Die Happy (27 page)

‘I didn't kill him. I was at home when he died.'

He didn't see any sign pass between the experienced pair, but it was Lambert who said ominously. ‘So you say. You've admitted he was your enemy and a very serious one. That's the other thing we need to talk to you about: your whereabouts at the time of his death.'

‘I was at home. Nothing more to be said.'

‘Lots more to be said, Mr Hilton. Perhaps lots more to be said in court, in due course.'

‘You'll never make Preston's stuff stand up in court.'

‘Maybe not. But we probably won't even try. When we can prove that you told lies about the night of the crime, other evidence will be of minor importance.'

‘I don't know what you're talking about.' But the energy he had been trying to maintain had left his voice when he most needed it.

‘I think you do, Mr Hilton. You have tried to get a young woman to lie on your behalf. To make her an accessory after the fact.'

That formal title again. And what sounded like a formal charge. Sam stared dully at the threadbare carpet between them, noting that the rug he had used to cover the worst patch when Amy had been here had moved itself sideways again. ‘Amy can't be that. I didn't commit any crime.'

They waited to see if he would say more, but he remained silent, staring at the carpet, as dull and expressionless as a punch-drunk boxer. It was Hook who said with the gentle firmness he had used throughout, ‘You'll need to convince us of that, Sam. Amy Proctor did her best to support you, but the officer who was taking her statement could see she wasn't happy so he got her to tell the truth. I'd say she's a girl who isn't used to lying.'

He'd found Hilton's weak spot. The young man who spent his days trying to force words to do his bidding, to find new language for old, profound ideas, now said with abject simplicity, ‘I shouldn't have asked her to lie for me.'

‘Indeed you shouldn't, Sam. From your point of view, as well as from hers. You'd better put that right with us, if you can. Then you can think about what you're going to say to her.'

‘I was here that night. Amy wasn't.'

‘Then why tell us she was? Why try to get her to lie for you?'

‘Because otherwise you were going to get me for this. I've admitted I was dealing drugs and you've got me banged to rights for that. And you've dug up all this stuff that Peter Preston had on me. When you pin murder on me, what court is going to listen to me?'

Lambert's irritation was barely under control as he snapped, ‘We've never pinned a crime on anyone, Mr Hilton. You're an intelligent man. Come out of your cheap fantasies and confront reality. If you killed Preston, we'll be back very shortly to arrest you and charge you. If you didn't, stick to what you know about and don't try to manufacture evidence. And if you didn't kill the man, give us any thoughts you have on who else might have gone to his house and shot him.'

‘I don't know who did it.' And I'm too shaken to give you my thoughts on any other possibility, was the sub-text of that. Sam often delighted in suggesting sub-texts, beneath the compressed phrases of his verse, but he wished now that there wasn't one here.

Lambert studied him hard for another long moment, then rose and said, ‘Don't leave the area without informing us of your intended destination, Mr Hilton.'

Sam Hilton stayed very still in his chair for a long time after they had left. He wished as deeply as he had ever wished anything in his life that he'd never laid eyes on Peter Preston.

The last match of the season at Hereford United. A big crowd on a breezy day of blue sky and high, racing clouds. Big crowd for Hereford, that is. The ancient town is not one of the great citadels of British football like the Theatre of Dreams at Old Trafford or the luxurious new Emirates stadium where Arsenal weave their complex patterns over perfect turf. Six thousand is a big gate at Hereford.

But at least you could arrive at ten to three and still be in your seat for kick off. And to a ten-year-old attending his first match, the wonder of it all was enough to make his blue eyes widen and his breath catch in his throat as his team strode out and the crowd roared. A small and eminently civilized roar – this was Hereford – and the crowd today little more than five thousand.

Detective Inspector Chris Rushton was not a regular supporter of the Bulls. It was seven years since he had last attended a match. That had been at the Bulls' old ground by the river, prone to flooding and a mudheap through most of the winter. He was impressed by the green sward of the new ground at Edgar Street, but he was only here today because he was fulfilling a promise to his fiancée to bring her youngest brother to a match. Anne was ten years younger than Chris, and in his view intensely beautiful; he could scarcely believe his luck that she was willing to take on a divorced man whom she must surely see as very dull. Chris had willingly volunteered to bring young Thomas here. He was pleasantly surprised by how much he was enjoying the experience.

One of the advantages of a small, tight ground is that you are very close to the players. You may even hear the odd frustrated expletive from them, which is not good for young ears. But the young men on the pitch positively glowed with health and fitness, even at the end of a long season where they had played forty-six league matches and various other ties in the knock-out cups. There were one or two grizzled veterans, shaven of head and stern of visage, who guided and occasionally rebuked their younger colleagues. But a team like Hereford United cannot afford huge wages, so that nine of today's team were under twenty-two. They showed the bright, fierce effort as well as the occasional naivety which was appropriate to their youth.

It was an even and well-contested match, and Chris's young companion became thoroughly involved, as healthy ten-year-olds should. It was one goal each at half time, and in the first ten minutes of the second half, each side scored again. Thomas shrilled his high-pitched encouragement as the locals equalised for the second time in the match. Thereafter, there were many thrilling goalmouth incidents, but no further goals. As the end of the match approached, it seemed certain to be a draw.

Then the home left winger took a fine pass in his stride and was away down his wing, his young feet flying over the turf no more than twenty yards from Thomas's excited eyes. He was too fast for the ageing full back and he knew it. With eyes fiercely on the ball, the winger sped ever further in front of his despairing opponent, cut in towards the goal, and then rolled an inviting pass back across the penalty area. Time seemed to stand still for Chris and for Thomas. Then Hereford's experienced striker, toiling manfully behind his young star, arrived to smash the ball high into the corner of the net, leaving the goalkeeper pawing frantically at the empty air, then beating the ground in frustration as he lay prone upon it.

Thomas shrieked his approval of this wholly appropriate conclusion to his first match. He was so excited that his eyes brimmed with tears and he could not trust himself to speak in the wonder of it all. Two minutes after the goal, the referee's whistle shrilled the three long blasts which marked the end of the match and he was able to join for the first time in the crowd's long, wailing cheer for a win achieved.

Chris let him wait in his seat until the players had left the field, so that he could savour the heady draught of his first match to the last dregs. They filed out of the small stand and through the big gates on to the busy Edgar Street outside, with the boy still chattering animatedly about the performances of his favourite players. Chris was too occupied with his young charge and the traffic to notice the man who followed them cautiously down the side street towards his parked car.

A slight figure with an unfashionable mackintosh over his arm, he moved about ten yards behind the excited boy and his tall, dark-haired guardian. Chris was opening the door of the car to stow his passenger safely within it when he became aware of the man. He could hardly fail to register him, since his pursuer now stopped abruptly at his side.

‘You're a police officer.' It was a statement, not a question. Chris stood upright and looked into a sallow, grey-white face beneath lank hair with wisps of grey in it. Five feet seven; between ten and eleven stones; Age probably between forty-five and fifty. The policeman's swift, automatic calculations were concluded almost without his realizing it. ‘I am. What is it you want?'

‘I need to talk to you. I might have information.'

A nutter, in all probability. They usually were, when they accosted you in the street like this. Chris wondered how the man had spotted him as a police officer when he was in jeans and a sweater. He glanced quickly at Thomas's open, inquisitive face within the car. ‘You should go to your nearest police station on Monday morning. Tell the duty sergeant at the desk whatever it is you want to report.' Neighbour trouble, probably, he thought; that was the most common source of complaint and supposed ‘information'.

‘It's more urgent than that. Least I think it is. You can make up your mind for yourself.'

A hint of defiance in the last words, an attempt perhaps to arouse CID curiosity. Chris said, ‘I can't talk here. I have a boy to get home, as you can see.'

The man hesitated, then produced a card and handed it to the taller man.

All commissions undertaken. Divorce work a speciality.

Chris looked at the card, then back into the thin, crafty face. ‘This isn't the place for this. If you think you have important information, you should go to Oldford police station.' He climbed into the car and shut the door.

Thomas wanted to know what this encounter might be about, but he was easily diverted to talk of the match, which was still bright in his mind. Chris kept up his end of the conversation with brief contributions, his curiosity excited despite himself by the unprepossessing figure they had left behind them.

EIGHTEEN

M
arjorie Dooks said that four o'clock would be the most convenient time to see them on a Saturday. Over many years in the Civil Service, she had become accustomed to having her requests accepted as orders, so that she was not surprised when it was immediately agreed that Lambert and Hook would come to the house at that time. She did not realize as she put down the phone that the time was almost exactly the one they would have suggested.

Her assumption that she was in control of matters dissipated swiftly with their arrival. She took them into the dining room, which was nowadays infrequently used, and said, ‘I don't suppose this will take long. My husband's out playing golf, so we shan't be disturbed.' She offered them tea, which was promptly refused. She said, ‘I do hope you're making progress with this. I wasn't close to Peter Preston – indeed, we crossed swords on a few occasions – but we can't allow anyone to get away with murder, can we?'

Lambert studied the strong, composed face beneath the auburn hair for a moment before he said evenly, ‘Indeed we can't, Mrs Dooks. That is why we would expect and demand the full cooperation of all innocent parties in our investigation.'

‘I appreciate that. I trust you've been receiving it.'

‘In some cases, yes. In others no. There are implications in that. One of the people who hasn't cooperated fully is probably our murderer.'

Marjorie had been perfectly relaxed. She now felt that she was involved in some preliminary fencing. She usually enjoyed verbal bouts, but she sensed that she wasn't going to come out on top in this one. In the past, and particularly during her working life, her diligent preparation had meant that she was normally better informed than her opponents. That was plainly not the case with this tall, grave figure who was studying her every reaction so intently. She said with uncharacteristic uncertainty, ‘I'm sure I wish to give you all the information I can, but I'm afraid that won't—'

‘Did you know that Mr Preston kept detailed notes on all the people he regarded as enemies?'

‘No. But it doesn't surprise me. It's the sort of thing he would have done.' She wondered now what was coming, but she kept her mask of affability.

‘We now have access to his files. There is a fairly detailed one on you.'

‘I confess I'm surprised at that. Perhaps I should be flattered that Peter thought me worthy of such attention.'

‘He kept his ear very much to the ground and picked up a surprising amount of local gossip. He also made regular use of a private detective. He seems to have been well aware of the state of your marriage.'

‘I regard that as gross impertinence! I can hardly pursue him for his prying now. I understand that you had to read whatever he had left behind. However, it seems to me an ill-mannered intrusion on your part to raise this now.' She glanced at Hook, who had his notebook on his knee; he was watching her as closely as his colleague.

Lambert smiled mirthlessly, feeling a small quickening of his pulse as he saw her losing the coolness she had been determined to retain. ‘Had you not concealed matter which has a bearing on a murder inquiry, there would have been no reason to see you today. As it is, I must point out that you clearly had a motive for wishing Peter Preston out of your life.'

‘I agree with that, but I would argue that you're putting it too strongly. I cannot think that in my case Peter had more than a little malicious gossip on his files.'

‘He had more than that, as you know. Perhaps you should know that he also recorded his conversation when he confronted you with his knowledge, which was less than a week before he was killed.'

For the first time they saw real fear in the strong-boned face. She said in a strange, tightly controlled voice, ‘He knew things that I thought no one knew. Things my husband didn't know. He said he would make them public unless I chose to “play things his way” on the literature festival committee.'