Mortal Taste (11 page)

‘Not much profit in cannabis, not nowadays. You want to get them on horse and coke, whenever you can.'

Heroin and cocaine, the two staples of the drug barons, the two substances that offered most profit to the suppliers and most grief to the users, in the end. The man beside Price said, ‘Yeah, I know that, but it takes time. They're only kids, you know.'

‘You can't afford to think like that!' said Price sharply. ‘We're below the national average, you know, with the kids.' He enjoyed quoting statistics, just as though this was as legitimate a business as his computer software. ‘One in every seven kids in the eleven to fifteen age-range has taken drugs in the last month. Your figures are well down on that, you know.'

‘Are they? Well, we're not in the middle of a big city in Cheltenham, and Greenwood Comprehensive is a good school. Perhaps we shouldn't expect to sell as much there as—'

‘Statistics don't lie.' Daniel was well aware of Disraeli's view on that, but he knew his listener wasn't. ‘Three per cent of sixteen-year-olds have tried heroin. So the market's sitting there waiting to be exploited. You're not shifting any horse in the school, at the moment.'

‘All right. I'll do my best.'

‘But discreetly, of course.' Daniel was always prepared to have the best of both worlds.

‘Yes. As I say, the school is swarming with police at the moment, so it might pay us to lie low for a bit.'

‘Us? You, I think you mean. I don't propose ever to set foot in the place.'

‘No. Well, me, then. I think I'd better lie low. Keep away from Greenwood for a while. I could try to sell more at Shakers.'

‘Your call, sunshine. But the coppers in Greenwood at present aren't Drugs Squad. They'll be gone in a day or two, leaving the field clear for a resourceful businessman like you. Just remember that the big boys above us will want to see returns. I wouldn't like you to attract their attention for the wrong reasons.'

The man wished now that he hadn't ground out the cigarette when there was still smoking left in it. He desperately needed to fill his lungs with smoke. The sinister, anonymous big men of the drugs trade didn't just make you redundant if your sales fell. They were likely to eliminate you, in case you knew things you shouldn't. This man knew nothing about the chain above Price, wanted to shout through the great echoing cave of the car park that he did not. Instead, he said, ‘Well, if that's all, I'll be off then.'

‘That's all. For the moment. I've enjoyed our little meeting! It's a great help when you get things clear, isn't it? I think you'd better stay here though, for a few minutes. Wouldn't do for us to be seen departing at the same time, would it? I'll go first, I think.'

Daniel Price strolled unhurriedly to his car, enjoying the man's petrified obedience. He revved the Mercedes loudly, knowing its engine would reverberate like thunder in the confined space of that concrete basement. He turned the car not towards the exit, but towards the man he had just left, switching full headlights for a moment on to the slight, surprisingly tidy figure, catching the glint of his gold earring, enjoying the terror in the face as the man threw his hand up against the harsh white dazzle of the undipped bulbs.

He revved the engine threateningly again, moved the car forward a little, as though contemplating crushing the defenceless body against the wall, and then swung abruptly away, up towards the exit and the daylight.

He was back in his office at Price Computer Supplies within ten minutes, full of bonhomie after a Rotary lunch which had stretched pleasantly into the afternoon.

T
amsin Phillips did not look like a woman who would take a knife to a man.

She had black wavy hair, cut short around an oval face, a retroussé nose, and large, dark eyes. The staff files showed that she was now thirty-three: she looked and dressed a little younger than that.

Hook had asked when he made the appointment that she should stay behind after the school day. She readily agreed, voicing the thought he had left unspoken that this would give them rather more privacy. She now led superintendent and sergeant through a deserted classroom and into a small room with a single window behind it. ‘We call this our History Resources Room,' she said, gesturing vaguely towards the books on one wall and the rolled maps and document facsimiles leaning against another. ‘It gives us a room where we can prepare lessons and mark essays on our own.'

‘History is your main subject?' said Lambert. You had to start somewhere.

‘History and Business Studies, nowadays. History is what I was appointed for, but Business Studies is the great bandwagon subject nowadays, and Peter asked me to mug it up a bit.'

‘That would be Peter Logan?' queried Hook, who had produced his notebook.

‘Yes. He was always pretty relaxed, you see, when we weren't in front of children or parents.'

If she thought she had made a gaffe with the first name, she didn't show it. But schools were much more informal nowadays; Logan had probably actually encouraged the use of his forename. Perhaps she was anxious to get away from the issue, for she went on quickly, ‘Some say Business Studies is no more than a mish-mash of other subjects, without any intellectual backbone of its own.'

‘And what would
you
say, Ms Phillips?' asked Lambert dryly.

‘Oh, I couldn't possibly comment.' She grinned at her irony, looking suddenly very pretty. ‘And it's Tamsin. Or Miss Phillips, if we have to be formal. Ms is all right in writing, but I hate the sound in speech.'

‘You've already spoken to one of our officers.'

‘Yesterday. Can't remember the name, but she struck me as very efficient. Nice to see young women making their way in the modern police service.'

She seemed to be enjoying fencing with them. Lambert found himself suddenly far more annoyed with her than he should have been. ‘We're here to follow up certain matters arising from what you said. It appears that you may not have been completely honest in your statement. Hardly honest at all, if we accept certain information which has been brought to us.'

‘And do you accept that information?'

‘Not yet. We're here to investigate just how reliable it might be. And how reliable your initial statement was. Perhaps I should remind you that this is a murder inquiry. Any attempt to obstruct the course of the investigation would be regarded very seriously by a court of law.' His manner was stiff, but bristling with menace. He found himself using the formality of the words of warning to control his own anger.

‘You've been talking to Darcy.'

‘We don't normally reveal our sources of information. But yes, Mr Simpson came into the station to talk to us.'

‘I'll bet he did!'

‘Mr Simpson was doing no more than his duty as a citizen, if he had information which he thought might be relevant to a murder inquiry.'

‘Oh, yes, he'd enjoy that, Darcy would. Bet he couldn't wait to get to you. Impressed you as a perfectly balanced individual, did he?'

‘Neither Sergeant Hook nor I have seen Mr Simpson. He spoke to Inspector Rushton at Oldford CID.'

‘And your Inspector said Darcy Simpson was a sober citizen doing his duty, did he? I bet he did.'

‘Miss Phillips, we are not at this moment concerned with the mental stability of our informant. It is our duty to check out the truth or otherwise of what he has told us. That, in this case, happens also to mean that we are checking out the truth of what you said to a member of our murder team last night.'

‘All right. I was economical with the truth, I suppose. I didn't see why my private life should be dragged into the spotlight.'

‘So you lied.'

‘I concealed things, yes.'

‘By lying.' Lambert was anxious to have this seemingly composed young woman on the back foot when they got to the heart of this exchange.

‘Is it important how I protected myself?'

‘I think it is, yes. At best you have wasted police time in a murder investigation. At worst, you have deliberately given false information in an attempt to divert suspicion away from yourself. Either way, you should realize that it's very serious. You should also take stock of your position at this moment. I should warn you that you would be foolish in the extreme to attempt further lies in the next few minutes.'

I must be getting older and nastier, thought Lambert: I'm quite enjoying this. And Tamsin Phillips was at last looking ruffled. She said sulkily, ‘I told you, I was merely trying to keep my private life to myself. You'd better ask me whatever you want to now.'

‘Is it true that you have a history of physical violence? That you were very lucky not to face a charge which might well have brought you a custodial sentence?'

She sighed theatrically. ‘Good old Darcy! Showed you his scars, did he? Yes, it's true enough. I was younger and sillier, then. I stabbed him all right. Three times. Nearly killed the bugger! Perhaps I should have done!' She was suddenly exultant, her face flushed with the memory of her violence, her dark hair agitated by the animated movements of her head.

‘According to the records of the Thames Valley Police, it seems that it was only Darcy Simpson's refusal to bring charges which saved you from a court appearance and a probable custodial sentence.'

‘I'd never have gone to prison. I was high on LSD, and my psych. would have said I was too unstable to be convicted! What I can't fathom now is why I took such exception to being ditched by a weirdo like Darcy Simpson.'

There was a heavy silence in the cramped little room, whilst the CID men let the enormity of her error sink in. Lambert's instinctive attempt to rattle her had succeeded. At length he said, ‘Still unstable, are you, Miss Phillips? Unstable enough to blow a man's head away with a pistol, perhaps?'

She started from her chair, and Hook for a moment thought she was going to strike Lambert, who moved not an inch. Then she sank back and said in what was almost a whisper, ‘I didn't kill Peter Logan.'

‘Then presumably you would like to see whoever did kill him brought to justice. Your actions so far have scarcely contributed to that.'

She raised both hands to her face, then pulled them swiftly away, as if she felt her cheeks burning her fingers. Then she said sullenly, ‘You'd better ask me whatever questions you wish.'

‘And you in turn should not only answer truthfully, but also offer us any other information or opinions you think might be useful in a murder inquiry. What was your relationship with Peter Logan?'

‘He was an excellent head teacher. A good leader, with lots of energy and ideas. I'm sure other people will—'

‘And what was your personal relationship with him?'

The face which had recently flushed was whitening now, its pallor accentuated by the black hair which framed it. ‘Darcy Simpson told you about this, didn't he?'

‘I'm interested in what
you
have to tell us. In what you held back from us last night.'

‘All right.' She sat silently for a moment, with her hands together on her lap. Lambert stared hard into her face; he would have given much to know whether she was gathering herself for what she had to reveal or whether she was calculating what she could still hold back. ‘Peter and I had an affair.'

‘Had? It was over at the time of his death?'

Again a tiny pause. ‘Were having, I should say. We were still lovers at the time of his death.' Tears gushed in a flood from those large, dark eyes, seeming to startle her as much as them by their suddenness. Lambert offered no words of consolation, just as he had stared hard into her face during her earlier distress, knowing how the absence of the usual social niceties unnerved those who were not used to the business of interrogation.

‘How long had this been going on?'

‘Seven months. We'd been lovers for the last six.' No hesitation this time, and the precision of one involved in a serious affair of the heart.

‘How serious was it?'

A flash of irritation in the oval face at the deliberate banality of his question. ‘What is serious? Do you want me to give you the intensity on a scale of one to ten?' She stared challengingly into the unblinking grey eyes, but Lambert watched and waited, saying nothing. Eventually, she dropped her gaze to the scarred table between them and said bleakly, ‘We felt a lot for each other.'

‘How public was this relationship?'

‘Very private. We had to be discreet. For one thing, Peter had two children in the school, until July. He still has one. I taught Catriona for her History GCSE.' She allowed herself a small smile at the strangeness of that, and even that tiny relaxation lit up her face. It was easy to see why that strange young man Darcy Simpson had clung to his memory of her.

‘Did Mrs Logan know about it?'

‘No.' The monosyllable came almost too quickly on the heels of the question. ‘I'm sure she didn't. We weren't planning divorce or anything like that. It was intense but – but . . .'

‘Short-term?' Lambert helped her out for once when she was lost for a word.

‘No.' Again the swift denial, this time on a note of outrage. Perhaps she heard that note herself, for she lowered her voice as she went on. ‘We cared a lot for each other, but Peter had a family, and I didn't want to disrupt that any more than he did.'

There was a hint of desperation as she spoke, as if she was trying to convince herself as well as her hearers of what she said. The experienced CID men in front of her had heard this sort of tale a hundred times before. They wondered what the man in the case would have said. That old problem with a murder case: the victim who can never speak for himself.

Lambert said, ‘You say you were discreet about this. If this liaison went on for seven months, people will know about it, however cautious you think you've been.'