Generally speaking, this rabbit warren of residences was peopled by a motley assembly of life’s underdogs: men who had lost wives, families and houses and had to find for themselves the cheapest possible accommodation; European immigrants who picked up whatever work they could and sent home as much money as they could; young men and young women who passed through a variety of jobs because they were feckless or unreliable; petty criminals and others who lived on the edge of the law, who either prospered and moved on or failed and entered prisons.
And then there were sundry others. Would-be poets who wanted to live as cheaply as possible whilst making a reputation were too rare to be a group in themselves. Sam Hilton was bleary-eyed and suspicious, but to the expert eyes now assessing him he did not look like an addict. He had decided after his interview with DI Rushton and DS Hook that it didn’t pay to antagonize the pigs, but that didn’t now prevent him being cautious, even surly. He addressed Hook rather than the senior man. ‘I don’t know what you want with me. I told you everything I know when you had me in the nick and grilled me.’
It was Lambert who replied. ‘This is about a different matter entirely. You may still face charges for dealing in drugs. We are here this morning about something even more serious.’
‘What am I supposed to have done now?’
‘That is what we are here to find out, Mr Hilton. It will pay you to be completely frank with us. Obstructing the police in the course of their enquiries can lead to very serious charges.’
They looked round at the place where he lived whilst Sam tried to gather his resources and prepare himself. It was a bedsit rather than a flat. The long, high-ceilinged room, which had once been an elegant Edwardian dining room, had a bed against the wall at one end and a tiny electric cooker beside the scratched steel sink at the other. The wallpaper was at least twenty years old, the light-fitting plastic where once there would have been patterned glass. The single painting of a Scottish Highland scene would have benefited from a good clean. The air smelt stale; the tall sash window did not look as though it had been opened for a long time.
Yet there was no real evidence of squalor in the occupant of the room. Hilton wore a tee-shirt and jeans, both well-worn but clean. His brown hair had been combed, his eyes were alert, and his hands and nails were perfectly clean. The cereal bowl and beaker he had used for his breakfast were washed and draining upon the sink. He was a slight figure, whose nervousness manifested itself in an inability to keep his arms still. Neither the man nor his surroundings were affluent, but Hilton did not look or behave like a druggie. As if he read this thought, he said, ‘I shan’t be dealing any more and I can’t tell you anything more about the people who supplied me. I don’t know why else you should be here.’
Lambert nodded at Hook, who produced the letter with its chilling threat. ‘What do you know about this, Mr Hilton?’
He stared wide-eyed for long seconds at the large black print with its threat of death. He said through dry lips, ‘Nothing. Why should I know anything?’
‘It was sent to Sue Charles, a member of the literature festival committee. Have you seen it before?’
‘No.’
‘Have you seen anything like it before?’
‘No. Never in my life. You read about-’
‘You haven’t received one of these yourself?’
‘No. I thought you said it was sent to Sue Charles?’
‘This one was. There’ve been others, as well as this.’
He looked from one to the other of these very different men. Fear began to replace bafflement on his face. ‘I’ve never seen this or anything like it before. I don’t know anything about these letters.’
Lambert’s grey, steely eyes seemed to be looking into his very soul. After a few seconds he said, ‘Then who do you think might have sent them?’
Sam Hilton looked round desperately at the sink with its draining pots, at the radio and the battered television set in the corner, at the black and white drawings of Keats and Tennyson that stood incongruously beside the photograph of his mother on the shelf over the electricity meter. ‘Who’s received them? You said there were others, as well as Sue Charles.’
Hook glanced at his chief, then leaned forward towards Hilton. ‘Normally we’d tell you we’re here to ask questions, not to answer them. But I can tell you that these threats have been delivered by hand to several members of the literature festival committee. I’m now asking you to give some thought to who you think might be responsible.’
Sam tried to do as he was bidden, but he was still too shaken to think clearly. ‘Mrs Lambert is on that committee. She taught me, years ago, in my last year at primary school. I like her. I’ve always liked her.’ He had no idea why he’d said that. Perhaps he was talking just for the sake of talking, for the sake of trying to convince them that whatever else he’d done, he’d never have sent these letters. Yet this quiet, seemingly friendly man had questioned him only yesterday about dealing in drugs, so he could scarcely have any credit left.
They left him to suffer for another few seconds, which seemed to him more like minutes. Then Hook smiled and repeated his query. ‘Who do you think might have sent them, Sam?’
Suddenly, as if someone had turned a switch, his mind began to work again. Not only to work but to race, as if trying to compensate for earlier omissions. His eyes fixed on the twelve black words within the plastic sleeve. ‘Am I the only member of that committee who hasn’t had one of those?’
‘You’re asking the questions again, Sam. But all right. Apart from Mrs Lambert, yes, you seem to be the only one who hasn’t received one. Does that help you with your thoughts on who might have done this?’
The young poet frowned, then shook his head, seemingly as much in annoyance as puzzlement. ‘No. It’s difficult to have any idea on the sender, because the whole idea seems so bizarre. I was actually going to say that the only person I know who might be malevolent enough and warped enough to do this is Peter Preston. But if he’s been threatened himself, it can’t be him, can it?’
Hook didn’t respond to that. ‘What about someone from outside the committee, Sam? It might be just a coincidence that everyone who’s been threatened so far is a member of it.’
‘But look at the words. “Resign now from the festival committee if you wish to remain alive.” It’s very specific, isn’t it?’
‘It is indeed, Sam. And it’s led us to you, as the only member of that committee apart from Mrs Lambert who hasn’t received one.’
‘But I didn’t send them. And now that we’ve eliminated Mr Preston, I can’t think of anyone else who’d have been malicious enough to do anything like this.’
Lambert’s eyes had never left Hilton’s face, even though it had been Hook who had done all the questioning in the last few minutes. He studied the young man for a few seconds more, then levered himself rather stiffly to his feet. ‘Keep thinking, Mr Hilton. It’s very much in your own interests as well as ours that you do so.’
They were almost back at the station before he said, ‘You think Hilton’s innocent of this, don’t you, Bert?’
‘Yes. But I don’t know who else we should suspect.’
‘I think you do.’
Hook didn’t take his eyes off the road, but allowed a smile to infuse his rugged features. ‘You think one of the people who’s received a letter could be the perpetrator of this? It would be the obvious thing to do to divert suspicion, wouldn’t it?’
‘Indeed it would. I think we should pay another visit to the self-regarding Mr Preston.’