J. Gregson - Die Happy

‘No. I wouldn’t willingly have one in the house and James has never had any interest in such things.’ She seemed for a moment as if she was about to say more, then glanced up into his face and decided against it.

Lambert said, ‘I believe you supervised the collection of arms during your final Civil Service years.’

A small smile flitted briefly across the strong features, as if in brief recognition of a point scored by an opponent. ‘Yes. I had overall responsibility for the collection of IRA and Ulster Volunteer arms surrendered after the resolution of the Irish conflict. I suppose it might have been possible for me to acquire a pistol then, had I been so inclined. I did not in fact do so. I directed the staff involved, but I had no direct contact with the collection and disposal of the weapons involved.’

He studied her for a final moment, then said abruptly, ‘If you have anything further to tell us about yourself or others, please ring Oldford CID immediately.’

She watched their car turn slowly out of her drive and out of vision, standing at the window until the last sound of it was gone. Then she moved back through the silent house and turned her thoughts to what she was going to say to James when he returned from golf.

The unprepossessing figure who had accosted Chris Rushton as he left the football ground in Hereford waited until Sunday morning to present himself at the police station in Oldford. He reckoned correctly that the CID people he needed to speak with would not be in the station on Saturday night.

This man knew his way round police stations and police procedures. It was a bright May morning and spring was advancing rapidly, so he took the major sartorial step of relinquishing the long gabardine overcoat he regarded as his winter uniform. For the first time in the year, he wore the shabby blue anorak, which was his normal summer garb. He shrugged aside the efforts of the station sergeant to make him reveal the subject of his visit. ‘It’s CID stuff, this.’ When the stolid face remained doubtful, he added solemnly, ‘It has to do with the murder your CID people are investigating. I need to speak to the chief superintendent in charge of the Preston case.’

The uniformed man had his doubts, but with his pension less than a year away, he wasn’t going to risk a rocket from that bugger Lambert or any other senior officer. He directed the man through to the CID section. Three minutes later, after a moment studying the board with its photographs of locations and people in the investigation and scrawled questions from the investigating officers, he was in Lambert’s office.

‘Mr Clive Bond, sir,’ the young woman DC announced to her chief. She kept her voice studiously formal, as if to protect some private joke.

The detective shook the stranger’s hand, installed him in a chair, studied him politely but unhurriedly. The man said with a short, nervous laugh, ‘So I meet the illustrious Chief Superintendent Lambert at last. I never thought I’d do this.’ He tried to settle and take in the details of the tight, disappointingly anonymous little office, with its small desk, its computer, its rather ancient filing cabinet.

Lambert afforded him a brief smile. ‘The reality is much less exciting than the fevered creation of the media, I’m afraid. I’m fully occupied with a murder case at the moment, or you wouldn’t find me here on a Sunday morning. I’m told that you’ve come here as a member of the public anxious to help in an enquiry; we are of course grateful for that. But neither of us wishes to waste more of our Sunday than we have to. Please state your business.’

The small figure took an impressively deep breath, produced a card and deposited it on Lambert’s desk. ‘ CLIVE BOND. Private Investigator’. He waited for Lambert to study the card and show the first glimmer of amusement. ‘I state that baldly on my cards because I find it’s best to get the hilarity over my name out of the way at the outset.’

Lambert controlled all thoughts of Miss Moneypenny directing this diminutive figure against the forces of world evil. ‘It could have been worse, Mr Bond. You mother could have opted for “James” at the christening.’

‘In which case I should have adopted a different name entirely. I sometimes think that would have been the best way, but I started with my own name and I’m stuck with it.’

Lambert studied the thin-faced, undernourished-looking figure and controlled the smile which threatened the solemnity of his reception. ‘What can I do for you, Mr Bond? Or should I rather ask, what you can do for us?’

‘Mr Peter Preston, your murder victim. I worked for him.’

‘In which case, many thanks for taking the initiative and coming here. We should certainly have unearthed your name and contacted you in the next few days. That is one task less for Detective Inspector Rushton.’

‘He’s the man who told me to come here. I approached him when he was leaving the football ground at Hereford yesterday afternoon. He had a young boy with him, so he didn’t want to speak to me then.’ He volunteered each fact grudgingly. Bond was a man who did not yield information easily; he was used to being paid for each fact he disgorged.

‘How fully and how often did Mr Preston employ your services, Mr Bond?’

The small man glanced at Lambert sharply with the repetition of his name; plainly he was sensitive about what others saw as its comic possibilities. This time he saw no such intent. ‘I did quite a lot of work for him — at times I was almost his full-time employee. But the work was intermittent and there was no real pattern to it. He kept coming back to me, so he must have been satisfied with the way I worked and the things I produced for him.’

Lambert understood the man’s urge to advertise himself. His was a calling in which successes could not be openly proclaimed and the only one who could prove your efficiency was yourself. ‘No doubt you were working on something for him at the time of his death, or you wouldn’t be here now.’

‘Yes.’ Clive Bond looked unhappy; he wasn’t used to his revelations being anticipated. He liked to reveal a morsel at a time, to emphasize the value of what he was being paid for. But then he’d never been questioned by a chief superintendent before; that must surely confirm that his work was important. ‘Mr Preston asked me to watch his wife and to document her movements for him on certain occasions. He let me know in advance when these excursions were to take place.’

‘That means you wouldn’t usually have had much notice.’

‘I was prepared to drop other assignments for Mr Preston; he was a good client who made regular use of my services. Sometimes you can pass less important work on to other people in the profession. We have agreements among ourselves. If you haven’t much on at the time, you’re glad to take on the work.’

Lambert knew enough of the strange, hand-to-mouth existence of the private detective to know that such transfers would be eagerly received by the less successful and less established practitioners of the trade. ‘So you’ve come here to tell us about the movements of Mrs Edwina Preston on the night of her husband’s death.’

‘Yes.’ Again he had intended to reveal this in stages. He was being hurried along and it spoilt his rhythm. ‘She was with another man on the night of his death.’

‘A Mr Hugh Whitfield.’ Lambert told himself he was being petty, but he couldn’t suppress his amusement in anticipating what Bond had planned as a startling revelation.

Clive frowned at the leather-backed notebook he had produced and opened with such ceremony. He drew a mental line through the name he had meant to produce so proudly. He looked so crestfallen that Lambert was moved to say, ‘We have questioned Mrs Preston very closely on two occasions since her husband’s death, as you would no doubt anticipate. But I’m sure you can add to what we have learned from her.’