Too Much of Water (23 page)

‘Yes. Ken enjoyed having a child, even when she was young. I found it hard work.'

‘Did the police give you any idea whether they were planning to arrest someone for Clare's murder?' He bent and sniffed a perfectly formed hybrid-tea bloom, studiously unconcerned.

‘No. They asked me where I was when she was killed, though.'

‘And what did you tell them?'

‘What we agreed. That I was here with you all through that Saturday night. That's correct, isn't it?' She was anxious only to please him, seemingly totally unaware of the implications of this for the CID enquiry.

‘Yes, that's what we agreed. Because it's right, isn't it? It's the truth, it's what really happened.' He tried not to be too vehement. It was like checking things off with a child. Yet this was a highly intelligent woman, when the circumstances were right. That only made it more difficult for those close to her. Affection welled within him, overcoming his irritation. He put his arm round her shoulder and said, ‘We'll get through this, Judith. I don't want you to worry about it.'

She nodded sagely, like a serious child, as she put more spent roses into the barrow beside her. The one thing she did not seem was worried. ‘Have you time for a sandwich? I'll get you some lunch now.'

He watched her quick, expert hands as she cut the bread and slipped ham and cheese within it in the kitchen. How competent she was, in most things! And how carefully you needed to supervise her in others. He let her make the tea, knowing how she resented interference in her kitchen, then followed her into her favourite room, the small one at the back of the house which looked out over the garden. He took his plate with the sandwiches, smiled affectionately, and said as casually as he could, ‘Did those policemen ask you about Ian Walker?'

‘Yes.' She gave a small, brittle laugh. ‘Apparently I'd told them that I wouldn't mind killing him myself, when they talked to me about Clare's death! They raised that with me today. I said it was quite true, but as it happens I hadn't killed the man!'

‘And they accepted that?'

‘Oh, I think so. I told them I was here on Monday night, when it happened.'

‘That's right! And that I was here with you. That way, we both account for each other, as we said.'

She frowned, her small teeth very white as she bit into a sandwich. He knew from her face that there was something wrong, but she made him wait until she had swallowed and her mouth was empty, like a well-mannered child. ‘No. I told him I was here on my own. I'm afraid I got a bit confused about what we'd agreed on that. They'd just been asking me about Clare and I—'

‘Where did you say I was on Monday night?'

‘Out on business, I think I said. Yes, I'm sure I did.'

‘Where? Where was I supposed to be working?' He wondered if she would catch the tension in his voice.

‘Oh, I didn't tell them that. I knew you wouldn't want them knowing what you were doing. It's none of their business, is it? I remember you saying that before.' She looked quite pleased with herself for that recollection.

‘Did they ask you anything more about me?'

‘No, I don't think so. I think I told them you were usually out on a Monday, so they probably accepted that.'

He watched her as she poured the tea unhurriedly, her face as open and uncomplicated as a child's. But not as innocent, he thought. ‘Do you think they accepted that neither of us killed Walker?'

‘Oh, I should think so. They seemed quite satisfied with what they had heard from me, when they left.'

But Judith wasn't the best judge of that, he thought. When a woman had no sense of danger, it was impossible to instil one into her. If he hadn't known that from the start, he certainly realized it now.

C
hris Rushton said as casually as he could, ‘A couple of things have come up whilst you were out. One of them at least seems likely to be relevant to the Clare Mills case.'

His shirt was as immaculately pressed as usual, the cuffs just the right length on his steely wrists. You couldn't let things go, just because you were divorced. The ironing board was as meticulously maintained as everything else in his uncluttered, sterile house. He spoke now as modestly as he could, but his body language told the real story.

John Lambert thought sourly that his detective inspector was positively preening himself. If a man sitting staring at a computer screen for much of the day could ever be said to be preening. Chris Rushton was getting altogether too pleased with himself. They must do something to keep the world in perspective for him. Something which would really cut him down to size.

Perhaps they should persuade him to take up golf.

Lambert was not usually as cruel as this. His escapist reverie was interrupted by Rushton saying carefully and precisely, ‘Denis Pimbury.'

‘What about him?'

‘He's been pawning jewellery. In Gloucester. Reported to us as routine. I picked it up because I was cross-referencing the name on my computer.' Rushton tried unsuccessfully not to sound smug about that.

Bert Hook said thoughtfully, ‘Pimbury didn't seem the kind of man who would have jewellery to pawn.'

‘A diamond ring and an emerald brooch.' Rushton gazed unnecessarily at the entry he had recently made on his computer file for Pimbury.

‘We'll have further words with him about that. See what his story is. Be interesting to know where a man like that acquired a ring and a brooch.' Lambert wondered why he could not sound more grateful for the information. Rushton had done the job allotted to him, and done it well. ‘What was the other thing you had to report, Chris?'

‘Sara Green.'

Lambert was irritated by the way he produced the information, doling it out in answer to a series of questions rather than coming straight out with it. He wondered what Rushton had learned about that rather intense young woman who taught at the university. He was pretty sure that Rushton had never seen her, but he said hopefully, ‘Not another of the women you fancy, is she, Chris?'

Rushton, who was nursing a secret passion for Clare Mills's former flatmate Anne Jackson, felt himself blushing like an adolescent. These two older men could always get him going, when he should have been proof against their barbs after years of experience. He said stiffly, ‘I would remind you that I have meticulously recorded the findings of your interviews, sir. So I am well aware that Ms Green prefers liaisons with her own sex. I am interested in her only as a murder suspect.'

‘Quite. And what have you discovered about her?'

‘That she has a history of violence. Serious violence.'

‘How recent?'

‘Nine years ago. She was twenty-four at the time.' Not a child, Chris Rushton wanted to say. An adult, responsible for her own actions and the consequences. A fact which made the discovery especially relevant to the present enquiry.

‘If she has a criminal record, why has it taken so long to come to light?' Lambert was aware that he was being unfair, that there was sure to be a good reason, but he didn't feel like being fair to his priggish inspector at this moment.

‘She hasn't got a record. Charges were never brought. The person concerned refused to go into the witness box against her.'

The old story with violence. If it was domestic, the parties made up, at least for the time being, and didn't want to proceed with charges. If it wasn't domestic, there were often more sinister reasons why no charges were brought: the victim was bought off, or more likely intimidated with threats of further brutality. Lambert nodded and said gloomily, ‘Let's have the details.'

‘Sara Green was in a lesbian affair with a woman of twenty-two, who evidently decided that she was heterosexual after all and shacked up with a boy of the same age. Ms Green did not react kindly to that.'

‘She assaulted the woman?'

‘Yes. She threatened her with a shotgun when she discovered what was going on. Two days later, she attacked her with a kitchen knife.'

‘With what result?'

‘The woman was hospitalized. Two stab wounds in the chest and quite severe bleeding, apparently. It's not clear how life-threatening it was, because the woman concerned eventually refused to take her to court, or even to appear as a witness in any case the Thames Valley Police chose to bring against Sara Green. She subsequently married the man concerned and emigrated to Canada.'

‘Pity about that. It would have been interesting to have her views on Sara Green's temperament. As it is, we shall have to explore the detail of this incident with Ms Green herself.'

Superintendent Lambert spoke with some relish about the prospect of disturbing that composed lady.

Martin Carter was doing his best to save his skin.

Fear is rarely the best way to get results from people, but drugs were an industry which ran on fear. You couldn't afford to ignore what the people above you in the hierarchy directed you to do, and you were perpetually aware of those vaguer and darker forces beyond them. Forces which could eliminate you without you even knowing who had killed you, without you leaving more than a swiftly disappearing ripple behind in the dark pool of crime.

Fear is the worst, most dangerous, motivation.

And Wednesday night certainly wasn't the best time. But Martin wanted to make some effect, to achieve something which would show that he had taken note of the warning which Roy Hudson had delivered to him. So he put on his dark blue anorak, filled the pockets with some of the best and most sinister of his new supplies, and went out into the town.

It wasn't the wisest or the most considered action to move so quickly, but Martin Carter wasn't as experienced as he should have been to be operating at this level. Nor was he very efficient in this trade: as he had tried to explain to Roy Hudson, he was not cut out for it. Hudson might have been better advised to heed Martin's estimate of himself, but Hudson was driven by greed. And greed unbalances judgement more quickly than any other failing.

With a boss driven by greed and an operative driven by fear, the omens were not good.

It was still warm when Martin left his house, still light on what was still very nearly the longest day of the year. It was after half-past nine on his watch, and yet the western sky over the Severn was a brilliant crimson, still and almost cloudless, betokening more fine, hot weather to come. Martin stared at it glumly as his feet carried him unwillingly over the familiar streets. He would have preferred rain and the cloak of a Stygian darkness for the work he had to conduct tonight.

People seemed to his oversensitive eyes to be looking at him curiously as he passed them. Perhaps he should not have worn the anorak. Even at this time of night, people were still walking in T-shirts and jeans; there was scarcely a sweater or a jacket in view. He was overdressed in the navy anorak. Worse than overdressed: he was conspicuous. Martin walked past the pub he had meant to enter, moving on, through streets where he had not walked before, streets which had come down in the world from their Victorian heyday, with high elevations diminishing the light from the darkening blue sky.

It was darker when he returned. The bright orange lights of the pub and the sounds of laughter from within it seemed to emphasize the gloom outside. He went in and ordered himself a pint of bitter, resisting the impulse to give himself the swift infusion of Dutch courage which spirits might have provided. He stood with an elbow on the bar, forcing himself to turn casually and slowly, to conduct a detached assessment of the scene around him.

It didn't look quite right. He would have liked more people around. In a busy pub, where people were crowded enough to brush against each other, where there was perpetual movement in and out and to and from the toilets, it seemed that nothing you did was noticed in the general mayhem. This wasn't anything like as busy as that. About normal for a Wednesday evening, he supposed.

He had been served very promptly, which was not a good sign, from his point of view. There were plenty of people around, but in no way could you say that the place was crowded. There was plenty of banter going on between different groups, but they were aware of each other, aware of who else was in the place. They might even remember that he had been there, if anyone asked them later.

He had intended to drink his beer unhurriedly, to sip it, to estimate the situation coolly, to watch for the right moment. Now he found that three-quarters of his pint had gone without his even realizing it. Watch it, Martin. Keep a grip on yourself. You're an experienced drug dealer now, not a novice. You could have a lucrative future in this business, if you keep your head and play things right.

Roy Hudson said so.

Martin had seen two of his agents, but he didn't do any more than acknowledge them with his eyes, not even nodding his head at them. It was part of the training; you never knew who might be watching you, even in unlikely places. Better safe than sorry: Martin rolled out another of the meaningless clichés to himself and found that he had finished his beer.

He ordered another pint, leaning on the bar as nonchalantly as he could. He acknowledged a couple of students who knew him from the university, but took care not to be drawn into their conversation. The period he liked least of all was this lengthy spell of inactivity, where you sized up the situation and decided whether it was safe to make a move. Some people seemed actually to enjoy the smell of danger, sniffed it like hounds on a scent. He'd never been like that: the feeling of peril almost made him physically sick at times. He felt the stale bile of the beer at the back of his throat now.

At twenty-five to eleven, he went out to the small outside toilet, the one not visited by many of the clients, except when the place was crowded and there was a queue at the indoor ones. It was cooler now out here, and he could see the first stars in the clear sky. He relieved himself in the urinal, trying to welcome the strong scent of ammonia which overcame the traces of other, more unpleasant scents, trying to pretend that he was not waiting here for an assignation.