Die Happy (19 page)

‘I see. We have a few press cuttings about him. He usually seems to be described as a freelance producer in the later ones.'

‘That's what he took to calling himself, in the last few years. It meant that he wasn't getting the commissions he used to get and didn't have the influence he used to have. The world of the arts is just as cut-throat as any other world, DS Hook. When the people who make the decisions stop thinking of you for work, the work usually ceases. Peter didn't admit that that was what was happening to him, even to me. I think that he was aware of it, but his self-image wouldn't allow him to acknowledge it.'

They had a glimpse in that moment of a more tragic figure lurking beneath the garrulous exterior of the man who had so irritated them a couple of days ago. Hook said, ‘Excuse me for probing into private matters at a time like this, but I'm afraid that in a situation such as this privacy is the first casualty. What were the financial effects of this reduction in work for you and Mr Preston?'

She looked shaken for a moment by the question; finance is a far more sensitive area to probe than sex, with most members of the British middle class. Then she said with a tiny shrug of the shoulders, ‘Peter refused to confront things like that. We still lived in a big house, still pretended we could carry on as in the palmy days. That was part of his image, you see. But we were living off capital, not income. Peter had inherited money of his own and I got the money from my mother's house plus the rest of her savings when she died. It wouldn't have lasted for ever. We needed to move to a smaller house, but he wouldn't face that. It would have meant a loss of face.' For the first time, she allowed an edge of contempt into this last phrase. She had previously maintained an even, emotionless tone for her account of her husband and the glimpses into her married life.

Lambert let her words hang in the room for a moment before he said quietly, ‘Where were you last night, Mrs Preston?'

‘I was staying with my daughter. She lives in Oxford.' Her clipped tone showed that she had expected the question.

‘You do this regularly?'

‘Not in the sense that I go there at set intervals. But yes, I stay with Dell quite often.'

Hook made a note. ‘Your daughter's name is Dell? Could you give me a home number for her, please?'

‘Her real name is Cordelia. That was Peter, as you might imagine. She doesn't like it. She was Delia for a while, but that was associated with the woman who writes the cookery books, so she calls herself Dell now.' The tone of affection gave them a glimpse of the mother behind the composed, mid-forties face. She had obviously given this explanation many times before, but her eyes lit up for a moment when she repeated it here.

‘And what time did you leave home yesterday?'

‘About three o'clock yesterday afternoon, I think. The exact time wasn't important to me, at the time.'

Lambert was studying her as she spoke, his grey eyes steady, his head a little on one side. ‘I'm sorry you had to find out about your husband's death as you did.'

‘There was no way that could have been avoided. You weren't to know where I was.' She spoke evenly again now, as if she were re-living that moment when she had driven up to the gates of The Willows and found the police scene of crime tapes barring her entrance.

Lambert nodded. ‘You said a few minutes ago that your husband had a lot of enemies. We obviously need to know about them.'

‘Peter gave himself airs and graces, which is irritating. He patronised people, which is worse. People resent that.'

‘Indeed they do. But it's a big step, probably several big steps, from resentment to killing a man.'

‘Of course it is. And I can't immediately think of anyone who might have taken those steps. He wasn't good with young people – no, that isn't strong enough. He despised most new ideas and most young people. I'm sorry to have to say it, but he did. And they won't take it, these days. They don't just accept it meekly when older people are unfair to them. He knew that, but there were times when it only seemed to make him more determined to insult them.'

‘Can you think of any particular young people?'

‘It's a long way from feeling insulted to shooting a man, as you said.'

‘It is, and we are well aware of that. Nevertheless, we need somewhere to start and at present you are the person who can offer us the most useful initial pointers.'

‘I suppose so. But you should bear in mind that I kept away from Peter and what he was up to, particularly in these last few years.' She looked for a moment as if she would enlarge on this, but apparently thought better of it. ‘I do know that he's been much occupied with the Oldford festival of literature and that he didn't care for the programme that has been set up.'

‘Yes. My wife is on the committee and I gathered that.' Lambert judged that Preston was the sort of man who wouldn't approve of much that he hadn't initiated himself.

Almost as if she read his thoughts, Edwina Preston said, ‘Peter hadn't much time for anything he hadn't suggested himself. He liked to be in charge of things. I'm sure he felt he should have been chairman of that committee, controlling the programme for the whole ten days. I would say that he regarded most things which came from younger people to be dumbing down.'

It was said not with real regret but with a sort of relish, as if she enjoyed telling these home truths about him now that he was no longer there to ridicule her thoughts. It was undoubtedly sad, but the men in the room with her were detectives; they considered it significant. This was the woman best placed to plot the removal of a difficult spouse; she was hardly troubling to hide her distaste for him. As she had just almost reminded them, it was a long way from distaste to murder, but marriage wasn't the best environment for fostering a sense of proportion.

Lambert said, ‘You are confirming the impression we formed when we spoke to Mr Preston on Monday that he hadn't much time for the younger people on the festival committee.'

‘You're right there. I'd almost forgotten that you'd spoken to him so recently. Did you find out who'd sent him that threatening letter?'

‘No. And now we've been overtaken by a murder investigation.'

‘But surely the two will be connected? Isn't the person who threatened him with death going to be the one most likely to have killed him?'

‘Perhaps. And I can assure you that we are still investigating the origin of those letters. I should perhaps tell you that other people on the committee as well as Mr Preston have received identical messages.'

‘I see. Then are others also at risk? Are we going to have a series of murders?'

Lambert couldn't be sure of it, but he thought he caught a certain relish in her tone as she made the suggestions. ‘I do hope not. I should perhaps point out that such a train of events is far more common in Agatha Christie than in real life. We haven't ruled out the possibility, but we cannot be certain that the person who sent those letters is also the person who shot Mr Preston.'

‘Peter would assume that it was one of the youngsters who was threatening him.'

‘He did just that. He pointed us towards one of the younger members of the committee. We were still investigating the letters when we discovered his death. Have you any reason yourself to suspect anyone?'

‘No. As I say, I kept out of his affairs as much as possible. We didn't talk as much as we used to. I'm afraid I found his ideas rather repetitive and he was aware of that. And he thought that I was such a philistine that I couldn't understand aesthetic matters.'

She sounded as if she had made him aware of her own thoughts in very direct language. But John Lambert sympathized. From his single contact with Peter Preston, he judged that he was the sort of tiresome bore who justified trenchant rejection. ‘I must ask you if you have any thoughts yourself on who might have committed this crime. I'm not talking about evidence, just opinion. Your opinions will be treated in the strictest confidence.'

Edwina thought furiously. She would like to suggest someone, to get herself out of their thoughts. Not off the hook; she didn't consider herself their leading suspect. It would have been nice to steer them elsewhere, but she decided that she had nothing strong enough to do that. ‘No. I can't conceive of anyone I've met as a being a murderer. I should think it was someone younger, but I couldn't go beyond that.'

They thanked her and asked if she could stay somewhere other than The Willows for a night or two. She considered the matter for a moment, then said. ‘I think I shall go back to Dell's flat in Oxford, I'll be better there for the moment.'

They agreed with her on that and showed her out of the station. She rang Dell and arranged to stay immediately. Then she added as casually as she could, ‘And just in case anyone should ask, could you say that I was with you last night, dear?'

THIRTEEN

T
he phone call took Sam Hilton by surprise. It was not at all the sort of voice he was used to hearing on his mobile.

‘Sam? This is Marjorie Dooks. I need to speak to you.'

He was so surprised by the cut glass elocution that he missed the urgency in the tone. He said rather desperately, ‘I'll see you at the meeting of the festival committee on Friday. I know I said I wanted to resign, but you convinced me that I should stay on.'

‘I'm glad about that. We need your input.' Old phrases from her Civil Service days came back to Marjorie when she was nervous. She said hastily, ‘I mean, we need to hear what you have to say, Sam. And not just about poetry, but about the other subjects we're including in the festival.'

‘Well, I'll be there. We can talk then.' He could hear her breathing, but she did not speak. He made himself say, ‘I'll stay behind after the meeting, if you like.'

‘It's not really festival business. And it's rather urgent.' She took a deep breath. ‘I need to speak to you today, Sam. I'll come to your place, if you like. Or you could come here. My husband's out at work all day, so we won't be disturbed.'

For a moment, he had a nightmare fantasy of the patrician Mrs Dooks luring him to her house and enticing him on to her couch of seduction. He dismissed it hastily. ‘No. I'd rather see you here, if that's all right with you. If you don't mind the mess.'

There was a first hint of relaxation in the tense voice as she said, ‘No, I don't mind the mess, Sam. I'll be there in half an hour.'

Sam looked round his bedsit desperately. It was like having a visit from your mother. No, it was much worse than that. It was like having a visit from Miss Dagnan. She had been the Senior Mistress in his secondary school, a formidable, large-bosomed dragon who had been responsible for discipline. Sam had made the same jokes about her as his fellows, but he had never lost his secret fear of her.

Surely Marjorie Dooks couldn't be as bad as old Daggers?

‘I don't want you here when they come.'

‘Why's that? I can give you moral support with the fuzz.' Kate Merrick tried to keep it light, but she felt hurt.

‘To tell you the truth, I'm not quite sure why. Perhaps it's because I would be self-conscious. I think I'll find it easier if you're not there, watching my every move.' But Ros Barker found it difficult to look her partner in the face. She couldn't remember when that had last happened.

‘You mean I might be like a protective wife, watching your every move?'

Ros did look at her now, hearing the hurt in her voice. ‘Don't be silly. It's nothing like that. I just think I'll find it easier to concentrate on what I have to tell them without you or anyone else listening to me,'

‘Is it because you don't want them to know that we live together?'

‘Don't be silly! I thought both of us got over that a long time ago.'

‘Homophobia in the police service. It makes sense, I suppose, especially as this John Lambert is an older bloke.'

‘It's nothing to do with that. Honestly it isn't.' She went over and held Kate's shoulders, making her look into her face. She felt the tension in the slim frame, then the relaxation as Kate grinned at her earnestness. ‘All right. But wouldn't you rather I was there to back you up with the fuzz? They'll know you didn't like Peter Preston.'

‘They'll know because I'll tell them. I shan't make any secret of it. You and I both know that a lot of people didn't like Herr Preston and his assumptions of cultural superiority.'

‘You're right there. I don't think you should call him that, though.'

‘Now you sound like my mum! But it shows what I mean. I'll find it much easier to talk to them if I don't have you listening. I know you'd be supporting me, but I'd be more self-conscious and less able to concentrate with anyone there – even you.'

Kate nodded, her small, mobile features suddenly very serious. ‘All right. I need to pop round to the primary school anyway; apparently there's a possibility of a part-time job in the office there. Go and put your face on for the fuzz and I'll make myself scarce.'

Ros went obediently into their bedroom and noted how neatly the bed was made and how Kate's usual clutter of make-up on the dressing table had been tidied. Ready for the policemen, who would never see it. In many respects, Kate Merrick was a more conventional young woman than she pretended to be, but when you felt tenderly about someone, you loved even their foibles.

She tidied her hair, put on a little lipstick, thought for a moment, then slipped out of her jeans and into the skirt she rarely wore nowadays. Kate wasn't the only one who could be a little conventional; for some reason she could not fathom, Ros thought she might be more convincing to the long arm of the law in a skirt.