In Vino Veritas lah-23

by J M Gregson

  Lambert smiled at him, pleased to see him struggling. ‘You’ve just said that he didn’t interfere with you in your kitchens or the restaurant. You’d better make it clear exactly what you’re telling me now.’

  ‘Yes. Well, it’s difficult to be specific, but I think other people felt it as well as me. I’m about twenty years younger than Martin was, and I suppose I felt sometimes that he wasn’t always open to new ideas.’

  ‘You will need to be specific, however difficult you find that, Mr Knight.’

  ‘Well, I suppose I’m saying I’d have liked more of a say in policy matters. I think we all would — all the senior people, I mean.’

  ‘You wanted to be more than mere employees.’

  ‘Yes. I’m not sure how far other people shared this view, of course. You’d need to speak to them to find out that.’

  ‘Which we shall be doing, in due course. At the moment I’m trying to establish how much you resented Mr Beaumont’s autocratic way of running a business.’

  ‘Oh, our relationship was amiable enough. We’d agreed to differ, for the moment. I expect there’d have been ongoing discussions as time went on, if Martin hadn’t been removed from us.’

  ‘I see. You didn’t accept that Mr Beaumont’s attitude was immovable on issues affecting his control of the business? Mr Morton gave us the impression that there wasn’t room for manoeuvre on this sort of issue.’

  Jason’s heart jumped at this. He hadn’t expected them to be so direct. It was forcing him to move off the ground he had been prepared to fight on. He forced a smile. ‘Alistair Morton and I have different temperaments, I think. Not that I feel I know him really well, even after years of working here. He’s very efficient about matters of finance, but something of an introvert. He isn’t an easy man to get to know. Perhaps Alistair accepted Martin’s decisions as final, whereas I tend to think that there is always the possibility of change. It was my view that as the business grew bigger and bigger, Martin would eventually have had to compromise a little, to allow other people a greater input on decisions of policy. Unfortunately, we’ll now never be able to see whether I was right or whether I was too optimistic. I must admit I always tend to look on the bright side of things.’

  ‘Perhaps someone else didn’t share your view. Perhaps that someone saw Beaumont’s death as the only way of changing things.’

  ‘I suppose that is a possibility. I must confess that I had assumed that Martin’s death was unconnected with the business. I’d presumed that it was likely to have stemmed from his private life.’

  ‘And what reason do you have for thinking that?’

  ‘None, I suppose. I just thought violent death must have come from violent emotion.’

  ‘It often does. Do you have a particular reason for thinking violent emotion prompted this crime?’

  This Lambert man wasn’t letting him get away with anything. He had planned to offer them a bland, stonewalling performance and send them away feeling he had nothing to offer. But everything he suggested seemed to be treated as if he had special knowledge. He said carefully, ‘No, I’ve no real reason to think this was a killing prompted by private passion. I’ve no idea what motive Martin’s killer had. But when you know a man had a fairly turbulent personal life, you inevitably think his death might be connected with that.’

  This time Lambert offered him a nod of agreement. ‘You’d better tell us about this turbulence in Mr Beaumont’s personal life, hadn’t you?’

  ‘I don’t know any details.’ Jason was immediately and instinctively defensive; he could hear it in his own voice. He knew he needed to offer them something. ‘I do know that Martin wasn’t particularly close to his wife. He produced her about once a year, usually on a formal occasion like dinner in the restaurant, but otherwise we never saw her. I’ve been told that she has some sort of mental illness, but I couldn’t give you any details of that.’

  Lambert smiled a rueful acknowledgement. He should have expected sex to rear its multicoloured head. It invariably complicated murder investigations, and unfortunately it was rarely absent from them. ‘What you’re telling me is that Beaumont had other women in his life.’

  ‘Yes. But I don’t-’

  ‘And other men?’

  ‘No.’ Jason permitted himself a smile at the thought. ‘I’d be confident that Martin was thoroughly heterosexual in his tastes.’

  ‘And by “thoroughly” you would mean extensively.’

  ‘I think I would, yes. But I can’t give you any details. It’s all hearsay as far as I’m concerned.’

  ‘But well-informed hearsay, no doubt.’

  Jason felt no threat here; on the contrary, it was an opportunity to divert suspicion away from himself and into the murky world of Beaumont’s couplings. He relaxed his language as well as his attitude. ‘Martin was a big personality, as you’ve no doubt gathered already. He dominated this firm and he liked it that way. There was bound to be a lot of gossip about what he got up to when he was away from the work which was his main passion. Some of it was probably no more than salacious rumour, but I’m sure Martin was a red-blooded male who needed his sexual release. Don’t they say that autocrats are the worst? I read that Mussolini used to pop out of meetings for a quick bit of how’s-your-father and then be back for the next agenda item. I’m not suggesting that Martin was anything like that, but I’m sure he had an active and varied sex life.’

  ‘Are you, indeed? And yet you can’t give us any details of these activities.’

  Jason contrived to look a little hurt. ‘I’m just trying to be honest, Chief Superintendent. I’m sure these things happened, but I didn’t want to know the details. They weren’t my business and Martin wouldn’t have been pleased if he’d found me prying into his private life.’

  That certainly made sense. They already had this picture of the murder victim as a despot who would not welcome such interest. A benevolent despot, perhaps, so long as no one opposed his formidable will. Rewarding to work for, as Jason Knight had told them at the outset, so long as you were prepared to accept his every decision unquestioningly.

  Lambert said, ‘You have been very successful here, as you mentioned. I’m sure you have ideas of your own about how not only the restaurant wing but the whole of the business might best be developed. Did you not find Mr Beaumont’s dictatorial attitude frustrating?’

  It was so nearly a summary of the way his thinking had evolved that Jason wondered for a moment of panic whether they knew all about the very things he had set out to conceal. But they couldn’t know: this could only be speculation. He paused, smiled, said, ‘You’re quite right, of course. When you feel you have good ideas, you like to see them implemented. But you were allowed your say. Sometimes you found that your good ideas were being implemented as though they were Martin’s own a few months later.’

  Lambert nodded. He’d seen plenty of that in the police service over the years. Your good ideas could sometimes be implemented, as long as you were content to let them emerge as someone else’s bright proposals. ‘Nevertheless, that is a rather dubious way of making progress. You strike me as the sort of man who would like a more direct input and a more direct recognition.’

  Jason nodded a gracious acceptance of what he took as a compliment. He had an answer ready for this. ‘I am still developing my restaurant here, both in terms of the quality we offer and the numbers we serve. That is satisfaction enough. If in due course I’d felt the sort of frustration you mention, no doubt I would have moved on to pastures new.’

  But chefs more than others were reluctant to abandon what they had built up from scratch, thought Lambert. They might develop and extend, open new branches, but they were usually reluctant to abandon the place where they had built a reputation. It was as though that place contained a part of themselves which they could not readily relinquish. He nodded to Hook, who said quietly, ‘Where were you on Wednesday evening, Mr Knight?’

  ‘At the golf club at Ross-on-Wye. I saw you on the course
there.’ Jason tried not to sound too pleased with himself.

  Bert Hook disappointed him by nodding impassively. ‘You weren’t working?’

  ‘No. Normally I would have been, but this is a quiet time of the year for us. My deputy is quite capable of handling the numbers we had on Wednesday. Good experience for him to be in charge.’

  ‘What time did you leave the golf club?’

  ‘It must have been at around eight o’clock.’

  ‘And where did you spend the rest of the evening?’

  ‘I went home. Watched a little television. Dozed off in front of it, I expect, after the fresh air and exercise and a couple of drinks.’

  Jason wondered if they would ask him about the programmes, but Hook merely made a note and said, ‘Is there anyone who can confirm this for us?’

  ‘No. I live alone, since I was divorced three years ago. Is it important?’

  ‘It’s a routine question. We should like to eliminate you from the enquiry, if it were possible.’

  ‘If I think of anyone who rang me on that night, I’ll let you know.’

  ‘Thank you. That would be useful.’ But Jason had the feeling that both of them knew he wasn’t going to be able to come up with anyone.

  Lambert didn’t speak until Hook had piloted the police Mondeo out of the crowded car park at Abbey Vineyards and on to the road outside. ‘What did you make of him?’

  ‘I felt he had most of his answers ready for us — not that that’s always significant. I also thought he was being evasive.’

  ‘Interesting. So did I. No doubt we shall need to speak again with Mr Knight.’

  Saturday afternoon was busy in the strawberry farm down the road, far too busy for Tom Ogden to notice the police car as it passed the entrance.

  Half an hour later, after several minutes hesitating over the decision, he picked up the phone and rang his wife. ‘It’s me, Enid. I’m almost finished here. I’ll be with you in an hour or so.’ The farmhouse was only a few hundred yards away, at the other end of his land.

  ‘All right. I’ll have the meal ready. And a beer, seeing as it’s Saturday, so long as you’re prompt.’

  ‘The police are coming to see me about Beaumont. About his murder.’ He’d planned to wrap it up a little, to deliver it more casually. But as usual he was no good at needless words. And he’d never been able to keep anything from Enid.

  There was a tense little pause before she said, ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘I don’t know. Routine enquiries, the woman who arranged it said. I suppose someone’s told them I hated the sod. I don’t expect it’s anything to worry about.’

  ‘No. You might be as well not to tell them what you told me this morning about how glad you were that the bastard was dead.’

  ‘No.’ Tom knew she was joking, but he wished she’d actually laughed at the idea. ‘And there’s one thing I thought of. I think we should both say we were at the cinema on Wednesday night. Just to be on the safe side.’

  ‘Even though that was on Thursday.’

  ‘Yes. According to the papers, Wednesday night is when he was killed, you see.’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘Just to be on the safe side, as I said.’ He wondered why he wanted so much to do this on the phone, not face to face.

  ‘And I said all right, Tom. If you think it best.’

  Enid Ogden put down the phone and stared at it for a long time, wondering where her man had actually been on Wednesday night.

  SIXTEEN

  ‘There’s a picture of Dad in the local rag,’ Jack Hook informed his mother with satisfaction. ‘He looks like the cat that pinched the cream.’

  Eleanor knew she ought to discourage him, but she was too curious not to come out from the kitchen and look at the news sheet he had spread out across the table. The photograph had been taken as Bert descended the steps after the award of his degree. The reporter had caught him off guard, no doubt commanded him to smile, and had been rewarded with an obedient, meaningless smirk. The caption described him as ‘Detective Sergeant James Herbert Hook, delighted with the award of his BA with honours, after six years of unremitting part-time study’. Eleanor shuddered in anticipation; her husband never used his first name of James and hated the Herbert, which was a regular source of tiresome police-canteen humour.

  ‘Don’t upset your father,’ she admonished her sons; Luke had appeared mysteriously and silently at his elder brother’s side, in response to Jack’s discovery of the article in the free local weekly.

  It was Luke who sought out the gems in the accompanying copy and delivered himself of an unseemly guffaw. ‘They call Dad Jim, Mum. It says here: “The well-known Herefordshire detective Jim Hook is now the proud holder of a distinguished honours degree.” Then it goes back to that stuff it always prints about cricket and how he got Geoff Boycott out in the days of prehistory.’

  His father, who had entered the room in time to hear this last sentence, said a little wearily, ‘Anything before you were born is “prehistory”, is it, Luke? It was a mere fourteen years ago, you know.’

  ‘When you were in your pomp and King Boycott was well past his, then,’ said his elder son, with a crushingly accurate knowledge of the game he now loved with the same passion as his father.

  ‘Indeed it was,’ Bert admitted with his habitual modesty. It was not without a tinge of regret that he added, ‘It was in a benefit match, when the great Geoffrey had retired. He’d already compiled over fifty runs.’

  Eleanor Hook said loftily, ‘If you know as much about the game as you claim, Jack, you will be aware that Mr Boycott was renowned for never giving his wicket away. At any time and in any circumstances.’

  ‘Well done, Mum,’ said Luke. ‘I bet it was one of Dad’s good ’uns, like you say. You know, Jack, he was a great bowler, our dad, long before he was a professor.’

  ‘Can we eat as soon as possible, please, love? I have to go out again tonight,’ was all that modest luminary said in response to this unwonted filial admiration.

  Luke was not going to let him off so easily. After perusing the print beneath the picture carefully, he read with his finger fastened triumphantly on the passage, stressing the forename whenever it occurred. ‘It says here, “Whilst his colleagues were anxious to assure us that Jim Hook was not allowing his academic distinction to go to his head, the great man himself was not available for comment. It seems that conscientious detective Jim was too busy with his work to speak to us. We understand that he is currently engaged on the case of the sensational and as yet unsolved murder of Martin Beaumont, the well-loved local businessman who owned and ran Abbey Vineyards. At the time we went to print, a source described the police as baffled by the crime.”’ Luke looked up with delighted innocence. ‘I don’t think they should call Dad “baffled”, now that he’s a graduate. Do you, Mum?’

  ‘Dinner’s ready. Get the cutlery out and set the table,’ ordered his mother sternly. Bert forbade all discussion of both degrees and detection for the duration of the meal.

  Jack Hook had a parting shot for his father as he left the house and hurried to his car. ‘Best of luck with the detecting, Jim!’

  Tom Ogden lived with his wife in a long, low, two-hundred-year-old farmhouse, built in the attractive amber-coloured local stone. The barn alongside it was in good repair but now disused. It had already elicited several enquiries from local property developers, who had been told firmly that it was not for sale in Tom’s lifetime. The other, smaller outbuildings housed the compact modern machinery used in the cultivation of the strawberry fields.

  Hook, who was used to the convenience and confinements of modern suburbia, said with genuine appreciation what an attractive place this was to live. Ogden led them across a wide, stone-flagged hall and into a room which comfortably accommodated several easy chairs alongside the old, oak dining-room furniture which denoted its main use.

  Tom Ogden looked genuinely pleased with Hook’s compliment. ‘We rattle around a little, now that
the children have gone. Enid says we should go for a modern bungalow, but my family’s been here for centuries — I can’t see myself living anywhere else. Besides, there are advantages in living on site, even now, when there are no beasts to milk and we operate like a vast smallholding.’ He delivered the last phrase with a practised contempt, so that they caught a little of the nostalgia for a vanished way of life they often saw in countrymen of his age.

  Hook, who was seeking to get a flavour of the man before they began formal questioning, saw the odd but attractive mixture of openness and shrewdness he often found in people who owned and worked the land. He had played cricket with men like this, who had been veterans of the game when he had arrived as a raw but promising teenager, a police cadet newly released from the Barnardo’s home where he had spent his boyhood. He had been a green lad in those days, knowing little of life outside the home and anxious to pick up whatever he could from every experience. He had learned much from men like this.

  Ogden had the weather-beaten skin, the tanned face and hands of a man who had spent the bulk of his life in the open air, who had worked outside in all weathers and come through the worst of the heat and the cold, labouring as hard and as long as the men he had eventually employed. At sixty-three, he was a picture of healthy vigour, bulky yet sinewy, an excellent representative of the yeoman stock which had bred him. He was also an intelligent man, who had reacted to the changing demands of farming in the new century.

  As if he read those thoughts, Tom looked round the low-ceilinged room and said, ‘I can remember having over thirty people in here for the Sunday tea my mother made, when I was a nipper in the fifties and we had everyone out for the haymaking.’

  ‘You’ve seen the world of farming change a lot in your working lifetime,’ agreed Bert Hook.

  ‘Ay. But at the moment I’m wondering what you’re doing here.’ He said it with a smile, but with the air of a man who was used to directness in himself and in others. You wouldn’t get away with much, if you worked for this man, but he would treat you fairly, if you were honest with him.