Just Desserts (15 page)

‘I don't know. Everyone, I should think. Pretty well everyone, anyway.'

‘What were you doing when you heard Mrs Moss screaming?'

He must be careful here. Everyone should remember what was happening then, shouldn't they? ‘I was talking to Alan – to Mr Fitch. He'd just come back upstairs from the wash-rooms.'

It was out before he could stop it. The man he would least have wanted to incriminate. He felt like Judas. And he hadn't even thirty pieces of silver for his pains: he had just been trying to save his own miserable skin. There was a long pause, as if they wanted him to appreciate what he had done, before Lambert said, ‘How long before the screams was this?'

‘Quite a while, really. It must have been, because we were talking for quite a while. He was warning me to keep off the port, that it was lethal stuff for a young man. He was telling me some tale about when they'd docked in Portugal, years ago, and he'd had a skinful of port.' He tried desperately to extricate Alan from what he'd done to him. It wasn't true: the tale about the port had been during one of their lunch-time talks in the greenkeeper's shed, weeks ago. He must remember to tell Alan what he'd said, or things would only get worse, with these two worrying at it like dogs with a bone. He was conscious of Lambert waiting, whilst Hook made a careful note of what he'd said.

Then the Superintendent said quietly, ‘Do you remember anyone else going down to the basement in the period immediately before the body was found?'

‘Yes. Michelle Nayland. And Mrs Nayland.' He flayed around like a novice on ice, desperately trying to save his friend.

‘And can you remember the order in which they went down there?'

‘No. I'm not even sure how long it was before the screams. Probably they went later than Mr Fitch.' He felt that he was probably contradicting himself now. ‘I'd drunk quite a lot. And I didn't think any of this was going to be important at the time.' Belatedly, he came up with the excuse that everyone had offered.

‘And yet you're sure that a full hour elapsed between your own trip to the basement and the discovery of Mr Nayland's body.'

‘A long time, I said. I'm sure it was a long time.' He looked up into the long, lined face, desperate and wide-eyed, pleading to be believed.

‘Who do you think killed Mr Nayland?'

‘I don't know. Not Mr Fitch.'

Lambert nodded very slowly. ‘I see. Mr Fitch built a bonfire at Camellia Park on the day after the murder, didn't he?'

‘I don't know.' Then, as he realized how ridiculous this denial sounded, Barry said, ‘Yes, I remember now, he did.'

‘And what did he burn?'

‘I don't know.'

‘You weren't there?'

‘No.' Then another belated attempt to retrieve things. ‘Well, not when he started the fire I wasn't. I helped him later on. We were burning brambles that we'd cut down on the course. That and other rubbish. We have to get rid of things every so often, so we have a bonfire.' He wondered if he was now saying too much, even though he knew that he wasn't really saying anything. Nothing that was useful to these inquisitive CID men, that is. When they didn't react, he added inconsequentially, ‘It was a good day for a bonfire, Thursday.'

‘So why weren't you there when the fire was lit?'

It sounded like an accusation. ‘We were told we needn't come in at the usual time on that morning, after what had happened the night before. But Alan was in at the usual time.' Again he felt he was letting down the man he least wanted to implicate, so he said limply, ‘I expect he couldn't sleep.'

‘I expect you're right. If you think about anything you haven't told us yet, get in touch immediately. You never know, your recall of things might improve.'

It sounded like a threat, but all he could think of was that they were going at last. He was on his feet too quickly, standing by the door to open it for them. The tall one, the Superintendent, looked at him for a few seconds without speaking before he left. The Sergeant, who had grilled him at the beginning and then kept silent, said as he turned in the doorway, ‘Honesty is much the best policy for you, Barry. This is murder, and you're out of your depth here.'

Absurdly, he found himself thanking the burly man for that thought. That was almost admitting some sort of guilt, he told himself angrily, as he sat where Hook had sat on the bed and considered what he had said to the CID men.

At least they hadn't searched the place. Probably they weren't allowed to do that, probably they needed a search warrant. But he knew that he'd have been powerless to stop them, if they started opening drawers and cupboards.

Barry Hooper walked over to the scratched old dresser, slid open the second drawer down, moved the white vest and blue socks to one side, watching his slim black hand as if it belonged to someone else. The two white cocaine rocks were there, as he had known they would be.

He tried to firm up his resolve to kick the habit.

I
t was after the inquest on Monday morning that Chris Pearson buttonholed Liza Nayland.

He had watched her carefully during the solemnities of the coroner's court. She had given the brief evidence of identification in a clear, controlled voice, then listened, grave-faced but attentive, to the rest of the proceedings. She had cast her eyes down during the forensic evidence about the knife-wounds and the blood, but had given a little sigh of relief when the inevitable verdict of Murder by Person or Persons Unknown was brought in ten minutes later.

Mrs Nayland accepted the coroner's sympathy, nodded her understanding of his regret that the body could not yet be released for burial or cremation. She was dignified, but in control of herself, Chris judged. Not too upset to talk business. And what he had to say was very urgent.

Black suited her: with her tallness, her dark blonde hair and her deep blue eyes, she looked very elegant beneath the brim of the black hat she had donned for the inquest. Chris Pearson had never seen her in a hat before; it seemed to distance her a little further from him. He felt a little inhibited as he approached the widow, as if he were speaking to her after a funeral rather than outside the modern brick building where the coroner's court operated.

‘I'm sorry to bother you at a time like this, but I'd like a few words about what happens now at Camellia Park. If you can spare the time and feel up to it, that is.' He felt as formal as if he were back on the parade square, marching up to the CO to declare the parade ready for inspection, observing the ceremonial and the constricted language of Army life. But that was all right, he told himself: Liza Nayland had been an Army wife, in her time. She must understand these things.

And she did. She didn't even seem surprised by his request. She gave him a small smile and said, ‘Of course. I expect everyone at the golf course is wondering just what is going to happen. Life goes on, and the sooner we can clarify things, the better it will be for all concerned, I'm sure. Would you like to come back to the house now?'

‘But wouldn't that be inconvenient for you? I expect your daughter will be going back home with you . . .' His words tailed away as he realized that he was behaving again as if this were a funeral, with family mourners to be accommodated and the rituals of internment to be observed.

Liza said, ‘Michelle is going straight back to her school. She wasn't really needed at the inquest, but I think she felt she had to be here to support me. I'm going to drive home now; if you follow behind me, we'll have a talk at the house. I've been thinking myself that there are things we need to sort out.'

The two of them stood for a moment together, watching the small crowd who had attended the inquest melt away along the pavement. Apart from reporters, and one or two curious members of the public attracted by the sensational nature of this crime, they were mostly the people who had been at Soutters Restaurant on that fatal evening. Chris wondered if Liza Nayland had realized that the person who had murdered her husband was almost certainly among these innocent-looking citizens.

He noticed that stolid Detective Sergeant Hook, standing unobtrusively at the edge of the gathering, quietly observing the bearing of everyone who had been at that dinner. Watching to see whether the murderer would give himself away, Chris supposed. He decided that DS Hook was a man who was easy to underestimate, and stored that thought away for future guidance.

Liza Nayland had got rid of her coat and hat by the time he had parked his car and entered the big, detached house. ‘Whisky?' She poured each of them a generous measure, filled her glass to the brim with water, pushed the jug towards him, and sat opposite him in the easy chair by the fireplace. Only her outer garments had been black for the coroner's court. Underneath them, she was wearing an attractive light-blue dress. She took a sip of her whisky and said, ‘What was it you wanted to talk about, Chris?'

It was friendly enough, but he had hoped she would lead the way into the discussion. He realized now that he didn't know this alert-looking woman as well as he had thought he did. He had only met her socially before, and always found her pleasant enough. He had no idea what weight she carried as a businesswoman. He found himself saying, ‘It's a bit awkward, really. Coming so soon after Patrick's death.'

‘That was a shock to all of us – perhaps to me most of all. But I realize that you and other people who worked for him must be wondering what happens next. That's natural enough.'

This preliminary fencing was only making him more nervous. Chris Pearson wasn't used to being nervous, and it threw him off balance. He hadn't put as much water with his whisky as his hostess, and he now took a stiff pull at it, downing half of it in one go, feeling the fire spread into his chest. He said, ‘I don't know how much you know about the way Patrick ran Camellia Park.'

‘I know that he gave you a pretty free hand.'

‘He did. All the decisions were his, of course, which is only right – he who pays the piper calls the tune, and all that.' He laughed nervously, found he was despising himself for the cliché. ‘But he discussed everything with me, and on the vast majority of occasions we were agreed about what we should do. And Pat seemed to be happy about the way I put our decisions into action.'

‘He was. I know that much at least about the enterprise. And perhaps know a little more than you think about what went on.'

His heart sank at that, but when he looked at Liza Nayland, she didn't seem to be taunting him. He plunged on. ‘I'm sure you do. But I need to know what you plan for Camellia Park. The staff have already been asking about it.' That was a small lie, but certainly warranted, in the situation.

‘I intend to go on providing the money to develop the course and the clubhouse at Camellia Park. I've no idea yet how much money Pat has left me; we hadn't got round to talking about that and it didn't seem necessary.' Her voice almost broke on the last phrase. She took a determined sip of her whisky and a few seconds to recover herself. ‘Pat had other irons in the fire, as I'm sure you gathered, and some of them are in the early stages of development, where they may need capital. But I'm confident there'll be the money to press ahead with developments at Camellia Park. It was one of Pat's pet projects, and it will remain one of mine.'

‘That's good to hear.'

‘Please relay that to the staff, if you think it will help them. Uncertainty isn't good for any workforce.'

‘Thank you.' He was probing, trying to find out just how much she knew. ‘And the place is already making a healthy profit. I'm quite certain that further developments could be self-financed.' He tried not to sound too sycophantic as he said, ‘And I'm sure you and I will be able to work very well together.'

‘I'm sure of that as well. I'm not going to pretend that it will all be plain sailing. I don't know anything like as much as Pat did about the detail of the course. As I say, it was his pet project. He'd walked every blade of grass, since the days when he bought the land as farmer's fields. And he was a golfer, which must help when it comes to decisions. I don't even play the game.'

Chris Pearson smiled. He was certain now that she didn't know. ‘I play. And I'm pretty familiar with the place myself, by now.'

‘Of course you are. And we'll need your knowledge, more than ever in the months to come. I don't propose to be as “hands-on” as Pat was. I'll depend on you, Chris. I know you won't let me down.'

‘I won't. I take it that there is to be no change in policy, then.' This was the key moment. He dropped the thought in as casually as he could, with the air of merely confirming what they had been saying.

‘No change in policy. But I realize that in effect I'm asking you to take on extra responsibilities. I wouldn't expect you to do that without proper recognition.'

It was his opportunity, and he took it. ‘As a matter of fact, Pat had been talking in similar terms. It was something which had been understood between us from the start, but never written down. We didn't need written contracts: we got on too well for that.' When he dared to look at her, he fancied that the clear blue eyes were regarding him keenly. He backed off a little and added apologetically, ‘But this is hardly the moment to talk about these things.'

‘On the contrary, the sooner the situation is sorted out, the better it will be for everyone concerned in the organization. What did you have in mind?'

‘I'm not talking about money. Or not primarily about money. I'm confident that what I have in mind would eventually be to my financial advantage, but that's because I have faith in the future of Camellia Park.' He picked his way carefully through the phrases he had rehearsed on the previous night.

‘You want to be more than just Chief Executive.'