J. Gregson: In Vino Veritas

Alistair looked down. His thin, stricken face looking like that of a schoolboy determined to get out the words he had prepared for this. ‘Martin did things which I advised him not to do and said things which I advised him not to say. We were very much a two-man band in the early days; I went along with these things at the time because I felt I had to support him. I would not do it again.’

‘No doubt he told you that he would make it worth your while to do so.’

Whilst Hook marvelled anew at his chief’s ability to make many bricks from little straw, Morton flashed an anguished glance at his questioner, then dropped his gaze again to his desk. ‘He said that once we were established as a going concern and had put those perilous early days behind us, I would become a partner in the firm.’

‘A promise which he failed to honour.’

‘He denied he had ever made it. And I’d nothing in writing to challenge him with, as he reminded me whenever I raised the matter.’ Alistair felt as if teeth were being drawn from him, without an anaesthetic. Even with the assurance that he would not be prosecuted, it was agony for an accountant to admit crimes of financial deceit to a policeman. And it had all been for nothing. He had been a cautious financial man for many years now; it was agony to admit to such ancient naivety.

‘So you felt that Beaumont had led you into a Serious Fraud Squad investigation, with the possibility of a prison sentence and the certain loss of your professional status, without paying the price that he had offered.’

It was a statement, not a question. Alistair Morton could see no way to deny it. He nodded miserably. ‘It remained a bone of contention between us until he died.’

Lambert smiled at the mildness of the cliche. ‘A little more than that, Mr Morton. Mr Beaumont’s intransigence in failing to recognize your loyalty and the risks you had taken without reward became a motive for murder.’

Alistair found himself drawn irresistibly into greater confessions than he had ever intended. He said in a monotone which seemed to come from someone else, ‘I thought about killing him. I don’t deny that.’ He stopped for a moment, remembering the long hours of the night he had spent considering the methods he might employ. Then, almost as an afterthought, he added, ‘But I didn’t kill him. Someone else did that for me.’

The CID men allowed the long silence to stretch as a tactic, so that this denial seemed increasingly feeble. It was into this atmosphere that DS Hook eased his first question. ‘You said on Friday that you were at home on the night of this death. That you did a little gardening, watched television, and did not go out again until the next morning. Would you now care to revise that?’

‘No. My wife confirmed that, didn’t she?’

Hook shook his head sadly as he consulted his notes. ‘Mrs Morton was interviewed by a junior officer in uniform. He said she seemed a little unsure of the facts of the matter.’

Alistair was suddenly weary of this, of the years of deceit, of the years of alternately wooing and badgering the man who had refused to concede his rights. He could picture his naturally honest wife trying to do her best for him and failing to convince. He was soiled goods. He didn’t want Amy to become soiled goods too, as a result of what he had asked her to do for him. He said dully, ‘I went out again, late in the evening, on the edge of dark.’

‘And where did you go, Mr Morton?’

‘I came here. Went through my files whilst it was quiet, trying to find something to help me to challenge Martin. I know I could have done that during the day, but somehow I thought that if I had complete privacy I’d have a better chance of finding something.’ He paused, hearing how lame that sounded. ‘And all right, I hoped I’d be able to get into Martin’s own files, to find something from years back that I could use against him to make him deliver at last. I had a key to his office, but I couldn’t get at anything in there. Fiona Cooper is far too competent to allow access to her employer’s private affairs.’ Through his bitterness, there was a strain of reluctant admiration for the PA’s efficiency.

‘And what time did you return home, Mr Morton?’ No one would have guessed from Bert Hook’s quiet prompting that he was recording what might be the preamble to a confession of murder.

‘I can’t be precise. But it was definitely after midnight. There were no lights visible in the avenue and Amy was in bed and asleep.’

The three men in the room were silent, watching Hook’s swift, round hand record the evidence that there might be a murderer amongst them.

The scene was an appealing mix of ancient and modern. The small block of flats was new and the orange of its bricks still a little brash, even in the twilight. But it was framed by tall oaks on either side which had been there since they were planted almost two hundred years ago, after the Napoleonic wars had denuded the area of timber for the ships of Nelson’s fleet. The long reach of the Wye which ran softly sixty yards to the south had scarcely changed in two thousand years.

Gerry Davies wondered if the new red sweater he had donned as leisure wear was too bright. He looked over the darkening river through the first-floor window and said conventionally, ‘You’ve got yourself a nice spot here, Sarah.’ He turned away from the view at the window and sat down carefully on the black and white sofa, beside the low table with its single small silver ornament. He felt not exactly guilty but a little embarrassed to be alone in this minimalist environment with a pretty woman who was a full generation younger than him. Young enough to be his daughter, as an amused Bronwen had reminded him when he had told her he was coming here.

Sarah Vaughan brought in her gin and tonic and his beer, setting them carefully upon coasters on the table between them. The sage green of her top and the darker green of her trousers fitted with the muted taste of the decor. Slipping off her shoes and curling her feet beneath her on the chair opposite her visitor, she contrived to look more relaxed than she felt. ‘I like it here. I probably paid an extra ten thousand for the position, but I felt I could afford it, once I’d got the salary at Abbey Vineyards.’

‘Yes. Martin was never a bad payer, if you gave him what he needed. Work-wise, I mean!’ Davies added hastily, and only made his unintended innuendo more pointed.

She grinned at Gerry and his embarrassment. His small gaffe had eased the tension, not added to it. ‘I wanted to talk to you about this police investigation.’

‘I’m sorry I let out what Martin had done to you. I didn’t know you hadn’t told them.’

‘That’s all right. I’ve got over it now. It wasn’t your fault, anyway.’ They’d had words about it earlier in the day when he’d revealed what he’d said, but she’d realized since then that she needed all the help she could get. ‘You only saw them last night, after they’d talked to everyone else. I was wondering how much they’d found out about us all. Do you think they’re near to an arrest?’

‘I don’t know. They gave me the impression of knowing an awful lot about us, without telling me anything they didn’t want to. I suppose they’re experts at that.’

And you’d be putty in their hands, thought Sarah irritably; you’re far too trusting for your own good. But that was unfair. It was no good resenting the very qualities in the man which had made her trust him and go to him for advice when she was new in her job. ‘I’ve heard they’re looking for people who might have seen a strange car in or near Howler’s Heath last Wednesday night. Do you know if they’ve found anyone?’

‘No. They didn’t say. But they were on to the fact that we all wanted more of a say in the way things were being run at the vineyard. And they knew that Martin wasn’t having any of it. I believe they think someone who wanted more say in policy might have killed him.’