by J M Gregson
Lambert, who was a member of the Handicap Committee at Ross-on-Wye Golf Club, said hastily, ‘No, you don’t do that, Mrs Keane. Perhaps when you’ve time and you’re less upset you could give a little more thought to this. If you come up with any names you think we ought to consider and investigate, would you ring this number immediately, please?’
She took his card and studied it intently for a moment, as if the simple print was confirming to her that this awful thing had really happened and must be attended to. ‘I’ll do that. Someone must have done this, mustn’t he?’
‘Yes, I’m afraid that’s so. And it might be a he or a she. We must keep an open mind on that, until we know more.’
She was suddenly animated by that thought. The gossip in her responded through all her suffering to the thought that this might be man or woman, might be someone to whom she had spoken, someone with whom she might have shared a joke in the days before Wally’s death. ‘I’ll think about it. Other people on the site might have ideas about it too, mightn’t they?’ For a moment, she was beguiled by thoughts of the exchanges she would enjoy; she would be the centre of attention for those from whom she normally merely gathered material.
Lambert said, ‘We’ll need to take away Wally’s computer, I’m afraid. We may be able to get clues about his enemies from what’s in there, you see. We’ll let you have it back, in due course.’
‘Don’t you worry about that, Mr Lambert. I never liked the thing – never understood why he spent all those hours playing with it. I don’t know anything about computers.’
‘You won’t be able to give us his password, then?’
‘Oh no. I never wanted anything to do with the damned thing. Will that stop you getting what you want from it?’
‘No. We have people who are experts in these things in the police service, Mrs Keane. It will take a little longer, but I’m sure they’ll get in there quite quickly. Unless it had anything to do with his death, whatever we find will be kept strictly confidential. And unless it’s needed for a court case, everything will be returned to you in due course.’
It was perhaps this glimpse of the nuts and bolts of a murder investigation which brought home to her finally the thought that Walter Keane was gone forever. They left her standing alone in the doorway of her unit, a tiny, weeping figure for whom the world was suddenly far too large.
EIGHT
There should have been a golf tournament on that Saturday. It was postponed. The Twin Lakes residents had no stomach for competition, after the sensational death of the man who had watched their golfing efforts and controlled their handicaps. It would not have been fitting; everyone was agreed on that.
But the police spread the notion that people should carry on as normally as possible, apart from avoiding the scene of crime area – that cordoned-off section amongst the trees on the other side of the lakes which had been transformed overnight from picturesque to sinister. So people came out to play golf on the little course, even though the serious competition had been postponed. Surprisingly quickly, the fairways became quite crowded on this perfect July day. Conversation was muted at first, with everyone conscious of what had happened three hundred yards from the first tee, but gradually golf’s own petty triumphs and tribulations took over, so that the laughter and anguish rang more loudly from the green acres between the trees.
Vanessa Seagrave was one of the participants. She billed herself under that name now, though Debbie Keane still doubted its authenticity and conveyed her thoughts to anyone who cared to share her speculations. Vanessa, the woman who was now the best female golfer at Twin Lakes, was playing with Freda Potts and two men whose wives did not demean themselves with golf.
Freda was talented but erratic, whilst Vanessa was talented and consistent. Their handicaps reflected this and offered them a close contest against each other. The two men who were partnering them did not care too much about the contest. Their form and their conversation were muted by Wally Keane’s death when they began, but they were soon radically cheered by the contours and the movements of their female partners.
It suited Richard Seagrave that Vanessa should be playing golf and helping to ensure that the course was a centre of attention. He had watched the activities of the police from his residential unit, whilst remaining carefully concealed within it. He made a phone call which lasted no more than thirty seconds, agreeing a time and a place. He didn’t like phone calls, even from mobiles. You never knew what was being recorded. And from what he read of police activity, it seemed to be possible to track down all kinds of phone conversations which you would once have thought untraceable.
He recognized Chief Superintendent John Lambert and noted grimly that the case was already high profile. The news of a suicide had flown round the site, but this was clearly no suicide. Not if bloody Lambert had been assigned to it. Wally Keane had had this coming to him, from the moment when he’d moved out of his comfort zone. He was a meddling old fool who’d strayed beyond the harmless area where he should have operated. Like Polonius in Hamlet, thought Richard, with a small, satisfied smile. He was an educated man: people sometimes forgot that.
It was when Lambert and Hook were within the screens at the scene of crime site that Seagrave slipped quietly into the driving seat of his dark blue Jaguar. The office staff and the police were stopping anyone coming on to the site, but they couldn’t prevent residents from leaving. He watched the long barrier pole rising slowly towards the perpendicular, then eased the big car out into the anonymity of the world outside Twin Lakes.
Britain wasn’t yet a police state, whatever the left-wing press said, and you could take advantage of that.
The Ramsbottoms hadn’t left their home by the lake during the morning. They had watched what was happening on the site and remained tight-lipped. They hadn’t even spoken much to each other, beyond terse statements of fact about what was happening around them.
Jason hadn’t felt like playing golf, even after he’d seen others trundling trolleys past them on their way to the course. Three hours crept by as if they were waiting for something. Neither of them was surprised when they saw Bert Hook marching towards their door with a tall man alongside him.
Hook gave them no more than a token smile. Lisa thought Bert looked almost as nervous as she felt. He said, ‘It would be good to see you both again, if it wasn’t for the circumstances. You’ve heard what’s happened?’
They nodded in unison, not quite trusting themselves to speak.
‘This is Detective Chief Superintendent Lambert. We need you to answer a few questions for us. We’ve come to you first, but there’s nothing significant in that. We shall be speaking to other people who knew the deceased. Everyone on the site will be interviewed by a member of our team in due course.’
Lisa glanced at her husband, then back at Hook’s weather-beaten, reliable features. ‘It wasn’t a suicide, was it?’
‘That has yet to be confirmed officially. But no, it wasn’t: we’re pretty certain about that.’
Jason addressed himself directly to John Lambert. ‘You’re now investigating a murder, then. You wouldn’t be here unless that was so.’
The tall man with the long, lined face gave him a brisk nod. ‘And we hope you may be able to help us with the first stages of that investigation. Murder and manslaughter are almost unique among crimes, in that the victim cannot speak for himself. Yet almost always we need to gain a knowledge of the type of man he was, the way he lived, his likes and dislikes, the people he liked and the people he hated. These are crucial to solving the problem of who ended his existence. We have to find out all of these things from other people. We’ve spoken to Walter Keane’s widow. You are the next people we decided to contact.’
It sounded quite threatening, in Lambert’s calm, measured tones. Lisa Ramsbottom wondered if it was meant to do so. She was already disconcerted by the steady scrutiny she felt from those clear grey eyes, which seemed to study her as no other eyes had ever done during normal socia
l exchanges. She said nervously, ‘We know Sergeant Hook. He’s a neighbour of ours. He came here and played golf with Jason, back in May.’
‘But that wasn’t the primary reason for his visit, was it, Mrs Ramsbottom?’
He made her feel as if she’d been concealing something. ‘No. We’d received some rather disturbing notes. I spoke to Bert and he agreed to come to see the set-up here and conduct an informal investigation.’
‘Yes, Bert would do that. He’s good at the informal. Especially if a game of golf was part of the deal.’ It was the first hint of humour, but accompanied only by the most minimal of smiles.
‘The golf was deliberate. We wanted the people here to think that Bert was just an ordinary visitor.’ Jason sprang to the defence of the inscrutable Hook. ‘You have to bear in mind that it was almost certainly someone here who shoved those notes under our door.’
‘Agreed. And DS Hook told me about those threats and named to me the people he had questioned about them. He didn’t mention his score on your golf course. We agreed to do nothing about the notes unless there were more of them. I understand that the agreement was that Lisa would let Bert know if there were any further developments on that front.’
‘Yes. I’m away for most of the week.’ Jason gave a small, encouraging smile to his wife.
‘And I’m the one who was most upset by the messages. Jason was more ready to shrug them off.’ Lisa wondered why she felt it necessary to explain that it was she who had made and continued the contact with Hook.
‘And have there been any more of them?’
‘No. I’d have been straight round to tell Bert at home if there had been.’
The mention of home was a reminder to the CID men that these were second homes to the invisible people around them, that this was a kind of permanent holiday village where the occupants knew each other but worked all over the country and had other and perhaps very different lives away from Twin Lakes. Lambert said, ‘Has anyone else received similar notes to the ones sent to you?’
‘No. Well, not as far as we know.’ She glanced at Jason, who gave her a taut nod, which seemed to signify approval as well as agreement.
Lambert nodded. ‘Of course, other people might have received them and said nothing about them. You yourselves chose to ask Bert Hook to look into the matter, rather than comparing notes with people here. Which was, incidentally, the right thing to do. Such things rarely lead to any serious injury, but it’s much better that the police are informed about them. Apart from anything else, it often brings about an abrupt end to the trouble. People who send messages like the ones you received are usually no more than unpleasant mischief-makers. They cease activity at the prospect of police investigation and possible legal action.’
Jason said firmly, ‘It’s my belief that this is what happened here. We’ve had no more notes, and I don’t believe that anyone else has.’
‘But if everyone acts as discreetly as you did, how can you be sure of that?’
Jason glanced at Hook and received a grin which encouraged him to proceed. ‘It’s public knowledge around here now that we were threatened. Bert questioned Debbie Keane about it when he was here. That was because we told him that Debbie was the one most likely to know the source of anything untoward like this. She lives here permanently, apart from the month when she has by law to be somewhere else. And she makes it her business to know everything that goes on around here.’
Bert Hook spoke for the first time in many minutes. ‘It was a deliberate decision on my part to speak to her. She was the person most likely to know of anyone making a nuisance of himself or herself in this way, because she’s a great gossip. But discretion isn’t in her nature. I was aware when I spoke to her that she simply wouldn’t be capable of keeping such a juicy titbit of news to herself. But that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. The knowledge that the police were aware of the threats which had been offered to Lisa and Jason might at least frighten off the twisted mind which was behind this, in the manner you just mentioned.’
‘Which is what seems to have happened,’ said Jason Ramsbottom. ‘We haven’t had any more notes.’
‘And has Debbie Keane unearthed any other similar threats to other people who have units here?’
‘No. The whole thing seems to have gone very quiet. Hopefully it’s died the death.’
‘As has Debbie Keane’s husband, Walter,’ Lambert said grimly. ‘That is our greater concern now, as you will understand. Do you think there is any connection between the threats you received and what happened to Walter Keane last night?’
‘No,’ said Jason promptly. ‘I think those notes we received were from someone who was no more than a mischief-maker, as Bert suggested at the time. There’s been no sign of any activity from him – or her, as you pointed out it might be – in the last three months. I can’t see that person suddenly acting against Wally Keane. And who’d want to kill Wally?’
‘Someone certainly did,’ said Lambert dourly. ‘Our business over the next few days will be to find an answer to the question you’ve just asked. Have you any ideas yourself?’
Jason felt almost as if he’d been slapped in the face, because the question he should have expected had been flung at him so abruptly. ‘No, I haven’t. This will be a shock to everyone on the site.’
‘Not to one person, it won’t. Or possibly two.’ Lambert glanced from one to the other of the shocked faces opposite him. ‘We can’t rule out a joint effort. In fact, we are in no position to rule out anything at the moment, so your views as regular weekend visitors will be welcome.’
There was a moment of silence before Jason said brusquely, ‘Wally was a loner.’
‘Was he a likeable man?’
‘Likeable wouldn’t be the right word. He wanted to be in charge of things, and that doesn’t always make people popular. Some people resented the way he adjusted their golf handicaps without reference to anyone else. He could be a law unto himself and he liked to assert his opinions about everything that goes on here. But he was prepared to put in a lot of unpaid work and he was here for most of the time, as others aren’t. So you could say that he had a right to do the things he did.’
Jason hadn’t looked at his wife through this, but she now supported him. ‘And he didn’t offend people, as his wife sometimes does. He didn’t seem to want to know everyone’s business, as she did. Jason is right when he says people sometimes resented Wally, but that was all very petty. I can’t think of anyone who would have wanted to kill him and I’m sure Jason would agree with me on that.’
Her husband immediately nodded his confirmation. Lambert looked at both of them for a moment, as if weighing the likelihood of accuracy in what they said, then gave a nod of acceptance. ‘Give some thought to the matter over the next day or two, will you? However unlikely it may seem, the overwhelming probability is that it’s someone to whom you have spoken many times, perhaps even someone whom you would call a friend, who has done this thing. It will be better to ring this number at Oldford CID than to wait to contact Bert at home. He’s likely to be working long hours until we have an arrest.’ He gave them the card with the number and appeared to have finished with them.
It was left to DS Hook to complete the exchanges. ‘You’d better tell us where you both were last night, please. For elimination purposes. It’s just routine.’
Jason glanced at Lisa, giving her a small, encouraging smile. ‘I expect you use that phrase about routine a lot, Bert. You hear it in police series on the telly, don’t you? Well, I think we were together for the whole of the evening, weren’t we, darling?’
It was the first time he had used the endearment and it dropped a little oddly into the tension in the room. Lisa didn’t look at him but at Hook’s substantial feet: perhaps she was concentrating on her memory, or on what she had to say now. ‘We arrived here at about half past five, I think. We unpacked what we’d brought with us, which only took a few minutes. Then we went across to the bar-restaurant and got ourselv
es something to eat there. We saw quite a few of our friends in there. They’d remember us, I’m sure, if it’s necessary.’
‘What time did you leave there?’
She glanced at Jason, who said immediately, ‘Around eight o’clock, I’d say. It’s difficult to be completely accurate, when you don’t think you’re going to be questioned about it by CID the next day.’
He gave a nervous laugh, which brought no response from Lambert or Hook, who said merely, ‘And during the later part of the evening?’
‘We were together all evening and all night.’ He made another attempt to lighten the tension. ‘That’s the kind of alibi the police don’t like, isn’t it, the husband and wife one?’
This time Hook did allow himself a rueful smile. ‘We often suspect it, when we’re dealing with known crooks. But it’s difficult to break down, and the known crooks know that as well as we do.’
Lambert stood up, then paused to deliver a final sobering thought to them. ‘It’s early days, of course, but as I said, we haven’t ruled out the thought that more than one person might have been involved in this crime. Two people would have made it easier in several respects.’
The two detectives walked a hundred yards away from the little bungalow by the lake, watching the swans cruise majestically away from them over the water. Hook voiced the thought they had both had a hundred times before in similar circumstances. ‘I’d like to hear what those two are saying to each other now.’
Lambert’s eye followed a skein of wild geese flying purposefully over their heads. ‘I expect they’re wondering what we are saying to each other about them, Bert. And I’d put money on the fact that your first thought about what we’ve just heard is the same as mine.’
It was a challenge, of sorts. But they had worked together for so long now that Hook found it stimulating rather than stressful. He reviewed the conversation in his mind for a moment before he said, ‘They didn’t seem at all surprised when we told them at the outset that this was murder, not suicide.’
