Rest Assured

by J M Gregson

  ‘That’s it. Might be significant. Might mean nothing.’

  Richard Seagrave felt himself relax as he drove the big Jaguar unhurriedly along the lanes around Leominster. He’d been quite tense that morning at Twin Lakes, he realized. He smiled at the thought. He wasn’t used to stress nowadays.

  He opened up the engine for a few miles as he moved northwards on the A49. He was pleased that he still felt the aura of superiority, of having arrived in life, which three litres of engine and the big, sleek car still gave him. Schoolboy-ish really, but that was all right. Richard still cherished the notion that all men were boys at heart and did not mature as women did. It was fond and foolish, in view of the many things he had done to banish the innocence of childhood.

  He met the men in the village of Tenbury Wells. That too was an indulgence: he had chosen it purely because the name of the place appealed to him. But the village had a good hotel and restaurant; he had eaten there with Vanessa only six weeks earlier. The men he was meeting wouldn’t like it. Snooker halls and lap-dancing clubs were more their scene, and they would be thoroughly uncomfortable in this place, but he liked that. People were less likely to speak up for themselves and demand things when they felt ill at ease.

  They were there when he arrived, sitting in the car park in their silver Ford Focus. They hadn’t gone inside to wait for him, because this wasn’t their sort of place. He parked only three places away from them, reversing in with a wide sweep to make sure that they could not miss him. He gave not a glance in their direction, but flicked the button on his key to lock the Jaguar and walked unhurriedly into the inn.

  It was too late for coffee; people were already beginning to move into the dining room for lunch. He strolled into the luxurious bar and ordered two pints of lager and a whisky and water for himself. The two men had joined him at his table by the time the barman brought over the tray. They looked around them and sat down carefully, plainly not at home in these surroundings, as Seagrave had intended. He was still absurdly pleased by small things.

  He leaned back in his chair, deliberately unhurried, motioned towards the lager, and watched them take a gulp each. Only then did he say, ‘Is it done?’

  ‘It is, sor.’ The bigger of the two men had a Northern Irish accent, which became more pronounced when he was nervous.

  ‘As planned? No hitches?’

  ‘No hitches, sor. Like a military operation.’

  ‘A smooth and successful one, I hope. No prisoners taken in this one, eh?’

  The big man recognized a joke and gave a dutiful smile. ‘No prisoners, sor. But you won’t be hearing any more from those two who were giving yees the trouble.’

  Richard Seagrave glanced unhurriedly round the almost empty bar, noting that the other occupants were busy with their own conversations. He produced the envelope and put it on the table. The men had their eyes upon it, but neither of them made any move towards it. Seagrave said, ‘You’ll tell me of anything that went wrong. I wish to know if you had any problems.’

  These were orders, not suggestions. The big man said as firmly as he could, ‘It went like clockwork, sor. Just as it was planned. We’re professionals.’

  ‘Very well. You’ll be paid as professionals. The better you execute these things, the better it is for you as well as for me.’ Seagrave gestured towards the envelope. ‘Take it. There’s two thousand in there in used notes. There’s no need to count it.’

  ‘Indeed there isn’t, sor. Not with a man like you. Glad to be of service. Hope you’ll use us again.’ They downed the remainder of their pints whilst he watched them, plainly anxious to be on their way.

  ‘I expect I shall use you again, when I have need of you. You came highly recommended. Keep it that way.’

  But now that it was over, he was glad to be rid of them. They were vile and he despised them. As Macbeth did the murderers he had to employ, he mused. Shakespeare again: just as well to remember that he was an educated man. He said sourly, ‘Be on your way, then.’

  ‘Indeed we will, sor. And ’tis grateful for this that we are.’ The man from Ulster shuffled to his feet and moved awkwardly out of the bar with his companion. The second man gave Seagrave a quick nod before he turned away. He had uttered not a word throughout their ten-minute interchange.

  Seagrave gave them five minutes, affecting to read the newspaper he had bought on his way here. He checked the car park before he drove away. No sign of anyone observing his movements. That was the way it should be, in an efficient organization.

  NINE

  ‘Elfrida Potts?’

  ‘Freda, please. That’s bad enough: I’ve never liked the name. But we don’t get to choose, do we? But it was my choice to put Potts on the end of it, which doesn’t help. It shows how much I must have fancied this man, I suppose!’ She gave a high-pitched laugh and took hold of the sturdy arm of Matthew as he came and stood beside her in the entrance to their unit.

  Her husband glanced down at her, then at the tall man with the lined face and the powerful, burly man who stood beside him. ‘How can we help you?’

  Matthew Potts was a man who was not at ease with words. He distrusted them and tended to use as few as possible until he was fully relaxed, which always took some time in new company. On the oil rigs, where he worked exclusively with men, actions spoke louder than words, and Matthew preferred it that way. He did not give much attention to his appearance and still less to fashion. But his black hair was neatly parted, his dark eyes were clear and observant, his flesh was scrupulously clean, and the short-sleeved red leisure shirt he wore was freshly laundered and of good quality.

  The two CID men took in all of this immediately, just as they noticed that his wife was twitchy and nervous. They noted these things, but made no deductions: there could be all sorts of reasons why Freda was nervous. It might be no more than a natural reaction to being drawn into a murder enquiry.

  ‘I’m Detective Chief Superintendent Lambert and this is Detective Sergeant Hook. We’re conducting an investigation into the death which took place here last night and was discovered this morning.’

  Freda said almost before he had finished, ‘Wally Keane. It wasn’t suicide, was it? I saw poor Debbie this morning and she told me foul play is suspected.’ It was a jittery reaction to their presence here. Like many people, Freda Potts had a compulsive need to talk when she was agitated.

  Matthew Potts looked as if he would like to clap his large hand over her mouth and compel her silence. Instead, he slid his arm behind her and set a hand on each of her shoulders to move her gently aside. ‘You’d better come inside, if you wish to speak to us. But we shan’t be able to tell you anything useful.’

  Freda glanced quickly up at him. ‘Perhaps the officers would like to question us separately.’ She turned quickly back to Lambert with a determined smile. ‘That’s what you like to do, isn’t it? In case our stories don’t tally?’ It sounded almost like an appeal as she looked hopefully into the experienced face of John Lambert.

  ‘That won’t be necessary at this stage. These are just preliminary enquiries. We might need to speak to you separately later, when we have learned more about Walter Keane and the people who were closest to him.’

  He made it sound almost like a threat. He intended to do that; certainly it was a warning that they should hold nothing back from him. Matthew Potts said, ‘Sit down and ask us whatever you need to ask. We shan’t be able to help you. I hardly knew the man.’

  Freda said quickly, as if apologizing for his churlishness, ‘Matthew’s right. He’s speaking for himself, you see. He’s only been here three times since he examined the site and decided to buy a property for us at Twin Lakes. He works on oil rigs in the North Sea. The money’s good, but the work is hard and he’s away a lot.’ She did not look at Matthew, but he put his hand on top of hers. It was more an attempt to still her tongue than a gesture of affection.

  ‘But I understand that you have been able to make more frequent use of this unit yourself,
Mrs Potts.’

  She wondered how much he knew, how much Debbie Keane had told him about her. It must surely be Debbie who was the source of his information. ‘Yes, I’ve been here quite a few times. This is a pleasant place, and I find that my weekends are less lonely here than in our home in Bristol. People here are very friendly.’

  ‘Do you work yourself, Mrs Potts?’

  ‘Yes. I’m Head of History in a comprehensive school. So I’m far too busy to be lonely during the week!’ Her short, high-pitched laugh echoed beneath the low ceiling, whilst she watched Hook make a careful note of her occupation.

  ‘So you’ve come here alone on some occasions?’

  A tiny pause. Freda willed herself not to look at Matthew. She was wondering what Debbie had told them about her visits here with her ‘nephew’. But there was only one reply she could make, with her husband at her side. ‘That is correct, yes.’ It sounded curiously formal. ‘There’s plenty to do here. I’m developing my golf. I played a little when I was a teenager, but it was almost twenty years since I’d touched a club when we came here, I suppose. I’ve even had a go on the bowling green, though I’m not very good at that yet. But people here are very friendly, as I said. You feel part of a little community, which I don’t do at home. Big cities can be very impersonal.’ She knew she was talking too much, but she found it difficult to stop. She feared what others would say, when her own compulsive lips were eventually still.

  She had not looked at Lambert throughout this, but she was nevertheless conscious of his unrelenting scrutiny of her face and her movements. He waited for a moment to see if she would resume her account of herself before he said quietly, ‘And now this happy, supportive community at Twin Lakes has been disturbed by a sudden death. A sudden death which was not a suicide, as someone tried to pretend it was. Who would want to kill Wally Keane, Mrs Potts?’

  The sudden, brutal statement and the immediate question felt to Freda almost like an accusation. ‘I don’t know. Why is it that you think I should know?’ Her voice rose towards hysteria. Matthew reached towards her and put his hand on top of both of hers, which were clasped on her lap, as if he wished to prevent them from fluttering in front of her.

  ‘There is no reason why you should be able to give us anything significant, Mrs Potts. But you knew the deceased, and there you have the advantage of us. We shall be asking similar questions of everyone who was on the site last night. Some people will be able to help us; that doesn’t mean that they will have any responsibility for this very serious crime.’

  ‘I knew Wally, yes. He was always polite and kind to me, but we didn’t speak much. I’ve spoken much more with Debbie Keane, when I’ve been here. It’s difficult not to speak with Debbie.’ Freda’s brief grin and flash of irony showed for a fleeting moment how she might be a lively staff-room colleague in a busy comprehensive school. It was a glimpse of that alter ego which almost all the people at Twin Lakes must have, in their normal working lives. ‘Wally controlled a lot of things and did a lot of voluntary work around this place. Apart from that, he was a bit of a recluse, I suppose.’

  ‘You say he did a lot of voluntary work. What kind of work was that?’

  ‘Well, he helped Mr Rawlinson in the office sometimes, when he was short-staffed. And Wally and Debbie did all the golfing handicaps. That was him, really. He fed all the information into his computer, or so he said, and came up with scientific answers.’

  ‘You sound as if you have your doubts about the accuracy of his findings.’

  She grinned again. ‘I’m no computer expert. But I know a little about their workings and what they can do, from their use in schools. Wally never bothered to demonstrate how he’d arrived at his findings, and that irritated some people.’

  ‘Including you?’

  She was increasingly at her ease now. ‘No. It didn’t concern me. I haven’t even got a golf handicap and I don’t play in the competitions. Wally was talking about allotting me a handicap this year, so that I could join in, but I told him to leave it for the moment because I’m still just a beginner, feeling my way into the game. Tennis was more my sport, really, but we don’t have that here.’

  ‘You mentioned that Walter Keane irritated some people. Could you enlarge on that for us?’

  Freda paused, striving to relax even further. ‘I couldn’t really. I meant just what I said. It was irritation people felt, no more than that. Most of us treated Wally and his idiosyncrasies with a sort of amused tolerance.’

  ‘Can you give us the name of anyone who would have wanted to kill Walter Keane? Any suggestions will be treated as strictly confidential, but it is your duty to give whatever assistance you can to the police in a situation like this one.’

  ‘Of course it is, and of course I want to help. He was a decent man, Wally, from what I saw of him. I hope you arrest whoever was responsible for his death very quickly. But I can’t think of anyone who might have done this. It seems inconceivable, in this place, where people come to enjoy themselves.’

  ‘It has happened, nevertheless. What about you, Mr Potts? Have you any thoughts on the matter?’

  Matthew took his time. He had remained apparently very calm even through the earlier minutes, when his wife had been disturbed. ‘No. I’ve seen passions rise and I’ve watched small disputes get out of proportion on oil rigs, where people are cooped up together for weeks on end. This place is the opposite of that, in most respects – people come here to relax and enjoy themselves, and there’s plenty of space around them. But the homes themselves are close together, and in that sense people live on top of each other in a closed environment. Perhaps things grow out of proportion here at times.’ He paused, mentally comparing the wild waters and the challenges of the North Sea with this altogether softer environment. Then he concluded quietly, ‘I’m not able to help you with any suggestions. I’ve scarcely been here, as yet. I hope to use this place more in the future, but I know hardly any of the people here. I think I spoke to Wally twice, just to pass the time of the day, really. He did tell me a little about the fishing on the lakes, because I expressed an interest in that.’

  Bert Hook made a note of that on his pad. He thought this man would be capable of killing, if he felt the necessity for it. But he could see no possible motive at the moment. He said, ‘No doubt you spoke a little more with Walter’s wife.’

  ‘With Debbie? Yes, I did. As Freda said, you don’t get much choice about that. I think that when I’d been on the site for about three hours on my first visit, Debbie knew exactly what I did for a living and what I’d done previously. She isn’t at all afraid to ask questions, Debbie.’ Like his wife, Matthew seemed more amused than annoyed by the thought.

  ‘What did you do before you worked on the rigs, Mr Potts?’

  He looked for a moment as if he would refuse to answer. He didn’t like this invasion of his private life. But these were policemen, one of them very senior, and both his training and his temperament determined that his instinct now was to answer them. ‘I was in the army. Royal Engineers, initially, which was where I learned some of the things which I now use on the rigs.’ He pursed his lips and was silent for a moment, then said with what seemed reluctance, ‘I was then in the SAS for four years. Then I met Freda and we got married and I decided that the army was no life for a married man.’ He smiled grimly, squeezed his wife’s two small hands beneath his large one again, and then withdrew it. ‘You might say that the rigs are also not ideal for married life, but the work pays well and you get generous periods ashore to compensate for working away from home.’

  ‘You’ve worked in much harsher environments than Twin Lakes, Mr Potts. Your views on who might have committed what I fear we must treat as murder would be much appreciated.’

  ‘Possibly. But I have to disappoint you. I know virtually nothing of the people here. I couldn’t even hazard a guess at who might have seen off Wally Keane.’

  The CID pair noted his casual, almost heartless phrase for the murder of a seem
ingly harmless man. It was probably no more than the honesty of a man who had seen much violent action. Hook said, ‘Could you both give us an account of your movements last night, please?’

  Matthew ignored the gasp he heard from his wife beside him. ‘That’s easily done. It will be a joint account, because we were together throughout the evening.’ He didn’t even look at Freda. ‘We arrived here at just after five o’clock: I picked Freda up from school and we came straight here. I made us a curry and we had rhubarb and cream as a dessert. I’d bought the ingredients for the meal during the afternoon, before I collected Freda. I like to cook occasionally.’

  ‘And I much appreciated his efforts, after a hard week in school.’ Freda came in loyally to support him. ‘Matt’s a much better cook than he pretends to be, and it’s a real luxury for me to sit back and let him wait upon me.’

  ‘We finished eating at around eight, I’d say.’ Matthew came in again quickly, as if he didn’t want his wife to say too much. ‘We watched television for a while. Then we both read our books for an hour or so.’

  ‘But we went out for a stroll around the site. You mustn’t forget that!’ said his wife, and her brittle, high-pitched giggle rang round the room again.

  ‘No, I hadn’t forgotten it,’ said Matthew with a touch of impatience. ‘It was a warm, quiet evening, and we had a stroll along the edge of the lakes and down the deserted fairways of the golf course.’

  ‘Did you use the path through the woods?’

  ‘No. We kept to the more open ground. With no street lighting and no major town in the area, you get a very good view of the stars here, on a clear night. I was pointing out some of the better-known constellations to Freda. We were probably out for about twenty minutes. Certainly no more than twenty-five.’

  ‘I’m very ignorant about the sky at night, and Matt knows a lot about it,’ said Freda quickly, as if she felt it necessary to give substance to his statement.