Dead on Course

by J M Gregson

  If Goodman was dissimulating, he did it well. It was with an air of reluctance that he said, ‘No. Rather the reverse, I think. I’m no expert on modern fashions, but I’d say he fancied himself as rather a dapper dresser.’

  ‘Did he appear preoccupied when you were on the course?’

  Goodman thought carefully, with the air of balancing his loyalty to a friend against his public duty to be as informative as possible to the representatives of the law. ‘No. As far as I can remember, we both played reasonably well. Tony smoked more cigarettes than I’ve ever seen him use before, but he seemed to find the physical activity a release.’

  ‘And you played quite a few holes before you came across the body.’

  ‘Yes. Eleven, to be precise. We’d agreed to play to the twelfth, which you may remember is conveniently near the clubhouse. In fact, we were just completing the eleventh when one of the green staff shouted to us from that hollow where Guy was lying. I suppose, strictly speaking, it was he who found the body, though of course he had no idea who it was.’

  Lambert watched Hook’s busy ballpoint for a moment, as if waiting for him to catch up with developments. Then he said quietly, ‘What was Tony Nash’s reaction to the body? Was he as totally surprised as you would expect an innocent man to be?’

  Goodman considered the matter carefully. These men would be asking others about his own reactions, no doubt. It was an uneasy thought, which he had not directly considered earlier. He shrugged his episcopal shoulders, inclined the tonsorial head like one unwilling to be uncharitable to anyone, least of all his friend. ‘Tony was shocked, as one would expect. As, indeed, I was myself. I was too upset to take much note of whether Tony was behaving naturally. I wouldn’t know what naturally is, anyway. I haven’t an extensive experience of finding dead bodies.’ It was a perfectly valid point, and he knew it. He permitted himself a small, acerbic smile.

  Lambert had expected nothing more. But this seemed suddenly an area worth probing; he sensed an unease beneath the comfortable shell of courtesy. ‘As I told you earlier, the body had been moved to that spot from the point of the actual murder. I want you to review the moment of discovery now with that knowledge in mind. To put it bluntly, either Tony Nash was as shocked as any innocent person would be to discover the corpse, or he was a murderer pretending a surprise and horror which he did not feel. I can’t expect you to distinguish between the two, as you have already indicated. But a murderer might have been surprised to find the corpse in that particular place. Unless he had himself moved the body: at this stage we have an open mind about that possibility. With the benefit of hindsight, can you recall anything in the bearing of Tony Nash which might suggest he was surprised to find the remains of Guy Harrington in that hollow on the course?’

  Lambert, even as he put the question, fancied he had set an impossible task: it would surely be impossible to distinguish between two sorts of shock in such circumstances. But if Goodman tried to implicate Nash, that would open up fascinating possibilities, for it might indicate a killer accepting the bait to incriminate someone else. Lambert tried to appear unexcited during a long, almost theatrical pause, while Goodman stared over his head at the wall behind him, apparently in deep and dutiful concentration.

  Eventually Goodman sighed and said, ‘It’s impossible to say, Superintendent. We were both under stress, obviously. Perhaps I didn’t even notice Tony’s reaction very much—one is overcome by one’s own emotions at moments like that. I must say I wasn’t too surprised when you told us earlier that Guy’s body had been moved from the place where he met his death. I wonder if Tony would say the same thing.’

  ‘We shall find out in due course,’ said Lambert with a small, grim smile. ‘Are you able to go any further?’

  Goodman hesitated; for a moment, Lambert wondered if he was actually enjoying this. ‘I think it must have been something about the way the body was lying. With the stomach up in the air and the feet and head sloping down on either side of the mound, I mean. I didn’t put the thought into words until you spoke to us about it earlier, but I suppose I thought it was an odd position for anyone to fall into. When you said he had been dumped there, it suddenly seemed to make a lot more sense.’

  He had led them elaborately down a cul-de-sac. But it might be perfectly innocent. Goodman had the air of a man clarifying his own thoughts while trying earnestly to help them. Lambert concealed his disappointment with a curt nod to Hook to take up a different, more routine line of questioning. The Sergeant said briskly, ‘We need an account of your movements after the party broke up on the night of the murder.’

  ‘Of course. Though I’m afraid it’s quite dull. The six of us talked for quite a long time on the roof, as I’m sure the others have told you. That’s when I probably had a little too much brandy for my very limited capacity. When we broke up, I went straight back to my room. And so, almost immediately, to bed.’

  ‘Were there any witnesses to this?’

  ‘Regrettably no, Sergeant. Harrington and I had single rooms. The other two couples are no doubt able to speak for each other, but I saw no one after I left the roof until I met Tony Nash next morning.’

  Lambert saw no reason to tell him that the two couples involved seemed to be getting themselves into incriminating tangles rather than helping each other. Instead he said abruptly, ‘What were your own feelings towards Harrington, Mr Goodman?’

  The avuncular features showed no sign of tension; Goodman must have expected that they would come to this. His answer had the ring of a prepared statement. ‘We were golfing friends. That is all. You can play golf with a man without approving of him, you know.’

  ‘Indeed I do. Though the association is usually a little closer when one chooses to go away on a golfing holiday with someone.’

  ‘I suppose so. Oh, Guy could be agreeable enough company when he chose to be so. Which I suppose was for most of the time.’

  Lambert studied him closely, then said, ‘I don’t think it will be news to you that Harrington has emerged from our investigation as a thoroughly unlikeable man. You are far too intelligent to have expected anything else. I must ask you to be more specific about your own relationship with him.’

  ‘I didn’t like him.’ For the first time, Goodman was tight-lipped. The contrast with his previous expansiveness made it quite apparent, to him as to them. He said after a moment, ‘I didn’t kill him.’

  Lambert ignored the lame disclaimer and ventured, ‘I believe you hated him, Mr Goodman. Quite enough to wish him dead.’

  As he had intended, the man opposite him made the almost inevitable assumption. ‘I suppose the others told you that. All right, I suppose that’s fair enough. We got along on the surface, but that was all. I was quite glad when I looked into that hollow near the twelfth and saw him dead.’

  ‘And why did you hate him, Mr Goodman?’ Not for the first time, Hook noted the contrast in Lambert’s own style, between the esoteric line of inquiry he had tested earlier and the rapid series of more direct questions now.

  Goodman was ruffled by the change. ‘I —I did some work for him. I’m an architect, you know. An extension to his works. Guy took a long time to pay. We couldn’t—’

  ‘Are you saying that you felt strongly enough to wish a man dead over a disagreement about payment?’

  Goodman’s shoulders, which had earlier shrugged with the control of a mannered gesture, now twitched; Lambert could not be sure whether in anger or despair. ‘It sounds odd, I know. But somehow things just went from bad to worse.’

  This time it was Lambert who paused, letting the feebleness of this explanation hang between them for a moment. Then he said, ‘Harrington had a reputation as an unscrupulous ladies’ man, I believe.’ He was sure there must be a more direct and brutal modern term.

  But the effect on Goodman was startling enough. The blue-grey eyes, so benevolent in the persona he presented successfully to the world around him, widened in resentment. He said unsteadily, ‘I believe so. I wo
uldn’t know much about it.’

  His whole bearing gave the lie to that. Lambert said, ‘Forgive me, Mr Goodman, but this is a murder inquiry. I presume your wife knew Harrington.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘For a number of years?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I have to ask you if there was at any time between them a relationship which went beyond mere friendship.’

  ‘Why do you “have to ask”?’ Goodman attempted irony, but it came out as almost a snarl.

  ‘Because sexual jealousy is behind a very high percentage of murders.’ As Goodman became more disturbed, his interlocutor grew more icily calm.

  ‘Anne never had an affair with Harrington. She hated him as much as I did. Now, are you satisfied?’

  Lambert made no attempt to answer a question he took to be rhetorical. Nor to remind Goodman that hatred was a passion not too far removed from love, once love went wrong. Instead he said, ‘And what about your own relationship with Mrs Harrington, Mr Goodman?’

  Goodman’s gasp made even the outwardly impassive Hook look up from his notes. He said, ‘I don’t have to answer this, you know.’

  ‘Indeed no, Mr Goodman. Your knowledge of the law would tell you that. But as a JP, you would no doubt be anxious to help the police with their inquiries into a serious crime.’ Lambert was as bland and assured as Goodman had been when he came into the room.

  Goodman made a wretched attempt to recover his former panache. ‘That is so, of course. You must forgive me; personal involvement in a murder inquiry seems to upset one’s normal standards.’ He smoothed his palms unnecessarily down the white fringe of hair at each side of his head. ‘Marie Harrington and I have known each other for years. We have been close friends—nothing more. Is that what you wanted to know?’

  ‘She seems to have been well aware of her husband’s sexual liaisons. Have you had occasion to consult with or assist her at any time in relation to his various affairs?’

  ‘No.’ The monosyllable came too quickly, too vehemently. ‘We’ve known each other for twenty years and more. Through good times and bad. I suppose I may have provided a shoulder to cry on at times. Nothing more. I can’t even remember, so it can’t be very significant!’

  Lambert was intrigued by the manner rather than the content of his replies. Goodman’s excitement during their recent exchanges convinced him there was something to be unearthed here, though whether it would prove of relevance to Harrington’s death only time would tell. He said, ‘Well, I shall need to see Mrs Harrington again.’ It sounded like a threat, but that situation was of Goodman’s making, not his. ‘I must ask you, as you might expect, whether you have any idea who might have killed Guy Harrington.’

  Goodman was at ease again, with what to others had seemed the most solemn of questions. ‘I’m afraid I haven’t. I’ve thought about it, of course, but I haven’t come up with anything useful. I suppose you are still convinced it was one of our group?’

  Lambert afforded him a thin smile. ‘Convinced would be too strong a word. But we’ve eliminated a variety of other possibilities, so that it remains the likeliest solution.’ He had almost said ‘scenario’: it must be the effect of late-night reading of criminologist symposium papers. He saw no reason to relay to Goodman the view that Marie Harrington must be added to their group as a leading suspect.

  A few minutes later George Goodman sat in the blessed privacy of his own room. His head was in his hands. Presently, he lowered them to grip the arms of his chair, while he stared unblinkingly ahead. To an observer glancing casually through the window, he would have appeared as sleekly self-assured as ever.

  But his features showed the strain he could not reveal to the world.

  17

  THURSDAY

  ‘Eat some breakfast, John, for goodness’ sake!’ Christine Lambert watched the toast going cold and hard and knew that it would be left again. The case must be at a difficult stage: it was the only time when her husband forgot to eat.

  ‘Where’s the bacon and egg, then?’ Lambert snatched up his knife in mock eagerness. It was a running joke between them that she had cut out all his favourite dishes with her campaign against cholesterol.

  ‘I’ve told you, you can have a grill in the evenings, once a week. Get your toast and marmalade, and drink that tea before it’s cold.’ She watched him make a dutiful effort, knowing that as soon as she took her eyes off him his mind would be back on the conference he was to hold with his team that morning. In desperation she said, ‘I’ve booked that week in Cyprus at the autumn half-term.’

  ‘Good,’ said her husband, with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm. They both knew he would have to be prised away from England when the time came. For the moment, Christine was content to have fed in the news without any violent reaction; at least his preoccupations with the case allowed that. She made her ritual admonition about locking the doors when he left—for a senior policeman he was ludicrously lax about security—and left for school.

  Her husband remembered as soon as she had gone that he had forgotten to ask about his daughter’s progress. No doubt Christine would have rung Jacqui last night to get the latest progress on the pregnancy, while he was still studying the material accumulating in the murder room at the Wye Castle. Well, no doubt he would have heard the news, if there was any. But he wished he had remembered to ask; twenty-five years of marriage had at least developed that tiny twinge of conscience in him.

  It was a rather bleary-eyed Bert Hook that he picked up twenty minutes later. The Open University late night and early morning broadcasting times were taking their toll, even on a student still full of the excitement higher education brings to those who come to it late. ‘Now that I’m picking up a student,’ said Lambert, ‘I expect a “shining morning face”.’

  ‘Expect away,’ said Hook sourly. ‘I look forward to the day when you will cease to give me your selection of “wise saws and modern instances”, but I suppose I shall be equally disappointed.’

  ‘I hope all this education isn’t going to make you uppity with your elders and betters.’ Lambert felt suddenly cheered by the familiarity of his surroundings; trundling the old Vauxhall through the edge of the Cotswolds on a late spring morning with Bert Hook at his side, it seemed that they could not be as far from a solution as he had felt when he rose an hour earlier. There had been a sharp shower just after dawn, but the sun was already climbing against a clear sky and the hawthorn seemed new-washed for their inspection. Nothing evil could triumph on a day like this.

  It was a sentimental view, of course: an illusion which later events would comprehensively shatter.

  *

  The detective as individual superman is largely a creation of fiction.

  Lambert would be aware by the end of the morning that his team had unearthed at least as much as he had about the participants in the drama that was unfolding at Wye Castle Golf and Country Club. Each man and woman knew the job assigned to them; co-ordinating their discoveries, which was the purpose of this meeting, was a key process in the conduct of a murder inquiry. Each year, the capacity of a Superintendent to act as an intelligent maverick was a little diminished, his importance as a leader of a team a little increased.

  In the Murder Room, DI Rushton had already set out the chairs for their meeting. In front of each seat, there were several sheets of blank paper on the edge of the table. For all the world as if they were attending a conference about selling paint, not catching criminals, thought Bert Hook.

  The patient accumulation and organisation of material by a large group of officers becomes ever more important as technology advances. The importance of routine police work was nowhere better illustrated than in their first subject of discussion that morning. Lambert said, speaking like a committee chairman, ‘We’ll go through each of our suspects in turn, I think, feeding in the forensic and other evidence as we go along. I’ve now interviewed all the people in the golfing party of which Harrington was a member, following up the initial st
atements they gave to members of this team. I have a feeling we need to add one name to these suspects: that of Marie Harrington, the victim’s widow. I spoke to her, as most of you know, when she turned up and insisted on identifying the body, but I haven’t conducted any formal interview with her, and I don’t think anyone else has.’ He looked around the table; heads shook in unison.

  Rushton said, ‘We have the report from the CID in Surrey of her movements on the night of the murder. She was at a dinner with friends, which broke up at about ten-thirty. She had her own car, so that they can’t be sure of her moments after that. But she indicated that she was going home.’

  ‘Was she occupying the house on her own?’

  ‘Yes. So she has no witness to her movements until the next morning. The postman says she took the mail from him on the doorstep in her dressing-gown.’ He consulted the telex in front of him. ‘That was at approximately eight thirty-five.’

  ‘And she must have heard about the death shortly after that.’

  ‘At nine-thirty. The WPC says she took it calmly.’

  From what Lambert had seen, that was probably an understatement. He thought of her spare, erect figure, the strong features beneath the impeccably groomed grey hair. And the grey eyes beneath that hair, which had mocked his clumsy attempts at compassion for a grieving widow.

  Rushton, saving the most intriguing fact until the end, said, ‘There was one interesting thing. The CID sergeant checked with the neighbours. One of them—nosy cow, but probably reliable, he thinks—says she thinks she heard Marie Harrington putting her car in the garage at about two-thirty a.m.’

  The men round the table were silent, each occupied with the same arithmetic. Lambert remembered her words ‘It’s not much over a hundred miles, you know!’ in explanation of her unexpected arrival at the Wye Castle. Between ten-thirty and two-thirty, she could have driven to the Wye Castle, thrust her husband over the parapet to his death, and returned home. She would have used the M4 and the A40: good roads, quiet enough at that time of night. Allow her half, perhaps three-quarters of an hour at the hotel; it could have been done that way. And almost without suspicion: without a nosy neighbour, she would not even have been under consideration. Lambert had been thinking of her until now as at most an accessory, not the executioner.