Just Desserts (25 page)

The dark young face clouded. ‘I was speeding, I know that. Taking risks I shouldn't have done, and—'

‘You were in possession of a Class A drug at the time. A drug which a Drugs Squad officer had witnessed you purchasing in Cheltenham.'

Barry told himself he should have known they'd come up with that. Suffering from the shock following his smash and the pain of his injuries yesterday, he hadn't even thought about what had happened to his motorcycle leathers. The police must have taken them away and gone through the pockets.

He struggled to adjust to the idea that these men were here to pursue a crime. Everyone had been so kind to him since he had come round in hospital that it was difficult for him to adjust to the idea of the law coming after him. Could they arrest him, whilst he was lying in bed, unable to move? Would they charge him with what he had done? He said feebly, ‘I wasn't dealing. It was just a small quantity, for my own use.'

‘But crack cocaine is a Class A drug. We're not talking about pot here, are we?'

‘No. I'm going to give it up. I was well on the way to kicking the habit, but then we had all the stress.'

He couldn't bring himself to define the stress. It was left to Lambert to say, ‘The stress of Mr Nayland's murder? Now why should you find that stressful, Mr Hooper? Horrible yes, shocking yes, but once you'd got over the initial impact of seeing a man struck down like that, why should you find it so stressful?' The word seemed to become more menacing each time he repeated it.

‘I don't know. He'd just given me a full-time job. I've never seen a man dead before. Never knew there could be so much blood when someone was stabbed like that.' He was floundering, and he knew it.

Lambert studied him for a few seconds, which seemed to Barry to stretch towards minutes. ‘You were under stress all right, Mr Hooper. But not for the reasons you state. Did you kill Patrick Nayland?'

The question was there, boldly, nakedly asked. More nakedly than Barry had ever imagined it put, even in his worst nightmares. His face contorted for a moment in pain; he cried out with the sudden agony of it. He must have moved his shoulder, must have squirmed under the gaze of this calm torturer who had never raised a hand to threaten him. He gasped as he tried to ease the pain, but Lambert did not move a muscle, did not alter a line in his long, observant face. It was Hook who poured a glass of water and held it to the young man's lips.

Barry saw a nurse look in for a moment at the door of the room, hoped that she would intervene, would tell these men in their grey suits that her patient had had enough, that they must come back another time if they wanted to continue this. His heart sank as she turned away, apparently satisfied that he was in good hands. He said, ‘I didn't kill Mr Nayland. I'd never have done anything like—'

‘Not even in the pursuit of theft, Mr Hooper? Not even when he resisted and panic took over?'

‘I don't know what you mean. I never—'

‘Perhaps before you tell us any more lies you should know certain things, Mr Hooper. Such as that a Rolex watch was handed over to the Oxford police on Monday as suspected stolen property. A watch which I could produce for your identification, were it not safely bagged away, ready to be produced as an exhibit in a murder trial. A trial in which you should prepare yourself to be a leading witness.'

‘But what has this to do with—'

‘With you, Mr Hooper? Perhaps I should tell you that the pawnbroker who fulfilled his duty by taking this watch to the police gave a detailed description of the person who presented the watch to the lady in his shop. When he understood that we were engaged in a murder inquiry, he also gave us your address. Perhaps you shouldn't have settled for such a derisory amount in payment. The proprietor had stopped the cheque his assistant wrote out for you by the time he spoke to the police in Oxford.'

Barry knew the Rolex had been worth more, that he should have held out for something nearer to its true value. All he had done by accepting less was to arouse suspicion. ‘I won it. Won it on a bet.'

Lambert smiled at his naivety. ‘From a man in a pub, no doubt, whom you haven't seen before or since. Let's stop all this nonsense, Mr Hooper. The watch has been identified by Mrs Nayland as belonging to her husband. He was wearing it on the night of his death. It was taken from his wrist by someone who killed him in the pursuit of theft.'

‘No!' The word rang like the cry of a trapped animal around the quiet room, with its crowded array of medical equipment. It was a noise full of fear and anguish: its echo seemed to bounce back from the smooth magnolia walls long after the monosyllable had been uttered. Barry Hooper hoped again that it might bring the nurse to his rescue, that he might be released from this torture, even if only temporarily.

But there was no caring female face, no comforting flash of blue uniform in the doorway. He said, ‘All right, I took the watch. But I didn't kill Mr Nayland.' Even now, in this crisis, he couldn't bring himself to leave out the dead man's title, to deny him in death the respect he had always shown to him in life.

‘You'll need to convince us of that. Having lied to us about practically everything so far.' Lambert looked towards the door of the room, checking that they weren't going to be interrupted yet by the medics. ‘You told us when we first talked to you on Saturday that you'd given up drugs and given up thieving. Wrong on both counts, weren't you? So we'd better have a new version of your visit to the basement at Soutters Restaurant on the night of the murder, and what you saw then. And this time make it an accurate account, and don't leave anything out. Our patience is exhausted, Mr Hooper.'

Barry believed that. He tried to force his brain to concentrate on the one essential task of convincing them that he hadn't killed Nayland. He felt as he had done years ago at school, when he was trapped in a situation where he had lied so much that no one was going to believe him about anything. Other boys had had parents to speak up for them, but it had always felt as if there had been no one for him from the care home.

Fat lot of use it would be telling this unyielding, ancient copper stuff like that. And he couldn't remember now exactly what he'd told them the first time. No doubt the burly one, who'd seemed sympathetic at first, had it all down in that notebook of his. No doubt he was waiting to pick him up and accuse him again of lying as soon as his new tale didn't tally. Barry looked down at his fingers, pathetically thin against the stark white sheet, and said, ‘I didn't tell it right the first time. I got it wrong last Saturday, when you came to the house.'

‘In more ways than one, Mr Hooper. We'd better have it right this time.'

No one ever called Barry ‘Mister'. This Superintendent Lambert was doing it all the time, and it was unnerving. He wondered if it was something coppers had to do when they were going to charge you with murder. He'd better make it good, this time. No use trying to protect Alan Fitch, or anyone else except himself. He closed his eyes and said, ‘I left the meal and went down to the washroom much later than I told you on Friday. Alan Fitch had just come back into the restaurant. Mrs Nayland came back in, just before I went down, as far as I can remember.'

‘How long before?'

‘A couple of minutes, I think. And Alan just before that.' He was conscious of the two big men, staring hard at him, looking as if they didn't believe a word he was saying. As if they weren't going to believe the next few sentences, which were the most important of his life. ‘I met Michelle Nayland in the doorway as I went out.' He paused, wanting to be interrupted, to be given another question before he had to deliver the next part. But just when he most wanted them to speak, they said nothing. ‘I went into the gents' washroom. Mr Nayland was lying dead on the floor. His eyes were open, and there was a big pool of blood.'

Lambert neither nodded nor shook his head. He just continued to study the injured man, until Barry felt he must cry out with the tension of it. He swallowed hard and looked longingly at the glass and the jug of water beside him. But to ask for a drink suddenly seemed like a confession of guilt. He said throatily, ‘Mr Nayland was lying on his back, with his right arm flung out. His sleeve was up and the Rolex was very obvious on his wrist, as if it was asking to be taken. I slid it off and put it into my pocket.'

It suddenly seemed banal, such a stupid thing to have done that it could not possibly be the truth. He wanted to embroider his action, to add a series of details which would convince them. But he could think of nothing, and his voice would go no further. Now, when it was too late for him, DS Hook filled up the glass of water with elaborate care and passed it to him. His fingers trembled so much that he had to raise both hands to get it to his mouth. He tilted it slowly, until the liquid ran into his throat, then channelled cold into his chest and out into his body, as if he were a man dying of thirst in a desert.

Lambert's words seemed to come from a long way away as he said like a prosecuting counsel, ‘I put it to you that you struck your employer down to get that watch. That this was murder in the pursuit of theft.'

‘No.' He could only manage the monosyllable, when he wanted more.

‘If it happened like that, you might get away with manslaughter, with a good brief. You could say you never meant to kill him.'

‘No.' Barry summoned an immense effort. ‘It was as I said. It happened just like I said.'

Now, when it was too late for him, a nurse, plump and motherly, came into the room and studied the exhausted face and the limp submission of the slim, shattered body beneath the sheets. ‘I'm afraid that's enough for today. Whatever he's done, the lad's exhausted. He was in a bad smash, you know.'

Lambert rose immediately. ‘Thank you. I think we have all we need, for the present.' He smiled at the nurse and left without another glance at the man in the bed.

His last words rang in Barry Hooper's brain long after he had gone.

T
he man was waiting to see the Chief Superintendent when he got into the station at Oldford. A man in an impeccable dark-blue suit, a white shirt and a silk tie. Lambert glimpsed him as he went through to CID.

It wasn't until he reached his office that he learned that the man was any concern of his. ‘Tell him we're up to our necks in a murder inquiry. Get him to talk to someone else,' he said wearily.

‘He says it might have a connection with the case. And it's confidential: he refused to speak to me about it.' DI Rushton tried not very successfully to conceal the pique he felt at that.

‘I'll see him right away, then. And I'll send him away with a flea in his ear if he's just prying for information. But he doesn't look like a journo.'

Indeed he didn't. The man was probably in his late thirties. His dark suit fitted perfectly and there was the scent of an aftershave which had a subtlety not often experienced in police stations. His hair was expensively cut and he looked ready to preside at a board meeting.

‘Dermot Rawlinson,' he said, holding out an immaculately manicured hand to Lambert. ‘Marketing Director of European Fairways Limited.' He smiled affably, obviously expecting the name either to be recognized or to impress, or better still both. When neither Lambert nor Hook reacted to it, he pulled from his briefcase a glossy brochure with an impressive colour picture of a course in Portugal on its cover. His sales background was apparent in the proud flourish with which he produced it. ‘The company owns twenty-seven courses in six European countries,' he explained modestly.

Lambert took the brochure and put it on his desk without a glance. ‘You said this might be connected with a serious crime investigation, Mr Rawlinson. If it isn't, I'm afraid—'

‘It may be. You'll have to decide that. All I can tell you is that the death of Patrick Nayland has come at a very awkward time for us.'

Lambert looked down at the brochure on his desk. ‘Was your company in some kind of business negotiation with Mr Nayland?'

‘Yes. Well, we were further than that, actually. We had reached an agreement with him. We are going to take over the golf course at Camellia Park. We shall upgrade it, spend money on it, and make it one of the best courses in this area. Extend it to eighteen holes, for a start. Open up a gym and a health centre. We believe the place has great potential, with a sizeable investment.'

He was in danger of slipping into a sales spiel again. Lambert said hastily, ‘You had signed an agreement with Mr Nayland?'

The smooth face fell again as its owner came reluctantly back to reality. ‘No, not quite. We had shaken hands on a verbal agreement. Mr Nayland was ready to sign the formal contract as soon as our lawyers had drawn it up. I need to press ahead now, despite the unfortunate timing of Mr Nayland's death.'

‘And I need to know how many other people knew about this verbal agreement you had made with a man who is no longer around to implement it.'

‘Mr Lambert, I have to tell you that in some circumstances, a verbal agreement can be as legally binding as—'

‘And I have to tell you that I'm conducting a murder investigation. All I'm interested in is finding out who killed Patrick Nayland. In the light of that, I need to know how many other people knew about this understanding you had arrived at with a man who cannot implement it.' He was suddenly weary of this expensively tailored man and the world of takeovers and high finance that he represented.

Rawlinson looked for a moment if he was going to take offence. But if he was to get what he wanted out of this exchange, it must remain affable. He said smoothly, ‘No one except Mr Nayland had been consulted by us. But he was the sole owner of the company, the only man whose agreement we needed to secure.'

‘And when did you arrive at this “verbal agreement” with Patrick Nayland?' Lambert quoted Rawlinson's phrase back at him as if it were an outrageous, suspect thing.