Too Much of Water

by J M Gregson

  ‘Good local base of students round here, though. And others will be coming home for the summer from other universities. Looking for the exciting range of products we can supply.’ Hudson smiled; he enjoyed throwing these orthodox retail phrases in, enjoyed the ironic ring they gave to his pronouncements. ‘And no one said you had to confine yourself to students. We’re very liberal about these things.’

  He made it sound easy and straightforward. For an instant, Martin was beguiled anew by the man, by the prospect of vast sums of easy money, by the world of excitement which he had never known before he involved himself in this. He thrust down the gambler in his make-up that wanted to put his very life into the stakes. ‘But my patch, the university campus which I know, will be very quiet. You don’t want me to take unnecessary risks.’

  That was true enough. But to admit it to this petrified man would be seen as a sign of weakness. Roy Hudson spread his expansive smile across his features, became the experienced man encouraging his protégé to develop his potential. ‘Ideal time to strengthen and extend your network, then. Be ready to go when the new term starts. We’ll be watching you and monitoring your progress. I’m sure you’ll do very well, with the stuff we can now supply, and with the strength of our organization to back you up.’

  Hudson now made an elaborate performance of taking a cigar from the box on the table beside him and deciding not to offer one to Martin Carter. He cut and lit the cigar in a slow, elaborate ritual, savouring the way the man’s eyes followed his every movement, like those of a rabbit caught in a headlight. ‘I hope you enjoy more success in the next year than in the last one, Mr Carter. Failure would be most unfortunate. And do remember that leaving us isn’t an option.’

  He blew a smoke-ring at the ceiling and watched it as Martin Carter left the room uncertainly, on legs which refused to work normally.

  Twenty-One

  Judith Hudson was waiting for them on the top step of the four which led up to the front door of the now familiar stone house in the Forest of Dean village.

  ‘My husband isn’t here. He had to go into work early today,’ she said. She smiled at them. Perhaps she divined their thought that they had still not seen how husband and wife behaved together. They couldn’t be certain of anything with this woman. She took them into a sitting room they had not seen before, with prints of nineteenth-century Weston-super-Mare and sixteenth-century Bristol on the walls and an etching of open-cast Forest of Dean mineworkers in a vanished age.

  Mrs Hudson had the same coffee pot they had seen before, the same cups, even what might have been the same home-made gingerbread. And her hand was as steady as ever as she poured.

  But this time they felt that they knew a little more about this affluent middle-class woman who had struck them as so strange, this mother who seemed not at all affected by the murder of her only daughter. Her first husband’s description of her autism made sense of her actions; what they did not know, what no one could be sure of, was the extent of the condition, in this human being who seemed sometimes to exist in a different world from those around her.

  ‘Have you found out who killed Clare?’ she asked, as she consigned a delicate china plate into Bert Hook’s large, careful hands. She might have been making polite conversation about the weather.

  ‘Not yet, Mrs Hudson. We will, though. Quite soon now, I expect.’ He watched her carefully, automatically studying her face for a reaction to this thought. But she merely nodded understandingly, as if accepting an expected answer to a routine query.

  Lambert said sharply, ‘And now your daughter’s ex-husband is dead. Murdered, as Clare was murdered.’

  His repetition of the word which normally brought an automatic chill to members of the public elicited no frisson in this woman. She said merely, ‘I’m not really surprised,’ as if congratulating herself on forecasting a passing shower. Then, having attended to her guests, she picked up her own cup and saucer and sat down unhurriedly in the armchair opposite them.

  Lambert knew now that the niceties of conversational politeness had no meaning with this lady. He said with brutal abruptness, ‘What do you know about the death of Ian Walker?’

  ‘Nothing. Why should I know anything?’ She seemed genuinely puzzled that he should make such an enquiry.

  Lambert said, ‘Detective Sergeant Hook can give you one good reason,’ and nodded at Hook, who flicked open his notebook.

  ‘On the first occasion we interviewed you, Mrs Hudson, you told us that Mr Walker had treated your daughter very badly, in your opinion. You said that he was a “sponger” who continued to give problems, even after they had been divorced. And you said, “I could cheerfully murder the man myself!” ’

  ‘Did I? I suppose I must have done, if you say so.’ They had been hoping to shake even this woman with her damning statement about the dead man, but she seemed not at all abashed, even slightly amused. ‘But it’s understandable that I should feel like that, isn’t it? I mean, Walker was no good to anyone. And worse than no good to Clare. That man took everything he could from her whilst they were married, and he kept trying to get money from her, even after they’d been divorced. No, I can’t say I’m sorry he’s dead.’ She nodded quietly to herself, as if confirming the logic of her opinion on some minor matter, and took a sip of her coffee.

  Lambert said, ‘You do not seem particularly anxious to help us to discover who killed your only daughter, Mrs Hudson.’

  ‘Is that how it appears to you, Superintendent? Well, Clare and I weren’t as close as we might have been, you know. She’d disappointed us, several times, especially in the years since I married Roy. Did I tell you that she still seemed very attached to my first husband?’

  ‘You did, yes.’ He wanted to say that this was hardly surprising, in the circumstances, but he sensed that there was no point in going down that road. ‘You also said that you wanted her to be more cooperative with your second husband. What exactly did you mean by that?’

  For the first time, she seemed discomforted. ‘I don’t know. I can’t think what I might have meant.’

  ‘You weren’t talking just about them getting on better together, were you? You had something specific in mind. Some issue on which she was resisting Mr Hudson, was refusing to do what the two of you wanted.’

  ‘I don’t know. You’ll have to ask Roy about that.’ She had passed in a moment from unnatural calmness into something more disturbed. She looked out of the window at the roses outside, as if she expected salvation of some sort to emerge from the bright colours of the neat beds.

  Lambert let the moment stretch, until she looked back at him in wide-eyed, almost childish panic. This was not a well woman, and he felt his irritation turning with that thought into compassion. But he had to be cruel, if he was to squeeze all he could from this unyielding source. ‘Where were you on the night of Saturday the twenty-first of June, when your daughter was killed, Mrs Hudson?’

  ‘I was here. Here in this house.’

  ‘Alone?’ He tried to put a wealth of scepticism into the single word.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So there is no one who can vouch for your presence here.’

  ‘No. Well, yes, there is really.’ Her hand flew to her mouth, and he was reminded again of a small child who has made a mistake. ‘I’ve got that wrong, you see. Roy was here with me. All through the evening.’

  This time he let his sceptical silence show his reluctance to accept her word. Then he said, ‘So the two of you are providing alibis for each other on that night.’

  ‘Yes.’ Then, far too late, she added, ‘Not that we need alibis for Clare’s death. You should be out catching the person who killed her, not questioning me.’ But it was said automatically, like a bad actor reading wooden lines in a play, rather than with real outrage.

  Lambert said quietly, ‘Where were you on Monday night, Mrs Hudson?’

  ‘This Monday? I was here again, I think.’

  ‘I wish you would. It’s only thirty-six hours ago.
’

  It seemed impossible to provoke anger in her. She ignored the cutting edge in his voice as she said, ‘Yes, I was here. I remember. I was watching the television. Is it important?’

  ‘Ian Walker was killed on Monday night. Someone blew half his head away, with his own shotgun.’

  ‘Yes, of course. It wasn’t me, though. I was here.’

  ‘And no doubt your husband was here with you again on this occasion.’

  ‘No. I was alone. Roy was out on business. He often is, on a Monday night.’

  ‘What kind of business would that be?’

  ‘I don’t know. You’d need to ask Roy.’

  ‘And we shall, in due course. Mrs Hudson, have you any idea who killed either your daughter or Ian Walker?’

  This time it was she who paused, and they thought for a split second of intense excitement that she was going to give them something vital. But then she said, as dully and evenly as an automaton, ‘No. I don’t know who might have done these things.’

  ‘Then please carry on thinking about them. I need hardly say that it is your duty to communicate any thoughts you might have on either of these killings to us immediately.’

  She nodded earnestly, and they were reminded yet again of a dutiful child.

  Chris Rushton was pleased with himself.

  His trawl through the records had produced nothing for either Roy Hudson or his wife. Young Martin Carter had an unblemished record in his previous life, as might have been expected. He put Denis Pimbury into his computer, and the name produced nothing, as he had expected.

  But now the detective inspector had come up with something which made all his patient work worthwhile. It was unexpected, but that made it even more valuable. This would show that hidebound John Lambert the value of modern technology. This might even turn out to be the turning point in the case after ten days of stalemate.

  DI Rushton had turned up something very interesting and very surprising about Clare Mills’s sexual partner Sara Green.

  While Chris Rushton was getting excited about Sara Green, Roy Hudson was taking delivery of his new Mercedes.

  Cars were one of his weaknesses. He didn’t really need a new Merc. The old one had clocked up barely thirty thousand, and these vehicles were built to last. But he fancied the new model, and he could afford the sixty thousand it cost. Business was booming and expanding, so why stint yourself?

  He enjoyed the deference of the salesman as he showed the new owner the few changes in the controls. Then he eased the sleek new maroon machine out of the Cheltenham showroom and indulged himself with a little run in his new toy. The three-litre engine kicked him agreeably in the back when he put his foot down. He joined the M5 and let the new car sweep him effortlessly and gracefully northwards, past Tewkesbury and up to the outskirts of Worcester, enjoying the power beneath his foot, feeling at one with the machine in which he would move for the next two years, gliding effortlessly past Jaguars and Volvos as he let the needle creep up over the hundred mile an hour mark.

  He kept his eye on his rear-view mirror as he stayed in the outside lane: it would be silly to be pinched for speeding, when the police hadn’t a clue about other things which might be of much more interest to them.

  He turned back at Junction 6, enjoying the view of the long ridge of the Malvern Hills on his right as he drove south down the motorway. He visited one of his dealers in his own house near Evesham, savouring the privacy accorded by the high hedges of the house in the narrow lane. The man had done well for himself: that much was apparent from the fittings and the garden of this spacious house. Roy recalled the narrow modern terraced house in Chepstow where the man had resided when he had first employed him. It was good to see people get on. Roy Hudson didn’t mind his staff enjoying the prosperity which success brought to them. They deserved to enjoy the benefits of hard work in a dangerous trade.

  He tried to phone his wife on the car mobile as he drove down the M50 towards Ross-on-Wye. She did not answer. It didn’t really matter. He was sure nothing could have gone wrong. But he would have liked to have Judith’s reassurance on that. He tried again, ten minutes later, but there was still no reply.

  He frowned his annoyance, then eased the speedo needle up over ninety again. He had better go home.

  Judith was in the garden. She had finished weeding around the perennials in the long border; now she was removing the spent blooms from the roses, which were even more dazzling as the sun moved temporarily behind a slowly moving white cloud. ‘They’ve been wonderful this year, haven’t they?’ she said, as he moved over the weedless grass carpet to join her.

  ‘There’s no need for you to do that, you know. Joe will be in tomorrow.’ They had a gardener for two days a week now.

  ‘Oh, I enjoy it. It’s so uncomplicated, gardening. Takes me out of myself. I think I’ll work with Joe when he comes tomorrow. I enjoy that, and I think he does.’

  ‘You didn’t answer your mobile.’

  ‘No. It’s inside the house. I wouldn’t hear it, out here.’

  He tried not to let his irritation show. There was no point, he told himself: he should know that by now. ‘How did you get on?’

  ‘Get on?’

  He wondered if she was being deliberately obtuse, to annoy him, then decided that she wasn’t. Judith wasn’t like that. ‘With the police. They were coming to see you this morning, weren’t they?’

  ‘Oh yes. It’s hours ago now. They didn’t stay long.’

  He didn’t let her see his impatience. It wouldn’t do to accord this visit any real importance. ‘I expect it was just routine, was it?’

  ‘Oh yes, I think so. He’s quite a nice man, that Superintendent Lambert. And that sergeant came with him again. He’s very quiet and friendly. But he likes my gingerbread. I could see that.’

  ‘What did they ask you about?’

  ‘Oh, about Clare again. They seemed to find it odd that I wasn’t more agitated about her death. But I explained that she’d done a lot to upset us. They seemed to understand that, this time.’

  ‘Ken Mills has come back from Australia. Did they tell you that?’

  ‘No. Why would he do that?’

  She was round-eyed with wonder, so that he wanted to shake her, to tell her that it was obvious that a man who had loved his daughter would want to be involved in the investigation of her death. But the feeling passed in an instant; he was used to coping with her reactions by now. Or rather with her lack of reactions. That was part of the package you took on when you lived with Judith. So he said merely, ‘I expect it was for old times’ sake. We both know that he was very fond of Clare, and she of him.’

  ‘Yes. Ken enjoyed having a child, even when she was young. I found it hard work.’

  ‘Did the police give you any idea whether they were planning to arrest someone for Clare’s murder?’ He bent and sniffed a perfectly formed hybrid-tea bloom, studiously unconcerned.

  ‘No. They asked me where I was when she was killed, though.’

  ‘And what did you tell them?’

  ‘What we agreed. That I was here with you all through that Saturday night. That’s correct, isn’t it?’ She was anxious only to please him, seemingly totally unaware of the implications of this for the CID enquiry.

  ‘Yes, that’s what we agreed. Because it’s right, isn’t it? It’s the truth, it’s what really happened.’ He tried not to be too vehement. It was like checking things off with a child. Yet this was a highly intelligent woman, when the circumstances were right. That only made it more difficult for those close to her. Affection welled within him, overcoming his irritation. He put his arm round her shoulder and said, ‘We’ll get through this, Judith. I don’t want you to worry about it.’

  She nodded sagely, like a serious child, as she put more spent roses into the barrow beside her. The one thing she did not seem was worried. ‘Have you time for a sandwich? I’ll get you some lunch now.’

  He watched her quick, expert hands as she cut the bread and
slipped ham and cheese within it in the kitchen. How competent she was, in most things! And how carefully you needed to supervise her in others. He let her make the tea, knowing how she resented interference in her kitchen, then followed her into her favourite room, the small one at the back of the house which looked out over the garden. He took his plate with the sandwiches, smiled affectionately, and said as casually as he could, ‘Did those policemen ask you about Ian Walker?’

  ‘Yes.’ She gave a small, brittle laugh. ‘Apparently I’d told them that I wouldn’t mind killing him myself, when they talked to me about Clare’s death! They raised that with me today. I said it was quite true, but as it happens I hadn’t killed the man!’

  ‘And they accepted that?’

  ‘Oh, I think so. I told them I was here on Monday night, when it happened.’

  ‘That’s right! And that I was here with you. That way, we both account for each other, as we said.’

  She frowned, her small teeth very white as she bit into a sandwich. He knew from her face that there was something wrong, but she made him wait until she had swallowed and her mouth was empty, like a well-mannered child. ‘No. I told him I was here on my own. I’m afraid I got a bit confused about what we’d agreed on that. They’d just been asking me about Clare and I—’

  ‘Where did you say I was on Monday night?’

  ‘Out on business, I think I said. Yes, I’m sure I did.’

  ‘Where? Where was I supposed to be working?’ He wondered if she would catch the tension in his voice.

  ‘Oh, I didn’t tell them that. I knew you wouldn’t want them knowing what you were doing. It’s none of their business, is it? I remember you saying that before.’ She looked quite pleased with herself for that recollection.

  ‘Did they ask you anything more about me?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so. I think I told them you were usually out on a Monday, so they probably accepted that.’

  He watched her as she poured the tea unhurriedly, her face as open and uncomplicated as a child’s. But not as innocent, he thought. ‘Do you think they accepted that neither of us killed Walker?’