Killer Cases: A Lambert and Hook Detective Omnibus

by J M Gregson

  ‘Where’s Mrs Munro?’ was all he said.

  ‘I think I saw her in the main hotel just now. She was talking to George Goodman.’ Rushton was a pain in various parts of the anatomy, according to taste, but he was undeniably efficient.

  ‘Would you tell her I should like to see her here right away, please?’ Lambert went without waiting for acknowledgement into the inner office they had already assigned as an interview room. It was normally a staff rest-room. They had found a desk and a swivel chair for him, but magazines had been stacked hastily on a coffee table in one corner. In another, a small washbasin received the water dripping from a leaky tap. Above it, the mirror-fronted door of a medicine cabinet hung slightly open, revealing the bottles of paracetamol and plasters which might be necessary for the day’s minor ailments. He had a sudden image of a doctor’s consulting-room. Perhaps it was not inappropriate, though his investigations would be mental rather than physical.

  Alison Munro was with him within two minutes. Rushton came briefly into the room with her, but the impression was that she dismissed him at the door rather than that he left tactfully when his role as usher was complete. This woman moved with a grace and poise which was the more telling for being effortless and unconscious. She composed herself elegantly into the armchair Bert Hook had positioned for her; the Sergeant was left wrestling with the word ‘breeding’, a concept which his Barnardo-boy background sternly resisted.

  Even Lambert was thrown into an opening which sounded almost apologetic. ‘Thank you for coming across here so promptly. All this must be rather distressing for you.’

  She weighed the cliché carefully, then underlined its feebleness by responding seriously, ‘No, I don’t think so. I think I might find the mechanics of a murder investigation quite interesting: it will certainly be a new experience. And I felt shock rather than distress when I heard of Guy’s death.’

  Her eyes, set so deeply that they looked almost black, looked steadily at Lambert, estimating his mettle, wondering whether he would take up the challenge. He merely nodded, looked thoughtfully at his nails, and said, ‘Why do you think your husband assumed that Mr Harrington had been killed by a fall, Mrs Munro?’

  If she thought the contest had been joined, she gave no sign other than a slight easing forward on her chair. She had been prepared for this, even if she had expected to be led to it more gently. ‘Sandy is an intelligent man, Superintendent. Probably he deduced it from what the others told him about the appearance of the body. And from what you told us earlier, it seems to have been a reasonable deduction.’

  ‘Perhaps for someone who had all the facts. Your husband had apparently not even seen the body himself.’ He was sure she stiffened a little at his use of the word ‘apparently; whether the reaction stemmed from fear or merely from annoyance at the implied slur on her husband’s probity he could not be sure. ‘I inspected the body in the place where it was found. I have seen many deaths, Mrs Munro, but I did not think at first that this one had been the result of a fall. It took the specialist knowledge of a pathologist to tell me that.’

  She looked full into his face, as she had done throughout the exchange. ‘I am sure Sandy would not claim more expertise in these things than a man of your experience, Mr Lambert.’ She allowed herself a small, ironic smile, which stopped well short of contempt. Lambert, who had considerable experience of the breed, was reminded of the defence barrister who, presented with an item which damages his case, maintains an outward calm at all costs whilst his brain furiously reorganises strategy.

  As if she was aware of his comparison, she stroked the hair she had washed just before he appeared, like a counsel checking her wig. But her impeccably fitting helmet of black hair was no archaic prop of authority. She said coolly, ‘I would remind you again that my husband has spoken to the people who actually found the body. You can imagine that the matter was almost the sole topic of conversation among our group this morning. He may well have picked up information or impressions from the people who had seen more than he.’

  It was a fair point, and one precisely made: again he could see her in a courtroom context. He had already considered her argument. Almost certainly one person at least among this group knew exactly how Harrington had died. That person could have communicated the knowledge to others, whether unwittingly or for some other, as yet undefined, purpose. He said, ‘Of course you are right. That is certainly one possibility.’

  The small, firm chin jutted forward half an inch towards him. ‘If you think there are others, you should take it up with Sandy, Superintendent.’ It was the first time she had used his rank, and she contrived to make it sound an insult. This calm woman with her well-organised defences was not going to be easily caught out; for the present, he was ready to accept her dismissal of the matter.

  ‘I have already talked to him about it, Mrs Munro. And we may return to the matter in due course.’ This time he was sure she was disconcerted: perhaps she recognised his tactic of interviewing her before she could confer with her husband about what he had said to them. ‘What we need from you at this point is an account of what you remember of last night.’

  He had deliberately left his terminology vague, in the hope that she might feel threatened. She acknowledged the ploy only by correcting it. ‘Last evening, you mean, presumably. I was asleep for most of the night.’

  It was Lambert’s turn to smile and score a point. ‘Presumably most people I see are going to tell me that. Including one or more who spent a portion of the night murdering Mr Harrington.’ She conceded the point with an answering smile: had he been expecting to chill her with the argument, he would have been disappointed. ‘Would you give me your account of events, please, from the moment when your party got together?’

  She paused, organising her thoughts, deciding, he was sure, what to tell him and how to phrase it. ‘We had a drink before we went into the meal. Everyone was pretty light-hearted. The men were twitting each other about the afternoon’s golf. I think Meg—Miss Peters—found it irritating. I can understand that: there’s nothing more irritating than other people’s golf, especially if you don’t play yourself, as she doesn’t. And we’d had a tiring day.’

  ‘You had been out with Miss Peters during the day?’

  ‘Yes; sightseeing and shopping: I don’t know which was more tiring. Anyway, we were certainly ready for the meal.’

  ‘And did anything untoward happen during that?’

  Again she gave him that slightly scornful smile, as if disappointed in an adversary who could be so transparent. ‘You have heard of the little spat between Tony Nash and Guy. I’m not sure I can add anything to enlighten you.’

  ‘Try, please. If it has nothing to do with this death, no one will suffer.’

  She did not comment on whether it might or might not have a connection. ‘Tony took exception to something Guy said, that was all. I didn’t catch what it was, but I’ve no doubt it was a remark about Meg’s affections.’

  ‘Miss Peters is here with Mr Nash. I am right in assuming they are having an affair?’

  She frowned a little, looking for once away from him. Her dark eyelashes blinked with concentration; he had not realised until then how long they were. ‘I suppose so. That word covers such a multitude of relationships nowadays. I think they intend something more long-term than I would understand by the word. But I suppose you will ask them about that in due course.’

  ‘If it seems likely to have any bearing on this case, I probably shall, yes.’

  She nodded, looking for the first time at Bert Hook, studiously recording her replies in his notebook. ‘Guy had dallied a little himself with Meg. I’ve no doubt that gave an edge to his comment. And to Tony’s reaction, for that matter.’ She had an air of ennui at the tiresomeness of men in these matters, but he had little doubt that her analysis of the incident was a shrewd one.

  ‘Mr Nash’s reaction was not what you would have expected?’

  Again she paused, weighing her reply like
an expert witness. ‘Tony had worked for Guy for years. Harrington did not expect his workers to speak out of turn. I had never heard Tony do so before.’ There was a little contempt here, which she didn’t trouble to disguise, but it was not clear whether it was for the employer’s exploitation of his position of power or the employee’s craven acceptance of it.

  ‘Did you hear what was said?’

  ‘Not the bit that gave offence. The first most of us heard was Tony Nash shouting, “Either you take that back immediately or you’ll be sorry!” I remember the exact words because they seemed to come straight out of a B movie. But Tony was serious enough about it.’

  ‘And how did Harrington react?’

  ‘Oh, he laughed it off. But he was shaken.’ She said it with relish, then looked annoyed that she had revealed so much of herself. ‘Things were smoothed over and the meal went on without any further disagreement. No doubt the wine helped.’ This time she was carefully and successfully neutral: he could not tell whether she applauded the emollient effects of the grape or deplored its capacity to blunt reality. Probably neither.

  She was a woman whose insights and judgements would be worth sharing—always assuming that she was not involved in the crime. He said, ‘Did you see anything during the evening which would indicate in the light of what happened later that one of your party wished to kill Mr Harrington?’

  He half-expected her to dismiss the notion with the view that that was his business rather than hers, but she did not. The pale brow beneath the dark hair wrinkled a little, the strong, small hands clasped for a moment in front of her. Then she said, ‘No. Apart from the incident we’ve just discussed, no one seemed particularly overwrought.’ She seemed as though she would genuinely have liked to offer them something they might use. It made Lambert wonder how good an actress she was.

  ‘I must ask you whether you know of anyone with a reason to kill Mr Harrington. Needless to say, your reply will be treated in the strictest confidence.’

  She looked at him with a cool smile; she seemed to be genuinely enjoying the question and the suggestion that she might have such knowledge. Lambert remembered the intensity of her husband’s reaction to the same inquiry. They could scarcely be a more different pair, in temperament and background. Yet his guess was that they would be fiercely supportive of each other: perhaps the old idea of the attraction of opposites had something in it, or perhaps the differences one saw clearest were the superficial ones, disguising the more important similarities of philosophy and outlook that lay beneath.

  She said, ‘Guy Harrington excited strong passions in people, Mr Lambert. With your extensive experience, I’m sure you have found they often prompt people to violence.’

  She was taunting him a little, throwing back his earlier suggestion about the benefits of experience. Trying not to be nettled, he said evenly, ‘As a generalisation, that would be correct. Can you be rather more specific about the people involved here?’

  She crossed her legs; Bert Hook persuaded himself that he was admiring only the rich maroon leather of the high-heeled shoes below the nylon. ‘I doubt whether I can help you much there: I don’t know any of them particularly well. Meg Peters had certainly known Harrington well in the past. I don’t know exactly how well, but no doubt the efficient machine that is the CID will soon discover that. Tony Nash was certainly more upset than I have ever seen him last night. George Goodman had known Harrington for a very long time: whether there is anything of great moment in their pasts I have no idea. George seems far too avuncular to perpetrate homicide, but I suppose under stress the unlikeliest people are capable of foolish actions.’

  It was the very admonition Lambert found himself giving frequently to people drawn into investigations; he found it curiously disconcerting to have it thrown back at him. He noticed how the golfing party had suddenly become ‘them’ rather than ‘us’. Perhaps it was natural that she should regard herself and her husband as being above suspicion. He said gruffly, ‘I should like you to give us now an account of your own movements after the party broke up at the end of the evening.’

  Suddenly and unexpectedly, she was on edge. She must surely have expected this, but it had made her nervous for the first time. ‘We sat together on the roof of this building for quite a long time after the meal was over. I had a brandy: someone was passing round a half-bottle—Guy, I think. It was a beautiful, moonlit night, as you may remember. It was still quite warm at around midnight. It must have been quite late when we broke up; I wasn’t wearing a watch, so I couldn’t be sure of the time.’

  She was talking quickly, rushing on inconsequentially, postponing the moment she knew was inevitable. Lambert said, ‘And where did you go yourself at that point?’

  ‘Well, I wandered round for a little while before going to bed. Perhaps we’d all drunk a little too much.’

  Lambert doubted if that was true in her case. He said, ‘I believe your husband went for a walk on his own. You chose not to go with him?’

  She flashed him a look of fierce suspicion, as if she thought he was trying to trap her. Then she relaxed; but it was a conscious effort. He could see her working at it, like someone concentrating on releasing muscle tension at the beginning of a yoga class. She said ‘No. I didn’t want to be with Sandy then. I felt rather—confused. I suppose when I think about it now that I really had had a little too much to drink.’ Her little giggle sounded as false in her own ears as it did to the men studying her. It could have been explained as simple embarrassment, but she had shown no previous signs of being easily discomposed by the confession of a social peccadillo.

  ‘Where did you go, Mrs Munro?’

  The simple question became suddenly important, the atmosphere highly charged. Probably it was because they all recognised at the same moment that a woman who was not normally evasive, who perhaps even scorned to be so, was trying to disguise the truth. Alison Munro brushed a tress of dark hair impatiently back from her cheek, as though it had let her down by coming adrift at this point. She said, ‘I really don’t remember, Superintendent Lambert. I shouldn’t like Sergeant Hook to record what wasn’t true.’ It was a brave attempt at her former ironies, but no more than that.

  Lambert said quietly, ‘So you are saying that you cannot account for your movements at the time when Guy Harrington was very probably being killed.’

  ‘Guy was not killed during that period, Mr Lambert.’ She spoke with such conviction that she startled the two experienced men. ‘For what it’s worth, I didn’t go far. I think I wandered around the outside of the old house and then along the paths among the newer building blocks before I went back to our room.’

  ‘Did anyone see you? You can understand, I am sure, that we should like to have your movements confirmed.’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’ The reply came too promptly from someone who should have been looking for corroboration of her story; perhaps she knew that such confirmation was not possible.

  Lambert, who had already decided he did not believe her, pressed as hard as he dared with a witness who was still a citizen voluntarily helping the police to pursue their inquiries. He said, ‘So you did not speak to anyone in this period between when the group broke up and you returned to your room?’

  ‘No.’ Again the reply came so hard on the heels of his question that there was scarcely a pause between. Then she said more deliberately, ‘If I had done, he’d be able to confirm my story, wouldn’t he?’

  Lambert wondered if there was anything to be deduced from the fact that she should assume it would be a male she might have met. She had a point, of course: he was going to check with the others in her party, so that if she had met one of them it should come out in due course. Unless both of them wished to conceal it. He said, ‘Did you speak with your husband when you got back to your room?’

  The dark eyes bored into his, the striking features which framed them seeming paler than ever. He was professionally inscrutable, exuding a calm he did not feel. Alison Munro said, ‘No, I don�
��t think so. Sandy was in bed and probably asleep. He gets of very quickly.’

  She looked down at the fraying edge of the carpet to her right, desperately wishing that she had been able to compare notes with her husband before this meeting.

  She was sure already that she had made the wrong reply to this last, crucial question.

  Chapter 11

  WEDNESDAY

  ‘Any news from Jacqui?’ John Lambert was pleased to get his question in before Christine could inform him. Usually when he was on a case he forgot even his favourite daughter.

  ‘Not a lot. She saw the gynaecologist yesterday. The baby had turned himself over again and they put that right. Otherwise, everything is as it should be. About a fortnight, they think.’

  As he had anticipated, she was absurdly pleased that he had asked without being prompted; he felt a shaft of guilt that his omissions should be so manifest. Yet he cared deeply about the progress of Jacqui’s pregnancy. It was the old wall he erected between work and home. Other people, even other policemen, managed things better. He was well aware how he had almost broken their marriage twenty years earlier: neither he nor Christine ever spoke of those days now. The stubborn, stone-faced young Inspector and the lonely woman who had shrilled her resentment at him might have been two other people, removed now from their lives.

  ‘You’ll make a good grandfather, once you’ve got used to the idea again.’ As usual, she sensed his difficulty. He felt despite the grey hairs and crows’ feet he saw in the bathroom mirror each morning that he was still at the height of his powers. It seemed no time at all since he had held seven-year-old Jacqui and her sister upon his knee to watch the television serials at Sunday tea-times. Last year Caroline had made him a grandfather; now Jacqueline was about to do so again.

  He wondered if there were children involved in the death at the Wye Castle. None had surfaced yet, but people were capable of violent and irrational actions where their children were involved. He had seen such passions often enough in his work; he felt more in himself than he cared to acknowledge of that primitive, disturbing extremism which could strike at a man pursuing the interests of his children.