It was good to see John’s safety valve working and being used so efficiently, Christine Lambert thought. She said with a smile, ‘I know all about you, John Lambert. What you need to stretch your talents is a good juicy murder!’
Lambert knew himself well enough not to disagree with the thought. He didn’t endorse it directly, but he shook his head and said, ‘Fraud cases are a damned nuisance. The minds lined up against you aren’t just unscrupulous, they’re clever as well. The investigation takes months, and just when it’s getting interesting you hand it over to the Fraud Squad.’
Christine slid him a plate with a generous slice of the sponge cake with lemon curd filling she had made that morning. ‘You need something else to interest you.’
He should have sensed the danger, but he was replete and relaxed, perhaps even a little drowsy. He looked out at the garden, at the industrious blackbird on his lawn, and said affably, unthinkingly, ‘You could be right there.’
‘We’ve been getting on with plans for the Oldford Literary Festival.’
He smiled. ‘I can hear the capital letters as you speak. It sounds very impressive.’
‘It is, for a small place. You’ll be surprised at some of the speakers we’ve got. Authors who are nationally famous, even internationally famous, some of them. It’s a tribute to the industry of Mrs Dooks.’
‘And of her energetic committee,’ he said loyally.
‘There might even be a role for you.’
At last, too late, he was on his guard. ‘Oh I don’t think I could-’
‘Just a small role. Nothing that would need much preparation from you.’
‘Nevertheless, I think I’d reluctantly have to decline your-’
‘Mrs Dooks herself suggested you. I must say I was quite pleased by that.’
‘But even with the formidable Mrs Dooks behind you, I think it’s only fair to say-’
‘It’s the kind of thing the Chief Constable would approve of. Didn’t you say he was very much in favour of senior policemen being visible presences in their local communities?’
It wasn’t a phrase John Lambert would have used himself, though he remembered it from some official bulletin. ‘I don’t think I ever said I agreed-’
‘Official policy, you see. You’d be helping to improve the police image. Endorsing the policies of your Chief Constable.’
Lambert smiled benignly, marshalling his defences. ‘The days are long gone when I needed to pay lip service to the latest police manifesto.’
‘You’ve never done that, even when you should have done. It’s one of the reasons why I’m still here.’
He was affected by flattery when it popped up in unlikely places, and Christine knew it. Most children are. He smiled and said, ‘I’m glad to hear there is more than one reason.’
If he hoped she would indulge him with others, he was to be disappointed. She said, ‘It’s only a small spot we’re talking about, as I said. All we want you to do is to introduce an eminent speaker. A couple of minutes about his life and achievements, at the most. You’d be much the most appropriate person to do it.’
He tried to resist the notion of such distinction. He said with a rather patronizing air, ‘What is this mysterious assignment which demands me and only me?’
With the advantage of hindsight, he saw within minutes that he should never have asked that. Hindsight, as everyone agrees, is a wonderful thing.
TWO
Marjorie Dooks was the driving force behind the Oldford Literary Festival. Everyone knew that and everyone was content that it should be so. No one would have dared to mount an assault on her pre-eminence. More importantly, no one wished to do that. Everyone recognized her ability, her vision, and, most important of all, her energy.
She was fifty-five now. She had taken early retirement from her senior position in the Administrative Department of the Civil Service with the advent of coalition government after the hung parliament of 2010. You couldn’t serve two masters, she told anyone who would listen. It would compromise your principles; she would never do that. Her husband had a senior position in industry, so finance was not a problem. The country’s loss was the local community’s gain. Marjorie Dooks departed to apply her formidable talents to the benefit of Oldford, in the sleepiest part of Gloucestershire. The burghers of that small but ancient market town took deep breaths of anticipation, whilst the Civil Service mandarins breathed a long sigh of collective relief.
Mrs Dooks was a parish and district councillor, but she found local politics frustrating; she had been concerned with implementing national policies in her Civil Service days. ‘Irredeemably parochial’ was her dismissive phrase, ignoring the fact that parish council affairs in particular were meant to be exactly that. The truth was that she was used to being in charge of her own department and her own staff and to issuing orders that would be instantly obeyed. Marjorie needed to use her considerable gifts to shape and direct something of her own.
The Oldford Literary Festival was exactly that. The town had a connection with Ivor Gurney, a worthy but almost forgotten poet of World War One, who had survived that cataclysm but in a sadly diminished state. The first festival celebrated this local connection. Subsequent ones went for broader themes and brought an unexpected distinction and cultural acclaim to the small country town that few outside Gloucestershire and Herefordshire had previously heard of.
The distinguished local writer who had been the original motivating force behind the Ivor Gurney festival was dead now. Marjorie Dooks had stepped into his role and provided new force and energy when it was most needed. She had quickly identified those people among the volunteers who could be most helpful to her. Enthusiasm was not always accompanied by efficiency; Marjorie knew that and acted accordingly. She didn’t mind treading on prominent local toes, if it was for the general good. And you didn’t work for twenty-five years in Whitehall without developing a pretty thick skin, as she reminded people with a hearty guffaw when they bridled at her more ruthless suggestions.
She was gradually getting used to the idea that voluntary helpers must sometimes be wooed rather than brusquely ordered to do things. In the Civil Service, rank was supreme. Everyone who reached any degree of eminence understood that completely. Tact was a welcome quality, but not an essential one. Making her way in what had still been essentially a man’s world when she entered it, Marjorie had found energy and efficiency much more effective weapons than tact. Often bloody-minded determination had been more effective than diplomacy. It was difficult for her to play down the qualities that had served her so well in her working lifetime, especially when they were still so effective against local government bureaucracy.
But Mrs Dooks was an intelligent woman; she saw the need for new techniques in this new situation. You couldn’t simply dragoon volunteers as you could professionals. These people were giving many hours of their time to help you to implement your grand design. Sometimes you had to persuade and convince your troops before you led them into battle.
Today she was chairing a meeting of the Oldford Literary Festival committee, and here her incisive mind and brisk approach were generally welcomed. Most of the people assembled with her in the room behind the library had endured meetings that dragged on for three hours and achieved no more than could have been decided in one. Marjorie’s efficient dispatch of the agenda items was collectively welcomed. Two people had already been arrested in full flow, but each time that had been a relief to the other people in the small, overheated room.