by J M Gregson
The only one watching her was Jane Davidson. Uneasy in the high-heeled shoes she had bought specially for the occasion, standing stiff and straight in the high-necked black dress which might have sat upon her more easily at a cocktail party, she watched the other women for clues as to how she should behave. For at the age of twenty-four it was her first funeral: she had managed to find excuses to miss the two family occasions of her adolescence and now regretted it. She had been anxious lest she should be expected to view the mortal remains of her employer in his coffin, ridiculously grateful that Denise Freeman had afforded such opportunity to no one. She clasped her fingers beneath her folded arms, and when the priest passed the little stoup of holy water around the tiny group, she stepped forward and cast her few drops quickly into the pit, fearful lest the red of her painted nails upon the vessel should be considered an outrageous breach of decorum.
‘Ashes to ashes, dust to dust…’ The priest concluded the valediction with secret relief, and the five cast their earth upon the gleaming plate of the coffin in turn, as if trying already to obliterate the name of Stanley Freeman. George Robson tried to join in with the last prayer, ‘Eternal rest grant unto him, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon him…’ but only Denise Freeman’s voice rang out clear and knowledgeable with the words to support the priest. George looked across at her, erect, dignified, dark hair sleek and elegant as ever beneath the unaccustomed pillbox hat with its fringe of black net. With her feet placed carefully together on the unnaturally bright green plastic, the slim suppleness of her body seemed only accentuated by the formal garb of mourning. Her voice did not waver, her first tear of the day did not fall until she threw her handful of earth on to the coffin in her last gesture to the spouse that was gone. He tried not to find her sexually attractive at this least appropriate of moments; and failed.
Sergeant Hook, who had married late and had young sons, was disturbed by a different image. He stood with Lambert by the side of the church, sixty yards from the ritual at the graveside. They were in suits of almost identical grey, and they reminded Hook irresistibly of the comic brokers’ men in the pantomime he had seen last winter. As the little group moved away from the grave, shaking hands and offering low condolence to the widow, he felt that he and his chief should now move forward and fill the stage with the light relief of knockabout comedy.
They did nothing of the sort, of course. Instead, they continued to observe as losely as possible the behaviour of the funeral’s central group. But they learned very little. The murderer might be expected to be reserved, even withdrawn, at the interment of the victim. But here no one was at ease; each participant was careful in behaviour, almost silent. Of this group, only Denise Freeman and George Robson had been at the inquest, where Lambert had had a more active role.
The widow had been as contained there as she was now, giving her evidence of identification with no sign of physical distress, receiving the Coroner’s sympathy with no more than a nod and the slightest of smiles, whether of gratitude or irony it was impossible to tell. She had remained calm even through the pathologist’s evidence. His account of the marks of physical restraint upon the corpse’s wrists, his seeming regret at the absence of any alien skin tissue beneath the nails, had brought no shudders of distress from Mrs Freeman. She had heard the finding of ‘Murder by person or persons unknown’ without any sign of emotion, had left the court without the assistance of George Robson’s proffered arm.
The two large men stood well to one side amid the old gravestones as Audrey Robson rejoined her husband and clasped his hand. The party moved off to their various cars. Lambert wished he could observe the inevitable unbending at the small reception which would follow at the Freemans’ bungalow, but there were some doors closed even to senior policemen investigating murder.
He watched the Robsons, now in animated conversation in their car. He was so occupied with conjecture that he scarcely registered the footsteps on the gravel behind him.
‘You’re in charge of this case, aren’t you, sir?’ The last word, a diffident addition, told him before he turned that this was one not at ease with the police. She must in her youth have been buxom; now age and callous accuracy might more readily suggest blowsy. The yellow hair did not look natural, though the blue straw hat perched ridiculously upon it concealed the roots. She had done her best to dress for a funeral, but the tights that had looked navy in the dimness of her room were almost royal blue in the sun’s strong light, the trimmings of the grey dress insistently yellow, the heels of the black shoes worn low beneath their inappropriate straps. The features must have been pretty in youth; their present coarseness had been accentuated by crying, so that the wrinkles round the puffy eyes were stressed rather than disguised by powder. Lambert felt a sudden, overwhelming tenderness as he divined why she was here. But it was Bert Hook who said, ‘Come into the church, love, and sit down. It’s quiet there now.’
She walked meekly between them. Lambert knew where he had seen her before. She had sat in the public gallery at the inquest, looking strained and shocked at the evidence. While those around her had been filled with excitement, she had rolled and unrolled a man’s damp handkerchief between her too-active fingers. Now, as if to activate Lambert’s memory, she delved into a grey plastic handbag and produced another, smaller handkerchief to dab at her eyes.
They sat at the back of the dim, deserted church and Hook said quietly, ‘What did you want to tell us?’ He could be perceptive as well as direct: most sergeants would have taken her name and other details first.
‘It may be nothing.’ Her determination was draining now that she was actually with the police.
‘Never mind, tell us.’
‘It’s just that Stanley – Mr Freeman – was with me on the night he died. I didn’t tell the police in Gloucester properly. I was – confused.’ The word conjured up for all of them an uncomfortable picture of her interview.
‘What time did he meet you?’ asked Lambert.
‘He came to my flat at about seven as usual.’
‘This was a regular arrangement?’ said Bert Hook gently. Lambert, recognizing his expertise, let him ask the rest of the questions.
‘Yes. For two years now.’ She could not keep a little pride out of her voice. Then, as the wrongness of the ‘now’ struck her, the first sob shook the curves that were just too ample.
‘When did he leave you?’
‘It must have been about eight. He had an appointment at eight-thirty, an important one that he couldn’t break. But he was coming back afterwards.’ Even on this summer morning the back of the church seemed cool and damp, as they pictured this pitiable creature waiting alone into the night for a lover who would never return.
They took the routine details from her then: the length of the affair, the frequency of their meetings, the people who knew about it. She had thought there were none: yet someone had told the uniform branch at Gloucester about Stanley’s visits. She had not thought how a new Granada would excite attention and jealousy in the streets where she lived. She was glad they did not ask her about Stanley’s regular monthly payments to her. Eventually, she even ventured a little about their plans for the future, and they were careful to show no scepticism about the dead man’s intentions.
Margot Jomes had made the awkward journey by bus, and Hook on a nod from his chief offered her a lift home, but she refused. She came out of the church with them, seeming hardly to notice the transition to a brightness which made them blink. They left her standing alone in the deserted churchyard, a silhouette who might have stepped straight from Hardy.
She was the only unequivocal weeper in this last chapter of Stanley Freeman’s existence.
Chapter 14
It was less than three miles from the churchyard to Lydon Hall, but Lambert drove the big Vauxhall slowly, reflecting upon the images of the funeral.
‘What news on the suicide note?’ he asked Hook eventually.
‘Nothing very useful. It was typed on one
of the machines at Freeman Estates: electronic, but our people are certain enough to swear to it in court. It’s actually the one Emily Godson uses most frequently, but any of them had easy access to it. Including Freeman himself, of course.’
‘What about Denise Freeman?’
‘She has a key to the office. She could have got in any time when it was quiet. The note could have been prepared weeks ago, of course.’
‘And the signature?’
‘Genuine Stanley Freeman, in the view of the calligraphy boys. As he habitually signed letters without reading them, and on occasions blank sheets of paper waiting for messages to be typed above his name, it wouldn’t have been difficult to obtain.’
Lambert frowned what was no more than a standard reaction. He had never expected this murderer to help them in so obvious a way. But it was another path of investigation that had turned into a blind alley. Perhaps through some superstition that he would close another path in this way, he was quite reluctant as he said, ‘Any news on the car the Harbens saw near Lydon Hall?’
‘No other sightings of it as yet.’
That probably indicated it was local. If a car had been driven across the county in that reckless manner, the police would probably have turned up some other person who had noticed it by now. As he parked at the old Hall, Lambert said, ‘What about our suspects’ cars?’
‘The only one who has a blue one is Simon Hapgood. As you know, the Harbens weren’t sure of make or model. Rushton has shown them the manufacturers’ publicity pictures of Hapgood’s car in blue, but they couldn’t be certain. They’d be no use against a defence counsel, of course.’
‘No.’ He made a mental note to investigate the matter with young Mr Hapgood, though. He had watched him with interest at the funeral.
They walked past the impressive elevations of the old house, looked automatically at the French windows and the spot where Freeman’s body had been discovered. The gardens were trim, the stone terrace mellow in the sun. There was nothing sinister here; the house, which had seen older and darker tragedies, had swallowed this small death effortlessly into its history. In the arboretum, they moved among squirrels and birds who had grown used now to being undisturbed here. They sensed before they entered the sturdy wooden summerhouse that it was empty. Wino Willy was more of this world than theirs: they would scarcely catch him unawares. There was no glimpse of nervous eyes behind the dusty window, no sign this time of the swift, erratic, scarcely human movement of his flight.
Nor was there evidence of a recent presence within the building. The belongings of this strange squatter were precious few, but he had removed them. The cane table had lost its mug and spoon and the ragged blanket was gone from the seat by the door. ‘No condensed milk,’ said Lambert, recalling with a smile the smell from his youth.
‘No bread, no packets of soup,’ said Hook, ticking of the evidence in a mind trained to observation over the years. ‘He’ll be up on the moor in this warm weather.’
Lambert nodded: perhaps both of them chose not to confront the idea that they had driven Willy from this dry, warm haven. They followed the narrow track worn through the long grass by their quarry’s feet, climbed the fence at the gap in the barbed wire, and set off across the common. ‘Are we getting nearer?’ said Hook after they had walked a little way. With the advantage of their long acquaintance, both knew he was talking about the murder.
‘Not a lot. We’re dealing with a cool customer who plans ahead and keeps his nerve.’
‘Not hers?’ said Hook, almost eagerly: he was old-fashioned enough to find murder more unnatural in females.
‘His or hers, Bert. Statistically, it’s six to four on a woman in our five.’
‘You’re still convinced it’s one of those five?’
‘Convinced is a bit strong. But yes, I think so.’ The routine checking of the elaborate police machine that went into action after a murder had not thrown up other possibilities in what was now almost a week. No strangers in the district, no previously undiscovered relatives or acquaintances, no violence elsewhere in the area that might connect with the quietly achieved death at the Hall. ‘What did DI Rushton think of the three we haven’t interviewed yet?’
Although Lambert and Hook had so far interviewed only two of them, all five of the mourners round the grave had now been seen by the police. Lambert would check his impressions and Hook’s notes against their statements in due course, looking for the inconsistencies that might indicate concealment, even guilt. Those who committed this darkest of crimes took on a large organization, developed by experience and technology to a high proficiency. Just occasionally, if they were cool and clever and lucky – it usually required all three qualities – they were successful.
Bert Hook, who had read through Inspector Rushton’s report as directed while Lambert was in conference with the Chief Constable that morning, considered how best to summarize his findings. Rushton, keen and a little officious, was ten years his junior, but Hook had no envy of his superior rank.
‘He didn’t like Mr Hapgood. But he doesn’t think he did it. He quite liked young Jane Davidson, and he doesn’t think she did it. Emily Godson didn’t like him, doesn’t seem to have much of an alibi, and he hopes she did it.’ Rushton would have been aghast at this unprofessional summary of hours of interviews; Hook thought it rather succinct.
They were climbing now, winding slowly over the common as the small town of Oldford opened like a relief map on their left. Already the graveyard they had recently left looked far distant on the other edge of the settlement, though it could have been scarcely more than two miles away in a direct line. Hook, narrowing keen eyes against the sun, thought the earth was already being restored over the coffin of Stanley Freeman, but it might have been no more than fancy: he was too far away to distinguish movement. On the nearer side of the town, the Robsons’ square, solid house was just coming into view above the trees as they climbed higher. Hook could see the back door and kitchen window quite clearly, but there was no sign of the amiable and enthusiastic Fred.
‘Could Emily Godson have done it?’ It was the first time Lambert had spoken for a good five minutes.
‘Not if she was where she says she was,’ said Hook. ‘She says she was with a client of the firm throughout the period between eight and nine.’
‘That should be easy enough to confirm,’ said Lambert, cheerful at the prospect of a straightforward elimination of at least one of his subjects.
‘DI Rushton thought there was something phoney about Simon Hapgood, but he couldn’t catch him out,’ said Hook. Lambert wondered if it might be no more than a clash of temperaments. Hapgood, with his slightly epicene good looks and smart clothes, had looked like a youngish man on the make. Rushton was in some respects rather similar, though he would have been appalled to know that Lambert had recognized the qualities. He was doing well enough himself, but, hemmed in by the boundaries of police procedures, he probably envied Hapgood’s greater scope in a rising property market. Speculation. Rushton was a diligent, industrious detective: if he thought all was not as it seemed here, his superintendent would do well to heed his opinion.
‘Why doesn’t he fancy the fair Miss Davidson?’ said Lambert, regretting his phrasing even before it was complete.
‘I’m sure he does!’ said Hook, relishing this rare lapse, ‘but as a murderer, she seems to have had neither opportunity nor motive.’
‘Opportunity I like. If we can prove she wasn’t in the area, fine. Motive we may simply not have discovered so far.’ Lambert, remembering Jane Davidson’s composure at the graveside, would have preferred to see more grief. Despite her pallor, her air had been one of indifference, even satisfaction, which seemed somehow the more shocking because of her relative youth. Perhaps it was no more than a front, a show of bravado lest her emotional turmoil be exposed. The young could be tiresome at times. But he remembered what the other woman suspect, Denise Freeman, had said about the dead man and Jane: ‘I doubt whether he was b
edding her, though it never pays to underestimate the naïvety of the young. But she seemed to have some hold over him.’ He wondered with a grim smile what Jane might think of the astute and enigmatic widow.
They moved off the common now, on to the wilder moorland beyond, climbing steadily through heather and patches of bracken towards the long line where earth met sky. They must have been several hundred feet high when they approached a disused sheepfold, its four dry-stone walls forming a ragged square. It was well away from any path, in a small hollow beside a tiny brawling stream. Hook had known where to look, or they would have passed without discovering the place. At its furthest corner, where the prevailing west wind would sweep wildly over its stones on stormy nights, three rusting corrugated iron sheets formed a rough roof, providing a shelter within which was perhaps twelve feet square. From the shadowy interior of this improvised lair, their quarry watched them with the quick, mobile eyes of an animal used to flight and evasion. With the sudden, piercing insight of a mind which had slipped off balance, he knew why they had come.
They moved in cautiously after he had seen them, a little surprised that he did not flee from them as he had once before. But then he had been a trespasser: here he was on his own ground. The distinction was perfectly clear in Willy’s damaged mind.
They took in the empty bottles, the two battered biscuit tins, the plastic dish on the ground which had once held food but which now held a little water. Lambert realized that some wild animal, perhaps more than one, had been here within touching distance of Willy.
There were four wine bottles, all empty. He did not smell of drink; perhaps in a more confined space he would have done. They looked from the bottles to the man, and his eyes followed theirs. ‘Well then, Willy,’ said Bert Hook quietly.
Wino Willy looked at the bottles, then allowed a small, secret smile to come upon him. He rocked back and forth on his haunches, glanced up at the sky, and said, ‘“Poor Tom’s a-cold.”’ Shakespeare knew all about the wisdom of fools and madmen: Willy felt himself in good hands. He folded his arms and drew his imaginary rags about him.
