by J M Gregson
He picked up Bert Hook on his way to the murder room at the Wye Castle; the Sergeant lived in a village which could be included on a route to the hotel by using some of the myriad lanes of the area. The big car had to run slowly for a mile or so behind a farm tractor, on a road where packs of wool had plodded six centuries earlier at the direction of the first British capitalists.
Was their victim a descendant of that entrepreneurial line which began with the Cistercians in their monasteries? It was a depressing thought: from what they had learned already from his wife and friends, Guy Harrington seemed a markedly less benevolent operator of economic power than those monks who had filled the valleys with sheep and sucked in the gold of Europe to pay for their wool. The exploitation of capital seemed to have a very different philosophical basis in the nineteen-nineties.
The tractor turned at last into a field and Lambert moved thankfully out of second gear. He broke the silence that had prevailed between the two big men since their initial greetings with ‘Any ideas yet about a murderer?’
‘None whatsoever,’ said Hook, so promptly that he must have been anticipating the question. Then, as if he thought this cheerful denial unbecoming in one of his profession, he said, ‘The Munros are trying to hide something, but whether it’s murder or not I wouldn’t be sure.’ He glanced sideways at his chief, but found as he expected that there were to be no great revelations from him at this stage.
‘The key thing is obviously what happened in the two hours after the group broke up. Both Munros have already lied to us about that—how extensively remains to be seen. I wonder which one of them really returned to their room first.’
‘Alison Munro didn’t seem to me a woman who would lie habitually.’ Hook stared steadily away from Lambert and through his side window at a cloud of starlings wheeling round an ineffective scarecrow: he had been ridiculed too often in the past for his susceptibility to dark eyes and soft contours.
Lambert gave a sideways glance of amusement at the profile so resolutely turned towards the fields. ‘But she is married, Bert. Remember, “Though women are angels, yet wedlock’s the devil.” Marriage can make a liar out of an honest woman.’
Hook tried not to look triumphant: he had identified the source of the Superintendent’s quotation, for Lambert had used it on him before. He said calmly, ‘I don’t think Byron can claim to be the best authority on wedlock.’ The starlings twittered a celebratory chorus for his coup as they passed within thirty yards of them; he wound his window right down to allow them maximum effect.
‘If the Open University is going to remove all sense of decorum, I shall have you transferred,’ said Lambert indignantly. ‘You’ll be correcting my little gems next.’
‘Isn’t it Byron who speaks of the critic who had “just enough of learning to misquote”?’ said Hook. This time he could not contain his smile, which broke in full glory over his rubicund features. Wedlock, despite his chief’s view, was a most useful institution; was it not his wife who had directed him to the book reviews in the Observer, whence he had quarried this useful nugget?
There was less evidence of melodrama at the Wye Castle Hotel and Leisure Complex than on the previous day. The manager watched their arrival with anxious eyes, then went back to hopping nervously among staff who, like him, had too little to do in the absence of new guests. Outside the lodges which housed the murder room, there was but a single white police vehicle announcing its presence. But the CID men, levering themselves out of Lambert’s ageing Vauxhall, recognised several unmarked vehicles which belonged to their team.
The clouds were high, but they raced on a brisk breeze above the ivy-clad crenellations. They walked beneath the high wall whence Guy Harrington had fallen to his death. Lambert was not sure whether he wished to tune his mind to detection by visiting the spot where he was sure Harrington had died, or whether he merely wished to savour the view over the Wye which the hotel used so prominently in its brochure. Probably, he thought, the latter, for the panorama they came upon so suddenly at the corner of the old building was both spectacular and uplifting.
They were probably two hundred feet above the river, which wound its way in a leisurely horseshoe through the rich green base of the valley, as it had done for thousands of years. It was a stretch which might have been designed to illustrate the fascination of water in a view. At the extremes to right and left, where the river curved in wide reaches until it disappeared beneath trees, its deep blue was so undisturbed that it might almost have been static. But at its nearest point, where it squeezed the golf course to its narrowest width below the professional’s shop, the waters rushed in a gentle turbulence over an ancient and long-disused ford, so that the water whitened and sparkled in the bright sun. It was near enough and their surroundings were quiet enough for them to catch that most ancient and beguiling sound known to the ears of men: the sound of water swirling and chuckling over stones.
Beyond the quadrangles of residences was a bowling green where a sprinkler made miniature rainbows against the sun. Here three men sat on a bench with their backs to the buildings, looking over the edge of the green to the beauty of the river and its valley. Lambert recognised the natural tonsure of George Goodman easily, then from closer quarters the grey-flecked ginger of Sandy Munro and the longer golden locks of Tony Nash.
One of the by-products of a murder inquiry is to make those who are investigated feel sensitive about innocent actions which they feel will be observed and misinterpreted. Lambert, wondering now if the earnest colloquy of these three men carried sinister implications, realised that the corresponding strain in those who investigated was to suspect conspiracy where harmless and desultory conversation was probably all that existed.
Goodman’s first words might have been designed to underline how ridiculous were such assumptions. He was the first to see Lambert and Hook. He called, ‘Good morning, gentlemen!’ and came forward to receive them like a genial host. ‘This is a pleasant place to be incarcerated, is it not?’ He gestured with a wide arm at the natural glories behind him. ‘I can understand that you should wish us to see out the time we had booked here, and of course we are only too anxious to see this matter cleared up.’
Lambert had remained noncommittal for as long as possible: it was always interesting to ascertain whether suspects would reveal things about their state of mind by talking too much, even when their matter was trivial. He said with a smile, ‘We find that respectable citizens like you are always anxious to help.’
‘Do you think it was murder?’ Tony Nash spat the question like one weary of insincere exchanges. After Goodman’s half-humorous circumlocutions, his directness seemed the more stark. His right hand grasped his left forearm unnaturally hard, as if it was the only way he could keep his limbs still. The stance make Lambert alter his plans for his first interview of the day.
‘I’m afraid certain things about this death point that way. You wouldn’t expect me to go into detail. You’ll hear what they are clearly enough at the inquest, I expect. As one of the discoverers of the corpse, you’ll be asked to give evidence, of course.’
There was no need yet to tell them that Harrington had crashed to his death on the gravel; there was always the chance that guilty men might betray themselves by revealing knowledge they should not have. But he thought wryly that all his suspects were intelligent enough to make the obvious deductions from the elaborately cordoned areas around the house.
Nash looked very tense at the thought of the inquest. It was Goodman who said, like a tactful man changing a delicate subject, ‘We’ve just decided that as we have to be here, we might as well play golf, as we intended to do before this tragedy. Unfortunately, we now find ourselves one short of the four-ball we expected to play. We can play three, of course, but I’m afraid we should always be conscious then of our missing colleague. I don’t suppose you would have the time or the inclination to join us for a game some time, Superintendent? Your Inspector told us you were a single figure man.’
Lambert was for a moment as disconcerted as they were. At once amused and aghast, he found himself picturing the faces of Bert Hook and Christopher Rushton if he played. Not to mention that of the Chief Constable if he came to hear of it, as he undoubtedly would. It was unthinkable that he should accept the invitation.
‘I should be delighted,’ he said. ‘If the circumstances of the investigation permit it.’ He noted with satisfaction the dismay of Nash and Munro, even perhaps a fleeting surprise on the urbane features of Goodman that his bluff should be called so promptly. He did not dare to glance at Hook. ‘Not this morning, though. Perhaps I might join you for a game this afternoon, if my schedule will allow it?’
‘That would be admirable, Superintendent.’ If Goodman’s equilibrium had indeed been shaken, there was no sign of it when he spoke. ‘We’ll play a few holes on our own this morning, then hope to see you on the tee at, shall we say, two-fifteen?’
‘I shall look forward to that,’ said Lambert, drawn into the conventional courtesies even in these bizarre circumstances. ‘But I’m afraid I must deprive you of Mr Nash for a while: I need to check his recollection of events on the night of the death.’
Nash must have known this would come sooner or later, but he looked thoroughly miserable about it, like a man answering the summons he has long expected to the dentist’s chair. It was left to Goodman to answer suavely, ‘Of course, of course. We shall look forward to your company this afternoon, Mr Lambert, if duties permit.’
‘I should be ready for you in about a quarter of an hour, Mr Nash,’ said Lambert. He turned swiftly on his heel and left them; Bert Hook followed him with what he hoped was a deadpan face. This ridiculous game clearly upset the judgement of people who should know much better by now. Ahead of him, Lambert was nursing the thought that it would be interesting to study the interactions of those three in a supposedly relaxed context; he wondered how far that was a rationalisation of his impulsive acceptance of Goodman’s invitation.
He was well on his way to the Murder Room before he noticed Sergeant Johnson, who was in charge of the Scene of Crime team. The officer had that indefinable air of importance which stiffens the back of men charged with news. He was standing by the corner of a long, single-storey brick building which must once have been stables but now accommodated a variety of golf-course machinery and other implements. Lambert went over to examine the object which was the source of his restrained excitement.
It was a heavy wooden wheelbarrow, with a steel rim on its single heavy wheel. Probably fifty years old and dating from the days of the private estate, its sturdy workmanship proclaimed that it was good for many years of service yet. But it had now fulfilled its single dramatic function in this long working life.
For Johnson said, ‘This is the means employed to move the body, sir.’ He was already anticipating the convoluted phrasing of the courtroom. ‘The wheel fits the only tracks found within twenty yards of the body. And forensic have just confirmed that the fibres we found at each end of this came from the back of Harrington’s cardigan and trousers.’
Both of them gazed for a moment at the unremarkable contrivance that had suddenly been invested with a sickly glamour. It was all too easy to picture Harrington’s heavy torso bouncing over the hard ground at dead of night in its last cradle, his legs dangling grotesquely between the handles smooth with use, his eyes gazing unseeingly at the cold stars above.
But they were policemen both. Their thoughts sprang quickly to speculation about the last hands to have gripped those shining, innocent handles.
Chapter 12
Tony Nash was not at ease.
When he came into the interview room, it was his attempt to seem relaxed which drew attention to his discomfort. He sat down quickly in the chair indicated to him and folded his arms; his fingers moved nervously over his sweater sleeves. Hook watched them playing their repetitive tune against the light blue lambswool, wondering whether their owner could still control them if he chose.
Nash had the wide shoulders of a powerful, stocky man. Lambert, looking at the longish blond hair with its hint of disarray, was reminded of a cinema Tarzan he thought he had long forgotten. Nash was handsome enough to carry such a part: his features had the regular lines of a romantic novel’s cover. Except that there was something just slightly wrong about this fresh-faced beauty: the features were infinitesimally too small for the head and the shoulders beneath them. The prettiness of a woman’s face sat where something more rugged and durable might have been expected.
The end of a pink tongue moistened the delicate lips and Nash said, ‘I am only too anxious to help, of course, Superintendent, but I very much doubt if I can add much to what you already know.’
It was a conventional opening, but delivered flatly enough to reveal it as a prepared sentiment. Perhaps he expected Lambert to say, ‘Best let us be the judges of that, Mr Nash.’ If so, he was disappointed, for the Superintendent did no more than nod an acknowledgement, as if he had scarcely registered the thought. Then he said, ‘I take it that you came here this week for no other purpose than to play golf, Mr Nash?’
Nash was immediately disconcerted. Probably it was merely by the directness of Lambert’s approach, but he might have suspected a reference to his nocturnal activities with the striking Miss Peters. He said, ‘That was the primary purpose for all the men. Meg doesn’t play. Alison Munro does, but she hasn’t been playing this week.’
‘Quite. I understand that you are sharing a double room with Miss Peters.’
‘Yes, but that is surely hardly—’
‘I ask only because we must be sure of the disposition of the party at the time of Mr Harrington’s death, Mr Nash. You must be aware that that is a point of crucial importance.’
Nash relaxed, it seemed by a deliberate effort of will. ‘Yes, I see. You mean that we might be able to clear each other of any involvement in this business.’
‘Possibly. Unless of course you planned the business together.’ Lambert, though he knew it ignoble, enjoyed the suggestion and the concern it caused his hearer.
‘I didn’t kill Guy. And neither did Meg.’ Nash’s fingers had at last stopped moving; they were gripping tight on his upper arms, so that he looked like a child made to fold his arms against his will.
‘Perhaps not. You will appreciate that we shall probably only be certain about that when we arrest the person who did. If you are not involved, your best policy will be to conceal absolutely nothing. I’m already collecting lies like blackberries in this investigation.’ He did not care whether or not it was an exaggeration. He had no intention of indulging in preliminary fencing with this man.
Nash looked agreeably startled. His blue eyes widened a little and he said as aggressively as he could, ‘I see. Well, you certainly haven’t collected any from me.’ Then he grinned weakly as the realisation struck him and said, ‘But then, we’ve hardly spoken yet.’
‘Scarcely at all. Tell me, Mr Nash, did you see anything in your first two days here that seems significant now, in the light of Mr Harrington’s violent death?’
‘No. Nothing at all.’ He seemed immediately aware that he had spoken too quickly to have given the matter proper thought, for his faced flushed in the silence the two experienced men opposite him allowed him to hang on his abrupt denial. But he had the sense not to fill the silence with any imprudent disclosure. He was intelligent, with the shrewdness that came from twenty years of successful work at a variety of levels: he was not going to be ruffled as easily as his initial demeanour had indicated.
Lambert reminded himself wearily that the innocent as well as the guilty were made nervous by
police inquiries. He said, ‘And yet you must have been with Guy Harrington for most of the time.’
‘I suppose so. We played golf most of the day, and ate together in the evenings.’
‘In all probability you conducted one or both of these activities with the person who killed your friend. So you can see the importance of my question.’
‘It needn’t have been one of us.’
‘Indeed not. There are other possibilities, and they are being investigated. That is why I said “in all probability”.’
‘And he wasn’t my friend.’ This was an unexpected assertion; even if they had suspected it, it was unusual for someone close to a murdered man to confess so much so boldly. ‘I worked for him, that was all. He was all right to play golf with, most of the time.’
‘Was he a good employer?’ This was Bert Hook, coming in when their subject had almost forgotten him, and as usual disconcerting him by the unexpectedness of the intervention. Bert, who had moved straight from his Barnardo’s home into the world of men at the age of sixteen, knew a good deal about the habits of employers, good and bad.
‘No. The best thing was to keep well out of his way and get on with your job.’ Hook reflected that many men had made themselves rich by encouraging that philosophy among the men they paid. ‘He was a bastard. Took all he could get from you, then let you down.’
‘How?’ said Lambert sharply.
Nash looked like a man who had gone further than he meant to, but realised that he could scarcely draw back now. ‘I’m his Sales Manager in the plastics division. I worked it up from nothing. The products were good enough, but they needed selling, like anything else. When I’d done all the hard work, he pegged my salary. That didn’t worry me that much—I thought it was time to move on anyway. But when I tried, I got nowhere. Not even interviews. Eventually I found he was writing references which ensured no one would even look at me.’