Lambert smiled a rueful acknowledgement. He should have expected sex to rear its multicoloured head. It invariably complicated murder investigations, and unfortunately it was rarely absent from them. ‘What you’re telling me is that Beaumont had other women in his life.’
‘Yes. But I don’t-’
‘And other men?’
‘No.’ Jason permitted himself a smile at the thought. ‘I’d be confident that Martin was thoroughly heterosexual in his tastes.’
‘And by “thoroughly” you would mean extensively.’
‘I think I would, yes. But I can’t give you any details. It’s all hearsay as far as I’m concerned.’
‘But well-informed hearsay, no doubt.’
Jason felt no threat here; on the contrary, it was an opportunity to divert suspicion away from himself and into the murky world of Beaumont’s couplings. He relaxed his language as well as his attitude. ‘Martin was a big personality, as you’ve no doubt gathered already. He dominated this firm and he liked it that way. There was bound to be a lot of gossip about what he got up to when he was away from the work which was his main passion. Some of it was probably no more than salacious rumour, but I’m sure Martin was a red-blooded male who needed his sexual release. Don’t they say that autocrats are the worst? I read that Mussolini used to pop out of meetings for a quick bit of how’s-your-father and then be back for the next agenda item. I’m not suggesting that Martin was anything like that, but I’m sure he had an active and varied sex life.’
‘Are you, indeed? And yet you can’t give us any details of these activities.’
Jason contrived to look a little hurt. ‘I’m just trying to be honest, Chief Superintendent. I’m sure these things happened, but I didn’t want to know the details. They weren’t my business and Martin wouldn’t have been pleased if he’d found me prying into his private life.’
That certainly made sense. They already had this picture of the murder victim as a despot who would not welcome such interest. A benevolent despot, perhaps, so long as no one opposed his formidable will. Rewarding to work for, as Jason Knight had told them at the outset, so long as you were prepared to accept his every decision unquestioningly.
Lambert said, ‘You have been very successful here, as you mentioned. I’m sure you have ideas of your own about how not only the restaurant wing but the whole of the business might best be developed. Did you not find Mr Beaumont’s dictatorial attitude frustrating?’
It was so nearly a summary of the way his thinking had evolved that Jason wondered for a moment of panic whether they knew all about the very things he had set out to conceal. But they couldn’t know: this could only be speculation. He paused, smiled, said, ‘You’re quite right, of course. When you feel you have good ideas, you like to see them implemented. But you were allowed your say. Sometimes you found that your good ideas were being implemented as though they were Martin’s own a few months later.’
Lambert nodded. He’d seen plenty of that in the police service over the years. Your good ideas could sometimes be implemented, as long as you were content to let them emerge as someone else’s bright proposals. ‘Nevertheless, that is a rather dubious way of making progress. You strike me as the sort of man who would like a more direct input and a more direct recognition.’
Jason nodded a gracious acceptance of what he took as a compliment. He had an answer ready for this. ‘I am still developing my restaurant here, both in terms of the quality we offer and the numbers we serve. That is satisfaction enough. If in due course I’d felt the sort of frustration you mention, no doubt I would have moved on to pastures new.’
But chefs more than others were reluctant to abandon what they had built up from scratch, thought Lambert. They might develop and extend, open new branches, but they were usually reluctant to abandon the place where they had built a reputation. It was as though that place contained a part of themselves which they could not readily relinquish. He nodded to Hook, who said quietly, ‘Where were you on Wednesday evening, Mr Knight?’
‘At the golf club at Ross-on-Wye. I saw you on the course there.’ Jason tried not to sound too pleased with himself.
Bert Hook disappointed him by nodding impassively. ‘You weren’t working?’
‘No. Normally I would have been, but this is a quiet time of the year for us. My deputy is quite capable of handling the numbers we had on Wednesday. Good experience for him to be in charge.’
‘What time did you leave the golf club?’
‘It must have been at around eight o’clock.’
‘And where did you spend the rest of the evening?’
‘I went home. Watched a little television. Dozed off in front of it, I expect, after the fresh air and exercise and a couple of drinks.’
Jason wondered if they would ask him about the programmes, but Hook merely made a note and said, ‘Is there anyone who can confirm this for us?’
‘No. I live alone, since I was divorced three years ago. Is it important?’
‘It’s a routine question. We should like to eliminate you from the enquiry, if it were possible.’
‘If I think of anyone who rang me on that night, I’ll let you know.’
‘Thank you. That would be useful.’ But Jason had the feeling that both of them knew he wasn’t going to be able to come up with anyone.
Lambert didn’t speak until Hook had piloted the police Mondeo out of the crowded car park at Abbey Vineyards and on to the road outside. ‘What did you make of him?’
‘I felt he had most of his answers ready for us — not that that’s always significant. I also thought he was being evasive.’
‘Interesting. So did I. No doubt we shall need to speak again with Mr Knight.’
Saturday afternoon was busy in the strawberry farm down the road, far too busy for Tom Ogden to notice the police car as it passed the entrance.
Half an hour later, after several minutes hesitating over the decision, he picked up the phone and rang his wife. ‘It’s me, Enid. I’m almost finished here. I’ll be with you in an hour or so.’ The farmhouse was only a few hundred yards away, at the other end of his land.
‘All right. I’ll have the meal ready. And a beer, seeing as it’s Saturday, so long as you’re prompt.’
‘The police are coming to see me about Beaumont. About his murder.’ He’d planned to wrap it up a little, to deliver it more casually. But as usual he was no good at needless words. And he’d never been able to keep anything from Enid.
There was a tense little pause before she said, ‘Why’s that?’
‘I don’t know. Routine enquiries, the woman who arranged it said. I suppose someone’s told them I hated the sod. I don’t expect it’s anything to worry about.’
‘No. You might be as well not to tell them what you told me this morning about how glad you were that the bastard was dead.’
‘No.’ Tom knew she was joking, but he wished she’d actually laughed at the idea. ‘And there’s one thing I thought of. I think we should both say we were at the cinema on Wednesday night. Just to be on the safe side.’
‘Even though that was on Thursday.’
‘Yes. According to the papers, Wednesday night is when he was killed, you see.’
‘All right.’
‘Just to be on the safe side, as I said.’ He wondered why he wanted so much to do this on the phone, not face to face.
‘And I said all right, Tom. If you think it best.’
Enid Ogden put down the phone and stared at it for a long time, wondering where her man had actually been on Wednesday night.
SIXTEEN
‘There’s a picture of Dad in the local rag,’ Jack Hook informed his mother with satisfaction. ‘He looks like the cat that pinched the cream.’
Eleanor knew she ought to discourage him, but she was too curious not to come out from the kitchen and look at the news sheet he had spread out across the table. The photograph had been taken as Bert descended the steps after the award of his degree. The reporter had caught him off guard, no doubt commanded him to smile, and had been rewarded with an obedient, meaningless smirk. The caption described him as ‘Detective Sergeant James Herbert Hook, delighted with the award of his BA with honours, after six years of unremitting part-time study’. Eleanor shuddered in anticipation; her husband never used his first name of James and hated the Herbert, which was a regular source of tiresome police-canteen humour.