Mason’s jaw had dropped. ‘You must be out of your tiny mind! Look, ask anyone, anyone who knows me, anyone who’s ever known me. OK, I might get a bit irritable from time to time, but I bet you won’t find a single person who’s seen me lose my temper, not ever.’
‘They say that every man has his breaking point, Mr Mason. Perhaps you’d reached yours.’
‘No! I never even saw him, I told you!’
Lineham leaned forward. ‘We find it very difficult to believe that. Try to look at it from our point of view. You’re frantic about losing your home. You go up there to make one last appeal. You see Mrs Randish. She says she’ll speak to her husband on your behalf and suggests you don’t approach him again until after she’s done so. So what do you do? Go home? No. You came intending to see Mr Randish and see him you will. So you go up to the winery and ask Mr Vintage where Randish is. And then, surprise, surprise, where Mrs Randish has failed to convince you, Mr Vintage succeeds. You take his advice and off you go, like a little lamb. So what we want to know is why? Why listen to him and not to Randish’s wife, who presumably knows her husband best?’
‘I told you last night! Because Mr Randish was in a bad mood, Oliver said, and he thought it would do my case more harm than good to tackle him last night.’
Thanet wasn’t surprised to learn that, as he had suspected when he last spoke to Mason, Vintage had indeed known why Mason wanted to see Randish and had been reluctant to say so to the police because he was in sympathy with the builder’s cause. No doubt the dispute was common knowledge in the village, as such things are in a small community. But it still didn’t explain why Mason had taken his advice.
‘Yes, I know you told us that,’ said Lineham. ‘But he must have put forward some very convincing argument, to get you to listen to him. What was it?’
Once again Mason hesitated, as he had last night.
Mason shrugged. ‘It was enough, to know he was in a bad mood. I mean, what was the point of putting his back up?’ But his tone lacked conviction.
He was definitely holding something back, thought Thanet. And he was beginning to waver. Go on Mike, press home your advantage.
Lineham was shaking his head, ‘Not good enough, Mr Mason. Look, I don’t think you realise the seriousness of your position. You were there, on the spot, when a man you hated was murdered. If you refuse to be frank with us and fail to give us a convincing reason why you gave up and went away without seeing him, you can’t blame us for drawing our own conclusions.’
‘But I didn’t go near him, I swear it!’
Lineham said nothing, just gazed steadily at Mason, whose eyes eventually fell away. ‘It was because they’d had a row,’ he muttered.
Lineham must have been pleased at Mason’s capitulation, but he didn’t show it. ‘Who had a row? Mr Randish and Mr Vintage?’
Mason nodded.
‘Then why on earth didn’t you say so before?’
Thanet could guess why. Mason had hesitated to point the finger of suspicion at Vintage for the same reason that Vintage had been reluctant to talk about Mason’s visit: they had evidently both been ill-treated in some way by Zak Randish and had not wanted to implicate a fellow-sufferer. What had the row between Vintage and Randish been about? he wondered.
Mason had not replied, just shook his head, and Lineham sounded exasperated as he said, ‘Well, what was the row about?’
‘None of my business, I’m afraid. I didn’t ask.’
That didn’t mean that Vintage hadn’t told him, though, thought Thanet. But by the stubborn line to Mason’s lip’s he guessed that Lineham wasn’t going to succeed in getting him to say any more on this subject. He was right. The sergeant tried various tacks and then, recognising that it was a hopeless task, went on to question Mason about the rest of the evening. Mason’s account tallied with what Landers had told them.
‘And when you left the pub at 9.15 with Mr Landers?’
‘I went straight home to tell my wife about Mr Landers’ offer. I knew she’d be relieved to know we had somewhere to go.’
And Lineham could not shake him.
They watched him depart with DC Wakeham and then Lineham said, ‘So, the plot thickens. Mr Vintage was keeping very quiet about that row, wasn’t he?’
‘Wouldn’t you, if you’d had a row with someone and a couple of hours later he was found murdered?’
Lineham laughed. ‘Put like that, yes, I suppose I would. Anyway, d’you think Mason was telling the truth?’
Thanet pursed his lips. ‘Some of it, yes. All of it? I’m not sure. In any case, Vintage certainly has some explaining to do. Let’s go.’
SIX
The first drops of the rain which Joan had forecast spotted the windscreen as Lineham turned into the entrance to the vineyard.
Alice Randish and Fiona were just getting into a Range Rover, They were both wearing corduroy trousers, roll-neck sweaters and Puffa waistcoats, Fiona’s outfit a scaled-down version of her mother’s. Alice, Thanet remembered, owned a horse and Fiona probably had a pony. Livestock had to be attended to whatever crisis its owners were going through. Thanet raised a hand in greeting and Alice acknowledged it with a tight nod as she drove away. Her face was set, as if she were hanging on to her self-control by the most slender of threads. Thanet wondered if she had been told about her niece’s death yet.
The rain was coming down more steadily now and with increasing force. Lights were on in the shop and two women inside turned curious faces as Thanet and Lineham hurried past to the bottling plant.
Inside the big double doors they took off their raincoats and shook them before the water could soak into the fabric. Carson had come to meet them and he now led them into the office, where he gave them an update on the various searches and inquiries that were going on. Most of the staff had been interviewed and allowed to go home, but two of the women had been held back. One of the girls who served in the shop had told him that Oliver Vintage had been ‘in a mood’ the previous day, though she didn’t know why. She usually worked in the shop only on Saturdays, but had come in to help out yesterday because the regular girl was ill, so she knew nothing of what had been going on at the vineyard during the days leading up to the murder. The manageress was a different matter. Both Carson and Bentley were sure that she knew more than she was telling, but had failed to get her to open up.
‘Has Vintage shown up yet?’ said Thanet. ‘I told him I’d want to see him again this morning.’
‘Yes, some time ago. He went off into the vineyard to look at some grapes,’ said Carson. He glanced at the rain, which was now beating relentlessly against the windows. ‘I shouldn’t think he’ll stay out long, in this.’
The manageress’s name was Mrs Prote and she was waiting in the shop.
‘Prote. What sort of name is that?’ said Lineham.
While they waited for Carson to fetch her Lineham prowled around the office, coming to a halt in front of the computer. The sergeant had been hooked on computers ever since he’d done a course a few years back. ‘Nice computer system, sir.’
Thanet wasn’t interested. ‘Really?’
‘Yes. Expensive. New, by the look of it. And a laser printer. I’m surprised he didn’t get something cheaper, for a business of this size.’
Carson was back. ‘Mrs Prote, sir.’
The manageress was in her late thirties, tall and dark, with horn-rimmed spectacles and hair swept back into a neat French roll. The pleats in her navy blue skirt were crisp, her shoes highly polished. She looked as if she were used to having everything under control and her expression was apprehensive and somewhat bewildered – hurt, even, as if life had unexpectedly let her down. As she came in she cast a proprietorial glance around the office as if to check that these interlopers had not been tampering with her arrangements. She sat down primly, knees together, feet neatly aligned.
She had worked at the vineyard for four years, Thanet learned, and was in charge of the hiring of staff and of the administratio
n of both vineyard and tea shop, leaving Randish free for his work as winemaker and consultant.
‘What sort of consultant?’ said Lineham.
‘He advises people who are setting up their own vineyards on the types of grapes to plant, explains to them the various advantages and disadvantages of the two main systems of growing, and also acts as agent for winemaking equipment. Anything, really, to do with the growing of grapes and the making of wine. He’s – he was, very much respected as a winemaker.’
‘How did you get on with him, Mrs Prote?’ said Thanet.
Interesting, he thought. A toe on her right foot had twitched. Feet were often a giveaway. People could school themselves to control their facial muscles, but their extremities seemed to have a life of their own. She had obviously had reservations about her employer.
‘All right.’
‘You don’t sound too enthusiastic.’
‘We got along perfectly well as employer and employee. I know my job, I’m reasonably good at it, I think, and he was satisfied with my work. Otherwise I wouldn’t have stayed as long as I have.’
‘What about Mr Vintage?’
Extraordinary things, eyes, thought Thanet. Fascinating, how they reflect one’s inner feelings and attitudes. Mrs Prote did not blink, nor did her expression alter even slightly, except for her eyes. There, it was just as if a shutter had closed. And her right toe twitched again.
‘What about him?’
‘How do you get on with him?’
‘Fine. Though we don’t actually have a lot to do with each other. He works outside and I work inside and our responsibilities don’t often overlap.’
‘What do you think of his work?’
‘He’s hardworking and conscientious, anxious to learn. I know Mr Randish thought he was becoming a very good winemaker.’
She had relaxed a little, pleased to present Vintage in a good light. Time to try to get under her guard.
‘What was the row about, between Vintage and Mr Randish?’
She blinked and this time she twisted her right foot around her left ankle. ‘What row?’
Thanet sighed. ‘Look, Mrs Prote, I’m not going to insult your intelligence by playing games. I’ll be frank with you. One of your members of staff has told us that Oliver Vintage was “in a mood” all day yesterday, and we know from another source that Vintage and your employer had a row last night …’
‘Last night?’ At once, she looked as though she wished she hadn’t spoken.
‘You’re surprised. Interestingly enough, not by the fact that they had a row at all, but by the fact that it was last night. Why is that?’
She shook her head to convey – what? Confusion? Reluctance?
‘What can I say to convince you that you have to be frank with us? This is, I must stress, a murder inquiry. If you know anything, anything at all, which could help us, it really is your duty to say so.’
But duties could conflict, as Thanet knew only too well, and people frequently chose to give their loyalty to people rather than to the abstract cause of justice.
‘There’s really not much point in hiding anything, you know,’ Thanet added softly. ‘We always find out, sooner or later, I assure you. I can see we are talking about someone you obviously like and respect and I can understand your reluctance to tell us anything you feel might incriminate him. But surely it’s better that we learn anything there is to be learnt from someone who is on his side.’
‘I doubt that you’d find anyone who isn’t. Not that he is in need of such support, of course.’
‘Nevertheless …’
Thanet let the silence stretch out, aware of its power to exert pressure where words have failed.
Mrs Prote had turned her head and was gazing out of the window as if seeking the answer to her dilemma in the familiar view outside.
She had come to a decision. Her lips tightened.
She’s not going to tell me, thought Thanet.
She shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, Inspector, I can’t help you. But I will say this. I’ve worked with Oliver Vintage for four years now and I honestly do not believe he could have anything to do with what happened here last night.’
Thanet could see that there was no point in pursuing the matter. Her mind was made up and that was that. He sent Lineham to find Vintage.
While he waited he stared out of the window at the view which had greeted Randish every day of his working life. What had the man been like? So far he hadn’t even begun to understand what made him tick. They seemed to have been plunged at once into suspects and motives. But it was Randish who was the key to the mystery, Randish whose behaviour had for some reason hurled someone into a fit of ungovernable rage. Thanet realised he should have discussed him at greater length with Mrs Prote, but he had been so intent upon trying to get her to talk about the row with Vintage that he had let the chance slip. He could always see her again, of course, but meanwhile he wasn’t going to make the same mistake with Vintage.
The heavy shower had eased off and the sky was lightening. Perhaps it would clear up later after all. Vintage, however, had obviously caught the worst of it. His old waxed jacket streamed with water and his hair was plastered to his scalp, accentuating the skull-like effect imparted by the deep eye-sockets and the hollows beneath the cheekbones. The early night didn’t seem to have done him much good. He still looked bone-weary.
He took off his coat, dropped it on the floor and perched on the edge of a desk, taking out a green-spotted handkerchief to mop his face. ‘Bloody rain. We could do without this, on top of everything else.’
Thanet leaned back in a relaxed manner and said, ‘Tell us about Mr Randish. What was he like?’
‘Like?’ Vintage frowned. ‘In what way?’
Thanet waved a hand. ‘Any way.’
‘Well, he was ambitious. Always looking for ways to expand his business, to make more money. But hardworking, mind.’
‘Ruthless, perhaps?’
‘A bit, yes, I suppose. All successful businessmen are, aren’t they?’
‘Go on.’
Vintage frowned. ‘It’s difficult, when you work with someone every day. You don’t stand back and look at them, you tend to take them for granted.’
‘Try.’
‘Well, he had a very good opinion of himself.’
‘Egotists are by definition very self-centred.’
No response.
‘They tend to be somewhat dismissive of other people’s feelings.’ And that shot had gone home, Thanet thought. Vintage’s eyes had dropped and he had compressed his lips.
Vintage shifted uncomfortably. ‘I don’t really like talking about him like this.’
‘Speaking ill of the dead, you mean?’
‘Yes.’
‘Understandable, but really rather pointless, don’t you think? I’m not asking you to spread malicious gossip, just to give me your own frank, personal opinion of him. Nothing you can say will harm him now and it might help us to understand what happened last night.’
‘I don’t see how.’
‘Just take my word for it, Mr Vintage.’
Vintage slid off the desk and walked to the window, stood looking out, with his back to them. ‘I still can’t quite take it in, that he’s dead. He was so very much alive, if you see what I mean. Always full of energy, always looking for new avenues to explore.’
Vintage was prevaricating, Thanet realised, while he tried to make up his mind how much to tell them. Thanet was happy to go along with this if it would encourage Vintage to open up. ‘Yes, I understand he had a number of strings to his bow. He must have had a lot of contacts. I believe his sister lives locally, so I imagine he grew up in the area.’
‘Yes he did, I think.’
‘How did he get into vine-growing, do you know?’
Vintage returned to his perch, settled down again. ‘I think he was always interested in farming, used to work on farms in the school holidays and joined the Young Farmers’ Club. That wa
s where he met Mark Benton, I believe – Mark’s father, James Benton, owns the other vineyard where Zak is – was – winemaker, at Chasing Manor. That was where Zak really became interested in vines, through going out to the vineyard with Mark. He started working there during the holidays after that, instead of on a farm. Mr Benton was winemaker there at the time, of course, but by the time he retired Zak had had quite a lot of experience and I suppose it was natural for him to take over. Mr Benton still owns the vineyard, though.’
‘Mark Benton didn’t take over when his father retired?’
‘No. He went into something completely different. He’s an accountant.’
‘His father must have been disappointed.’
‘Zak told me Mark was never interested in the vineyard. You can’t force these things.’
‘No. Presumably Mr Randish went to college to study – what do you call it, the study of vine-growing? Viticulture?’
‘That’s right, viticulture. No, he couldn’t. At that time there was no such course at any college in the country. Now, there is a course in vine-growing and winemaking, at Plumpton. It started a few years ago. Oddly enough, it was to Plumpton Agricultural College that Zak went. No, like me, Zak went to some workshop courses at Alfriston, run by the Agricultural Training Board. It was the only way to learn viticulture at the time. But I was lucky. My old man could afford to pay for me to go to Australia. The vineyards out there are amazing and I got in a couple of years’ very useful experience, learnt a hell of a lot.’
‘You’re saying that Mr Randish’s family couldn’t have afforded to send him to do something like that?’
‘Well I could be wrong but that’s certainly the impression I’ve got.’
No Laughing Matter Page 6
