Malice Aforethought (4 page)

The waiting was getting on Graham Reynolds’ nerves, and more so now that the day was over and he had no classes in front of him to compel his attention. There had been a policeman and a policewoman making discreet enquiries among Ted Giles’s pupils at lunch time. And the top brass had already been in to see Mick Yates first thing this morning, after assembly. He knew that, though the young man had never said anything to him about it during the rest of the day.

They must know about him. They would come eventually, he was sure. He went into the staff room, forced himself into the usual banter, the usual humorous binding about the job. He marked a few essays, used the kettle to make a cup of tea, watched the phone in the corner for the summons he knew must surely come. When he went out to his car, he pulled up his coat collar against the cool night air, as if concealing himself from hidden watchers.

Sociologists were often reviled for having all the answers. Graham Reynolds hadn’t. He was a worried man.

***

The light was dying on what had never been a bright day. Bert Hook looked as though he was nervous about being seen, even in this light. He peered nervously over his shoulder for hidden witnesses to his shame as they carried the buckets of golf balls onto the Astroturf platforms of the driving range.

‘Just relax,’ said John Lambert cheerfully to his protégé.

Bert felt about as relaxed as a stripper’s G-string. ‘Wouldn’t I be better just hitting these on my own?’ he said. ‘Getting the feel of the shot, like you said.’ He had refused to book lessons with the pro, since that would have acknowledged some sort of commitment to this ridiculous game, and he still didn’t want to admit to that. Now, with Lambert striding at his shoulder like an anxious parent, the pro suddenly seemed much the lesser of two evils.

‘Nonsense!’ the Superintendent said breezily. ‘By all means have a few practice swings, to get your rhythm going, but I’ll be ready to help as soon as you need me. Only wish I’d had an experienced player willing to help me when I began the game!’

Why does he have to be so bloody cheerful all the time? thought Bert. He’s not normally like that; does he think it’s part of his instructor’s role?

Lambert did, though hardly consciously. He regarded himself as a teacher manqué, though his irreverent daughters had said he was more of a manky teacher whenever he had voiced the notion. Well, dear old Bert would have the benefit of the pedagogic talents and patience he had never been able to exercise. ‘Don’t be too long warming up!’ he commanded breezily. ‘The light’s going fast.’

Bert sneaked a ball onto the tee and gave it a whack, but Lambert whirled at the sound and came over to lean on the edge of the stall whence Hook was playing. He gave a cheerful smile of encouragement; to Hook, glancing up apprehensively after he had teed the next ball, it seemed in the half-light like a goblin grin of anticipation. ‘In your own time,’ said Lambert happily.

Bert addressed the ball, feeling suddenly like an arthritic crab under this unblinking scrutiny. He was beginning his backswing when Lambert said sharply, ‘Are you
really
happy with that grip?’

Bert was. It had hit him a few sixes in his time on the grounds of Herefordshire and Gloucestershire. Lambert shook his head sadly and entwined his fingers into a network which Bert was sure he would never be able to repeat for himself. ‘Now try,’ said Lambert.

Bert did. The ball remained obstinately on its peg as the clubhead flashed over it. Lambert roared with laughter to tell his charge he should not be embarrassed. Bert wondered how many years you would get for manslaughter under extreme provocation. But with this grip, he might even miss as large a target as John Lambert, he thought miserably.

He got the ball away. Lambert criticised its direction. After three more attempts, he got one away straight. Lambert said it hadn’t gone high enough. Bert eventually got one away straight and high. Lambert took away his 7-iron and said he was now ready for something more ambitious. Bert said with savage irony that he was lucky to have someone so perceptive at his side. Lambert agreed.

Lambert twisted Bert’s shoulders and pushed his hips into the appropriate position. ‘We’re building up your swing plane,’ he assured his charge. Bert counted the diminishing number of balls, concentrating on that single factor: it was his only gleam of hope in this dark world.

With only three balls to go, the accident happened. Bert caught the ball flush at the bottom of his swing with the 4-iron which had given him so much trouble. The ball soared high, long, and straight, disappearing from his range of vision in what was admittedly now a very dim light. There was an interval of at least three seconds, as he stood back and gasped, then waited for the inevitable words of acknowledgement and praise from his delighted mentor.

Then Bert heard a tut-tutting behind him from Lambert. ‘What on earth happened to your follow-through that time? Just look at where the club has finished! And look where your feet have finished!’

From somewhere in the recesses of Hook’s subconscious, there surfaced an old tale he had read of Wilfred Rhodes coaching a youngster in the cricket nets of long ago. ‘
And thee look where t’bloody ball’s finished
!’ he yelled. He dropped the iron and stalked away, leaving Lambert alone with his thoughts and the last two balls.

Five

The wife of the late Edward Giles made herself up with care and waited for the CID men to come at the appointed time. At eight thirty, she felt perfectly composed, but she noticed how much more nervous she became as the time crept round to nine fifteen. By the time she saw the dark blue Scorpio easing up the drive of her house, she trembled with a trepidation she had been determined she would not feel at the prospect of this exchange.

Yet when she opened the door to Lambert and Hook, they saw a well-groomed woman in an Armani suit, who appeared composed and in control of her emotions. In the spacious drawing room, with its windows looking over vistas of weedless grass and borders where roses still gave a few brave flowers, she waved them towards a settee whose tapestried elegance could scarcely have been a greater contrast to Aubrey Bass’s sprouting sofa. ‘I’m sorry I was away when this happened,’ she said. ‘No doubt you would have preferred to see me earlier.’

‘Yes. We like to speak to the next of kin first, whenever possible. In this case it wasn’t. I trust the Irish police broke the news as well as these things can be done —there isn’t any easy way.’ Lambert, through the conventional words, was studying her closely.

‘They were as diplomatic and as caring as you would expect the Irish to be. They’re a warm-hearted people, despite their political troubles,’ said Sue Giles. She threw in the clichés readily enough, suspecting that even this grizzled detective Lambert might be thrown a little by her if she could preserve this apparent serenity. ‘Would you care for a coffee? It’s a little too soon after breakfast for me, but no doubt you both begin work early.’

‘No coffee, thank you. We have to make up for lost time — normally, as I said, we should have already interviewed the spouse of a suspicious death, as our first move in the investigation.’

It came out like the rebuke he had not intended, but it did not ruffle Sue Giles. ‘Of course. I identified the body as that of my husband last night. You are convinced, then, that Ted was killed by person or persons unknown. That’s the jargon, isn’t it? That’s what you mean by a suspicious death?’

‘That is the phrase that will probably be used in the Coroner’s Court, yes. Unless, of course, we have found who did this by the time of the inquest.’ Lambert found that he was less confident than usual, despite all his experience. When you came expecting grief, prepared to walk on eggshells of diplomacy, it was disconcerting to find a calm widow, bringing herself up to date with their progress, ticking off the identification of the remains of her dead husband as if it was no more than one item in a list of household tasks.

Sue Giles looked at him coolly. ‘And do you think you will have a man arrested for the murder of Ted before the inquest?’

It’s possible. We are pursuing several lines of enquiry.’ Yet he knew as he spoke that both of them realised it was most unlikely. Stonewalling techniques were not likely to be effective with this woman. ‘We shall need the full details of your stay in Ireland at the weekend.’

‘Yes. We were in Killarney. We flew to Shannon Airport on Friday night.’

‘We?’

She looked for the first time slightly disconcerted, as if she had made her first tiny mistake in the game she had set up for herself with them. ‘I spent the weekend with a male companion, Mr Lambert. He flew back to Heathrow on Sunday night, but I stayed on with friends until yesterday.’ The small smile she allowed herself was edged with mockery. ‘I have been separated from Ted for five years, you know. The important thing from your point of view was that I was several hundred miles away in Eire when he was killed.’

Lambert answered her smile with one of his own, trying to mirror exactly her degree of sardonic amusement. ‘And how do you know exactly when your husband was killed, Mrs Giles?’

‘I don’t. But I read in yesterday’s paper that the body had been found in Broughton’s Ash churchyard shortly after the Remembrance Day service on Sunday. I naturally presumed that Ted died on the Saturday night — indeed, that is the impression I was given when I went to identify the body. Are you telling me that I was misinformed?’ She looked at him confidently, even challengingly, her head a little on one side, her expensively cut red-brown hair framing a face that was handsome rather than pretty, with its strong nose and clear, blue-green eyes.

‘I think you are very well informed, Mrs Giles. I am reassured by it. We need to ask you some questions, you see. We are engaged in filling in the background of a murder victim. You have already showed us one important fact: that we can eliminate you from any direct involvement in your husband’s death.’ He emphasised the word ‘direct’ lightly, enough he hoped to plant the idea that she was not completely in the clear yet. She must have picked it up, but she looked neither irritated nor threatened. ‘However, we need to know something of your own relationship with him, as well as your knowledge of any other associations he had.’

‘There was no animosity between Ted and me. Our marriage had failed. We both came to terms with that several years ago.’ For the first time, she seemed a little on edge. Embarrassment, he wondered, or something more? These terse pronouncements had the air of a prepared statement. But why not? Not many people took kindly to having their private affairs exposed to a stranger, and however dispassionate she might choose to appear now, any marriage which had failed had its own saga of blazing emotions and scarred aspirations which were better not revisited.

Lambert said, ‘Forgive me for saying so, but you do not seem to be overwhelmed with sorrow by your husband’s death.’

‘That’s my business!’

‘And mine, too. This is a murder inquiry, Mrs Giles.’

He had ruffled her, for the first time, as he intended. Rage, like any other emotion, makes concealment more difficult. She said tensely, ‘All right. I see that. And you’re right. I ceased to love Ted — if I ever did — a long time ago now. The way he lived his life was no longer my concern. That doesn’t mean that I don’t want you to find the man who killed him.’

‘Or woman. We are assured that the method used requires no great physical strength.’ Lambert looked down at the hands which twisted against each other in the lap of her suit. Then he lifted his gaze to the now tense face above them. ‘You mention the way he lived his life. That is what we are trying to piece together, Mrs Giles, and perhaps you can help us. Do you know, for instance, if he had any serious relationships at the time of his death?’

Sex: a tricky subject with an ex-wife. You left the orientation question open nowadays. There was nothing so far to indicate that Giles had not been heterosexual, but you mustn’t leap to conclusions. Sue Giles seemed to have no doubts. ‘There were other women. None serious enough to be regarded as a lasting partnership, so far as I’m aware. But I warned you: I kept out of his affairs.’

‘Nevertheless, unless some serious attachment had developed quite recently, you would probably have been aware of it.’

She weighed the statement carefully: she was fast regaining her composure. ‘Yes. I think that’s probably fair. But, as I said, I was no longer interested in his actions, or his attachments.’ There was a little flash of contempt on the last phrase, and he wondered if she was really as detached as she pretended from the life of her late husband.

‘And if he
had
formed any serious attachment, that would not have upset you?’

A flash of temper blazed for a moment in the blue-green eyes. To his disappointment, she controlled it before she spoke. ‘I thought I had made myself clear, Superintendent. My husband’s affairs were no longer my concern. I should have been delighted to hear he had found himself some liaison which was going to last.’ This time there was a contempt she did not trouble to conceal on the last assertion.

‘And yet you chose not to divorce him.’

This time she could not control her emotion. ‘Who the hell gave you the right to say that? What makes you think I’m going to—’

‘I told you. This is a murder investigation. I have to find out how the victim lived his life. A man none of my team knows. A man none of us had even heard of until his body was found in a village churchyard. So don’t talk to me about rules, about what I can and can’t do, Mrs Giles. There are no rules to stop me seeking the knowledge we need about your late husband. For one thing, I owe it to him to find out who killed him. And we will find out, Mrs Giles!’ He spoke evenly, but with a passion which surprised even himself. The last assertion, he knew, was mere rhetoric, an expression of determination rather than of a real certainty that they were going to make an arrest.

But passion convinced more than logic, as it often will. Sue Giles looked at him with widening eyes, then dropped her gaze before the intensity of his determination. ‘All right. I accept you need to know all about Ted. I just hadn’t realised that this was going to involve so much of my own life — I thought I’d done with him. But I accept that murder makes its own rules. I shall tell you whatever I can.’

‘Thank you. I was asking you why you were not divorced from your husband.’

‘You should ask him that!’ The words flew out in temper before she could control them, and her hand flashed instinctively to her mouth. ‘I’m sorry. I wish you could ask him, though. He might give you a more cogent explanation than I can.’

Lambert looked through the long windows of the elegant room to the garden which dropped gently away to a large pond with a fountain playing in the centre. A modern house with at least six bedrooms and a well-tended garden of around an acre. Any divorce settlement would surely have left Ted Giles a rich man. Was it the wife who had resisted it, knowing what it would cost, knowing that she might even have to move out of this opulent place? He said, ‘Are you saying there was a dispute between you over the terms of the divorce?’

Sue Giles smiled bitterly. Not over the terms, Superintendent. Over the very idea. Ted said he didn’t believe in divorce. “To have and to hold” and all that stuff.’

If it was true, the dead man had been depriving himself of a fortune, by the look of this place. But he couldn’t have resisted for ever against the modern divorce laws. Perhaps he had been increasing his bargaining power by holding out, refusing to make things easy until the price was right. He said, ‘But you say you had been separated for five years. Even if you thought at first that you might get back together, that is ample time to have instituted divorce proceedings.’

‘Yes. I suppose I thought that Ted would see reason, in the end. And although I knew our marriage was finished and would have liked to see it formally terminated, it was not a matter of great importance to me until quite recently.’

She looked quite calm again as she said this, as if she had always known in her heart that she would be saying it. Even the words had a prepared ring to them. Lambert offered the question they invited. ‘But your own circumstances have changed?’

‘Indeed they have.’ She could not keep a little elation out of her voice, even in this strange context. ‘I have developed a serious attachment over the last few months. In due course, I should like to be free to marry again.’

‘I see. In ordinary circumstances, that would be entirely your own affair. In the present ones, you must see that we need to know the name of this man.’

She smiled at them, looking very attractive now, her strong features softened by love, her tension gone with the release of its declaration. She studied the serious, attentive faces of the two men opposite her for a moment. ‘You really don’t know yet, do you? I thought you might have picked it up when you went into Ted’s school. My man is the Head of Social Sciences there, Graham Reynolds.’

***

DI Chris Rushton and George Taylor, manager of the Oldford branch of the National Westminster Bank, enjoyed the preliminaries to the release of information about the late Edward Giles’s account. They were both men who were used to observing the formalities their work required, both men who knew the rules and were happy to play life by them.

Taylor made his little speech about the confidentiality of the details of personal finance; Rushton responded with his speech about serious crime and the way it overrode the normal boundaries. Taylor said the crime would need to be very serious indeed to cause him to reveal the details of a client’s account; Rushton said that this was as serious as it could be, as the police were now certain that Edward Giles was a homicide victim. It was like a minuet in words, with the parties advancing and retreating with the set steps they had known for years. Without any word as brutal as murder being used, the formalities were completed and Taylor graciously revealed the details of the late teacher’s account.

Giles’s salary from the Gloucestershire Local Education Authority came in regularly at the end of the month. There were unexceptional direct debits for payment of mortgage, gas, electricity, Council Tax and water. It was difficult to see any variations to the standard pattern which might be of interest to the police in the sheets of computer-printed figures.

Unless you went back over three or four years, which Rushton diligently did. George Taylor watched him with patient interest, wondering how long it would be before this man who seemed as diligent as he was himself came up with the query. It took a little time, of course, for a detective inspector could not be expected to be as swift in isolating the significant pointer as a bank manager. Taylor watched the neatly cut dark hair of the head bent over the paper as indulgently as if he was testing a protégé, and was almost as pleased when the DI found the significant figures.