by J M Gregson
She would not reveal her secret; and not only because the killer had rendered her a welcome service. There had been good reason for this death: in the murderer’s shoes, she might well have taken the same opportunity. Now she was relieved of the temptation and grateful to her deliverer. As far as she was concerned, the death could remain the work of a person or persons unknown.
It was the third time that afternoon she had told herself that. She returned to thoughts of the life which her awaited her back in Surrey. She was not sure how seriously involved she was with the man who was her lover. Or how much more seriously she might wish to become involved, in these new circumstances: death altered everything. It was a dilemma she found not unpleasant, though like other things in her new life she was trying to postpone consideration of it until Guy was finally and officially dispatched.
Perhaps in that quiet room she was more on edge than she knew, or admitted to herself. For when the knock came at the door, she started so much that her book leapt from her lap to the carpet. She checked her hair automatically in the mirror of the small dressing-table as she went to the door. The strain in the face she chose not to see.
She did not recognise the figure which almost filled the doorway. A stolid figure, with blue, observant eyes. Powerful shoulders, large, flat hands, waist thickening a little with early middle age. Observant, wary, courteously careful in his attempts not to threaten a woman on her own. He said awkwardly, ‘My name is Hook. Sergeant Hook, of the CID. We met briefly at the Wye Castle, when you spoke to Superintendent Lambert on the day of your husband’s death.’ His careful delivery had the soft, warm vowels of Gloucestershire.
She said, ‘I remember you now. I didn’t at first. Please come in.’
He came awkwardly into the room, his eyes studiously avoiding the bed which dominated its small floor area, as if by acknowledging it he would be hinting at intimacies beyond his brief. She indicated the room’s single armchair and perched herself adroitly on the stool by the dressing-table. It was a small armchair, and he parked himself uneasily on the edge of it. She thought he looked like a newly appointed school prefect coming for the first time into the headmaster’s study.
‘I really only want to arrange for Superintendent Lambert to see you. Only the phone was out of order, see. I tried three or four times. They said you were out.’
‘I’m afraid I told the hotel switchboard to say that, Sergeant. So that I wouldn’t be disturbed.’ She almost added the ‘see’ that he had attached to his explanations; the habit was catching, and she had an idea that he was deliberately playing up the countryman in himself. Perhaps he wanted her to think him less acute than he was. ‘I wasn’t anticipating anything as grand as a CID visit, I must confess.’
‘It’s Mr Lambert who needs to see you, really. I wouldn’t have come at all if I could have arranged it on the phone.’
‘No. I’m sorry about that. Well, when would the great man like to see me?’
‘Tomorrow morning. First thing, if possible.’ Visions of flimsy nightwear flashed before Bert’s suggestible eyes, and he said hastily, ‘That’s to say, just after breakfast. About half past nine?’
‘Nine-thirty would be fine, Sergeant. May I ask what is the line of these mysterious inquiries?’
The grey, humorous eyes teased Hook, as if they appreciated immediately his dilemma. If he could find out anything useful today, the chief would be only too pleased; Lambert was the least sensitive of men when it came to the protocol of an investigation. But since he had expected merely to make a telephone appointment for the morrow, he had not thought out his approach for an interview. He said, ‘I think he wanted to know a little more about your husband’s factory and those he employed. But I’m sure—’
‘Any particular employees, Sergeant? I am only too anxious to help the police the course of their inquiries, you see.’ With her use of the cliché, she was gently mocking him, and both of them knew it.
Bert decided she was having things rather too much her own way. His air of cosy rusticity dropped away as he said, ‘Mr Nash, for a start. I believe he didn’t like your husband, and didn’t choose to disguise the fact over the last few months.’
‘I’ve heard reports to that effect, yes. Not many people liked Guy. I don’t know why Tony Nash should have grown so open about it recently.’
He waited, feeling she knew at least a little more, but she did not enlarge on the matter. Lambert would press her harder the next day, he felt sure. He said, ‘Mr Munro worked for your husband, as well. Was he happy doing so?’
‘No.’ She smiled at him openly. ‘Sandy Munro is a poppet, Sergeant. Perhaps that’s not the expression you would use, but accept my word for it.’ She was smiling at him now, teasing him openly. ‘But he isn’t the most forthcoming of men, as perhaps you’ve found by now. He’s got a nice wife: perhaps you could get something out of her. But I mustn’t try to teach you your job.’ Her smile was wide and empty; Bert remembered similar expressions on stonewallers who had frustrated him for hours at cricket.
‘What about Mr Goodman?’
For a moment she looked blank; perhaps she had expected to be pursued harder on the Munros. ‘He didn’t work for Guy. He’s an architect with his own practice. I think he did occasional work when it was commissioned, but they didn’t fall out about it. As far as I know.’
‘What about Mr Goodman’s daughter. Didn’t she work for Guy?’
‘Did she? It could only have been for a short time. Of course, Guy’s was quite a big works, employing about three hundred people in all.’
‘You didn’t know about her working there?’
‘I’m afraid I didn’t, Sergeant. Is it important?’ Her smile was blander than ever.
‘Probably not. In which case, can you tell us anything about Miss Peters which might be of relevance?’ Bert was quite pleased with the result of his abrupt transfer to a different subject. Marie Harrington’s smile disappeared abruptly and she looked at him sharply; it was the effect he looked for from the ball he reserved for stonewallers, dug in a little short and delivered with extra pace. For a moment, the woman opposite him looked agreeably like a batsman who has seen a ball whistle past his nose.
Then she said, ‘She was one of Guy’s women. I expect you have discovered that. I’m not sure I can tell you a lot more.’
‘She is going to marry Mr Nash.’
‘So I understand. I hope they will be very happy.’ She was annoyed with herself: the little ironic barb was her first unguarded moment. ‘I don’t think I can tell you any more about the handsome Meg Peters, Sergeant. As to whether Tony Nash resents her past, you are no doubt closer to that situation than I am.’
Hook said, ‘Did you resent Meg Peters yourself, Mrs Harrington?’ He had met a succession of smartly dressed, slightly patronising women among the governors of the Barnardo’s homes where he had been brought up. Thinking of Marie Harrington as one of these might be unfair, but it enabled him to be brusque: he had a few scores to settle with the breed.
If his aim was to rattle her, he was successful, briefly. She said, ‘That is hardly your business.’
‘Not unless it is relevant to a murder inquiry, Mrs Harrington.’
‘That, I assure you, it is not. I had learned to pity rather than envy Guy’s women a long time before Meg Peters.’
Hook paused, meeting her gaze. Both of them could hear that irritating tap dripping a few yards away. He said quietly, ‘You will appreciate on reflection that we cannot accept anyone’s assurances at the moment… Can you tell me about your own movements on the night of your husband’s death, please, Mrs Harrington?’
He had taken her by surprise this time, quite certainly. The fast Yorker following the short-pitched ball, catching the opposition on the back foot. She said, ‘If you like. I went out to dinner with friends in Camberley. No doubt they can confirm that, if you need to be convinced.’ Her asperity signalled a small victory for him in their exchanges. ‘And the group broke up at what time?’
‘Quite early. I suppose about ten-thirty.’
‘And did you then return to your home?’
‘Sergeant Hook, what is the point of this?’
‘In cases of homicide, it is routine police practice to check the whereabouts of those closest to the deceased. The more people we can eliminate from the inquiry, the greater the resources we can bring to bear on the people who might have committed the crime.’
It was efficiently deadpan, as it should have been. He had explained the position often enough before, to less intelligent and cooperative women than Marie Harrington. She looked at him curiously, weighing the comfortable village-bobby exterior, deciding it was a convenient disguise. Then she said, ‘I spent the evening with seven friends, then went home to a cold and celibate bed. I could not possibly have killed Guy. Have you any justification for this line of questioning?’
Hook was wondering how he had got in so deep; he had intended when he came merely to follow Lambert’s instructions and arrange a meeting for the morrow. He decided there was no point in suspending operations at this point. ‘We have a witness who thinks you did not return to your house until around two-thirty a.m.’
The woman in front of him did not gasp or protest. The large grey eyes widened, and for several seconds she said nothing. Perhaps she was doing the same arithmetic the police had conducted about journey times between Camberley and the Wye Castle; perhaps she was speculating about the identity of their informant. Hook had carefully avoided revealing the sex of the neighbour, but something told him Marie Harrington would be able to make an accurate guess in the matter.
Eventually she said, And you think that in that time I might have driven to Herefordshire and killed my husband? It’s possible, I suppose, in theory.’ She mused for a moment, then took a decision. ‘I was with a man. A man I may wish to marry when all this is over. I don’t wish to give you his name: for reasons I won’t go into now, it would embarrass both of us. But if I have to, I will.’
Hook thought he had gone far enough for the moment. ‘That will be up to Superintendent Lambert. We may need to check out the story, to eliminate you from our inquiries. If it has no bearing on the case, there is no reason why the information should not remain confidential.’ It was another of his prepared formulae. He stood up stiffly and launched into another, valedictory one. ‘Well, I won’t take up any more of your time for the present, Mrs Harrington. I shall probably return with Superintendent Lambert to see you in the morning. Unless you would prefer to come to see us? We have set up a Murder Room at the Wye Castle.’
‘Here will be fine, thank you, Sergeant. I’m not sure that it is an appropriate sentiment in the circumstances, but you may tell Mr Lambert that I look forward to the renewal of our acquaintance.’ She had recovered her poise at the last, just as Hook departed with a resumption of his awkwardness, manoeuvring his large frame through the scanty spaces between bed, stool and chair as if he were in a doll’s house.
When he had gone, the woman he had questioned sat for a while in the chair he had lately occupied, her book unopened on her knee. Surely they couldn’t really think she had killed Guy? That would be ironic indeed, when she could tell them if she chose where to look for their killer.
Had she given this Sergeant who was so much shrewder than he chose to appear any clue to the identity of that killer? She didn’t think so. She was glad he had mentioned all the people in the group at the Wye Castle, so that she had been blankly unable to help on each one, with a sort of negative neutrality. Had she had Bert Hook’s background, she would no doubt have congratulated herself on playing a consistently straight bat.
She was startled when the phone rang, for the first time during her stay. The sturdy Sergeant Hook must have attended to the switchboard operator: she did not look the kind of girl who would be proof against police disapproval. She knew the voice immediately. ‘We need to meet,’ it said.
‘Why?’
‘Things to be sorted out. We need to be clear about the story.’
She didn’t like that ‘we’. She was not part of a conspiracy. Except of silence. ‘You needn’t worry. I know nothing. I can make informed guesses, but they will go no further.’
‘There are things I have to get straight for myself. I shan’t contact you again. We’ll go our separate ways, once the heat is off.’
The voice was nervous; not as she was used to hearing it. She felt a sudden sympathy, a rush of gratitude for the deliverance the speaker had brought her. ‘All right. Tomorrow? It will have to be late morning or afternoon: I have to see Lambert first thing after breakfast.’ Leaning to untangle the cord of the phone, she glanced into the mirror, and was surprised to see the tension in her face.
The voice said, ‘No. I can’t do tomorrow. I’ll be seeing Lambert myself. I don’t know when yet. Make it tonight.’
Suddenly she too wanted this meeting over quickly. It was part of the business of ridding herself of Guy. ‘All right. Here?’
‘No. We shouldn’t be seen together. You mustn’t be implicated. By the river. Just below the Wye Castle: I can’t be away from here for long without it being noticed.’
It was true, she supposed. She could see that. Absurdly, she wanted to say how grateful she was. Instead, she said, ‘All right. What time?’
‘Say ten-thirty. If we should be all together here, I can sneak out at about the time when the bar is shutting. It shouldn’t take long.’
They arranged the exact spot. It was no more than ten minutes’ walk from her hotel, so that she need not take her car. The less notice she attracted to her movements, the better. No one wanted her accused of complicity.
She put down the phone and stared at it for a long moment. For the first time, she acknowledged to herself that she was feeling the strain. She would be glad after all to have this business over.
Chapter 19
It was hot under the television lights: too hot. And the platform party had been sitting under them for too long.
Lambert, glancing sideways at the beads of sweat on his Chief Constable’s face, wondered for a moment if the young producer had roasted them deliberately, setting them up for a confrontation in which their mental discomfort might be expected to follow hard upon the physical. Watching senior policemen squirm seemed very much to the public taste nowadays. A trendy young current affairs producer (did they still call them that?) would no doubt engineer confrontation rather than consensus.
On the whole, Lambert conceded reluctantly, Douglas Gibson was not a bad Chief Constable to work for. He had known a few, and judged by the Superintendent’s twin criteria of not interfering with an officer who had his teeth into a case and supporting his force against the pressures of the ignorant, Gibson came out pretty well. In Lambert’s view, he had an exaggerated respect for the media and their operatives, and a determined concern to steer a non-controversial course in the last years of his journey towards a pension. But these were characteristics of the modern breed one had to accept, sometimes even welcome.
Lambert had an intrusive remembrance of his first CC in a northern city, who had expected unswerving industry from his men and snarled like a police Alsatian at any newspaper hack unwise enough to come within his sight. It wouldn’t do now, said the wise men who appointed Chief Constables. Probably they were right, but Lambert wished fleetingly that the man he was thinking of, now long dead, could be here for a moment to growl his derision.
Gibson defended his main concern, the investigation into the child abductions on the edges of Cheltenham, with deadpan expertise. The massive police presence and frenetic activity which characterised cases of child disappearance had so far drawn an ominous series of blanks, but only the most experienced listeners would have deduced as much from his brisk account of progress. He gave detailed statistics of the numbers of police involved, the painstaking sweeps of difficult woodland ground, the welcome and pleasing cooperation of the public. The younger reporters, many of whom did not specialise in crime, wrote industri
ously, while their informant studiously refused to catch the eyes of the older hands.
When some of them questioned him insistently about the nearness of an arrest, Gibson gave them the arch half-smile of a man who knows more than he cares to reveal, and spoke of the need for secrecy ‘at this delicate stage of the investigation’. Only the officers beside him on the press conference platform knew how worried he was about the lack of anything like a lead.
Nor would he entertain any suggestion that the police were less than dynamic in their pursuit. Twice he resorted to a grim, ‘These men will be brought to justice’ and struck a granite pose against anyone who might challenge such certainties. When asked why the officer in charge of the investigation was not here to answer questions of detail in person, Gibson said with a hint of acerbic outrage that he was sure the public would rather he was out leading the search for brutal perverts than sitting in the comfort of a city hotel talking about it.
Lambert wondered where that left him. He did not have long to ponder the question, for Gibson brought the questions on the child abductions to an abrupt halt by transferring attention to the murder at the Wye Castle. He introduced Lambert with the flourish of a magician producing a rabbit from a hat, contriving to look a little disappointed when the move brought no applause.
Lambert had been wondering what would happen if he announced that he had had to suspend his investigation at what was genuinely ‘a delicate stage’ to come and answer questions to which he could give no useful answers, but it was no more than a beguiling vision. Like all visions, it faded abruptly with the intrusion of reality.
The media had come a little belatedly to the idea of homicide at the Wye Castle, having been distracted by lurid disclosures of homosexual rings among Westminster MPs as well as the disappearance of the children. Lambert had to correct the hopeful delusions that Guy Harrington had been bludgeoned to death with a baseball bat, that the corpse had been an unrecognisable mass of blood and gore, that the head had been found some time after the body. He confirmed reluctantly that although Harrington had fallen to his death, foul play was now definitely suspected.
