by J M Gregson
After you’d been with men for weeks on end, you had to be careful what you said and what opinions you allowed yourself in mixed company. It wasn’t just language you had to watch, but attitudes also; remarks which might have been run-of-the-mill stuff even ten years ago and were still current on the oil rigs could have you accused of sexism in the sensitive climate of modern-day Britain.
And particularly, it seemed, in education. Matt expressed what he thought was a conventional view when he said that girls performed badly in Maths because they thought they were less intelligent in that area than they really were. He was immediately informed that he was way out of date and an example of the attitudes which held back female development in education. Two men who were attending the evening like him as spouses hastened to leap on to the bandwagon and condemn him as a bigot.
One, a bespectacled accountant, added the thought that they should make allowances for Matt’s army background and present work. ‘Matt’s a man of action,’ he told his wife and anyone else who cared to listen. ‘You can’t expect men of action to be deep thinkers. I’m sure he doesn’t mean any harm.’ He laughed lightly and moved on to the government and the economy.
‘Patronizing sod!’ thought Matthew Potts. He smiled weakly and moved resolutely away to avoid confrontation and decided that he had never liked accountants.
Freda, appearing suddenly at his side to support him, did not help. ‘Matt’s the strong, silent type,’ she said with a nervous smile. ‘Not like me at all!’
She dwelt a little on his past career and his present work, which was exactly what he had been trying to avoid. ‘We shall make allowances for him,’ said his tormentor. ‘I suppose you can’t expect strong, silent men to join the twenty-first century for quite a while yet!’
The joke seemed to be happily received by all who heard it, though Matt told himself that he was by now scarcely an unbiased witness. Things improved a little when they went in to dinner. The food was good and the noise level rose as the conversation and the wine flowed. Matt was inhibited here, since he had assured Freda that he was driving home and so had to be very abstemious. He made his two glasses of red wine last what seemed a very long time as others, including his wife, grew more boisterous. He sat back and watched Freda and her colleagues and their spouses becoming happier and more inebriated.
It is a disturbing experience to remain sober whilst those around you reach various stages of drunkenness. What seems to them irresistibly hilarious seems to you banal. Matthew was aware that he was becoming increasingly grumpy. He looked for but did not find a kindred spirit in this gathering of aliens. He respected good schoolteachers and there were no doubt several of those present tonight. Their wives and husbands seemed to him ever more tedious as the evening proceeded. He should not have come here; he should have heeded Freda’s advice. He realized that now, when it was much too late. He must see the evening out and make the best of it.
He almost did that. Well, almost negotiated it without any serious incident. It was when everything was over and people were collecting their coats that things really went wrong. An ugly incident, Freda called it later. It was certainly that.
Many of the couples had taxis ordered and some were sharing. Coming seventy miles from Twin Lakes, that hadn’t been an option for the Potts. It was outside the hotel, in the car park, that things went seriously wrong. The coolness of the night air hit the revellers and made the effects of alcohol more evident. Freda reeled a little and clutched at Matt’s arm to steady herself. ‘Watch your step, Head of History! Keep one hand on your man and the other on your ha’penny!’ said a drunken voice behind them. A chemistry teacher, who had clutched Freda’s bottom as they rose from the table five minutes earlier and been summarily rejected.
Matt whirled to confront him whilst Freda said urgently in his ear, ‘Ignore him! He’s drunk but harmless. Let’s go!’
Matt glared menacingly at the unsteady figure in the gloom and would probably have done just that. But the man then yelled at him. ‘Take the bloody prick-teaser away! Take her where she can’t cradle-snatch while the cat’s away!’
Matt had him by the throat and against the wall in a second. Freda tugged at his arm and shouted, ‘Leave him, Matt! He’s not worth it!’
It was her cliché which drove him on: he couldn’t explain it afterwards, but it was the vapidity of her words which made his blood pound, where previously there had been only a cold depression. He lifted the man off his feet, heard the thump of the back of his head against the bricks of the wall as he held him there. ‘Explain yourself, you fucking prat!’ he yelled into the terrified face. All the frustrations of the evening surged through his body. He wanted the man to argue, to raise his hands. He wanted to let go with his right hand and pound the terrified face, which was suddenly sober in the face of this assault. He’d beat the stupid sod insensible and leave him here, given half an excuse.
But hands were on his shoulders and on those of his victim and Freda was screaming in his ear. He was dragged away from his quarry and the man was taken half running from his presence. A calm voice said through the darkness, ‘I think we’ve all had rather too much to drink. Best forget about these things and get away home now.’
Matt wanted to tell the emollient voice that he wasn’t drunk at all, that this young twat had groped his wife and then insulted her and that he wanted to see him off. But there was a general murmur of assent and the company melted away into the night as taxis pulled up at the kerb. Freda clung desperately to his arm and eventually succeeded in dragging him towards their car. They sat panting heavily in their seats whilst other vehicles pulled away around them.
‘You’ve shown yourself up and embarrassed me in front of my colleagues,’ she said eventually. ‘Charlie was a bit drunk, that was all! I could have handled it.’
‘What did he mean about cradle snatching?’
‘What? Oh, nothing. He was very drunk. It was just talk.’
Matt started the engine, gunned it as though to wake the neighbourhood. ‘You’ve got some talking to do yourself, I’d say.’
‘We’d like to speak to Mr Ramsbottom. On his own would be best, I think.’ Lambert glanced around the living room and the kitchen beyond it, which were very tidy, even at ten past nine in the morning.
‘Jason isn’t here. He’s gone out to get a morning paper and some shopping. He may be quite a while.’
‘Do you know exactly where he is?’
‘No. And he won’t have his mobile switched on.’ Lisa forced a smile. She knew Bert Hook, but she was suddenly apprehensive at his return to her home with the man in charge of a murder case. ‘I suspect he might be popping into a betting shop in Leominster to have a fiver each way on some nag. That’s not a crime, is it?’
Hook smiled. ‘It certainly isn’t. Do you know when he’ll be back?’
‘I don’t, I’m afraid. I’m going round for coffee with a friend later, so he has the whole of the morning at his disposal. But probably I can help you. I’m sure I can tell you anything that Jason could.’
There seemed to be a touching naivety about this trim, alert woman. Lambert frowned briefly, then said, ‘Those threatening notes you received months ago. Has there been any recurrence?’
‘No. I’m happy to say that we haven’t had any more of them since DS Hook came to the site and asked around about them. It seems that whoever was sending them got the message and was scared off.’
‘And have you had any further thoughts yourself on who might have been responsible for them?’
‘No. We’ve discussed it several times, but it remains as much of a mystery as ever. We haven’t even talked about it during the last two or three weeks. I’m just glad that the notes have stopped.’ She glanced at Hook. ‘I think what you said at the time was right. It was probably someone being mischievous, or even someone with a mistaken sense of fun.’
Bert smiled and explained to Lambert. ‘I only spoke to Debbie Keane. We thought that would be quite sufficient t
o get the word all round the site that the threatening notes were being investigated. It seems that we were right.’
Lisa hesitated. ‘I’m reluctant to say this. I don’t like the idea of accusing a dead man. But do you think it might have been Wally Keane who sent us those notes?’
Lambert looked at her keenly. ‘What makes you say that?’
‘He must have known as much about us as anyone at Twin Lakes. Debbie pokes her nose into everyone’s business and I’m sure Wally would have picked up everything she learned. They were a pretty close couple, even though he didn’t seem to be as inquisitive as her.’
That was certainly true, Lambert thought. He’d recorded all the stuff that Debbie had gathered for him on his computer, plus much more damaging information which he’d gone on to gather for himself. But he wasn’t going to tell Lisa Ramsbottom that, at this stage. ‘But why would Wally want to damage you? You hadn’t made an enemy of him, had you?’
‘No. He’d no reason to hurt us. It’s just that he and Debbie were here all the time and I know how he liked to control things. He seemed to me like one of the few people on the site who might have done this to us, but I can’t think why. If it was pure mischief on someone’s part, as DS Hook suggested it might be, I just thought that Wally might be the likeliest candidate. Especially as the notes ceased after Bert had spoken to Debbie about them.’
‘It’s entirely possible. I just can’t see what Walter Keane had to gain from sending you such poisonous stuff.’
‘Unless of course we presume that Wally was becoming rather odd. That he enjoyed perpetrating mischief and upsetting people.’
That was entirely possible, Lambert thought grimly. Except that they knew enough now to understand that Wally Keane had kept a very clear eye on the money he was seeking to gain from his malice.
Mary Martindale was with Debbie Keane. It was the first time she had spoken with her since the death of Wally.
‘Where are the children?’ Mrs Keane wanted to know.
‘They’re on the golf course. They’re getting quite enthusiastic about golf. George was going to go out with them, but young Jamie has taken them out with him. He’s thirteen now and my two think that’s very grown-up. I suppose it is, when you’re eight and six.’
‘They’re good boys, your two. Well brought up.’ For no reason she could divine, Debbie was suddenly back in her girlhood, when she’d been no older than Nicky and Tommy. She could never have imagined then that she’d have been grateful in her sixties for the kindness of a West Indian woman twenty-five years younger than her. The world was a constantly changing place and she wasn’t sure that she liked that. But then after what had happened to Wally she wasn’t sure of anything. ‘What’s George doing, then?’
Mary grinned. ‘I think his nose was a bit put out when the boys went off to play golf without him. He said he might have a go on the bowling green, if there was no one else about. He’s only a beginner at bowls and he doesn’t like people around when he’s experimenting. He doesn’t like to make a fool of himself.’
Debbie managed a wan smile. ‘Men are like that.’ She sipped the tea which Mary had made for her. ‘How’s he getting on at work?’
‘Very well, I think. The council people must think a lot of him. They’ve promoted him again. He’s in charge of quite a big workforce now. And he’ll never be out of work, will he? There are always road works needed somewhere.’
‘It must pay well. Your children don’t lack for anything. And these places don’t come cheap, do they?’
It was a flash of her old inquisitiveness, her desire to learn everything she could about the lives of those around her at Twin Lakes. Generous Mary Martindale didn’t resent it. She recognized it as a sign of recovery in a widow who was still genuinely stricken by her husband’s sudden death. ‘George seems to do all right, yes. He says the overtime pays well. But I leave all financial matters to him.’
But Debbie Keane had voiced one of her own queries. George didn’t throw his money around, but he never seemed to be short of it, these days. That was surely good for her and the boys, but some small, persistent part of her mind kept asking where all of this came from. Mary smiled at the older woman and said, ‘I wanted to be at home whilst the boys were small. In a year or so, I shall be thinking about going back into nursing.’
Debbie was immediately delighted with this news and diverted from George. She wanted to know all the details of Mary’s qualifications and previous experience. They discussed how rusty she would be after the years away, how rapid progress was in medicine, and how some things like the understanding of patients’ fears never changed. Mary knew the news that she was a fully qualified state nurse and planning to take it up again soon would fly round the site in the next week, but she wasn’t too worried about that. It would be part of the therapy for Debbie Keane, as she fought her way out of her trough of loneliness and despair.
Mary told George about Debbie after the boys had been allowed to leave the table at the end of a noisy lunch. He nodded distractedly: he was plainly preoccupied with some problem of his own. After a few more desultory exchanges he said abruptly, ‘I have to go out tonight.’
‘But we’re on holiday. I thought this week was for us and the children.’
‘I know. I’m sorry. I don’t have a choice.’
Mary Martindale accepted it, as their relationship said that she must do. But she knew that the council didn’t call people out like that. And certainly not at night. Who was it who had this power over George?
‘We’d like to see you on your own, Mr Seagrave.’
Richard glanced sideways at Vanessa Norton. ‘It’s not convenient. We were thinking of going out.’
It was the first Vanessa had heard of it, but she said loyally, ‘We were. And in any case, I can’t see why you should object to my presence. We are merely good citizens helping you voluntarily with your enquiries.’
Lambert noted her knowledge of the intricacies of the law. ‘If you are satisfied that Mr Seagrave has nothing he might wish to remain private, I have no objection to your presence at—’
‘It’s all right. I’ll come with you to your place near the entrance. What you call the murder room, I believe.’ Richard Seagrave contrived to invest the simple words with a touch of contempt.
They did not speak on their brisk walk to the unit temporarily allotted to the police for their investigation. Lambert had set up the furthest and smallest bedroom as an interview room. It did not have the constricted feel of an interview room at the station, with its graffitied walls and square scratched table and single high light in the ceiling, but it was small, crowded with equipment and confined, which gave a feeling of claustrophobia to the nervous and the inexperienced.
Richard Seagrave was neither of these. He looked with interest at the photographs and bagged items as he was led through the unit to the room at the rear and his seat opposite the two set out for Lambert and Hook. He watched the DS shut the door carefully behind them before he sat down. He looked hard at Lambert and said, ‘This shouldn’t take long. I’ve already told you what I know about Wally Keane and the way he died: about the man, little; about his death, nothing.’
Lambert felt a heavy distaste for this man which he didn’t trouble to disguise. He stared into Seagrave’s confident, unrevealing face for a moment without speaking. ‘That’s an interesting observation. It’s surprising you should claim to know so little about Keane. He seems to have known quite a lot about you.’
‘That doesn’t entirely surprise me. His wife was a nosey cow. Still is, I’m sure. I expect she passed things on to her pathetic husband.’
‘She did indeed. And then Walter Keane made all sorts of enquiries of his own into the backgrounds of the individuals concerned. Patient and imaginative enquiries. The amount of detail he collected is astonishing.’
Seagrave’s broad face showed not a flicker of fear. His brown eyes narrowed a little, but continued to stare steadily back at Lambert. ‘That merely c
onfirms my view of the man. I was right not to like him. I didn’t trust the little sod as far as I could throw him.’
‘I see. You are now declaring hatred for a murder victim. Commendably frank, even if ill-advised. I’m sure your well-paid legal adviser would tell you that.’
‘If you’re trying to needle me, Detective Chief Superintendent, it won’t work.’
‘What exactly did Wally Keane discover that he could use against you so effectively?’
The first flicker of alarm. No more than the uncontrolled movement of an eyelid, but it was picked up by two men whose work involved much studying of the human countenance. But Seagrave prided himself on his facility with words. He was, after all, an educated man, he told himself. More than a match for these jumped-up plods. ‘You appear to be telling me in your quaint and indirect way that Keane was a blackmailer. The lowest form of life, in my opinion.’
‘That is one of the very few things on which you and I might agree, Mr Seagrave. At the moment, our interest in Keane is as a murder victim. As that, he has the same rights as any other citizen.’
‘In which case, I should declare that I have no connection with him.’
‘Then why did you pay him a large sum of money a month before he died?’
The right eyelid flicked again. The voice remained steady. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘I think you have, Mr Seagrave. I’ve no doubt you made the payment as indirectly as possible, so as to make it difficult to trace back to you personally. Equally, I’ve no doubt that we shall be able to provide all the details, by the time the case comes to court. Perhaps this really is the time to start seeking advice from your very expensive lawyers.’
Richard Seagrave folded his arms with extreme deliberation. He wished to confirm for himself as well as these offensive policemen that he remained perfectly calm. ‘Defamation of character, Chief Superintendent. Lawyers are good at proving that. The quite gratuitous accusation you are making could cost the police service a lot of money. I think I shall quite enjoy pursuing this. It may well be settled out of court: chief constables don’t like bad publicity. But it will be expensive. You will not be a popular man with your superiors.’
