by J M Gregson
‘Yes. It’s the staff dinner we always have just after the end of term, at the beginning of the summer holiday. But I’ve been on my own before. You were away when they had it last year. I don’t mind, really I don’t. I’m used to going to things on my own; it’s not your fault that you have to be away a lot.’
‘No, it’s not. But that’s all the more reason why I should support you, when I am here. I’m coming with you tomorrow night.’
She forced a grin. ‘Very noble, I’m sure. But unnecessary. I don’t mind going on my own. It’s only an hour’s drive from here and the roads will be very quiet when I’m on the return journey. I expect it will be after midnight by the time I get back here.’
‘And you won’t be able to drink unless I come.’ He said it firmly, because he worried sometimes about her weakness of will over drink-driving. She was prone to push it a little, take the odd risk, and in a convivial gathering of staff he feared she might do just that. ‘But you will be able to drink tomorrow, because I shall be driving. You can get paralytic if you like, so long as you don’t start snogging everyone in sight.’
‘I shan’t get paralytic. That would be educationally indiscreet and make me a cause célèbre in the gossip stakes. And you obviously don’t know my colleagues. You’d have to be tight to consider a kiss on the cheek from most of them!’
‘You make them sound quite irresistible! It’s obviously high time I got to know this fascinating cross-section of the intelligentsia. And I assure you, after the company I keep most of the time on the oil rigs, the teaching staff of a comprehensive school will seem richly diverse.’
And so it was settled. Freda felt strangely queasy at the prospect.
In the murder room, DI Rushton conducted a long, intense phone call with a former colleague, then sought out Detective Chief Superintendent Lambert.
‘It looks as though you could be right about Richard Seagrave. Seagrave Enterprises might well be a front for something much more sinister. The local CID are working on it, but they’re hampered because they’ve been told not to alert anyone at the firm to their enquiries.’
Lambert sighed. Complications like this were much more common than most members of the public appreciated. That was understandable, since most members of the public never heard about them. But where extensive criminal networks were involved, as for instance in the illegal drugs trade, local forces were often warned to hold off, in case a minor arrest alerted much bigger villains to the fact that their activities were under investigation.
This was logical and inevitable, since everyone wanted to pin down the faceless moguls who controlled the worst and most lucrative criminal enterprises in Britain. But it led to much frustration. Sometimes local CID sections had conducted an investigation which had occupied many months and much manpower, only to be told when they were near to an arrest that they should hold off and pass on their information to units with a national overview. When clear-up rates were often the measure by which their efficiency was judged, this could be highly frustrating.
‘Seagrave is under investigation.’ Lambert nodded thoughtfully. It was the blanket phrase which covered a multitude of different possibilities. ‘Is Vanessa Norton involved?’
‘There is no evidence that she is. My contact wasn’t even aware of her. He made a note of the name.’
Lambert was vaguely pleased that Norton probably wasn’t involved. He wondered if he would have felt the same measure of relief if an unattractive middle-aged man rather than a striking, curvaceous and highly articulate blonde had been involved. He said to Rushton, ‘Any ideas about where we go from here with the delightful Mr Seagrave? The people investigating him should be aware that he is now a murder suspect here, whatever else he is also involved in.’
‘I think we just have to proceed as normal, assessing whatever we find here whilst being aware that there is accumulating evidence that this particular suspect may well be a major criminal player elsewhere.’
‘Agreed. Have we any idea where “elsewhere” might be?’
Rushton pursed his lips. ‘My contact mentioned Oxford.’
‘I’ve a couple of old friends in the Oxford CID. I’ll see what they’re able to tell me. Off the record, of course.’
‘Off the record, inevitably.’ Both of them savoured the use of the phrase which journalists offered so often when quizzing them.
Then Lambert voiced a much more important thought. ‘I wonder whether anyone here was aware of Seagrave’s activities elsewhere? Whether Walter Keane, for instance, knew anything about them?’
That idea seemed preposterous, but within twenty-four hours it would seem much less so.
As Monday 21st July moved into a tranquil evening, Geoffrey Tiler and Michael Norrington were quite unaware that the identity of one of them was the subject of police investigation. Murder brings heightened attention to any irregularity, but neither of them had yet grown accustomed to thinking of himself as a suspect in a murder investigation.
The site was busy. Children released for the long summer holiday were making the most of each other’s company in boisterous games; no less than five dinghies sailed on the two lakes which gave the place its name; the golf course was filled with players displaying a wide range of abilities and epithets, as well as the endless optimism which is a necessity for all participants in the ancient game.
Geoffrey and Michael were walking in the quietest section, on the edge of the woods which fringed the lakes. They skirted the area which was still ribboned off as a scene of crime, studiously avoiding any glances towards the tree where Wally Keane had been left hanging three days ago. Without any words of agreement, each of them knew that they would not speak of Wally, nor of the progress of the police investigation, nor even of the questions the police had asked and the responses they had given when they had been interviewed about that death on Saturday. It seemed a long time since they’d spoken to the CID, but neither of them voiced even that innocent thought.
Norrington was looking across the lake, towards where three boys were trying to launch a rowing boat on the opposite side of it, when he said quietly, ‘Are you absolutely sure you want to do this, Geoff?’
‘I’m very sure. Are you?’
‘I’ve been sure for months now. I think you know that. But I want you to be sure. I don’t want you to be railroaded into this by things quite outside our control.’
Tiler smiled ruefully. ‘Maybe I needed a little railroading. I’m happy with things as they are here, where no one has known us except as a couple. It’s more difficult for me elsewhere.’
‘In your normal life, you mean. In that life you live during the working week, when you have to leave behind our escapist world.’
Michael hadn’t meant it to be an accusation, but it emerged as just that. He could hear the underlying bitterness which he thought he had banished for ever. Geoffrey Tiler wasn’t offended. He nodded his head slowly and put his hand softly upon the forearm of his companion. ‘I used to be like that. I wouldn’t admit it, even to myself, but that’s how it was at the beginning of our time together. But it’s changed completely now: you must believe that.’
‘I believe it. I can feel it.’ Norrington looked down at the hand upon his arm for a moment as if he meant that literally. ‘It takes time for things to develop and to deepen. Especially in your situation, when you’ve been straight and married. I’ve known I was attracted only to men since I was an adolescent, but you’ve had to discover that much later.’
Tiler nodded, eager to accept that analysis. ‘I should have asked myself all sorts of questions years ago. But it wasn’t until I met you and our friendship ripened that I became sure – it was only then that I was prepared and willing to ask those questions of myself.’
‘Friendship.’ Michael smiled wryly, then detached the hand from his arm and picked up a small flat stone. He crouched and skimmed it vigorously across the deserted section of the lake which was nearest to them. They watched its six swift splashes, then the w
idening ripples which spread from them across the calm water. A moorhen which they had not seen took off, flew no more than forty yards, and then settled on the surface again, immobile after a vigorous shaking of its tail.
‘Don’t decry friendship, Michael. It’s a splendid thing. Ours was the beginning of my salvation, before it grew into something more.’
‘And now you’re ready to acknowledge us in the wider world outside Twin Lakes. The world where you live your working life and make your living. Are you sure you want to do that?’
‘I’m sure. I should have done it long ago.’ Geoff turned and looked at Michael and felt awkward and apologetic, as he always felt when they came to this issue. He was intensely aware of his tardiness when it came to going public over this most important thing in his life. ‘You’ve been very understanding, Mike.’
‘I know that it’s different for you. You have a well-established public persona which is going to be completely changed by this. You run a business, employ almost a hundred people. It will affect the way people look at you.’
‘I’m not interested in the people who will look at me differently when I announce that I’m gay. Fools like that are out of the Ark. If they want to go on living in the past, so much the worse for them.’ But Geoff wondered even as he asserted it whether it was wholly true, whether he was strong enough to simply shrug off any opposition, as well as the welter of excited gossip which would follow the announcement of his revised sexual preferences.
‘Will it affect the business? Will you lose orders?’
‘No. The public won’t even be aware of it. It’s the quality of the goods we produce which will affect the orders, not the chairman’s preference in partners.’ He spoke very firmly and he spoke good sense, he was sure. But a small part of him wondered whether some of his older clients might be staid enough and conservative enough to hesitate over continuing to do business with him. Wolverhampton was not London, with its chattering classes and influential media, where it seemed almost more fashionable to be homosexual than heterosexual.
‘Will you want me to come to your works social affairs? I wouldn’t really enjoy that. I’ve always been a shy man. But if you want me there, I’ll be there. It’s the least I can do.’
‘No. That won’t be necessary.’ Geoff wondered if his assurance was too prompt, whether it sounded relieved rather than reassuring. What a complicated business gay love was in public, when in private it seemed to him so natural and straightforward. ‘I know you don’t enjoy socializing unless you know the people involved quite well. I think I’m the same myself, actually, though of course I’ve known most of the people I work with and deal with for many years.’
‘There’s still a lot of you I don’t know, Geoff, isn’t there? Almost all of your working life, which means about three quarters of your life in all, I suppose.’
Geoffrey Tiler put his hand back on his partner’s arm, this time very firmly. ‘You know me, Mike. You know the private me and the real me. Everything else is irrelevant – well, not irrelevant, because my work is important to me and to the people who are dependent on me for their livings. But the real me, the one who matters, comes alive when I am alone with you.’
Norrington looked across the lake at the distant dinghies, at the boys noisily preoccupied with their rowing boat. He didn’t like physical displays of affection in public, so that even Geoff’s hand on his arm made him check to see if they were observed. ‘We should be getting back. We arranged to eat with other people in the restaurant, if you remember.’
It was almost an accusation, as if he was stating his resentment at being paraded as part of a couple in front of others. Yet he knew that it was Geoff who was making the effort, that it was Geoff who was forcing himself to get used to appearing in public as half of a gay couple. He himself had been used for many years to such things. He tried to sound relaxed. ‘I’m quite looking forward to a bit of company.’
Geoff had arranged earlier in the day for them to meet up with the Potts and the Martindales in the unpretentious little restaurant on site. They had been comparing notes on what the police had asked them about Wally Keane. As they had stood beside the bowling green and swapped experiences, dinner had seemed an agreeable notion. Now, he wasn’t sure it had been such a good idea. He could sense that Mike was a little uneasy about it. But then Mike knew nothing about the announcement he was planning to make, if things went according to plan.
They went back to their site home and put on their clothes for the evening, as the time dictated that they should. They didn’t exchange many more words. Geoff sensed a nervousness in both of them as the appointed time approached. What had earlier seemed a chance to declare his love now seemed to have all sorts of dangers. But he was resolved, and his determination carried him through all of his doubts.
The Potts were already in the bar when they got to the long, single-storey building which housed the small dance floor and the restaurant. It was a relief to chat to Matthew Potts, whom they hardly knew. He was a quiet, reserved man, who observed what went on around him, missed nothing, and generally offered opinions only when asked for them. That probably stemmed from his army background and his present work on the oil rigs, Geoff decided. But Matthew was friendly enough; he seemed to appreciate being asked to join their small party tonight. Freda was more outgoing and seemingly more nervous. ‘I’m really being spoiled this week,’ she giggled. ‘Treated to a meal here tonight and then out tomorrow to my school’s staff dinner with my husband. It helps to make up for all those lonely microwave meals on my own in front of the telly when he’s away!’
They chatted a little about her work as Head of History in the comprehensive and she emerged as altogether more grounded and less shallow than she had appeared earlier. She showed an eagerness for her subject which she normally concealed because she was afraid of boring people she scarcely knew. Geoffrey Tiler was glad to see how well Freda was getting on with Michael Norrington, who was both knowledgeable and enthusiastic about British history.
It was seeing Mike at ease that emboldened him to ask Jason and Lisa Ramsbottom to share their table when they came in for a meal. The pair hesitated for a moment before Lisa said, ‘Thank you, that would be lovely. It might save us from grumbling at each other over our food; Jason’s been out for most of the day, when I wanted him here!’
‘Pressure of work!’ said Jason, with a forced smile and a shrug of his shoulders. He didn’t enlarge upon the thought.
The Martindales were last to arrive. Geoffrey, who now found himself acting as unofficial host, said with studious neutrality, ‘You didn’t bring the children?’
Mary said immediately, ‘They’re used to eating quite early. And young Alison, who lives next door, offered to babysit for us. She likes the boys and they like her. She’s very responsible, for a seventeen-year-old.’ She was anxious to get the girl’s age in, to show that this was all quite proper and that her children were not being neglected. She glanced at Freda Potts. ‘I think Alison wants to become a teacher eventually, and she says it’s all good experience for her.’
George Martindale said more quietly, ‘We love the little demons dearly, but it’s good for us to be able to get out for a civilized meal without them for a change.’ His dark-brown voice was as smooth as velvet, easing all of them towards relaxation with each other. Geoffrey Tiler took it as the cue to order two bottles of wine as they sat down to their meal. He had taken over, he realized, but that was appropriate enough, in view of what he planned as the climax of this modest gathering.
The eight of them got on remarkably well, as people of very different backgrounds sometimes do over food and drink, and the decibel level of the conversation rose steadily, punctuated as it was by outbursts of genuine laughter as the meal proceeded. The wine went down well, and when a third bottle was eventually ordered, the company seemed to accept that it would be Geoffrey Tiler who bought it, since there was a general recognition now that this had evolved into his evening, however informa
lly it had been planned earlier in the day.
Geoffrey himself became very quiet as they finished dessert and waited for coffee, seemingly content to observe the pleasure his companions were taking in each other’s company. Because things had gone so well, they had now been here longer than any of them had expected, and the few other customers in the restaurant on a quiet Monday evening had mostly filtered away, with envious looks at the convivial eight and the clinking glasses at the end of the room.
It was a surprise, but not a major one, when Geoffrey Tiler rose to his feet with a nervous smile. As the owner of a prosperous small business, he had grown used to making short, generally humorous speeches on a variety of occasions, most of them concerned with retirements. He was more nervous before this speech than before any other he had made, but quietly determined, as he had been throughout the day.
‘This won’t take long, but it’s very important. Thank you for joining Mike and me tonight.’ He looked round at the suddenly expectant, wondering faces and took encouragement from them. ‘All of you know that Michael Norrington and I are a partnership. We are grateful for the way you have received and befriended us here at Twin Lakes.’ There were mutters of approval, then an assurance in Martindale’s mellow base tones that the feeling was mutual.
Geoffrey Tiler smiled at his small audience. ‘I want you to be the first people to hear the formal announcement that we have decided to cement our relationship for the rest of our lives. Michael and I will be taking advantage of the recent recognition of partnerships like ours in the laws of the land. We shall be getting married on the twenty-eighth of September and we’d like all of you to be there.’
FOURTEEN
Detective Sergeant Bert Hook was the one who was sent to question the grieving widow.
‘You already know her,’ Chris Rushton pointed out. ‘And you are by far the most tactful senior officer we have in the team.’
