In Vino Veritas (33 page)

They didn't respond to that. Sarah Vaughan was left staring bleakly through her window at the view which everyone found so attractive. She'd have to go in to work at the vineyard soon. She'd have to spend the rest of her day among the other suspects.

I
n Oldford police station, it was early afternoon. The sun was high, the CID section was almost empty, and the postprandial atmosphere was soporific.

Detective Inspector Rushton did not like that. He knew that the end of this day would mark a full week since Martin Beaumont had been shot through the head. His enthusiasm for data meant that he was well aware of one of the hoariest of police statistics: there was a sharp decline in successful conclusions to those murder hunts which had no arrest within seven days.

He wandered through to the front of the station, where his mood was not greatly improved by a conversation with the uniformed station sergeant. This corpulent veteran was due for retirement in three months and he wanted nothing more than an uneventful countdown to that date. Rushton wanted a sense of urgency, and he was not going to find one here. He enjoyed being at the centre of the investigation, correlating and cross-referencing the multitude of data as it accrued, but today he envied Lambert and Hook their more direct involvement with the people in this case.

Then, when he was telling himself that he would have to wait for any serious input until the pair arrived back at Oldford, he received an encouraging phone call. More than encouraging, in fact. Crucial, perhaps. A young probationary constable had unearthed a witness who had seen a car in Howler's Heath at eleven o'clock on the Wednesday night of the murder. A parked car, in fact. No number: you couldn't expect miracles of the ever-fallible public. But a colour and a make.

A colour and a make which tallied with the vehicle of one of the key suspects in the Beaumont case.

Two hours after Tom Ogden had finished his discussions with Jason Knight and Alistair Morton, he ushered Chief Superintendent Lambert and Detective Sergeant Hook into the same stone building.

He had set out the shabby furniture a little more formally, but he took the same chair behind the table, with the two CID men facing him across it. He met them as they climbed out of the police Mondeo, but they exchanged scarcely a word with him as he led them into the old byre. Once they had the privacy of the old stone walls around them, Ogden discovered why that was.

Even now, they did not speak, but looked at him expectantly. He said nervously, ‘I trust you've made some progress. As I told you, I had no time for Beaumont, but I shall be interested to hear how—'

‘You lied to us on Saturday night.' Lambert said bluntly.

The farmer's healthy outdoor complexion reddened visibly. In this place, he gave the orders and was obeyed without discussion. He was not used to being challenged. In addition, he was fighting the acute discomfort which affects the normally honest man when he has lied. ‘I might have made some sort of mistake.'

‘There was no mistake, Mr Ogden. DS Hook asked where you were last Wednesday night and you said you were at the cinema with your wife. That was a deliberate lie. You also asked your wife to lie on your account.'

Ogden was speechless. The justified allegation that he had forced Enid, the most honest and straightforward woman he knew, to lie on his behalf hit him hardest of all. As if he feared that the man might wander even further out of his depth, Bert Hook explained quietly, ‘You and your wife were seen at the cinema on Thursday night. Not Wednesday, as you claimed to us on Saturday.'

‘All right. I lied and I admit it. And I was stupid – as Enid said, with the size of the team you've got on the case, I was always likely to be rumbled.'

Bert hoped that Ogden was right in that assumption. He had an uncomfortable feeling that if Chris Rushton's fiancée hadn't recognized the Ogdens at the cinema on Thursday night, his story might have been accepted. Hook said heavily, ‘You'd better tell us now where you really were on Wednesday night.'

‘I was at home. Enid had had two sleepless nights with toothache and a visit to the dentist last Wednesday. She went to bed with painkillers at about half past nine. I'd no one to account for where I was after that.' Ogden spoke as if he was delivering words he had prepared for this moment, as he probably was. It made him sound as if he did not expect to be believed.

Lambert said curtly, ‘In fact you went to Howler's Heath, where you met Martin Beaumont and shot him through the head with his own weapon.'

‘No. I was at home. If you must know, I sat in a chair and worried myself about Beaumont's latest offer for my land, because Enid had said I should accept it.'

‘Then why lie about the matter?'

Tom looked down at the deeply scratched table, at the chip in the edge which had been there since his grandfather's time, when cattle had been milked in here. ‘Because I hated Beaumont and everyone knew it. Because I had a police record of violence. I knew you'd bring that up. Because I'd have liked to kill the bastard, if I'd felt I could get away with it!'

They listened to the heavy, uneven sound of his breathing. It seemed to fill the room like the breathing of a heavy animal in pain. When it subsided a little and he glanced at them again, Hook spoke like a therapist. ‘Did you kill him, Tom? It would be far better to tell us now, if you did.'

‘No. I didn't stir from the house. But I can't expect you to believe that now, can I?'

‘If you didn't kill the man, who did?'

‘I don't know. I don't know what goes on at the vineyard. I've never wanted to know. That bugger must have had a lot of enemies, from what I saw of him.'

Lambert spoke more sternly, the complement to Hook's persuasion. ‘It's your duty to tell us anything you know. If you didn't kill Beaumont, it's also very much in your own interest to speak out.'

Tom Ogden nodded. Having lied to them once, he had an urgent desire to tell them something, anything, which might persuade them that he was now telling the truth. ‘Two of them came to see me this morning. From Abbey Vineyards, I mean. They've got plans for the future. They want me to join them.' It felt disloyal, but at the same time it felt the right thing to do. He didn't want to conceal things, not any longer. And a horrifying possibility had struck him only now, whilst the police stared at him across his table: one of his earlier visitors might have murdered to achieve what they wanted, what they were now inviting him to be part of. The two of them might even have done it together.

Lambert was studying the troubled face closely, as if he could read the workings of the mind behind it. All he said was: ‘We'd better have the names of these people.'

Ogden dug his hand deep into his trouser pocket and produced the grubby scrap of paper on which he had written the names. ‘Alistair Morton; I think he said he was the financial director up there. And Jason Knight; he runs the restaurant.' He watched Hook record the names, then added unnecessarily, ‘They want me to become a director along with them. But nothing's definite yet. I said I'd need to think about it.'

Lambert nodded. ‘They're not in a position to make offers, but they may be making plans. You would be well advised to mention this approach to no one else, until things become clearer.'

‘I didn't intend to. I'm only telling you because I don't want to keep any more secrets from you.'

But he could tell Enid, he thought, as he watched them drive away. It would please her, if she thought he was planning to retire from the farm at last. And he owed her that, when he'd asked her to lie about the night they'd been at the cinema.

Lambert and Hook were silent for most of the six-mile journey back to Oldford. They had worked together for far too long now to talk for talking's sake. Moreover, the CID habit was to speak only about things which mattered and eschew small talk which meant nothing. An observer might have thought that they were merely appreciating the Gloucestershire countryside in spring, with the infinite range of greens offered by the burgeoning trees. A more experienced CID-watcher would have known that they were thinking hard about what they had heard, digesting what Ogden had said and weighing its merits. Silences between these two were never uneasy and often productive.

It was the driver, Hook, who eventually said, ‘I believed Ogden. He's the most obvious candidate for murder, with his quick temper, his declared hatred of the victim, and his record of violence in his youth. But I don't think he's our man.'

Lambert smiled. That much had been evident to him whilst they were still with the farmer. ‘For what it's worth, neither do I, Bert. I have a much better candidate, but very little proof as yet.'

They were turning into the police station car park as he said this. At the wheel of the vehicle immediately behind them was Chris Rushton, who could scarcely conceal his excitement until they reached the privacy of the CID section and his computer.

‘I've been out to see a witness,' the detective inspector told them eagerly. ‘The report came in from one of our youngest constables, so I thought I'd better check the statement out for myself. Especially as the person concerned may very well eventually become a witness in court.'

He was as animated as if he were a young officer himself. Lambert was both amused and delighted to see this zest in a thirty-four-year-old DI. ‘Don't you think you'd better begin at the beginning with this one, Chris?'

‘Yes. Sorry. I did try to get you on your mobile, but you were obviously with Tom Ogden at the time. We've found someone who saw a car in the right place at the right time. In Howler's Heath late last Wednesday night.'

‘A reliable sighting?'

‘Yes. That's what I wanted to check. Entirely reliable, I'd say.'

‘It's taken this person a long time to come forward.'

‘Yes. I'd say it was some pretty sustained burrowing by a young constable which unearthed this. It would be good if you could give him a pat on the back in due course. Youngsters get plenty of rockets when things go wrong. It's only right that they should get a bit of praise occasionally.'

For a few seconds, they were all back on the beat, considering the long hours of boring, repetitive work, the insensitivity of the public, the contempt of old-sweat superiors who made out that today's beat work was a doddle compared with their time. Then Lambert said, ‘I'll do that; let me have the young man's name. In fact, I'll do more: I'll make sure his sergeant and inspector know that he's produced a vital bit of information for us – always assuming that's what this proves to be.'

He looked interrogatively at Rushton, who said hastily, ‘Details. A car was sighted at eleven o'clock last Wednesday night in Howler's Heath. It was seen by a young man of eighteen who was driving his father's car. He had his girlfriend with him and they were several miles from where they were supposed to be – hence his reluctance to come forward initially. Dad would not have been at all pleased to find his son driving his seventeen-year-old girlfriend out into the Malverns for a helping of nooky.'

‘How sure is he about the time?'

‘Very. The lad's prepared to swear it was within five minutes of eleven o'clock.'

‘And the exact location?'

‘He saw a stationary vehicle just off the road, within a hundred yards of the spot where Beaumont's Jaguar was parked.'

‘Probably where we parked when we visited the scene of the crime,' acknowledged Hook as he made a note.

‘The vehicle had no lights and the witness's impression is that it was empty at the time. He did point out that if people had been supine in the car, he would not have seen them as he drove past – an idea no doubt deriving from his own activity a little while earlier.'

Hook smiled. ‘Have we any idea how long this vehicle was parked there?'

‘Not from this lad. But we have several people who say there was no car there at around half past ten and others who tell us there was nothing there from eleven twenty onwards.'

Lambert sensed that Rushton was happy to prolong the details, anxious to make this latest coup of his all the more dramatic. He said, ‘What about the identity of this vehicle?'

It was Rushton's turn to smile. ‘No registration number; that would be asking too much. But our man is confident of make and colour; like most young men, he's keen on cars. He spotted the rings on the bonnet as he went past. It was an Audi saloon, silver-grey metallic. He would swear to that in court, if necessary.'

‘Do we have a match?'

Rushton flicked up the relevant file on his computer, though he knew well what he was going to say. It is part of the work of the most junior officers in a murder investigation to document all kinds of routine information, including the make of car driven by everyone who had been close to the victim. After six days of investigation, masses of detailed information had accrued, all of it dutifully documented on Chris Rushton's PC. Most of it remained tedious and useless. Occasionally, as on this occasion, the system threw up a nugget of gold.

Chris tried and failed to keep the excitement out of his voice as he said, ‘A silver-grey metallic Audi is driven by Mrs Jane Beaumont.' He glanced automatically for a reaction at the two older men. ‘It looks as though, despite all the work we've put in on the people who worked with Beaumont, we have a domestic killing after all.'

W
ith the afternoon sun high and wisps of white cloud seemingly stationary in the vivid blue sky, the thatched cottage and its neat gardens looked fit for a picture postcard. The scene reminded Lambert of Anne Hathaway's cottage, seventy miles away in Stratford-upon-Avon. As a boy, he had purchased a cheap print of that for his mother's birthday, and it had remained in a position of honour on the wall of her terraced house until the day she died.