisure wear was too bright. He looked over the darkening river through the first-floor window and said conventionally, ‘You’ve got yourself a nice spot here, Sarah.’ He turned away from the view at the window and sat down carefully on the black and white sofa, beside the low table with its single small silver ornament. He felt not exactly guilty but a little embarrassed to be alone in this minimalist environment with a pretty woman who was a full generation younger than him. Young enough to be his daughter, as an amused Bronwen had reminded him when he had told her he was coming here.
Sarah Vaughan brought in her gin and tonic and his beer, setting them carefully upon coasters on the table between them. The sage green of her top and the darker green of her trousers fitted with the muted taste of the decor. Slipping off her shoes and curling her feet beneath her on the chair opposite her visitor, she contrived to look more relaxed than she felt. ‘I like it here. I probably paid an extra ten thousand for the position, but I felt I could afford it, once I’d got the salary at Abbey Vineyards.’
‘Yes. Martin was never a bad payer, if you gave him what he needed. Work-wise, I mean!’ Davies added hastily, and only made his unintended innuendo more pointed.
She grinned at Gerry and his embarrassment. His small gaffe had eased the tension, not added to it. ‘I wanted to talk to you about this police investigation.’
‘I’m sorry I let out what Martin had done to you. I didn’t know you hadn’t told them.’
‘That’s all right. I’ve got over it now. It wasn’t your fault, anyway.’ They’d had words about it earlier in the day when he’d revealed what he’d said, but she’d realized since then that she needed all the help she could get. ‘You only saw them last night, after they’d talked to everyone else. I was wondering how much they’d found out about us all. Do you think they’re near to an arrest?’
‘I don’t know. They gave me the impression of knowing an awful lot about us, without telling me anything they didn’t want to. I suppose they’re experts at that.’
And you’d be putty in their hands, thought Sarah irritably; you’re far too trusting for your own good. But that was unfair. It was no good resenting the very qualities in the man which had made her trust him and go to him for advice when she was new in her job. ‘I’ve heard they’re looking for people who might have seen a strange car in or near Howler’s Heath last Wednesday night. Do you know if they’ve found anyone?’
‘No. They didn’t say. But they were on to the fact that we all wanted more of a say in the way things were being run at the vineyard. And they knew that Martin wasn’t having any of it. I believe they think someone who wanted more say in policy might have killed him.’
‘And what about other motives?’
He was quiet for a moment, sensing her anxiety, wanting to offer her something which might make up for his gaffe of the previous day. ‘They said Martin had an eye for the ladies. That’s when I let it out that he’d made a pass at you.’
‘Rather more than a pass, Gerry. I could have dealt with a pass easily enough. Do you think they’ve found out much about his sex life?’
‘I don’t know. I couldn’t tell them much. I told them Vanda used to be his mistress, but they already knew that.’
‘They’ll come back to me, you know. Do you think there’s anything I should be prepared for?’
He thought hard, still searching for something to compensate for his mistake in revealing the attack she had previously concealed from them. ‘No. They get as much as they can from you, without telling you much. I’m sorry.’
Gerry Davies stood up. He wanted suddenly to be away from here, to be within the walls of his shabbier and more comfortable house, with the photographs and the memories of children, who could never have lived in this tidy, aseptic place.
She had been about to bring him another beer, but she sensed his mood and shared it. Perhaps things would never be as they had been again between them. On an impulse, she stood on tiptoe and kissed him lightly on the forehead, without putting her arms around him. ‘I never had a dad, you know. He left us when I was two. Sent us money and all that, but I never saw him.’
He was at once embarrassed and pleased. ‘And I never had a daughter. Two hulking sons, but no daughters!’ He put his hands on her shoulders, pulled her lightly towards him and pressed his lips against her forehead as lightly as she had kissed his. ‘Everything will be all right, you know,’ he said at the door.
‘Of course it will, Gerry!’
She stood for a long moment with her forehead against the door when she had shut it behind him, wondering if that could ever be so.
TWENTY-THREE
Vanda North put the phone down and stared at it for a moment before turning back to Jane Beaumont. ‘They’re coming at ten. I think it would be better if you weren’t here then.’
‘Right. I can be on my way in twenty minutes.’ Jane didn’t question Vanda’s judgement. Still less did she resent it. She had learned swiftly that her new friend knew more than she did about the world and the people who lived in it. Accepting Vanda’s guidance had added to her confidence rather than diminished it. It was a long time since she had had a friend that she could rely on. She relished the feeling of trust which had grown up so quickly between them.
They had already finished their breakfast and the clock on the kitchen wall told her that it was two minutes past nine. Jane had nothing to pack, because she hadn’t intended to stay the night. By twenty-five past nine, she was easing the grey Audi out of the narrow entrance to the old cottage and waving farewell to her friend. She enjoyed the drive home. The sun was already high above the fresh spring green of the trees and the Wye ran for a mile or two beside her, appearing and disappearing as the road rose and fell beside its winding course. She tried not to conjecture about where Vanda and she might be in six months’ time, but it was too pleasant a speculation to stay out of her mind for long.
Back in the thatched cottage, Vanda North was busy removing all traces of her friend’s presence. There was no reason why the police should not know that Jane had been here overnight, but neither was there any reason for them to know more of her private life than she chose to concede to them. Murder might allow them to open doors which in any other circumstances would have remained firmly shut, but there was no reason why
they should learn any more than they had to.
She put the toothbrush she had lent to Jane carefully back in her bathroom cabinet and shut the door upon it. Then she went downstairs and stowed the dishes she had left draining in the kitchen cupboards. For no reason she could define, it was important to her to give her visitors the impression that she had breakfasted alone.
The two CID men came precisely at ten, as she had expected. The tall man with the grey eyes which seemed to see everything and his sergeant with the notebook and the deceptively friendly attitude; Vanda was determined not to underestimate them.
‘We need to clarify certain issues, in the light of what we have learned from a variety of other sources,’ said Lambert.
‘I’m here to help you,’ said Vanda with a strained smile.
‘What do you think will be the future of Abbey Vineyards?’
This was a tack she hadn’t expected. ‘I’ve really no idea.’
‘You must have thought about it. You’re a shareholder in the business. The only one still alive.’
‘I presume Jane will inherit Martin’s assets, including the business. I don’t know yet how active a role she will choose to adopt.’ She knew it sounded stiff and unyielding, but she saw no reason to confide the discussions she and Jane had had about the future. That was no one’s business but their own. ‘I can’t see what this has to do with the investigation of a murder.’
‘It has a connection. A week ago, you and several other people who occupy senior posts at Abbey Vineyards were interested in acquiring greater control of policy. The late owner was resisting you — successfully, it seems, for he had arranged things legally so that all the power was in his hands.’
‘Yes. I told you as much when I spoke to you on Sunday.’
‘You told us about your own situation, about how even your junior partnership in the firm had been defined by Mr Beaumont, so that it gave you no power to influence policy. We now know that several other senior staff were frustrated because they could neither acquire shares in the company nor have any say in its future development.’
‘I am aware of that. Perhaps, as you say, they will now get that say. I hope so.’
‘We have to consider the possibility that there may have been a conspiracy between two or more people to remove the man who stood in the way of such change.’
Vanda allowed herself a sour smile. They were floating theories; they didn’t know anything for certain. ‘I see the possibility. Therefore I shall tell you formally that I was not part of any such conspiracy; nor do I have any knowledge that any alliance of that sort existed. Chief Superintendent Lambert, I do not know who killed Martin Beaumont. Nor, if I am honest, do I care very much: Martin gave me ample reason to wish him out of my life. But that does not mean I will not give you every assistance I can in discovering his killer, because murder is not a solution of which I approve.’
No sign passed between the two men that Vanda could see, but the questioner suddenly became DS Hook. ‘Could you tell us again where you were on the evening and night of last Wednesday, Ms North?’
She allowed herself a patient, understanding smile. ‘Yes. That hasn’t changed. I was where I told you I was on Sunday — at the house of Jane Beaumont.’
Hook nodded. ‘The reason I ask you to confirm that is that Mrs Beaumont has changed her story. She originally told us that she was alone; she now says that you were in the house with her. You will realize, I’m sure, that this gives her an alibi she did not previously possess for the time of her husband’s death.’
‘Then I am happy to provide it. I think I told you on Sunday that Jane was confused on that night, I think because of an excessive use of prescription drugs. I am happy if my presence in the house clears her of direct involvement in this crime. I am myself quite certain that she had no connection with it.’
‘Thank you. You said just now that you would give us “every assistance”. Will you now tell us in confidence who you think might have put that bullet into Martin Beaumont’s skull, please?’
It was an unexpectedly blunt challenge from this quiet, considerate man. Shock tactics, perhaps. Well, it wouldn’t shock her. Vanda North said, ‘I’ve given that much thought, as I expect others also have. I have no name to offer you, I’m afraid.’
Tom Ogden did not immediately recognize his visitors. The two men stood awkwardly in the doorway of the old shippon which had become his administrative headquarters for the strawberry farm. He thought he had seen them before, but he was not sure where.
It was the younger man who introduced them. ‘This is Alistair Morton and I’m Jason Knight. We’re working neighbours of yours. We’re from Abbey Vineyards.’
This man Knight spoke nervously, as Tom would have expected him to do. He had never made any secret of his dislike for his more powerful neighbour. But today something protected them from his immediate, open hostility. He needed to know how this murder investigation was going. Up the road at Abbey Vineyards, the staff were no doubt busy comparing notes, whereas he was isolated and alone, picking up none of the rumours about what the police might or might not now know. He said gruffly, ‘You’d better come in and sit down.’
It was not really an office. There was a table but no desk, and four chairs in various stages of disrepair which did not match each other. Knight and Morton sat down gingerly on the two which looked most robust, whilst Ogden placed himself on the other side of the table. Tom was not a patient man. Instead of waiting for them to announce why they had come here, he launched into his most urgent query. ‘Have they got anyone for killing Beaumont yet?’
Jason Knight’s smile was bleak and humourless. ‘All of us are wondering about that. Including the man who shot him, I presume.’
‘They know it was a man, then?’
‘No, I don’t think they do. I was making an assumption.’
‘But it needn’t be a man, need it? A woman could have shot him just as easily.’ Ogden was anxious for anything which would broaden the field of suspects; it sounded as though he was computing the odds against his own arrest. It was probably no more than a natural nervousness when you were a murder suspect, Jason decided. He said, ‘We just wanted to discuss the future with you, Mr Ogden.’
‘It’s Tom. And if you’ve come to persuade me to sell you this place, you’ve wasted your journey.’ His jaw set in a firm line and he stared his visitor straight in the face for the first time, emboldened by the familiar instinct to protect his ground.
Alistair Morton said quietly, ‘We’re not here to offer you money, Tom. We couldn’t do that, even if we wanted to. We don’t know what the future of our firm is yet, nor even whether we’ll have a part in it.’
Tom looked at him for a moment, then nodded brusquely. He liked the look of this older of the two men. Probably the first, subconscious reason was that he could have dealt with him easily in a fight. He was not conscious of any such reaction in himself, but when you worked with your hands in an environment where bodily strength and stamina were important qualities, you felt easier when you started with a physical advantage. Morton was older and slighter than Knight, and a direct contrast in appearance and manner to the blond, ebullient Martin Beaumont who had been his ogre over the years. Ogden said gruffly, ‘What is it you want, then?’
‘We have different ideas about the way our firm should go than Beaumont had. As our nearest neighbour, we’d like to know what you think of them.’
‘How different?’
Alistair took a deep breath. Privately, though he had agreed they should come here, he had not expected that they would even get a hearing from Tom Ogden. He decided the best introduction he could offer was to declare a dislike of his late employer. ‘I’m the financial director at Abbey Vineyards. I’m also the oldest employee, now that the founder is dead. I was in the business from the start, and I don’t mind telling you that Beaumont made some dodgy deals and did some hairy things, particularly in those early days. He also made certain promises to me about the fu
ture of the firm, on which he failed to deliver. To put it bluntly, he lied to me. He gave me his word on some important things and later denied it absolutely, because it suited him. I didn’t like him any more than you did, Tom.’
‘Fair enough. What difference does that make to either of us now?’
‘Maybe none at all. Maybe quite a big one. That’s what we’re here to discuss.’
‘I’m not going to sell out. You’ve wasted your time if you think I am.’
‘That might well be so, Tom. We’re not fools. We’re not here to offer you the moon. We wouldn’t propose anything that wasn’t in our interests as well as yours. And as Jason says, we can’t yet offer anything definite. It’s just that if there was a measure of agreement amongst the three of us, that would strengthen our hands in whatever negotiations we may choose to undertake with other interested parties.’
Ogden was interested despite himself. Over twenty years and more, the situation with Beaumont had been black and white; he had never needed to think twice about his rejection of that odious man’s proposals. But if he was going to have to deal with a group of people, perhaps making more subtle suggestions than Beaumont ever had, he would be at a disadvantage. He was an independent farmer, proud of his yeoman stock. He knew every yard of his land and he made his own decisions. But that meant he had little experience of negotiation.
Secretly, Tom Ogden feared being outsmarted. The kind of situation where you conceded one thing to gain another was foreign to him, and he felt he was too impulsive and excitable to handle it well. If he could indeed reach some agreement with these qualified, experienced men, he would feel much more confident in dealing with others. He said cautiously, ‘I can see that we are all in a new situation. What is it you want to discuss with me?’