Die Happy (15 page)

Christine Lambert shrugged, wanting to reject the idea but unable to find any strong argument against it. ‘I wouldn't think so, but you'll have to decide for yourself. Who knows what goes on in that secret self that we don't care to show to those around us? I suppose if he wanted to make mischief, words would be the first weapons to suggest themselves to him. I only know that Sam Hilton is now producing some quite interesting poems.'

And supporting his muse by selling illicit drugs, thought her husband. Police work didn't give many grounds for optimism.

Ten hours later, Chief Superintendent Lambert was preparing to make his own judgements on Sam Hilton.

Nine a.m. prompt. Young men who might have a drug habit were rarely at their best in the first part of the morning. Study them at your leisure, learn whatever you could from their actions and words when they were least prepared for you. None of this was voiced; Lambert and Hook knew each other and their strategies far too well for that.

Hilton lived in the least salubrious area of Oldford, but in a small town no street is as squalid or as desperate as those to be found in the great cities of the country. He lived on the ground floor of a late-Victorian semi-detached house, in what had been one of the most prestigious roads of the town when it had been built. The area had descended steadily in status over the last fifty years. The houses here were now divided into much smaller living units, with transient occupiers, who moved in and out of their rented properties with great frequency.

Generally speaking, this rabbit warren of residences was peopled by a motley assembly of life's underdogs: men who had lost wives, families and houses and had to find for themselves the cheapest possible accommodation; European immigrants who picked up whatever work they could and sent home as much money as they could; young men and young women who passed through a variety of jobs because they were feckless or unreliable; petty criminals and others who lived on the edge of the law, who either prospered and moved on or failed and entered prisons.

And then there were sundry others. Would-be poets who wanted to live as cheaply as possible whilst making a reputation were too rare to be a group in themselves. Sam Hilton was bleary-eyed and suspicious, but to the expert eyes now assessing him he did not look like an addict. He had decided after his interview with DI Rushton and DS Hook that it didn't pay to antagonize the pigs, but that didn't now prevent him being cautious, even surly. He addressed Hook rather than the senior man. ‘I don't know what you want with me. I told you everything I know when you had me in the nick and grilled me.'

It was Lambert who replied. ‘This is about a different matter entirely. You may still face charges for dealing in drugs. We are here this morning about something even more serious.'

‘What am I supposed to have done now?'

‘That is what we are here to find out, Mr Hilton. It will pay you to be completely frank with us. Obstructing the police in the course of their enquiries can lead to very serious charges.'

They looked round at the place where he lived whilst Sam tried to gather his resources and prepare himself. It was a bedsit rather than a flat. The long, high-ceilinged room, which had once been an elegant Edwardian dining room, had a bed against the wall at one end and a tiny electric cooker beside the scratched steel sink at the other. The wallpaper was at least twenty years old, the light-fitting plastic where once there would have been patterned glass. The single painting of a Scottish Highland scene would have benefited from a good clean. The air smelt stale; the tall sash window did not look as though it had been opened for a long time.

Yet there was no real evidence of squalor in the occupant of the room. Hilton wore a tee-shirt and jeans, both well-worn but clean. His brown hair had been combed, his eyes were alert, and his hands and nails were perfectly clean. The cereal bowl and beaker he had used for his breakfast were washed and draining upon the sink. He was a slight figure, whose nervousness manifested itself in an inability to keep his arms still. Neither the man nor his surroundings were affluent, but Hilton did not look or behave like a druggie. As if he read this thought, he said, ‘I shan't be dealing any more and I can't tell you anything more about the people who supplied me. I don't know why else you should be here.'

Lambert nodded at Hook, who produced the letter with its chilling threat. ‘What do you know about this, Mr Hilton?'

He stared wide-eyed for long seconds at the large black print with its threat of death. He said through dry lips, ‘Nothing. Why should I know anything?'

‘It was sent to Sue Charles, a member of the literature festival committee. Have you seen it before?'

‘No.'

‘Have you seen anything like it before?'

‘No. Never in my life. You read about—'

‘You haven't received one of these yourself?'

‘No. I thought you said it was sent to Sue Charles?'

‘This one was. There've been others, as well as this.'

He looked from one to the other of these very different men. Fear began to replace bafflement on his face. ‘I've never seen this or anything like it before. I don't know anything about these letters.'

Lambert's grey, steely eyes seemed to be looking into his very soul. After a few seconds he said, ‘Then who do you think might have sent them?'

Sam Hilton looked round desperately at the sink with its draining pots, at the radio and the battered television set in the corner, at the black and white drawings of Keats and Tennyson that stood incongruously beside the photograph of his mother on the shelf over the electricity meter. ‘Who's received them? You said there were others, as well as Sue Charles.'

Hook glanced at his chief, then leaned forward towards Hilton. ‘Normally we'd tell you we're here to ask questions, not to answer them. But I can tell you that these threats have been delivered by hand to several members of the literature festival committee. I'm now asking you to give some thought to who you think might be responsible.'

Sam tried to do as he was bidden, but he was still too shaken to think clearly. ‘Mrs Lambert is on that committee. She taught me, years ago, in my last year at primary school. I like her. I've always liked her.' He had no idea why he'd said that. Perhaps he was talking just for the sake of talking, for the sake of trying to convince them that whatever else he'd done, he'd never have sent these letters. Yet this quiet, seemingly friendly man had questioned him only yesterday about dealing in drugs, so he could scarcely have any credit left.

They left him to suffer for another few seconds, which seemed to him more like minutes. Then Hook smiled and repeated his query. ‘Who do you think might have sent them, Sam?'

Suddenly, as if someone had turned a switch, his mind began to work again. Not only to work but to race, as if trying to compensate for earlier omissions. His eyes fixed on the twelve black words within the plastic sleeve. ‘Am I the only member of that committee who hasn't had one of those?'

‘You're asking the questions again, Sam. But all right. Apart from Mrs Lambert, yes, you seem to be the only one who hasn't received one. Does that help you with your thoughts on who might have done this?'

The young poet frowned, then shook his head, seemingly as much in annoyance as puzzlement. ‘No. It's difficult to have any idea on the sender, because the whole idea seems so bizarre. I was actually going to say that the only person I know who might be malevolent enough and warped enough to do this is Peter Preston. But if he's been threatened himself, it can't be him, can it?'

Hook didn't respond to that. ‘What about someone from outside the committee, Sam? It might be just a coincidence that everyone who's been threatened so far is a member of it.'

‘But look at the words. “Resign now from the festival committee if you wish to remain alive.” It's very specific, isn't it?'

‘It is indeed, Sam. And it's led us to you, as the only member of that committee apart from Mrs Lambert who hasn't received one.'

‘But I didn't send them. And now that we've eliminated Mr Preston, I can't think of anyone else who'd have been malicious enough to do anything like this.'

Lambert's eyes had never left Hilton's face, even though it had been Hook who had done all the questioning in the last few minutes. He studied the young man for a few seconds more, then levered himself rather stiffly to his feet. ‘Keep thinking, Mr Hilton. It's very much in your own interests as well as ours that you do so.'

They were almost back at the station before he said, ‘You think Hilton's innocent of this, don't you, Bert?'

‘Yes. But I don't know who else we should suspect.'

‘I think you do.'

Hook didn't take his eyes off the road, but allowed a smile to infuse his rugged features. ‘You think one of the people who's received a letter could be the perpetrator of this? It would be the obvious thing to do to divert suspicion, wouldn't it?'

‘Indeed it would. I think we should pay another visit to the self-regarding Mr Preston.'

It was just eleven o'clock when they drove into the tree-lined avenue where Peter Preston lived.

Building land had been readily available in the nineteen thirties, when these tall, mock-Tudor houses had been built, so that the plots were spacious enough to show each house to its best advantage. The gardens had matured around them over the years, so that each residence had acquired the privacy from its neighbours which had always been envisaged. In May, the foliage and the late spring blossom were at their most abundant, so that the front elevation of the house was not visible until Hook had swung the car between the high gateposts and into the drive.

They had not phoned ahead to arrange a meeting, as was their usual practice. Lambert had preferred to surprise this patronizing self-appointed guardian of culture, in the hope of shaking his self-confidence. There was no reply when Hook pressed the bell, which they could hear ringing faintly in the interior of the big house. He knocked hard on the oak door, but the place sounded very empty. With a habit bred by years of police work, they walked to the side of the house to look for any sign of a human presence. There was a garage at the rear of the house, but the ageing Ford Granada stood outside it. A man's car, almost certainly Preston's; they did not need to voice the thought.

‘There's a window open upstairs,' said Lambert. ‘He shouldn't be far away.'

They walked to the rear of the house. A long garden, with an unkempt lawn but carefully tended borders with a variety of shrubs and perennials, ran away for forty yards of level ground to a rose bed where the stems were swelling with promising buds. The nearest grass was carpeted with the pink blossom which had fallen from a flowering cherry. A blackbird shrilled its song and blue tits shot in and out of a nesting box in the bole of a tree. There was no sign of a human presence.

They took in this pleasant vista for a moment, then looked up at the rear elevation of the house. There was another window open on the upper storey. ‘Some people invite burglary, then complain when we don't catch the culprits,' said Hook. He walked automatically to the back door of the house and turned the handle.

The door opened easily to his touch.

They glanced at each other, then moved softly into the house. Lambert called, ‘Mr Preston, are you there? It's Chief Superintendent Lambert.'

There was no reply. He went into the lofty hall and called out again, looking up the stairs. The echoing house sounded very empty. He looked at Hook, who was sniffing the air. ‘His study's upstairs somewhere. He went up to it to bring his letter down when we were here yesterday. Probably one of the rooms with a window open. You have a look round down here.' Lambert climbed the stairs. It was obvious which room was the study because its door was wide open. It was empty, with the chair at the desk pushed back as if the occupant had just left it. He went across and shut the window. He was looking at the old-fashioned metal filing cabinet in the corner when Hook called softly up the stairs. ‘You'd better come and look at this, John.'

His voice carried easily in the silent house, but his tone was quiet, almost reverential. Lambert descended swiftly and followed him into the room at the front of the house where they had talked to Preston yesterday.

They stopped abruptly just inside the door of the room. You didn't contaminate a crime scene. There was no need to feel for carotid arteries in this case. Peter Preston lay on his back, with his legs slightly apart, in front of the easy chair where he had sat whilst they had perched incongruously upon the elegant chaise longue. His eyes stared sightlessly at the ceiling. His features had relaxed in death into an expression of surprise rather than horror.

The dark crimson patch around the wound in the middle of his chest was almost black at its centre. The lips which had been so active would patronize no more.

ELEVEN

T
hree hours later, Edwina Preston drove home slowly. It was only thirty miles, thirty-five at the most, so there was no need to hurry. She had no wish to get home quickly; she preferred to reflect on her experiences overnight.

It had been a good time, as usual. Once again it had underlined how inadequate her relationship with Peter was. She hated him again for refusing to talk to her about it. She drove slowly through Oldford. She had always liked the town and the area, but now the very thought of Peter and his airs and graces seemed to be discolouring it for her. She needed time to prepare herself for what she would find at home. She was moving from a new and exciting world to a familiar and depressing one.