by J M Gregson
‘Mr Giles is the victim, not the criminal. We’re questioning everyone who was close to him.’
Aubrey Bass would never have made a success of serious villainy. He was far too transparent. His jaw dropped. ‘Young Giles is dead? And you’re… ‘Ere, you can’t possibly think I ‘ad anything to do with—’
‘Where were you on Saturday night, Aubrey?’ Hook let a little contempt seep into the name this time. He didn’t seriously think this small-time loser would be involved in murder, but there was no harm in frightening him into cooperation.
Panic filled the widening, bloodshot eyes. ‘Round at a friend’s. We went to a couple of pubs first, then back to his place. We had a bevvy, a few laughs, a game of cards.’
‘Good. You can give us the exact times and the place. And the names of your friends. I’m sure they’ll be only too anxious to help the police.’ Hook made an entry in his notebook and beamed down at it with satisfaction. Now, tell us everything you know about the late Ted Giles, your ex-neighbour.’
‘Well, there isn’t much to tell, honestly there isn’t. I was only in his flat once. Went to see if ‘e ‘ad a few cans of lager, when we’d run out, but ‘e ‘adn’t.’
‘And did Mr Giles come in here much?’ said Lambert.
‘Never.’
That was probably true, they thought. A man who kept his living space as clinically tidy as Giles was not going to step into this tip unless he had to. ‘But you must know something about his way of life, living as close as you did,’ said Hook, a little desperately.
‘He was a teacher. At Oldford Comprehensive, I think.’ Bass brightened at this, even ceased scratching for a moment. It was so eminently safe.
Lambert sighed. ‘We know that. We also know his height, his weight and his age. We know that he lived here alone. We also know how he died. But nothing else. You must at least know something of his comings and goings.’
‘Not much. These walls are pretty thick, for modern places. You’d be surprised.’
Thrusting away an image of this monument to hygiene crouching with his ear to a glass against the bedroom wall, Hook leaned forward a little further on the edge of the sofa. ‘Never mind the estate agent bit, Aubrey. Tell us whatever you know about Ted Giles. Without any more buggering about.’
‘Well, there isn’t much I can tell you — ‘onest there isn’t. But ‘e did ‘ave a few visitors.’
‘That’s more like it. What kind of visitors?’
This time it was Bass who leaned forward, confidentially. He had a full range of scratches, thought Lambert; this one, cross-handed to each side of his ample belly, was positively lecherous. ‘‘E were a bit of a lad, you know, were Ted. ‘E ‘ad women in there. Quite often.’
Lambert leaned forward, resisting a sudden temptation to send up Bass’s leer with an even more extravagant one. ‘The same woman, do you think? Or more than one?’
‘Oh, more than one, I’m sure. Several.’ Aubrey Bass dwelt on that word with satisfaction, as though it was the height of linguistic sophistication, as for him it possibly was. Then he slipped back into phrases which were more familiar to him. ‘‘E put it about a bit, did Ted, I can tell you! Not arf!’ He confirmed the information with an even more extravagant leer, which almost culminated in a wink. ‘I spoke to one of them a couple of times. Young, slim piece. Could ‘ave done ‘er a bit of good, if she’d let me, I can tell you!’
Lambert stood up quickly, anxious that Bass’s nudge in the ribs should remain merely metaphorical. ‘Can you give us any names?’
He couldn’t, of course. Even Hook’s mixture of cajolery and threats could draw no more out of him, and eventually they were certain that this little was all he knew. He stood at the door as they left, scratching his chest with satisfaction. ‘Be able to clean up a bit now!’ he said unconvincingly, as though they had held him back from the work.
Hook turned back to him. ‘There’s about as much chance of that, Aubrey Bass, as of Fulham winning the Cup!’ he said magisterially.
They had got little from this deplorable neighbour, and that little was depressing. Lambert and Hook, like most policemen, strove for a neutral moral stance. People who ‘put it about a bit’ must look after their own consciences.
But they invariably made difficult corpses for CID men.
***
At Oldford School, the Head of the Social Sciences Department dismissed his last class of the day and looked out of the window at a school drive swarming with the noisy exuberance of children released.
The waiting was getting on Graham Reynolds’ nerves, and more so now that the day was over and he had no classes in front of him to compel his attention. There had been a policeman and a policewoman making discreet enquiries among Ted Giles’s pupils at lunch time. And the top brass had already been in to see Mick Yates first thing this morning, after assembly. He knew that, though the young man had never said anything to him about it during the rest of the day.
They must know about him. They would come eventually, he was sure. He went into the staff room, forced himself into the usual banter, the usual humorous binding about the job. He marked a few essays, used the kettle to make a cup of tea, watched the phone in the corner for the summons he knew must surely come. When he went out to his car, he pulled up his coat collar against the cool night air, as if concealing himself from hidden watchers.
Sociologists were often reviled for having all the answers. Graham Reynolds hadn’t. He was a worried man.
***
The light was dying on what had never been a bright day. Bert Hook looked as though he was nervous about being seen, even in this light. He peered nervously over his shoulder for hidden witnesses to his shame as they carried the buckets of golf balls onto the Astroturf platforms of the driving range.
‘Just relax,’ said John Lambert cheerfully to his protégé.
Bert felt about as relaxed as a stripper’s G-string. ‘Wouldn’t I be better just hitting these on my own?’ he said. ‘Getting the feel of the shot, like you said.’ He had refused to book lessons with the pro, since that would have acknowledged some sort of commitment to this ridiculous game, and he still didn’t want to admit to that. Now, with Lambert striding at his shoulder like an anxious parent, the pro suddenly seemed much the lesser of two evils.
‘Nonsense!’ the Superintendent said breezily. ‘By all means have a few practice swings, to get your rhythm going, but I’ll be ready to help as soon as you need me. Only wish I’d had an experienced player willing to help me when I began the game!’
Why does he have to be so bloody cheerful all the time? thought Bert. He’s not normally like that; does he think it’s part of his instructor’s role?
Lambert did, though hardly consciously. He regarded himself as a teacher manqué, though his irreverent daughters had said he was more of a manky teacher whenever he had voiced the notion. Well, dear old Bert would have the benefit of the pedagogic talents and patience he had never been able to exercise. ‘Don’t be too long warming up!’ he commanded breezily. ‘The light’s going fast.’
Bert sneaked a ball onto the tee and gave it a whack, but Lambert whirled at the sound and came over to lean on the edge of the stall whence Hook was playing. He gave a cheerful smile of encouragement; to Hook, glancing up apprehensively after he had teed the next ball, it seemed in the half-light like a goblin grin of anticipation. ‘In your own time,’ said Lambert happily.
Bert addressed the ball, feeling suddenly like an arthritic crab under this unblinking scrutiny. He was beginning his backswing when Lambert said sharply, ‘Are you really happy with that grip?’
Bert was. It had hit him a few sixes in his time on the grounds of Herefordshire and Gloucestershire. Lambert shook his head sadly and entwined his fingers into a network which Bert was sure he would never be able to repeat for himself. ‘Now try,’ said Lambert.
Bert did. The ball remained obstinately on its peg as the clubhead flashed over it. Lambert roared with laughter to tell his ch
arge he should not be embarrassed. Bert wondered how many years you would get for manslaughter under extreme provocation. But with this grip, he might even miss as large a target as John Lambert, he thought miserably.
He got the ball away. Lambert criticised its direction. After three more attempts, he got one away straight. Lambert said it hadn’t gone high enough. Bert eventually got one away straight and high. Lambert took away his 7-iron and said he was now ready for something more ambitious. Bert said with savage irony that he was lucky to have someone so perceptive at his side. Lambert agreed.
Lambert twisted Bert’s shoulders and pushed his hips into the appropriate position. ‘We’re building up your swing plane,’ he assured his charge. Bert counted the diminishing number of balls, concentrating on that single factor: it was his only gleam of hope in this dark world.
With only three balls to go, the accident happened. Bert caught the ball flush at the bottom of his swing with the 4-iron which had given him so much trouble. The ball soared high, long, and straight, disappearing from his range of vision in what was admittedly now a very dim light. There was an interval of at least three seconds, as he stood back and gasped, then waited for the inevitable words of acknowledgement and praise from his delighted mentor.
Then Bert heard a tut-tutting behind him from Lambert. ‘What on earth happened to your follow-through that time? Just look at where the club has finished! And look where your feet have finished!’
From somewhere in the recesses of Hook’s subconscious, there surfaced an old tale he had read of Wilfred Rhodes coaching a youngster in the cricket nets of long ago. ‘And thee look where t’bloody ball’s finished!’ he yelled. He dropped the iron and stalked away, leaving Lambert alone with his thoughts and the last two balls.
Five
The wife of the late Edward Giles made herself up with care and waited for the CID men to come at the appointed time. At eight thirty, she felt perfectly composed, but she noticed how much more nervous she became as the time crept round to nine fifteen. By the time she saw the dark blue Scorpio easing up the drive of her house, she trembled with a trepidation she had been determined she would not feel at the prospect of this exchange.
Yet when she opened the door to Lambert and Hook, they saw a well-groomed woman in an Armani suit, who appeared composed and in control of her emotions. In the spacious drawing room, with its windows looking over vistas of weedless grass and borders where roses still gave a few brave flowers, she waved them towards a settee whose tapestried elegance could scarcely have been a greater contrast to Aubrey Bass’s sprouting sofa. ‘I’m sorry I was away when this happened,’ she said. ‘No doubt you would have preferred to see me earlier.’
‘Yes. We like to speak to the next of kin first, whenever possible. In this case it wasn’t. I trust the Irish police broke the news as well as these things can be done —there isn’t any easy way.’ Lambert, through the conventional words, was studying her closely.
‘They were as diplomatic and as caring as you would expect the Irish to be. They’re a warm-hearted people, despite their political troubles,’ said Sue Giles. She threw in the clichés readily enough, suspecting that even this grizzled detective Lambert might be thrown a little by her if she could preserve this apparent serenity. ‘Would you care for a coffee? It’s a little too soon after breakfast for me, but no doubt you both begin work early.’
‘No coffee, thank you. We have to make up for lost time — normally, as I said, we should have already interviewed the spouse of a suspicious death, as our first move in the investigation.’
It came out like the rebuke he had not intended, but it did not ruffle Sue Giles. ‘Of course. I identified the body as that of my husband last night. You are convinced, then, that Ted was killed by person or persons unknown. That’s the jargon, isn’t it? That’s what you mean by a suspicious death?’
‘That is the phrase that will probably be used in the Coroner’s Court, yes. Unless, of course, we have found who did this by the time of the inquest.’ Lambert found that he was less confident than usual, despite all his experience. When you came expecting grief, prepared to walk on eggshells of diplomacy, it was disconcerting to find a calm widow, bringing herself up to date with their progress, ticking off the identification of the remains of her dead husband as if it was no more than one item in a list of household tasks.
Sue Giles looked at him coolly. ‘And do you think you will have a man arrested for the murder of Ted before the inquest?’
It’s possible. We are pursuing several lines of enquiry.’ Yet he knew as he spoke that both of them realised it was most unlikely. Stonewalling techniques were not likely to be effective with this woman. ‘We shall need the full details of your stay in Ireland at the weekend.’
‘Yes. We were in Killarney. We flew to Shannon Airport on Friday night.’
‘We?’
She looked for the first time slightly disconcerted, as if she had made her first tiny mistake in the game she had set up for herself with them. ‘I spent the weekend with a male companion, Mr Lambert. He flew back to Heathrow on Sunday night, but I stayed on with friends until yesterday.’ The small smile she allowed herself was edged with mockery. ‘I have been separated from Ted for five years, you know. The important thing from your point of view was that I was several hundred miles away in Eire when he was killed.’
Lambert answered her smile with one of his own, trying to mirror exactly her degree of sardonic amusement. ‘And how do you know exactly when your husband was killed, Mrs Giles?’
‘I don’t. But I read in yesterday’s paper that the body had been found in Broughton’s Ash churchyard shortly after the Remembrance Day service on Sunday. I naturally presumed that Ted died on the Saturday night — indeed, that is the impression I was given when I went to identify the body. Are you telling me that I was misinformed?’ She looked at him confidently, even challengingly, her head a little on one side, her expensively cut red-brown hair framing a face that was handsome rather than pretty, with its strong nose and clear, blue-green eyes.
‘I think you are very well informed, Mrs Giles. I am reassured by it. We need to ask you some questions, you see. We are engaged in filling in the background of a murder victim. You have already showed us one important fact: that we can eliminate you from any direct involvement in your husband’s death.’ He emphasised the word ‘direct’ lightly, enough he hoped to plant the idea that she was not completely in the clear yet. She must have picked it up, but she looked neither irritated nor threatened. ‘However, we need to know something of your own relationship with him, as well as your knowledge of any other associations he had.’
‘There was no animosity between Ted and me. Our marriage had failed. We both came to terms with that several years ago.’ For the first time, she seemed a little on edge. Embarrassment, he wondered, or something more? These terse pronouncements had the air of a prepared statement. But why not? Not many people took kindly to having their private affairs exposed to a stranger, and however dispassionate she might choose to appear now, any marriage which had failed had its own saga of blazing emotions and scarred aspirations which were better not revisited.
Lambert said, ‘Forgive me for saying so, but you do not seem to be overwhelmed with sorrow by your husband’s death.’
‘That’s my business!’
‘And mine, too. This is a murder inquiry, Mrs Giles.’
He had ruffled her, for the first time, as he intended. Rage, like any other emotion, makes concealment more difficult. She said tensely, ‘All right. I see that. And you’re right. I ceased to love Ted — if I ever did — a long time ago now. The way he lived his life was no longer my concern. That doesn’t mean that I don’t want you to find the man who killed him.’
‘Or woman. We are assured that the method used requires no great physical strength.’ Lambert looked down at the hands which twisted against each other in the lap of her suit. Then he lifted his gaze to the now tense face above them. ‘You mention the w
ay he lived his life. That is what we are trying to piece together, Mrs Giles, and perhaps you can help us. Do you know, for instance, if he had any serious relationships at the time of his death?’
Sex: a tricky subject with an ex-wife. You left the orientation question open nowadays. There was nothing so far to indicate that Giles had not been heterosexual, but you mustn’t leap to conclusions. Sue Giles seemed to have no doubts. ‘There were other women. None serious enough to be regarded as a lasting partnership, so far as I’m aware. But I warned you: I kept out of his affairs.’
‘Nevertheless, unless some serious attachment had developed quite recently, you would probably have been aware of it.’
She weighed the statement carefully: she was fast regaining her composure. ‘Yes. I think that’s probably fair. But, as I said, I was no longer interested in his actions, or his attachments.’ There was a little flash of contempt on the last phrase, and he wondered if she was really as detached as she pretended from the life of her late husband.
‘And if he had formed any serious attachment, that would not have upset you?’
A flash of temper blazed for a moment in the blue-green eyes. To his disappointment, she controlled it before she spoke. ‘I thought I had made myself clear, Superintendent. My husband’s affairs were no longer my concern. I should have been delighted to hear he had found himself some liaison which was going to last.’ This time there was a contempt she did not trouble to conceal on the last assertion.
‘And yet you chose not to divorce him.’
This time she could not control her emotion. ‘Who the hell gave you the right to say that? What makes you think I’m going to—’
‘I told you. This is a murder investigation. I have to find out how the victim lived his life. A man none of my team knows. A man none of us had even heard of until his body was found in a village churchyard. So don’t talk to me about rules, about what I can and can’t do, Mrs Giles. There are no rules to stop me seeking the knowledge we need about your late husband. For one thing, I owe it to him to find out who killed him. And we will find out, Mrs Giles!’ He spoke evenly, but with a passion which surprised even himself. The last assertion, he knew, was mere rhetoric, an expression of determination rather than of a real certainty that they were going to make an arrest.
