Just Desserts (8 page)

‘And his view prevailed.'

Pearson nodded calmly. ‘As was only right and proper. As I say, it was his money which was financing the enterprise.'

‘And you say you took such disappointments in your stride?'

‘I did indeed. Patrick had a perfectly valid point of view. It will take at least ten years to say who was right on that one. But, even if I'd felt very strongly that he was wrong, it wouldn't have affected our relationship. I think it helped that we were both used to chains of command, from our Army days. We both knew and accepted that Pat would make the ultimate decisions.'

Policemen have suspicious minds; it is a result of prolonged exposure to the seamier parts of human nature. Lambert wondered if Pearson was being rather too insistent about the easy way these two senior men had worked together, if their relationship had in fact been more strained than he was allowing. Perhaps other people who had worked with the pair would clarify that issue, in due course.

He said, ‘Would you give us your account of exactly what happened last night at Soutters Restaurant, please?'

This time Pearson's shrug was obvious and unhurried, as if he wished to show that he was not at all worried by his part in these dramatic events. ‘There isn't much to tell. We were all enjoying an excellent evening. As a matter of fact, I was just thinking how well it had gelled, how worthwhile an enterprise it had been in bringing the staff together, when we heard Joanne Moss screaming. We all rushed downstairs and – well, you know what we found. Joanne screaming in the open doorway of the gents' loo and Pat lying dead behind her.'

‘What happened next?'

‘It was all rather confused. We could hardly believe our eyes. It was so unexpected that I remember wondering for a second whether it was some elaborate practical joke. One look at Pat soon got rid of that idea.'

‘Did anyone touch the body?'

‘Yes. Liza Nayland cradled him in her arms and tried to revive him. I detached her, as gently as I could, and checked the carotid artery to make sure that he was dead. That was a formality; you could see from a glance at the face that this was a dead man.' He spoke as calmly as if he had been a doctor, steeled to the everyday experience of death. Perhaps it was his military experiences which had given him this quality. He was the only one they had spoken to so far who did not seem to be deeply shocked by this death, but his calmness could be masking his deeper feelings.

Lambert said, ‘You are very much the same age as Mr Nayland was.'

Pearson nodded. ‘Pat was in fact about two years older than me. I think he was forty-nine; I'm forty-seven. We had a common military experience to draw on, and perhaps that helped us to think on similar lines. I'm certainly glad I took the post of General Manager ten years ago, and I think Pat was happy with his appointment.'

‘And what will happen now that Mr Nayland has been removed so abruptly?'

The deeply furrowed brow darkened for a moment, as if he was angered by the directness of the question. ‘I don't know. It's too early to say. This death has stopped all of us in our tracks. Camellia Park is prospering, and I imagine Mrs Nayland will want to retain possession of it and see it go forward, even if she isn't as “hands-on” as Pat was. But obviously I haven't spoken to her about that. I've hardly considered it myself. We're all too shaken by Pat's murder to think straight at the moment.'

That seemed a rather belated recognition of the shock and grief that Nayland's death had brought to him. But perhaps he had been merely striving to be objective, to stifle his personal feelings in the interest of helping the police inquiry.

‘When did you last see Mr Nayland alive?' Lambert saw no reason to apologize for the bluntness of the question, since this man seemed to pride himself on being so much in control of his emotions. He would normally have started his questioning with the details of the previous night, but he had adopted a more oblique approach to the meeting with this watchful and composed man, in the hope that he might reveal a little more of himself.

Chris Pearson smiled grimly. ‘At the table. Smiling, laughing, enjoying himself, as the host of a successful evening. But everyone is going to tell you that. Presumably one of us will be lying.'

Lambert gave him an answering smile of acknowledgement, as if he realized an opponent worthy of his steel. It was in fact a surprising relief to be able to speak so openly to this balanced figure, after having to pick his way so carefully through the emotions of the grieving widow, controlled though Liza Nayland had seemed to be. ‘At least one person will be lying, yes, Mr Pearson. Perhaps more than one: we can't rule out the idea that there may have been collusion in this killing, until we know more of the facts surrounding it. Did you visit the cloakroom yourself during the evening?'

He fired the question in abruptly again, but again Pearson showed no sign of being ruffled by it. ‘I think we all did, at some time during the evening. It was a very pleasant and relaxed meal, and as a result quite protracted. There was some hilarity also about the rather risqué decorations in the toilets, and I remember the ladies in particular felt that they had to go and inspect the illustrations on the walls of their loo.'

‘How long before Mr Nayland's death was your visit to the basement?'

‘I should say about half an hour before the
discovery
of the body. I do not have the technical expertise to say how long Pat had been dead before I got to him.'

How absolute the knave is, thought Lambert ruefully. He smiled, recognizing that it was the kind of correction he might have made himself. ‘Half an hour, you say. How sure are you about that?'

‘I'm not at all sure. It's an estimate I made this morning. None of us thought such things would be important, at the time.'

‘No doubt other people will be able to confirm the time. Have you had any serious disagreement with Mr Nayland over the last few weeks?'

This time Pearson's smile was a grim one, and there was something like contempt in the deep-set dark eyes. ‘Why not just come out and ask me if I killed Pat? It's what you mean, isn't it?'

‘If you had killed him, you would deny it, no doubt as vehemently as the most innocent person at the table last night. I'm asking you if you'd any serious area of resentment with your employer.'

Again there was the briefest flash of anger across the tanned features, so fleeting that it would have been missed by anyone studying them less intently than Lambert. ‘You're probing to find why I might have killed Pat.'

‘I'm trying to find why he died. Either someone had something to gain by his death, or someone hated him enough to drive a knife into his chest repeatedly. We shall explore these areas with everyone who was in that restaurant last night, until we find who was holding that knife.'

‘All right. I accept that, of course. It's difficult to find myself as a murder suspect, that's all. It's never happened to me before.'

‘I expect that will be the case with everyone who was at Soutters last night. Do you know of anyone there who had reason to dislike or resent Mr Nayland?'

He hesitated. Whether that was because he was giving due weight to the importance of the question, or because he was considering whether to hold something back, Lambert found it impossible to tell. He was a cool, composed subject, this one. Neither he nor Hook was sure yet how sorry he was about this death, or whether he regretted it at all.

Eventually, Pearson said, ‘Pat was a good friend to me. He was a good employer to everyone, from me down to our latest recruit, Barry Hooper. As far as I know, we are all happy in our posts. I can't see why anyone should have wanted him dead. If you consider the situation now, we are less certain of those jobs than we were before he died.'

Bert Hook had not spoken since the first minute of the interview. Now, responding to a tiny nod from Lambert, he shut his notebook and said, ‘Please go on thinking about this death, Mr Pearson. If anything occurs to you which may be of significance, please speak to us immediately, in confidence, at Oldford Police Station.'

They were safely in the car, negotiating the unlit Gloucestershire lanes, before Hook said to Lambert, ‘I notice that he said Nayland was a good friend and employer. He didn't say anything about his qualities as a husband and stepfather.'

Sitting with the sandwich and his mug of tea, John Lambert's face had what his wife called ‘his murder look'. Christine had grown used to it over the years.

It was a look which reflected suppressed, half-guilty elation. Only the major crimes brought that air to him, and even among the major ones the only certain trigger was murder. The hunter is an essential part of the make-up of all CID men; it was most apparent in her husband when he was faced with a homicide which had no obvious solution, when he was pitting his brains and deploying his team against someone who had perpetrated the oldest and direst of crimes.

A generation ago, when they had argued about his work and he had buckled it about him like some secret armour, Christine Lambert had hated this quality in him, this grisly fascination with the darkest part of the human mind. She understood it better now. It still frightened her a little to see him so animated by evil, but she recognized it as a necessary part of his detective equipment.

What she saw now was the same old elation, combined with a new factor that had only intruded in the last two or three years: fatigue. She had thought last year that he would be retired by now, but his Chief Constable had succeeded in getting his service extended, ‘in view of his outstanding record in bringing criminals to justice'. The
Gloucester
Citizen
had rolled out that phrase; it had added to John's already considerable local reputation and caused him no little embarrassment.

But watching him now, apparently relaxed in front of the television, she saw the lines about his eyes etched more deeply than she could ever remember them before, the corners of his mouth drooping downwards. He still had a good head of grizzled hair, but the back of his head was streaked increasingly with grey. Christine watched him as diligently as she had watched her children all those years ago, as fondly as she now watched her grandchildren. Presently his chin dipped, as she had known it would, and he drowsed in front of an excited Jeremy Paxman and a squirming politician. She removed the cooling, half-empty mug of tea from the arm of his chair and took it into the kitchen.

Twenty minutes later, he blinked at her as she removed
The
Times
, unread, from his knees. ‘Not going to be easy, this one,' he said with that small, intimate smile which he had always seemed to preserve for her. It was his attempt to allow her into his world, to share the experience he had once hugged so tightly to himself, and both of them recognized the moment. They had become closer with the passing years, closer still with her operations for breast cancer and a heart by-pass in the last few years, when he had thought that he might lose her. She was restored to full health, an energetic woman in her early fifties, but her husband found it difficult to accept that.

The murder at Soutters was sensational enough for her to have picked up the lurid details from press and television. She grinned into his tired face, pleased that he was making this small attempt at a discussion of his work. ‘I thought you might have had a confession pretty quickly for this one. Somehow, it doesn't seem organized. Not planned and executed with precision. A spur-of-the-moment thing.'

‘Yes, though perhaps that was the way it was intended to look. Perhaps someone had in fact thought it through very thoroughly, but wanted to make it look like a desperate, impulsive thing.'

Christine didn't press him. She was happy to have him soundly asleep before midnight. It took her a little longer to sleep herself, but she fell soon enough into a deep, untroubled rest.

At five thirty, two hours before the late winter dawn, in that darkest time for humanity, when sick men die and the soul is beset by despair, John Lambert was staring at the ceiling of his bedroom and planning how he should tackle the suspects he had not even met so far.

M
ichelle Nayland was doing well in her first year of teaching. It was a probationary year, but there would be no problem for the head teacher in certifying her competence at the end of it. She was bright, resourceful, full of ideas, and with excellent control of herself and her charges. The head teacher told Sergeant Hook as much when he rang to ask when would be the best time to see Ms Nayland.

Bert Hook couldn't help thinking that sounded like an excellent personality for a murderer. It made you cynical, this job.

Michelle taught in a Herefordshire comprehensive school, at Newent, no more than five miles from where Patrick Nayland had died thirty-six hours earlier. The head teacher had volunteered his office for the meeting, to ensure that it would not be interrupted. She told the two plain-clothes men that she was surprised to see Ms Nayland back in the classroom so early; it showed just how conscientious she was, how she put the welfare of her pupils above her personal grief and suffering.

Lambert began with that. ‘No one expected to see you back at work so quickly after a tragedy like this.'

She was cool, slim, dark-haired, with large, clear grey eyes and a mouth which seemed about to relax into a smile even when she was at her most serious. She looked very unlike her mother; her looks must have come from Liza Nayland's first husband. She would quite certainly be the subject of adolescent fantasies among some of her older pupils, Hook decided. She said, ‘My mother is very upset, but perfectly in control of her grief. I spent yesterday at home, but found I wasn't any use to her.'

‘But what about your own grief? It must have been a terrific shock to you, what happened on Wednesday night.'