Ogden dug his hand deep into his trouser pocket and produced the grubby scrap of paper on which he had written the names. ‘Alistair Morton; I think he said he was the financial director up there. And Jason Knight; he runs the restaurant.’ He watched Hook record the names, then added unnecessarily, ‘They want me to become a director along with them. But nothing’s definite yet. I said I’d need to think about it.’
Lambert nodded. ‘They’re not in a position to make offers, but they may be making plans. You would be well advised to mention this approach to no one else, until things become clearer.’
‘I didn’t intend to. I’m only telling you because I don’t want to keep any more secrets from you.’
But he could tell Enid, he thought, as he watched them drive away. It would please her, if she thought he was planning to retire from the farm at last. And he owed her that, when he’d asked her to lie about the night they’d been at the cinema.
Lambert and Hook were silent for most of the six-mile journey back to Oldford. They had worked together for far too long now to talk for talking’s sake. Moreover, the CID habit was to speak only about things which mattered and eschew small talk which meant nothing. An observer might have thought that they were merely appreciating the Gloucestershire countryside in spring, with the infinite range of greens offered by the burgeoning trees. A more experienced CID-watcher would have known that they were thinking hard about what they had heard, digesting what Ogden had said and weighing its merits. Silences between these two were never uneasy and often productive.
It was the driver, Hook, who eventually said, ‘I believed Ogden. He’s the most obvious candidate for murder, with his quick temper, his declared hatred of the victim, and his record of violence in his youth. But I don’t think he’s our man.’
Lambert smiled. That much had been evident to him whilst they were still with the farmer. ‘For what it’s worth, neither do I, Bert. I have a much better candidate, but very little proof as yet.’
They were turning into the police station car park as he said this. At the wheel of the vehicle immediately behind them was Chris Rushton, who could scarcely conceal his excitement until they reached the privacy of the CID section and his computer.
‘I’ve been out to see a witness,’ the detective inspector told them eagerly. ‘The report came in from one of our youngest constables, so I thought I’d better check the statement out for myself. Especially as the person concerned may very well eventually become a witness in court.’
He was as animated as if he were a young officer himself. Lambert was both amused and delighted to see this zest in a thirty-four-year-old DI. ‘Don’t you think you’d better begin at the beginning with this one, Chris?’
‘Yes. Sorry. I did try to get you on your mobile, but you were obviously with Tom Ogden at the time. We’ve found someone who saw a car in the right place at the right time. In Howler’s Heath late last Wednesday night.’
‘A reliable sighting?’
‘Yes. That’s what I wanted to check. Entirely reliable, I’d say.’
‘It’s taken this person a long time to come forward.’
‘Yes. I’d say it was some pretty sustained burrowing by a young constable which unearthed this. It would be good if you could give him a pat on the back in due course. Youngsters get plenty of rockets when things go wrong. It’s only right that they should get a bit of praise occasionally.’
For a few seconds, they were all back on the beat, considering the long hours of boring, repetitive work, the insensitivity of the public, the contempt of old-sweat superiors who made out that today’s beat work was a doddle compared with their time. Then Lambert said, ‘I’ll do that; let me have the young man’s name. In fact, I’ll do more: I’ll make sure his sergeant and inspector know that he’s produced a vital bit of information for us — always assuming that’s what this proves to be.’
He looked interrogatively at Rushton, who said hastily, ‘Details. A car was sighted at eleven o’clock last Wednesday night in Howler’s Heath. It was seen by a young man of eighteen who was driving his father’s car. He had his girlfriend with him and they were several miles from where they were supposed to be — hence his reluctance to come forward initially. Dad would not have been at all pleased to find his son driving his seventeen-year-old girlfriend out into the Malverns for a helping of nooky.’
‘How sure is he about the time?’
‘Very. The lad’s prepared to swear it was within five minutes of eleven o’clock.’
‘And the exact location?’
‘He saw a stationary vehicle just off the road, within a hundred yards of the spot where Beaumont’s Jaguar was parked.’
‘Probably where we parked when we visited the scene of the crime,’ acknowledged Hook as he made a note.
‘The vehicle had no lights and the witness’s impression is that it was empty at the time. He did point out that if people had been supine in the car, he would not have seen them as he drove past — an idea no doubt deriving from his own activity a little while earlier.’
Hook smiled. ‘Have we any idea how long this vehicle was parked there?’
‘Not from this lad. But we have several people who say there was no car there at around half past ten and others who tell us there was nothing there from eleven twenty onwards.’
Lambert sensed that Rushton was happy to prolong the details, anxious to make this latest coup of his all the more dramatic. He said, ‘What about the identity of this vehicle?’
It was Rushton’s turn to smile. ‘No registration number; that would be asking too much. But our man is confident of make and colour; like most young men, he’s keen on cars. He spotted the rings on the bonnet as he went past. It was an Audi saloon, silver-grey metallic. He would swear to that in court, if necessary.’
‘Do we have a match?’
Rushton flicked up the relevant file on his computer, though he knew well what he was going to say. It is part of the work of the most junior officers in a murder investigation to document all kinds of routine information, including the make of car driven by everyone who had been close to the victim. After six days of investigation, masses of detailed information had accrued, all of it dutifully documented on Chris Rushton’s PC. Most of it remained tedious and useless. Occasionally, as on this occasion, the system threw up a nugget of gold.
Chris tried and failed to keep the excitement out of his voice as he said, ‘A silver-grey metallic Audi is driven by Mrs Jane Beaumont.’ He glanced automatically for a reaction at the two older men. ‘It looks as though, despite all the work we’ve put in on the people who worked with Beaumont, we have a domestic killing after all.’
TWENTY-FIVE
With the afternoon sun high and wisps of white cloud seemingly stationary in the vivid blue sky, the thatched cottage and its neat gardens looked fit for a picture postcard. The scene reminded Lambert of Anne Hathaway’s cottage, seventy miles away in Stratford-upon-Avon. As a boy, he had purchased a cheap print of that for his mother’s birthday, and it had remained in a position of honour on the wall of her terraced house until the day she died.
The two big men stood looking at the outside of the cottage for a moment before they went to the door. There was no sign of life. But the oak door was answered quickly when they knocked. Vanda North said, ‘I’m getting quite used to seeing you two. This is the second time today. I don’t know whether I should be flattered or alarmed.’
Lambert said nothing until they were sitting in the low-ceilinged lounge, with its comfortable sofas and the big television and hi-fi set in opposite corners. As always, his grey eyes fixed steadily upon his quarry. He waited until she was sitting motionless and looking at him before he said tersely, ‘New evidence has come to light, Miss North. We need to know what you can tell us about it.’