‘Suspicious death, the police say. That means he was murdered, doesn’t it?’
‘Yes, I think so.’ He was silent for a long time before he nerved himself to say, ‘You couldn’t say you were here with me on Tuesday night, could you?’
He regretted it as soon as he’d said it. The silence that followed his request seemed to him to stretch for a long time. It was broken unexpectedly by the shrilling of his mobile phone on the bedside cabinet beside him. He picked it up and gave his name. A cool, impersonal voice said that Chief Superintendent Lambert, who was conducting the investigation into the death of Peter Preston, would like to speak to him in the morning at Oldford police station.
‘It’s good of you to see us as late in the day as this.’
Marjorie Dooks looked at the clock. It was just after eight o’clock. ‘As a former public servant myself, I should say that it’s noble of you to be working as late as this.’
Lambert gave her a thin smile, hoping it masked the fatigue he would once never have felt. ‘Murder overrides most of the rules. We try to push our enquiries forward as quickly as possible.’
‘Before the scents get cold? Before the people who were nearest to the victim have time to cover their tracks?’
This time it was DS Hook whose weather-beaten face creased into an understanding smile. ‘We find it best to gather as much of the routine information as quickly as we can. People’s memories are usually at their sharpest and most reliable when they are still close to the crime. Once we have assembled that information, we are in a better position to proceed. It is easier then to spot those areas which warrant further investigation.’
Marjorie nodded thoughtfully. ‘Assuming, of course, that everyone is telling you the truth.’
Lambert quickly forgot his tiredness as he studied the demeanour of this composed woman. They were in her sitting room, which exuded a quiet opulence. Nothing here was assertive, but nothing jarred with its surroundings. The green leather of the three-piece suite was echoed in the paler green of the walls, which were almost white but with the faint hint of colour which the seats and carpet demanded. The original painting of the view from the Worcester Beacon in the Malverns was by a respected local artist. The prints of the Alps and the Grampians were in matching expensive frames on the other walls. The Bang amp; Olufsen hi-fi and the flat-screen television in the corner were as muted as these modern necessities to the civilized life could ever be. They had already refused drinks from the discreet walnut cabinet in the opposite corner of the room.
He said, ‘Assuming that people are telling us the truth, as you say Mrs Dooks. Most people do, and when someone does not, it often becomes clear who that person is when we put everyone’s impressions together. That is another reason for seeing everyone who was close to the deceased as quickly as possible.’
‘I wouldn’t say I was close to Peter Preston, Mr Lambert. But that may well be why I was not one of your immediate priorities.’
So she’d been checking on whom they’d seen so far. Mere curiosity, or the self-interest of someone involved in this crime? Perhaps just the natural inclination of a woman who had got used to being in control during her professional life in the Civil Service and had since then carried that control into a more local setting. He said, ‘We usually see the widow first in cases like this, for the obvious reason that she should be the person who knew the victim best. She is also usually able to help us compile a list of other people we should see.’
‘So it was Edwina Preston who suggested you should quiz me about Peter.’
‘Your position as chair of the literature festival committee ensured that we would want to hear what you had to say about Mr Preston. In connection with which, I’m happy to be able to tell you that the matter of these threatening letters has now been resolved. There is no reason for you to have any fears on that score.’
‘I’m glad to hear it. I hope you didn’t think I was over-reacting when I contacted your wife about the one I received. I had no means of knowing at that time that I wasn’t the only recipient.’
He had the impression that she was enjoying this civilized, controlled verbal fencing. The thought irritated him, coming at the end of a day that had already been too long. ‘You didn’t over-react. It would have been better, indeed, if you had gone directly to the police at Oldford.’
‘Perhaps. My training induced me to try informal contacts before setting hares running. Have you arrested the culprit?’
‘I can’t see any reason why you should not know this: the culprit was Mr Preston himself. It was presumably some sort of tasteless joke on his part.’
‘Or a more malicious attempt to scare people like Sue Charles out of their wits.’
‘Possibly. It seems that now we shall never know. And we have to concern ourselves with the infinitely more serious matter of murder.’
‘Yes. One hears of people who make friends easily — I’ve even met one or two of them. Peter Preston was a man who made enemies easily. He seemed at times to go out of his way to do just that.’
Lambert smiled. ‘That is the impression DS Hook and I formed in our single twenty-minute meeting with him. Perhaps you could now give us some names from your more prolonged contact.’
‘I didn’t see him socially. Peter regarded most people round here as his cultural inferiors.’ For an instant, there was a hint of real resentment. Then she recovered herself and went on, ‘My experience of him was almost entirely confined to our exchanges within the literary committee. He did speak to me on the phone fairly frequently, but exclusively on matters that had been raised there. Frankly, he resented the fact that I was in the chair. He’d like to have been directing matters himself, preferably without a committee at all.’
‘Who do you think killed him?’
If he expected her to be shocked by his directness, he was disappointed. She sat back in her chair and took her time. ‘I’ve thought about that a lot in the last twenty-four hours. No one that I know, is my conclusion. I can’t think that anyone on that committee would have done it. He’d been unpardonably rude to most of us, over the last few months, in different ways. I suspect Peter hadn’t read Sam Hilton’s poems, but he despised him on principle because he was twenty-two and “lacked discipline” in his verse, as Peter put it. Strangely enough, he insulted Ros Barker’s art because it wasn’t avant-garde and abstract enough for him — I suspect he simply wouldn’t entertain her as a serious artist because she was only thirty and had her own ideas. Sue Charles is older than he was and could hardly have been more friendly or cooperative; but he derided her because she was a crime writer rather than what he considered a serious novelist. I doubt whether he’d read her books. I suspect he was just jealous of her because she was a success. He seemed to get more annoyed when she refused to take offence at his barbs. But you can hardly consider Sue as a candidate for murderer. Which leaves me, I suppose. I’d probably crossed swords with Peter more often than anyone.’
She stopped, breathless after this summary of her thoughts, rather surprised that they’d listened so carefully and hadn’t interrupted her. Lambert said quietly, ‘But I don’t suppose you killed him, Mrs Dooks?’
She wondered if he was trying to provoke her by the question, but she didn’t hurry her reply. ‘There were times when I would cheerfully have dispensed with Peter’s services and opinions for ever. But I never thought of killing him. I hope you will believe that I have far more sense than to consider such an idea.’
Lambert’s long, lined face had the trace of a smile as he said, ‘Where were you on Tuesday night, Mrs Dooks?’
‘I was here throughout the evening with my husband. Dull, but helpful, I suppose.’ She watched Bert Hook making a note in his swift, round hand and looked slightly smug.
‘What car do you drive?’
‘A blue Honda Civic.’ She waited for Hook to record it, then reeled off the number as if it were further proof of her innocence.