Authors: J.M. Gregson
‘
It’s what you talked about at the time, not what we agreed. I didn’t get the chance—’
‘
The public image is what I’m contributing to the firm, what I’m working hard to build up. And that is what we agreed at that time. I’m sure Moira would confirm it, if you think it’s worth disturbing her.’
He
glanced at Zoe for confirmation, though he knew that she could not give it: she had never met his former mistress. He managed to imply both that he lived a free and open life, so that there was no embarrassment in discussing a former lover with the woman he now planned to marry, and that Hampson might be unfeeling enough to disturb Moira, who was now an invalid, in pursuit of his selfish ends.
Chris
said harshly, ‘I’m not talking about the small print of agreements. I’m talking about what’s just and equitable.’ He was pleased he had managed to get that phrase out. He sat on the edge of his chair, glaring challengingly at his partner. He hated the smoothness which he had so admired in Ray Keane in their early days. He had never expected it to be turned upon himself.
Keane
shrugged his shoulders, smiled a smile which expressed his surprise at how little the other man understood of the world. ‘What’s just and equitable is a very vague concept. It’s capable of different interpretations by different people, Chris. As I’m sure you will appreciate, upon reflection.’
He
looked again at Zoe, smiled at her over Hampson’s downcast head, trying to assess what effect this was having on her. Power was supposed to be the ultimate aphrodisiac for women, and he was asserting his power now in this quiet, almost claustrophobic setting. He had no doubt whose will would prevail in this conflict, however much right Chris might have on his side. Zoe stared back at him steadily for a moment, then switched her gaze to the man sitting frustrated on the edge of his chair.
Keane
had won now, and all three people in the room knew that. Hampson said dully, ‘We can’t go on being successful if you don’t pull your weight. We’ll need to talk about it.’
‘
Of course we shall. Let’s just give it a few days, for both of us to cool down.’ His smile said that only one of them really needed time to cool down, but that he, Raymond Keane, successful businessman and rising MP, was used to being magnanimous about these things.
He
stood up, signifying that their business was concluded. Successfully, as far as he was concerned. He ushered Hampson to the door, preventing himself with difficulty from throwing an arm across the other man’s shoulders. The rigidity of the taller man’s torso and arms warned him that Hampson was still seething, so that any form of physical contact might be a mistake.
Keane
said, ‘I’ll be in touch, Chris. At the end of the coming week. I’ll definitely phone you this time, I promise.’ It was his first acknowledgement that there had been substance in the older man’s complaint.
He
stood in the doorway of the old cottage to watch his partner drive away, beaming a false fondness as he waved him into the distance.
Zoe
Renwick watched Hampson’s departure from behind the low leaded-light window. She had seen a ruthless display of power by Raymond Keane which bordered on cruelty. And what was worse, he had revelled in it. It was a facet of her husband-to-be that she had not even suspected. She found it quite disturbing.
The man in the trees watched Chris Hampson drive away from the cottage. He was curious about this visitor for a little while, as he had been curious when he watched him arrive forty minutes earlier. But his interest in this stranger did not last for very long. It could not contend in his mind with the hatred, steady and intense, which he felt for the man who remained within the house.
There
were still a few leaves on the beeches and oaks, and the rich orange needles of the larches had not yet dropped to the dry ground beneath them, as they would do by the year end as the frosts grew sharper. They gave him concealment enough, but whenever he felt the need of it, the tall firs on the edge of the wood provided him with deeper cover.
It
was dark as he moved beneath these, dark as in those northern forests of Europe, where the trolls controlled a darker world and the nights scarcely conceded daylight at all at this time of the year. On some days now, the man felt that he would be happier if it were dark all the time.
He
flapped his arms occasionally behind his screen. His sparse frame should have shivered, but he wore so many layers against the cold of the December day that he scarcely felt it. He was warmed by the fire of hatred which burned within him against Raymond Keane, MP and hypocrite, who had proved a false friend and a smiling, polished enemy.
Well,
he could play that game too. A man could smile and smile, and be a villain. The man who had first said that had also been a little uncertain about how he should proceed with his revenge, at first. But he had killed his man in the end. The people who gave him such curious looks as he went in and out of his house nowadays would be surprised to know that he knew about things like that.
The
man in the woods went on another of his small, slow perambulations, his hands deep in his pockets, his lips lifting slightly at their edges.
*
Sunday morning was not a fair time to spring unwelcome surprises upon a man.
Detective
Sergeant Hook was struggling hard, but he was a fish that was already hooked and only had to be landed. He knew the rules of the game, and as a sportsman he knew that when the wriggling was over he would have to accept them.
‘
Eleanor had no right to say that I’d do any such thing!’ he said gruffly.
‘B
ut she did. And now you must,’ said John Lambert gleefully. ‘As your superintendent, I have to insist upon your completing the bargain, however reluctantly.’
‘B
ut golf. Bloody golf,’ said Bert gloomily. ‘Bloody, bloody, bloody GOLF!’
‘
There you are. You’re beginning to get the vocabulary already. You could be a natural for this game.’
‘
Who wants to be a natural in such a damned stupid game? It’s the worst thing that could happen to a man. You’ll have me drinking gins and tonics and voting Conservative within a year, if you have your way.’
‘
A man’s politics are his own business,’ said Lambert sententiously. ‘There’s no reason why golf should affect your brain, if you keep it under proper control.’
‘
A man’s soul lost, for the sake of a night’s baby-sitting,’ said Hook glumly.
‘
All this talk about souls is an overreaction. I blame this Open University degree of yours. Is Ibsen on your course, by any chance?’
‘
Ibsen wouldn’t have gone anywhere near golf,’ mused the downtrodden Hook.
‘
That explains a lot. Most of his characters talk like people short of a physical challenge,’ said Lambert breezily. He decided to turn the knife. ‘You were bought very cheaply, actually. The boys were quite charming. We chatted about football for a while, and then they went to bed like lambs when we told them it was time.’
‘
Damned little traitors,’ Hook moaned. ‘They never do that for us.’
‘
I expect they’d been threatened with all kinds of retribution if they didn’t behave,’ smiled Lambert, thinking back ten years and more, to the days when he needed baby-sitters for two lively daughters. ‘Anyway, I want you to know that they were as good as gold. But that doesn’t mean you don’t have to pay the forfeit. A basket of fifty balls at the driving range.’
‘
Not today. I need time to adjust to the idea,’ Hook said firmly.
‘
Right, you shall have it. We’ll leave it until after Christmas and the New Year. That’ll let you dwell on the challenge to come. Monday, January the second. We’ll lunch at the Miller’s Arms afterwards. If you’ve any appetite left after you’ve compromised your soul and your afterlife.’
Lambert
pushed himself back against the seat of the old Vauxhall Senator and eased the car away from the kerb. That date would give him a full two weeks of teasing, in a period which seemed likely to be thin on serious crime.
‘
All right. Monday the second of January it is, if that will shut you up,’ said Hook dolefully. It would never do to let Lambert know that he was beginning to look forward to the activity. Hitting a dead ball when you decided you were ready to hit it must be quite easy and exhilarating.
And
it would be a one-off, of course. He would never ever join a golf club.
*
Inside the warm thatched cottage with its cheerful fire, Raymond Keane found after Chris Hampson had gone that his display of power was not quite the aphrodisiac the sexual pundits said it should be.
Zoe
Renwick was cool, even apparently abstracted. He followed her into the small, neat kitchen and clasped his arms round her waist from behind her. ‘Penny for them?’ he murmured into her ear. He was excited already by a scent which might have been no more than expensive soap, by the soft touch of her hair and her neck. She tossed her fair hair in a gesture of dismissal, and he had more sense than to pursue any sexual plans in the face of her coolness.
Zoe
made them sandwiches and a pot of tea for lunch. She came and sat carefully opposite him rather than beside him, holding her hands out briefly for a moment towards the fire, though the room was already warm from the central heating.
The
lounge had two windows, but they were quite small, designed in the days when the primary concern in these thick-walled dwellings was to keep in all the available heat. In the soft half-light, with the reflection of the fire flickering against her pale face, Zoe’s strong features had a Scandinavian beauty.
He
could imagine her wrapped in thick woollens in a ski-hut, her long legs curled beneath her after an exhilarating day on the piste. Or even off it, on runs they had found for themselves: they were both strong, experienced skiers, and that would allow them a more private place to spend the long, contented nights. Raymond stretched his legs towards the fire, revelling in the thought.
Later,
when her mood softened, he would take her to bed.
When
she did not speak to him, he picked up the Sunday paper; turning automatically to the business section and its thoughts upon the Chancellor’s latest strategy. Zoe looked for a moment at his square face, studying the nose which had been broken and reset a fraction off centre. She thought for a while about how little you could sometimes deduce of what went on behind features which were so familiar to you. Then she said, ‘I think we should go to see Moira together.’
It
was such a complete surprise to Raymond Keane that he almost showed his bewilderment. Then his politician’s practised skills took over. He paused for a moment, digesting the idea whilst he appeared to be weighing it. Zoe must have been more upset than he thought she had been when Hampson had mentioned Moira Yates this morning. Damn Chris! Couldn’t he have had a little more sense than to bring an ex-mistress into their argument?
Raymond
said as calmly as he could, ‘Do you think that’s really such a good idea, old girl? I’m—’
‘
I’m not your “old girl”!’ She was outraged by the expression, as she had never been before. But had he ever used it to her before? It seemed to ring in her ears with the note of an earlier era. Perhaps he had used it with other women, and that was why she was suddenly so furious with him. ‘And yes, I do think it would be a good idea. Unless you still think that there are things about your relationship with her that need to be hidden from me, of course.’ It was cheap, but it was out before she could stop herself. She was horrified by the sudden desire to hurt him she felt within herself.
‘
Don’t be silly, darling. I’ve been perfectly open with you about her, and about all of my past life, if it comes to that.’ That was true, he thought. He certainly loved Zoe now, and wanted to marry her. He had been more honest with her than with anyone else in his life; he was sure of that.
‘
And Moira knows it’s all over between the two of you? And she knows about me?’
‘
Yes, yes. I told her about four months ago. Told her I was going to marry you. Even before I told you, as a matter of fact.’ For a moment, as her bright blue eyes flashed suddenly up into his face, he wondered if this had been too blunt, though he had only been trying to reassure her. And it was true enough: he had been glad to offer his marriage plans to the intense Moira as a signal that their affair was now conclusively finished, that there was absolutely no possibility of its renewal.
‘
I still think I should come with you to see her.’ Zoe stared into the fire, her face set like a small girl’s, deaf to the arguments of those around her.
‘
It’s just—well, just that I’m thinking of her, you see. She’s not a well woman, by all accounts.’