‘You were close to your mother?’
‘Yes, very. And that made it worse. I think he was upset every time he saw us laughing over something, or talking about some book we had both read. We used to go to the cinema together when I was a kid. He wouldn’t come with us because he despised films, and after a while we didn’t invite him any more. He’d just stay at home by himself. He must have felt that he was an outsider.’
‘Did things improve after you went to university?’
‘No. If anything, they got worse. I rarely brought my friends home because he made them feel so ill-at-ease, and he seemed insulted when I went to stay with them rather than be at home.’
‘It must have been a great strain for you to live in the same house with him.’
‘Yes, it was. I couldn’t wait to leave, though I was sorry to leave my mother on her own with him.’
Ah
, thought Milton.
So she didn’t tell him about Jenkins. Or is he covering up
? ‘What about your involvement with Ronald Maitland?’
Nigel Clark looked embarrassed. Then he looked Milton straight in the eye. ‘I’m in love with him.’
‘Is this recent?’
‘It’s been going on for about three months. I met him at a disco.’
‘A gay disco?’
‘Yes. I’ve known for three years that I was gay. That was another reason I didn’t want to bring my friends home. I knew what my father thought of people like us.’
‘Did your mother know?’
‘Yes, she did. I told her quite a long time ago, and she has met Ronald. The three of us had lunch together last month when we had decided to live together.’
‘How did she take it?’
‘Very well. Mothers seem to come to terms with it much easier than fathers, if my friends’ experiences are anything to go by. She was really quite relieved about Ronald. She thought I’d be better off settled down. She didn’t like me being promiscuous.’
‘Were you going to tell your father?’
‘No. Mother and I talked about it and decided not to say anything. We thought he might realize it himself eventually. We couldn’t see any point in precipitating a row.’
‘You never suspected he might know what you were? He didn’t remark for instance on the absence of girlfriends?’
‘Well, I used to pretend often that I was going out with a girl when in fact it was a bloke. He never made any comments or asked any questions about my sex life.’
‘When did he tell you that he knew?’ asked Milton, hoping his gamble had paid off.
‘He rang me at the office last Monday morning about 10.30.’
After abandoning poor old Nixon
, thought Milton.
‘He said he had heard something very disturbing about my private life and wished to talk to me about it after the meeting. He asked me to come up and wait for him in one of the nearby rooms at about 12.30.’
‘He said nothing else?’
‘No. Just enough to leave me worried.’
‘Did you tell anyone about this?’
‘Not then. I couldn’t talk freely on the office phone.’
‘So you went up there at 12.30?’
‘Yes. He came in a few minutes later and told me that he knew all about Ronald and me. He called me a pervert.’
‘What did you do?’
‘I broke down, I’m afraid. I couldn’t take it. He made me feel sordid.’
‘What did you say to him?’
‘I couldn’t speak for a couple of minutes. He stood there watching me and then said something about never having expected to father a queer. I shouted at him then. I hardly know what I said. Just something about finding love at last with a better man than he was. Then I ran.’
‘Where did you go?’
‘Out of the building. I didn’t come back for about an hour. I just walked round and round Westminster aimlessly. I hadn’t been long back when I got the news that he was dead.’
‘You must have hated him when he said those things to you.’
‘In a way. And yet, Superintendent, and I know you’re not going to find this easy to believe, I still felt sorry for him. I almost thought he was envious of me for being in love.’
‘You didn’t follow him into the lavatory and kill him?’
‘I did not.’
‘Did you see any sign of Mrs Bradley?’
‘No, I didn’t. But I was so upset that she could have been in the room half the time and I wouldn’t have known.’
‘Did your mother know about this episode?’
‘Yes. I told her on Monday afternoon.’
So Lady Clark hadn’t been as frank as she might have been, either. Well, she could hardly be blamed for that. Milton remembered Ann’s words about mother-love. Was it conceivable that he had in fact confided to his mother that he had killed his father and that they had together hatched a conspiracy to kill Gladys at the first available opportunity? If so, how could they know they would find her alone? Or were they just relying on luck? Milton tried to imagine Lady Clark standing by while her beloved son knifed Gladys. He couldn’t.
He let Nigel go. There was nothing more to be extracted from him for the moment. He sat down to think about where he should go from here. He had seen all the possibles except Alf Shaw, and he couldn’t really take him seriously as a suspect. What was he going to do now? Interview the lot of them all over again? Forget his kid gloves and try storm-trooper tactics this time? He wouldn’t mind putting the screws on Wells, but he would have a great deal of trouble gearing himself up to bully people as pleasant as Nixon, Parkinson, Jenkins and Lady Clark. Maybe the A.C. should put someone else on the job. He might suggest that himself tomorrow morning. Admit to being awash with information which pointed in several ways at once – but always inconclusively. Wait a minute. He’d have to see Stafford about his weekend telephone call with Sir Nicholas and tax him with what Lady Clark had heard of it. His telephone interrupted this train of thought. Amiss was on the other end again. He sounded very formal.
‘Superintendent Milton? Mr Sanders would be grateful if you could call over to see him. He has something to tell you that may be relevant to your enquiries.’
Wednesday Evening
26
As Milton hurried over to the Department of Conservation, he was speculating furiously about what Sanders could possibly have found out. He hoped the meeting wasn’t going to be a waste of time. Odds were that Sanders had just found out independently some relevant information which he couldn’t know Amiss had already passed on to the police. Milton could do without having to go through with any such charade; he was feeling badly in need of some time to himself to reflect calmly on the case. He had been rushing from interview to paperwork to interview, never having long enough without interruption to look at the evidence as a whole. It was the feeling of having let it all get on top of him that had led to his momentary defeatism after Nigel Clark had left. Offer to give up the case to someone else? Damned if he would. If he couldn’t crack it, with all the help he had had from Amiss and the personal knowledge he had built up of most of the suspects, then why should anyone else do better? Milton didn’t suffer from over-confidence, but neither did he go in for false modesty. His chances of finding the murderer were as good as anyone else’s. He wasn’t going to relinquish voluntarily the most publicized case he had ever had. Instead he would find the time to go over the evidence piece by piece and try to fit it into a pattern. He would do that before seeing the Assistant Commissioner the next morning – even if he had to stay up all night. Maybe he and Amiss would have the opportunity that evening to review some of it together.
He was curious about Sanders. Although Amiss kept on insisting that Sir Nicholas was an exception, Milton couldn’t help feeling some prejudice against senior civil servants in general and Permanent Secretaries – even temporary ones – in particular. They seemed to be at best an intellectually arrogant breed. Milton wasn’t looking forward to being patronized by a first-rate mind.
Amiss came down to reception to collect Milton. They had time for only a couple of minutes of private conversation in which Amiss was able to reassure him that this wouldn’t be a wasted visit. Milton asked apprehensively about Sanders.
‘I always found him pleasant,’ said Amiss, ‘but I hadn’t quite realized how good he is at his job. I hope to Christ they have the sense to confirm him as Permanent Secretary when this is all over. He’s not just the best kind of civil servant, he’s a human being as well. I haven’t forgotten how he reacted to Gladys’s death. You’ll find him a bit formal, of course, but that goes with the job. We don’t, as you know, go in for hail-fellow-well-met back-slappers.’ With that, he ushered Milton into Sanders’s presence.
Sanders had snow-white hair topping a rather rubicund face; his dark suit was cut to conceal his round stomach. Milton thought that at less serious moments he would resemble a taller version of a Cheeryble brother. His present gravity couldn’t entirely eradicate the pleasant connotations of the laughter lines around his mouth and eyes. Amiss introduced them and asked Sanders if he would like them to be left alone.
‘No, Robert. This is an informal meeting and you might be able to shed some light on what we are about to discuss. After all, latterly you must have known Nicholas better than I did. Don’t feel inhibited. This isn’t the time to close ranks, so forget about discretion. In deciding to tell the Superintendent about this curious business with Wells, I’ve had to put personal feelings before my professional dislike of breaching confidentiality. You, I suggest, should do the same.’
Well, well. Another mole
. Milton felt privileged indeed.
As they sat down he noticed that much in the office had changed since Sanders had taken over. Along the bookcase stretched a line of busts of the classical composers. The walls glowed with life. Sanders seemed to favour pictures full of richness and incident. Milton recognized Vermeer and Botticelli.
And Lowry, for heaven’s sake. Sanders obviously didn’t share Sir Nicholas’s distaste for the proletariat. On a table beside his desk was a pile of library books in transit – and Milton recognized them as novels. That was a heartening sign.
Sanders asked him some polite questions about the case, which gave Milton an opportunity to reinforce his obvious desire to be helpful.
‘I’ve made quite a lot of progress, sir, but I can’t say that I’m close to a solution. It’s a bewildering world, yours. It hasn’t been easy to disentangle motives. Anything you can do to help will be greatly appreciated.’
Sanders smiled. ‘I sympathize with you, Superintendent. I wouldn’t like to be an outsider trying to get information out of civil servants and politicians. I’ll give you any help I can. I am very angry about Mrs Bradley’s death – frankly far more upset than I was about Sir Nicholas’s. The Secretary of State has told me about his behaviour and I have reason to know that he treated a number of people badly. There haven’t been a lot of tears shed for him here. I think he had forgotten he was supposed to be a public servant rather than an unhappy man taking his personal disappointments out on those around him.’
Milton noticed with amusement that Amiss’s mouth had dropped open. So Amiss was wrong in thinking he had these people taped. They could still produce surprises.
‘Have you any idea, sir, why Sir Nicholas acted as he did?’
‘No, Superintendent. I was never a personal friend of his, though we were colleagues for many years. He seemed in the early days to be a reasonable enough fellow to deal with. You could always rely on him to play a straight bat. There was never any doubt about his ability: he had it in him to reach the very top. But over the past four or five years I detected a rapid change in him. He turned extremely offensive to colleagues and began to be obstructive for the sake of it. He didn’t let this side of him show to his superiors, though, so he still gained promotion to Permanent Secretary. I hoped then that he would be satisfied and that pleasure in his success might soften him. Unfortunately, it proved to be otherwise. He became increasingly difficult to work with – recently, almost impossible. Of course, as you might expert, he was far too wily to do anything that would lead to demotion or early retirement. Until last weekend he always played by the rules.’
‘You don’t have any idea who might have murdered him?’
‘Not until now, Superintendent. I realize the Secretary of State must have been very sore with him, but I could never see a man of his gentle disposition responding to any provocation with violence. I don’t know of anyone else present at that meeting who could have had reason to do more than dislike Nicholas. Except, I regret to say, our Parliamentary Under-Secretary of State, William Wells, who, I now find, had an excellent reason to feel the urge to strike him with the nearest blunt instrument. And he is a man at least capable of savage anger. I have seen him lose his temper on several occasions when he thought he was being thwarted.’
‘Go on,’ said Milton, leaning forward expectantly.
‘Late this afternoon, returning from a meeting, I was rung up by a junior colleague, Alan Wilmot, who was in a state of panic. He had heard from one of our regional offices that an article had appeared in today’s local paper, written by Wells and headed “LOCAL M.P. SAVES 3,000 JOBS”, with the subheading, “How I did it”.’
Milton looked puzzled.
‘I had better explain the background of this to you. The nub of the matter is that in Wells’s constituency there is an enormous plant which deals with chemical recycling. It is desperately important to the economic health of the area, once all the ancillary jobs and the knock-on effect are taken into account. After a couple of bad years it is threatened with immediate closure by its multinational parent company. We were asked to bail it out by the company’s English management and unions, who claimed that its long-term prospects were good, and that it was in the public interest to provide twenty million pounds of government money to keep it going for another year until the market took an upturn. The parent company had agreed that they would keep the plant operating if this interest-free loan were made available; repayment was to be over the next ten years.’