The women said they would drive home, in view of the bottle of champagne which had concluded events at Hereford. Bert and the boys were surprised when Eleanor turned off the road five miles outside the ancient cathedral city, following Christine Lambert as the two had arranged. They were even more surprised to find that a table had been booked for the six of them, with gleaming cutlery and glasses laid out in readiness. ‘My treat,’ explained John Lambert shortly. ‘In recognition of your efforts over six years, and the pleasure you have given us over one day in gown and mortar board.’
The meal was a great success. Jack and Luke were allowed a minimal quantity of alcohol, the ladies a responsible small glass of white wine each, whilst the two men sank rather a lot over the two hours’ traffic of the meal. Well, they weren’t driving, were they, and if you can’t indulge yourself when a detective sergeant is awarded a 2:1 honours degree, when can you?
The two boys had never seen Dad and Uncle John, the great detective, so relaxed before. They were delighted by the experience. They didn’t use the word ‘relaxed’, of course. But as their mother told them in the car as she drove carefully home, the word ‘pissed’ was very rude, as well as a gross exaggeration.
Throughout the long bright day of DS Hook’s graduation ceremony, the blue Jaguar of Martin Beaumont stood still and undisturbed. In the quiet wooded area where it was parked, there were few people about on an ordinary Thursday morning. As the long day passed, no one noted that the big car had now been there for many hours.
The twelve-mile long ridge of the Malvern Hills runs from north to south. It is not ranked among the country’s major mountain ranges, but its dominance of the local landscape is far more dramatic than that of many greater elevations. Its flanks rise very steeply from only three hundred feet or so above sea level, making it the commanding feature for many miles around. The rivers Severn and Wye rise almost within hailing distance of each other in the Welsh hills, but run through very different country on opposite sides of the Malvern ridge. From the wide flat valley of the Severn on one side and the less regular country of the Wye Valley on the other, the spectacular outline of the Malverns is visible at most points, defining the limits of the visible landscape.
For those who care to walk the ridge, a modest effort is rewarded by extensive views over some of England’s most historic country. Here were fought the decisive battles in the two internal struggles which rent the country, the Wars of the Roses and the English Civil War. Ridge walking is always enjoyable, with views available on both sides as one moves along the backbone of the height. The northern extremity of the ridge, with Malvern itself immediately below it and the ancient city of Worcester faintly visible to the north east, is the most frequently walked.
The southern extremity of the Malverns, the last of the sharp rises which constitute the ridge, is the lower height known as Chase End Hill. This is much less frequented than the greater heights to the north, though its sides rise with the characteristic Malvern sharpness on its western and eastern slopes.
A small lane skirts the western side of the hill, and the lowest of its slopes are wooded. The blue Jaguar was just off this road, on an unpaved track which ran beneath the fresh foliage of forest trees. It was just visible from the lane, but probably only to pedestrians or passengers, because drivers would be too busy peering towards the next bend on their winding route to spot the patch of blue metal in the shade beneath the huge chestnut.
And so for all of the long May day the big car stood unremarked. As the sun dropped away to the west, it caught the side windows of the vehicle, which sparkled brilliantly for a few minutes. But there were no eyes there to notice the car, or to speculate on why it had not moved for so long. Twilight, then dusk, and then the full darkness of the warm spring night, enveloped the quiet scene.
There were insects in the car, though all the windows were tightly closed. Insects always find their way in, in circumstances like this. Busy insects, concentrating on the blackening blood which had brought them there.
Martin Beaumont lay where he had lain now for many hours, slumped sideways in the driver’s seat, with the left half of his head shattered by the bullet which had ended his eventful life.
TWELVE
On Friday morning, Bert Hook was pleased that he had had the foresight to take two days of his leave for his graduation ceremony rather than the one he had originally planned.
As a young man, he had prided himself upon his capacity for beer drinking. But he wasn’t used to champagne and white wine and red wine in yesterday’s quantities, and the final brandy had definitely been a mistake. It must be because he wasn’t used to such things that he had a thick head this morning. It couldn’t possibly be anything to do with the advent of middle age now that he was past forty.
He was glad that this was a school day for the boys. He loved them dearly, but this wasn’t the morning for their boisterous jocularity. He listened to the agreeably distant sounds of domestic contest between Eleanor and the boys and left it as late as he could to join them at the breakfast table.
Jack glanced at his father as he came into the kitchen in his dressing gown. He winked at his younger brother before giving the paternal countenance more prolonged and delighted study. ‘A little the worse for wear are we this morning, Dad?’
Luke glanced towards the door of the utility room, where his mother was loading the washing machine, and decided she was safely out of earshot. ‘I told you he was pissed!’ he insisted delightedly to Jack.
‘Get on with your breakfast, or you’ll be late for school.’ Bert reached for the cereal, poured a helping from the newly opened packet, and found surplus corn flakes dancing across the table.
Jack reached across the table and swept the surplus expertly into his own dish. ‘Drink’s bound to have more of an effect at your age, Dad,’ he said sympathetically. Then, much too loudly, he yelled almost in the paternal ear, ‘Mum? I think we’re going to need the Alka-Seltzer in here!’
His mother entered abruptly and ordered him to look to his own needs. ‘You’ll be at the last minute for that bus as usual, the pair of you.’ She chased them up to their rooms to gather their gear for the day, and came back into the kitchen to catch her husband wincing at the sound of the thundering hooves upon the stairs.
‘Jack might have a point,’ she said with a sigh. Moments later, a fizzing glass was planted beneath Bert’s nose. The sound of bursting bubbles was deafening in his ears. He downed it, stifled a burp and managed his first smile of the day, half relieved and half apologetic.
‘You all right?’ he said.
‘Of course I am. I wasn’t able to drink, was I? I had to drive the family safely home, if you remember. Which of course you may not.’
‘I do. But I overdid it a bit, didn’t I? I’m sorry about that.’
She put an arm round his shoulders and hugged him gently, carefully avoiding his breath. ‘You snored a bit more than usual, and I couldn’t get you to turn over. But you’re allowed to indulge yourself, on an occasion like that.’
The stampeding of the cattle resumed, more headlong this time, as the steers descended the stairs. ‘So long, Dad. Hope the hangover improves,’ called Jack solicitously.
‘There’s no hangover and you’re going to miss that bus!’ said Bert, reckless of the sharp agony which coursed through his forehead.