by Graham Ison
‘Not at all.’
‘Oh!’
‘Did you expect me to, then?’
‘Well, as you’d taken over her job, I thought perhaps …’
‘No, I was in another section. I just got transferred. Mrs Lambert apparently left quite suddenly.’
‘Does that often happen?’
‘Quite a lot actually. The F and CO are such poor payers — compared with outside that is. A secretary in the West End can often get half as much again.’
‘Why do you stay then? I mean why do any of you stay?’
‘The glamour, I suppose.’ She gave a wry little smile.
‘What glamour? There’s not much glamour attached to a typewriter — and I know; I’ve hammered one often enough.’
‘It’s the chance of foreign travel, I suppose. There’s always the possibility of an overseas posting — in some exotic faraway place.’
‘Like downtown Djibouti, for instance?’
‘Now you’re making fun of me.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘It’s a chance you take. I suppose we all hope for the Caribbean, or the States, or Tokyo — somewhere like that, but —’
‘But at the end of the day it’s bashing a typewriter in some office somewhere.’
‘Yes, I suppose you’re right.’
‘Funny bloke, your guv’nor,’ said Markham, deliberately drifting nearer his target.
‘What, Mr Mallory?’
‘Yes,’ Markham stared into the middle distance, apparently musing. ‘Arthur Mallory …’
‘It’s not Arthur — it’s Robert.’
‘Oh, is it? I thought it was Arthur. Don’t know why. Just had this idea in the back of my mind.’
‘Soon to be Sir Robert.’
‘Really?’
She looked guilty, as if she had just disclosed some state secret. ‘Well I don’t know for sure, but you can more or less tell when everyone’s due, and he must be near the top of the list. I should think he’ll be off soon.’
‘Off?
‘Well he must be due for an ambassadorship shortly.’
‘Mmmm!’ Markham raised his eyebrows. ‘I didn’t realise he was that important.’
‘Oh he’s been one before. But that’s how they work. They have to come back for a few years here and there. Just to keep in touch, I suppose. He’s very young; what they call a high flier.’
‘I wonder what his wife thinks of that.’ He looked searchingly at the girl. ‘I suppose he’s married?’
‘Oh, yes. They mostly are. As a matter of fact I can’t think of any unmarried ambassadors.’
‘But it must make for problems — things like buying and selling houses for instance.’
‘I think they let them out.’ Kate finished her drink and looked at her watch.
‘Let me get you another — one for the road?’
She looked doubtful. ‘Well, just one. Then I must fly.’
‘To Djibouti?’ He smiled as he took their glasses towards the bar.
‘You were saying — he’s going to let his house,’ said Markham, making a presumption. ‘Where does he live?’
‘Chalfont St Giles, I think — yes, I’m sure.’ A look of doubt crossed her face. ‘You seem awfully interested in Mr Mallory.’
‘Not really,’ said Markham. ‘Come to think of it, I should think he’s a pretty uninteresting sort of bloke. I don’t suppose he even chats up his secretary.’
She took a sip of her drink and placed it carefully on the table again. ‘Don’t you be too sure about that,’ she said.
‘Well, well!’ said Markham. He was hoping that she was unused to drinking and that the gin was going to her head. He was wrong.
‘He’s taken me out for a drink a couple of times, and once to lunch. And I’ve only been there just over four weeks. It’s usually when we’ve been working fairly hard. When we’ve had to get a special brief out — something of that sort. But that’s the FCO.’ She smiled, but wasn’t looking at the policeman when she did so.
‘And there’s punters like me thinking it’s all pretty heavy stuff at the Foreign Office.’
‘Punter?’ Kate looked genuinely mystified.
‘It means,’ said Markham, with Cockney clarity, ‘the innocents of this world who will be taken in by anything.’ He paused. ‘Like me.’
She didn’t smile, but looked at him levelly. ‘I don’t see you being taken in by anything, quite frankly.’
‘Well — perhaps not often, except by a pretty girl. ’Nother drink?’
‘No, thank you. I really must go.’
Looking as if the thought had just that moment occurred to him, Markham said, ‘How about a bite one evening?’
‘A bite?’
‘Yeah — a bit of dinner. There’s a very good Italian not a million miles from here.’
She looked doubtful. ‘Maybe.’
‘At least I know your ’phone number,’ he said with a chuckle. Markham still had his eye to the main task, but had never been known to overlook any fringe benefits that arose. ‘I’ll be in touch.’ And he shepherded her towards the door.
*
‘There’s an entry in her diary for June the seventeenth,’ said Markham. He walked through the door of Tipper’s office as he spoke and stopped in front of the DCI’s desk.
Tipper looked up expectantly, but Markham continued to read the small book in his hand.
‘Well get on with it, Charlie, for God’s sake.’
Markham looked up. ‘Er, yes, sorry. It says “J took photographs”.’
‘Who’s “J”?’
‘Search me, guv.’
‘And what’s more to the point, Charlie, what sort of photographs?’
‘No idea.’
‘How thoroughly has the flat been searched?’
‘With a fine toothcomb.’
‘And?’
‘No photographs. At least not what you’d call compromising. There’s the usual family things — holidays, and so on. Quite a few of a child, and groups of Mrs Lambert, the child and a bloke.’
‘That’ll be her ex, I suppose. Incidentally, how are we getting on with tracing him?’
‘Came across an address in South Woodford, but he’s not there. Enquiries, as they say, are continuing.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘James Lambert. He seems to have been in the computer business — salesman, I think.’
‘He could be “J” then? I wonder if he took these photographs.’
‘I doubt it somehow. From what Mrs Mason said it was a bit of an acrimonious divorce.’ Markham continued to thumb through the diary. ‘There’s nothing else of any consequence in here. Usual things like hairdressing appointments, dentist, and so on, but no more about photographs.’
‘Be interesting to see those. If they were sufficiently important for her to make a note of it in her diary, they could be quite significant.’
Markham laughed. ‘Not half. And if they’re that interesting she won’t have them, will she? He’ll have kept them.’
‘Or her.’
‘Her — what Penelope?’
‘No. We’re assuming that “J” is a bloke, just as you’ve assumed that these photographs are pornographic. It could have been a girl who took them.’
‘What a nasty mind you’ve got, guv,’ said Markham.
*
They eventually traced James Lambert to a flat in Battersea. He was about thirty-five years of age with greying hair and a moustache in the Che Guevara style that had been fashionable in the seventies. His attitude, at least in the beginning, was hostile, and it was with some reluctance that he admitted the policemen to the flat at all.
‘What’s this all about?’ he asked aggressively.
‘I understand you were once married to Mrs Penelope Lambert?’
‘Yes.’
‘And the marriage ended in divorce.’
‘Yes. A lot of marriages do. What’s that got to do with the police?’
‘Mrs Lambert is dead, I’m a
fraid.’
‘Oh!’ He mellowed slightly. ‘I’m sorry to hear that. But she really didn’t mean anything to me — not any more. Well thanks for coming to tell me.’ He spoke grudgingly and made a move towards the door.
‘There’s more to it than that, Mr Lambert,’ said Tipper, remaining impassively where he was. ‘She was murdered.’
‘Christ!’ Lambert sat down suddenly. The two policemen also sat down, uninvited.
‘Perhaps you would tell us when you last saw your ex-wife.’
‘About two years ago I should think. A bit less perhaps. Bumped into her in Regent Street — round about the Christmas before last, it must have been. We just exchanged pleasantries, which was unusual for us, and went our respective ways.’
‘Why did you split up?’
‘Why are you asking?’
‘Because we’re trying to find out who killed her. If there was another man, that may be relevant.’
‘There was another man — several in fact,’ said Lambert bitterly, ‘but that, oddly enough, wasn’t the reason for the split. It was the boy.’ He looked up, staring directly at Tipper. ‘We had a son, Mark. She went to see a friend of hers one afternoon, and the kiddy fell into their swimming pool and drowned.’ His hands were linked together, tightly clenched. ‘If that bitch had kept her eye on him he would have been here today. He’d have been seven now.’
‘So you got divorced?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is there anything else you want to tell us?’
Lambert looked from one detective to the other. ‘It’s easy to be wise with hindsight, I suppose, but we shouldn’t have got married in the first place. She was a very attractive girl, and she was an easy lay. Trouble was she carried on being one even after we were married. I think that even if we hadn’t lost Mark it wouldn’t have lasted. That just speeded things up, really.’ Lambert was more relaxed now, more willing to talk, as though he was relieved at being able to unburden himself. ‘She was a bitch, you know — a real bitch.’
Tipper said nothing. He knew from experience that once a witness started to talk, as Lambert was now doing, he was inclined to go on — often further than he intended.
‘And it’s nearly two years since you saw her?’ It was Markham who spoke.
‘That’s what I said.’
‘You didn’t see her in June of this year?’
‘No. And I don’t care if I never see her again.’
‘You won’t,’ said Tipper softly.
‘Eh? Oh no, of course not — sorry.’
‘Where did you meet your wife, Mr Lambert?’
‘Ex-wife,’ Lambert corrected him. ‘At a party at a friend’s place. It was one of those things you do when you’re younger. A few drinks, a few birds, and, with a bit of luck in bed by ten.’ He smiled, a rare flash of humour. ‘If you’re not — go home.’
‘And were you?’
‘In bed? Yes. We just seemed to hit it off. She was about twenty — twenty-one, perhaps, and was starting off in modelling. She’d done a commercial course of some kind, but that wasn’t for her. Too mundane, she said.’ He took out a packet of cigarettes and lighted one without offering them to either of the policemen. ‘She was adamant that she was going to succeed, too. But then she was as hard as nails — something I didn’t find out until after our marriage.’
‘And how long afterwards did you get married?’
‘Oh, a couple of months. Much too quick, really. It was then that I started to find out what she was really like. We had Mark almost immediately, and that did it. She hated domestic drudgery — that’s what she called it. She detested being tied to the house and the boy. Nappies and shopping — all the usual things that go with running a home.’ He scoffed. ‘A home! That’s the last thing it was. I suppose some of it was my fault — not intentionally, of course. But in my business I was often away from home, abroad very often. It wouldn’t have been so bad if she’d been able to come with me sometimes. Not that I could have afforded it, but with Mark it was out of the question. It didn’t help when I went to somewhere like New York or Paris, either. She didn’t realise that it was all work, with little time for play. Those were the places she wanted to be. The bright lights, that’s what she called it. It’s all right for you, she would say — always living it up in the bright lights. Huh! If only she’d known. The result was that she became terribly morose.’
‘You say she was a model when you met her?’
‘Yeah. Didn’t you know that?’
‘No, we didn’t. When she died she was a secretary at the Foreign Office.’
Lambert could not disguise his astonishment. ‘Ah come off it. You’re putting me on?’
‘Not at all,’ said Tipper.
‘Well I’ll be damned.’ He shook his head and smiled. ‘That’s incredible.’ He laughed. ‘That really is something.’ He gazed across the room, vacantly, occupied with some introverted reflection. ‘Mind you, she was quite bright,’ he said. ‘Mentally, I mean. She always read The Times. Always well up in politics.’ He leaned back and stretched his arms across his chest. ‘Believe it or not she’d been to a very good school. As a matter of fact she had the chance to go to university, but turned it down, so she said. Too impatient, I suppose. Too impatient for everything. You know she used to get quite moody about having to look after young Mark. She wanted him grown up and off her hands, I think, but didn’t want to get old herself, if you know what I mean. She was always worried about her figure, weighing herself — that sort of thing. And she’d get the tape measure out practically every evening, measuring her vital statistics. I’ll say that for her — she had a marvellous figure. A marvellous figure and a good brain. She should have had it all going for her, really.’ He shook his head and smiled at some distant memory. ‘South Woodford — that’s where we lived — didn’t suit her. In fact she said so — several times, particularly when she was in a mood. “If I’d had any sense,” she said once, “I’d have married a stockbroker or an earl, with a Rolls Royce and a Mayfair penthouse.” She had this thing about being a lady — a real lady, I mean, married to a lord.’ He paused and looked up. ‘Stupid bitch,’ he said.
‘What sort of modelling did she do?’ asked Tipper.
Lambert’s eyes narrowed slightly. ‘The usual. Fashion stuff. The sort you see in magazines and women’s papers. Birds with weird hairstyles standing in unnatural poses showing off clothes that real women would never be seen dead in.’
‘Who did she work for? Anyone in particular?’
‘Yes. Some poof called Darwin — Bob Darwin.’
‘You mean he was a homosexual?’
‘Oh no. He just looked like one. All the usual gear — shirt undone to the waist, gold neck chain and dyed hair. I always remember that about him — the dyed hair. I hope it’s all dropped out. He’d never have been able to cope with baldness. Probably spend a bloody fortune on wigs. He reckoned she had a great future. Mind you, it wouldn’t surprise me to learn that she’d been doing a bit of soft porn for him.’
‘What makes you think that?’
‘Just a feeling — nothing more, but I knew her, don’t forget. I must admit I never saw any pictures of her in the porno mags.’
‘You read them, do you?’
‘No more than anyone else. I’d occasionally flip through one in the hairdressers. There’s a big foreign market, of course. If he’d taken any of Penny he could’ve been knocking them out abroad — Holland or Denmark, or wherever. But, again, I never saw any.’
‘You seem to know a lot about the pornographic business, Mr Lambert.’
‘No more than I’ve read in the newspapers — and seen abroad. If you travel a lot — and I do in my trade — you see the bookstalls in places like Amsterdam and Copenhagen overflowing with them.’ He laughed. ‘It’s only the foreigners over there that buy them.’
‘When you met her — the Christmas before last — what was she doing then? Did you ask?’
‘No idea. Just said “Hall
o” and “How are you?” — the usual banal greeting. Frankly I couldn’t have cared less how she was.’
‘Where did she go when she left you? At least I presume it was she who left, and not the other way round.’
‘Oh yes. She went. Left me to sort things out. D’you know I even had to get rid of Mark’s clothes. That cut me up, I can tell you. Still does. But I don’t think it touched her one bit. It wouldn’t have been quite so bad if she had shown any sort of remorse. But nothing; she couldn’t have cared less. I kept telling myself that she was hiding it — bottling it all up inside, but on reflection I think she was almost glad.’ He hesitated and looked at the carpet. ‘Christ she was one hard little bitch.’
‘And where did she go?’
‘She shacked up with this Darwin bloke. I reckon they deserved each other.’
‘This man Darwin — Bob Darwin, I think you said?’ Lambert nodded. ‘Where was he working then, do you know?’
‘Can’t remember.’ He gave the impression he wasn’t going to try very hard. ‘Somewhere behind Wardour Street, I think. One of those seedy little studios. Don’t recall exactly. There are dozens of them round there. I suppose the material for their porn movies is easier to get in that area.’ He was very bitter.
‘Did he make porn movies, then?’
Lambert spread his hands. ‘Like I said, I could never prove it, but it wouldn’t surprise me. I suppose they have to make a crust, and that seems a pretty easy way of doing it. Bloody sight easier than selling computers, I can tell you.’ He added the last with a savage laugh.
‘Did you ever take any photographs of your wife, Mr Lambert?’
Lambert had been gazing reflectively at the floor and looked up sharply. ‘Yes, of course. But I doubt if I’ve got any now.’ He stood up and went into another room.
When he returned he handed Tipper half a dozen snapshots. ‘There are these, but they’re all of Mark.’
Tipper shuffled quickly through them. One of them had been torn so that only the picture of the small boy remained. He didn’t need to ask if the missing half had been a photograph of Penelope Lambert — her ex-husband’s attitude had made that fairly obvious, but he asked just the same.
‘Yeah! I tore up all the pictures I had of her — straight after I threw her out.’
