‘So the only way forward was to remove him from your path.’
Knight ran a hand quickly through his fair, well-cut hair. It was his first visible manifestation of tension and he stilled it immediately. ‘I suppose that some member of the senior staff might have felt that way. I should tell you that there are others as well as me who wanted more power. I have to accept the possibility, with Martin lying dead in the mortuary, that one of us killed him. I can only tell you that it wasn’t me who thought murder was the solution. And whilst I see that extreme frustration with Martin’s autocratic methods is a motive, it is not the only motive.’
‘What other motives do you see?’
He smiled, happy to have diverted them away for the moment at least from the immediate area of danger for him. ‘This is surely your area of expertise and your business rather than mine, Chief Superintendent Lambert. It is common knowledge that Martin had treated his wife abominably for years. It is common knowledge that Vanda North was once his mistress; she also feels as I do that she should be more than a junior partner in the firm. I told you on Saturday that Martin pursued an active and varied sex life outside his marriage: he must have made enemies there. Alistair Morton and Gerry Davies feel as I do that Martin could not have gone on being the sole wielder of the reins of power. Even our most recent senior executive, Sarah Vaughan, believes that.’
Jason paused. He had expected to be interrupted before now, but Lambert was merely watching him attentively, his head a little on one side and the grey eyes unblinking, as if he was revealing more of himself than the people he spoke of. He sought desperately to seem not a denigrator of his friends but a person who had considered also the wider context. ‘From what I have heard, in the early days of the company, long before I was on the scene, Martin used some very dubious business practices to develop the firm. He trod on some dangerous toes to bring Abbey Vineyards to its pre-eminent position in English wines. He was still doing so at the time of his death. With your excellent research team at work, you no doubt by now know vastly more than I do about all of these things. I mention them only because you invited me to speculate.’
Lambert caught the irony, but chose not to react to it. ‘Then speculate a little further, Mr Knight. Since you have plainly given the matter so much thought, let us now know the full extent of your thinking. It need go no further than this room. Who do you think put that bullet into Martin Beaumont’s head?’
‘I don’t know. If I did, be assured that I would tell you. I don’t find it pleasant being a suspect, which is plainly what I am. If you put me on the spot, I should have to opt for one of the people he has trampled on his way to success — perhaps quite recently, for all I know. Ethics went out of the window when he was acting for Abbey Vineyards. Martin regarded any action as justified if it benefited the firm.’
He was pointing them towards Tom Ogden, thought Lambert, but he did not take up the hint. Instead, it was Hook who looked up from his notes and said, ‘You told us on Saturday that you had no one who could vouch for your whereabouts after you left Ross-on-Wye Golf Club at around eight o’clock last Wednesday night. Is that still the case?’
‘I am a single man, DS Hook. I was at home, relaxing after a round of golf and a couple of drinks. I dozed in front of the telly and went to bed some time after eleven. Does that seem unreal to you?’
‘Not at all, sir. If you had unearthed someone who could confirm that, it would have been useful for you. As you have just told us, it is very unpleasant to remain one of the suspects in a murder enquiry.’
TWENTY-TWO
The sound of laughter rang clear and high in Vanda North’s thatched cottage. Female laughter. A rare sound, because Vanda lived alone and in the last few years had done little entertaining. A rarer sound still, almost unique in the last decade, because it came from Jane Beaumont.
It was seven o’clock in the evening, and the two women were eating in the conservatory at the back of the house. The May sun was still reasonably high in a cloudless sky, stealing towards the Welsh hills and its descent behind them. ‘Fine again tomorrow, set fair for the week,’ said Jane happily, as she watched the sun gilding the fresh green leaves at the top of the tall beech tree, sixty yards away at the bottom of Vanda’s back garden. She could not remember when she had last considered the weather. That was a banal thought, perhaps, but the fact was significant: she was sure of that now.
Vanda brought in the strawberries and cream. She too was pleasantly surprised. She had enjoyed preparing the meal, when for years now cooking had seemed little more than a tedious chore. When she had felt it necessary to entertain friends, she had usually done so at a restaurant, making the excuse that she was no cook and they should be grateful to be spared her efforts in the kitchen. Today she had turned back the clock and felt all the better for it.
‘Better finish that red wine before we eat the strawberries,’ she told her guest.
‘I don’t know when I last enjoyed a meal so much,’ said Jane, running a finger reflectively round her empty glass as she put it back upon the table. ‘Mind you, you haven’t much competition: for months now, I’ve hardly noticed what I was eating. But I noticed everything tonight. And enjoyed everything.’
Vanda brought two Benedictine liqueurs with the coffee. At her suggestion, they left the small square table she had set up in the conservatory and went back into the sitting room. The sun was dipping behind the big oak tree now, and the light here seemed dim after the brightness of the conservatory. But she did not put on the light, sensing correctly that both middle age and the pleasant lassitude which was overtaking them would be better suited by the twilight of a perfect evening.
Jane subsided happily into the deep comfort of the sofa and said, ‘I shouldn’t drink this. I won’t be fit to drive home.’
‘You’ve passed that point already. You’ll need to stay the night. It’s no problem; the bed is already made up in the spare room.’
Jane Beaumont nodded. They were close enough now for there to be no need for the ritual protest. She felt now that she had always known she was going to stay. She looked at the green liqueur in the glass, then rolled it around a little, relishing the rich colour and the moment without sipping the drink. ‘If anyone had told me a fortnight ago that I’d have been relaxing here after enjoying a meal with you, I’d have said they were crazy,’ she mused.
Vanda nodded. ‘I had a very anxious hour after that first phone call of yours, wondering whether you’d cosh me when you arrived.’ She hesitated for a moment, then came and sank down beside her new friend on the deeply cushioned sofa. ‘Here’s to us!’ she said, clinking her glass against Jane’s and taking a ritual sip.
She slid her arm round Jane’s shoulders and rested it on the bare flesh of the arm below the short-sleeved dress. She felt the body beside her stiffen for a moment, then slowly relax. She glanced sideways at the strong, newly animated features beneath the neat dark hair, then outwards again through the windows of the conservatory at the crimson sky behind the tree. ‘Perhaps I should say that I have always been of a strictly heterosexual persuasion,’ she said, after a full minute had passed in silence.
‘So have I,’ said Jane Beaumont softly. ‘Though I can’t say that the experience has been either frequent or varied over the last few years.’
They giggled a little over that, then were silent again. They willed the companionable darkness to steal in softly around them, exquisitely content in their friendship, resolutely refusing to consider where it might go from here.
Alistair Morton’s office at Abbey Vineyards was almost as anonymous as the man himself, Bert Hook thought.