Dead on Course (13 page)

People of Tony Nash
’s colouring are at a disadvantage when they wish to conceal their emotions, for the movement of blood beneath the surface of pale skin is more apparent than in others. That blood drained away now, leaving Tony Nash’s cheeks suddenly sallow, as he said, ‘She knew him socially for several years.’ Even to himself, it sounded feeble, but he did not trust himself to say more.

‘
Was she ever employed by him?’

‘
I believe she was, briefly, some years ago.’

‘
Do you know in what circumstances that employment was terminated?’

‘
No.’ Nash clearly resented the question, but again could not rely on his voice. Had the room not been quiet, his monosyllable would have been inaudible.

‘
You are not aware of any closer relationship between the deceased and Miss Peters?’

‘
No!’ This time Nash shouted the word, almost before the question was out. In the quiet room, it became almost a scream. In his English embarrassment, Bert Hook watched the drip on the tap in the corner of the room grow large, detach itself, and fall soundlessly into the small basin. Lambert reflected on the perversity of human passions. This man had come into the room as a shallow figure, brittle beneath his surface beauty. Now, with that shell easily broken, he was paradoxically raised by his passion to something more distinctly human: he was suddenly Othello on the rack, contemplating in public something he had shied away from previously even in private. When Nash realised that neither of his tormentors was going to speak, he said hopelessly, ‘You’ll have to ask her about all that yourself.’

‘
Indeed, I’m afraid we shall,’ said Lambert. ‘Murder inquiries simply do not allow secrets, you see. Though of course many of them prove irrelevant in the end. Now, please tell us about your own relationship with Miss Peters.’

Perhaps Nash was surprised by Lambert
’s briskly matter-of-fact tone; perhaps he was merely relieved to pass on from the painful area of Harrington’s dealings with Meg Peters. He said unhesitatingly, ‘We’re lovers.’

It was a word dropped too lig
htly as the end of the century approached, thought Lambert. It covered anything from long-term partnerships to breathy couplings in the backs of cars that were no more than the sating of an instinct. The CID needed something more precise. As if in response to his thoughts, Tony Nash looked at the carpet between them and said, ‘Serious lovers. We shall be getting married in due course.’

Lambert wondered what that
‘in due course’ disguised. How many other lives would be lacerated to achieve this marriage? That was not and could not be his concern. He said, ‘So Miss Peters feels as seriously about this as you do?’

‘
Ask her!’ For a moment, Nash was an adolescent, confident and proud in the strength of his first grand passion. It was enviable in a man in his forties, however dangerous it might be. But it lasted only a moment: then he felt the need to explain himself in an older man’s terms. ‘Neither of us expected it to get serious. But it is, and it will last.’

Lambert had heard such protestations too often to react positively. He looked at Nash like a postman estimating an unreliable dog: he wanted to get at the truth of his next query without provoking
an outburst of passionate protestation. He said, ‘Let’s move closer to the time of Harrington’s death. I understand that there was a dispute between you and him during your final meal together.’

‘
I knew you’d have to rake this over.’ Nash muttered the complaint to himself rather than to his questioner; he had known they must come to this. Indeed, Sandy Munro had told him only an hour before that he had had to speak of it to the Superintendent.

‘
I shall rake this and any other conflict over as thoroughly as I can. Don’t forget the man you clashed with was dead within three or four hours. I’ll need to be convinced that this incident had nothing to do with his death. By you or by someone else.’

Nash nodded, tight-lipped.
‘It had nothing to do with his death. He said something about Meg and I took exception to it, that’s all.’

‘
What kind of thing?’

‘
He called her a tart.’

‘
In so many words?’

‘
Oh no, he was far too clever for that!’ Nash’s bitterness started out again as he reviewed the incident and the picture it presented of him as a naïve hot-head. ‘He tried to pass it off as a joke, but I wasn’t having that. I made him apologise.’ He was a strange mixture of embarrassed recollection and pride in what he had done.

Lambert decided not to press him further on the detail of the incident; there were others who could give him that. Not least of them Meg Peters herself. He filed away the thought that the man before him would certainly have been capable of the sudden, violent action that had produced the death of Guy Harrington.
‘I should like you to recall the end of that evening for us now.’

He had judged it right. Nash moved almost eagerly from the confrontation at the dinner-table to events in the last hour or two of Harrington
’s life. ‘We sat out on the flat roof drinking a bottle of brandy. It was warm enough to do that, even towards midnight.’

‘
And no doubt the brandy helped to keep the chill at bay.’

‘
We were none of us drunk.’

Lambert smiled grimly.
‘I’m glad to hear there is no chance of a plea of diminished responsibility on that score. But the bottle must have circulated fairly freely: there wasn’t much of it left when we examined it yesterday. And quite a lot of wine had been consumed with the meal.’

Nash considered the matter carefully, as if the idea that someone might have be
en drunk, might have killed Harrington accidentally, was an attractive possibility that he had not previously entertained. ‘We’d eaten a heavy meal. I don’t think anyone had had a real skinful. We were happy rather than drunk.’

‘
You didn’t see anyone becoming aggressive?’

‘
Rather the reverse. Most people became quite mellow.’

Or appeared so to you, thought Bert Hook. His resistance to the bourgeoisie was surfacing despite his attempts at objectivity. These privileged people, playing this decadent game of golf all week and indulging in
la
dolce
vita
off the course, had fostered a rottenness at the heart of their gathering. He looked up from his notebook and said, ‘What happened to you when the group finally broke up, Mr Nash?’

Nash thought carefully; once they had moved off the area of his emotional involvement, he was almost the ideal court witness, weighing his thoughts carefully before he spoke, trying to keep to the subject of the question but give the fullest possible reply. Or else, of course, he was presenting that persona very carefully, as a murderer might do.
‘It was George Goodman, I think, who made the first move; he said it was long past his normal bedtime and he would suffer on the course in the morning if he didn’t make a move. Sandy Munro went off almost at the same time—I thought to his room, but he tells me this morning he went for a walk down the drive. The two ladies went off together: I thought at the time to the cloakroom, but of course they may not have done.’ He paused.

‘
And you?’

‘
I stayed on the roof with Harrington for a few minutes.’

‘
Why was that?’

‘
I’m not sure. Perhaps it was no more than lethargy at the end of a long day. I think I had some idea that Guy might want to smooth things over after our spat earlier in the evening.’

‘
And did he?’

‘
No. Perhaps I was a bit drunk after all, to think he would. We never exchanged a word. We sat looking over the edge of the roof for a few minutes. I remember seeing the bend of the river by the sixteenth fairway quite clearly. Guy didn’t say anything, but he gave me a superior sort of grin, as if he was challenging me to take up where we left off. I just got up and left, without even saying good night.’

A very sensible course of action. If it happened. Lambert said quietly,
‘You were therefore the last person to see Harrington alive.’

‘
Apart from his murderer.’ Nash managed a small, apologetic grin. Lambert liked him the better for it.

‘
As you say. Did you see anyone else after you left the roof?’

‘
No.’

‘
Did you go straight back to your room?’

‘
Not quite. I went out to the car park. I wanted to check that I’d put my clubs away properly in the back of the car.’

‘
And had you?’ If the man was fabricating a story, he was most likely to trip up over detail he might not have rehearsed.

‘
Almost. I had put the clubs away all right, but forgotten to lock the boot of the car.’

‘
Make and model?’ said Hook, ballpoint poised.

‘
Ford Granada. This year’s model.’ He looked puzzled by the question.

Lambert knew the point well enough. But there was no discrepancy: the boot did indeed need locking, though it could be done by means of the car
’s central locking system. Some cheaper and older cars had boots which locked automatically when the lid was put down. He said, ‘What would you estimate was the total time between the others leaving you with Harrington and your returning to your room?’

‘
I couldn’t be sure. At the time, I obviously didn’t think it was important. Perhaps a quarter of an hour.’

‘
Did you see anyone while you were in the car park?’

‘
No. I expect Sandy Munro was well away, down towards the gate somewhere.’

‘
And when you got back to your room, was Miss Peters already there?’

Nash hesitated.
‘I met her at the door.’

‘
Do you know where she had been?’

‘
No. I presumed at the time she had been with Alison Munro. But I didn’t ask. There was no reason why it should have been important, at the time.’

‘
No. I have to ask you formally now, Mr Nash, whether you have any thoughts about who might have brought about this death. Needless to say, we will respect your confidence.’

‘
No.’ Nash looked thoroughly disturbed; perhaps he had not really contemplated head on the notion of murder by one of their group until that moment. Then, in a burst of confidence, he said, ‘I’m not at all sure that I’d tell you if I did.’

Lambert gave him a sour smile.
‘That would be most unwise, Mr Nash. It would make you an accessory after the fact of murder. I must remind you that it is your duty to come to us immediately if anything occurs to you which might seem to have a bearing on this most serious of crimes.’

Nash levered himself easily from the chair by the use of his powerful forearms, but he looked as chastened as a schoolboy as he was dismissed. Lambert was still gathering his thoughts and watching Hook complete his record of the interview in his round, careful hand when there was the most discreet of taps at the door.

Sergeant Johnson, head of the Scene of Crime team, came almost apologetically into the room. ‘It’s Inspector Rushton’s day off. We’ve just had a message through from Forensic. I thought you’d like the news right away, as soon as you’d finished your interview.’ Johnson had got Lambert attacked and almost killed by his failure to pass on a vital message in the previous year
[1]
: he still addressed him as if in perpetual expectation of a reprimand.

‘Well?’ Lambert was disgusted with himself that he should be so pleased that it was not Rushton who had collected this news.

‘
They’ve analysed the strips taken from the corpse’s clothing, along with other samples. There are fibres which indicate someone else has handled the body. Presumably the person who lifted it on to the wheelbarrow and moved it. The position of the fibres, on the lower back, indicates that someone—’

‘
Who?’

‘
The fibres appear to be from the sweater worn on that evening by Sandy Munro.’

13

Detective-Inspector Christopher Rushton was one of the modern breed of husbands. He shared the household chores, changed nappies, and on his day off he sometimes even helped his wife with the shopping.

He was also a policeman, and policemen are notoriously conservative animals. Rushton was sufficiently affected by his calling to be diffident about declaring his enlightenment in domestic matters. It was all very well to be acclaimed a pillar of the campaign against chauvinism among his wife
’s friends, but the same qualities could declare him a wimp at Oldford CID headquarters, where the male ethos was still overwhelmingly predominant.

Consequently, Rushton cast the occasional furtive glance over his shoulder as he
pushed the slowly filling supermarket trolley between the avenues of tins and packets. None of his colleagues was apparent; even the store detectives did not recognise him these days, now that his exalted rank had lifted him so far above the petty, amateur crime of shoplifting.