Mortal Taste

  Table of Contents

  By J. M. Gregson from Severn House

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  by J. M. Gregson from Severn House

  Lambert and Hook Mysteries

  GIRL GONE MISSING

  MALICE AFORETHOUGHT

  AN UNSUITABLE DEATH

  AN ACADEMIC DEATH

  DEATH ON THE ELEVENTH HOLE

  MORTAL TASTE

  JUST DESSERTS

  TOO MUCH OF WATER

  CLOSE CASS

  SOMETHING IS ROTTEN

  A GOOD WALK SPOILED

  DARKNESS VISIBLE

  IN VINO VERITAS

  DIE HAPPY

  MORE THAN MEETS THE EYE

  Detective Inspector Peach Mysteries

  WHO SAW HIM DIE?

  MISSING, PRESUMED DEAD

  TO KILL A WIFE

  A TURBULENT PRIEST

  THE LANCASHIRE LEOPARD

  A LITTLE LEARNING

  MURDER AT THE LODGE

  WAGES OF SIN

  DUSTY DEATH

  WITCH’S SABBATH

  REMAINS TO BE SEEN

  PASTURES NEW

  WILD JUSTICE

  ONLY A GAME

  MERELY PLAYERS

  MORTAL TASTE

  J. M. Gregson

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  First published in Great Britain and the USA 2003 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  9–15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.

  Copyright © 2003 by J. M. Gregson

  This eBook edition first published in 2012 by Severn Select an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

  The right of J. M. Gregson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  Gregson, J. M. (James Michael)

  Mortal taste

  1.Lambert, Superintendent John (Fictitious character) - Fiction

  2.Hook, Sergeant Bert (Fictitious character) - Fiction

  3.Police - England - Gloucestershire - Fiction

  4.Cheltenham (England) - Fiction

  5.Detective and mystery stories

  I. Title

  823.9’14 [F]

  ISBN-13 978-1-4483-0056-3 (ePub)

  ISBN-13 978-0-7278-5989-1

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

  Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland

  To Peter Landau and David Every –

  two very successful head teachers, who are otherwise

  quite unlike the one in this book!

  Of man’s first disobedience, and the fruit

  Of that forbidden tree, whose mortal taste

  Brought death into the world, and all our woe,

  With loss of Eden . . .

  John Milton, Paradise Lost

  One

  Cheltenham is one of the finest spa towns in Europe. It has a wealth of Regency terraces lining elegant squares, crescents and open spaces. George III, that inveterate frequenter of spas, visited the town in 1788 and set his seal of approval upon it.

  It is not at all the sort of place you would identify with violent death.

  For the British, the name of Cheltenham conjures up echoes of the Empire in retirement. It was when military officers and colonial administrators returning from the tropics discovered the beneficial effects of the mineral waters that the elegant new town was established. Between 1800 and 1840, the discernment and good taste of people steeped in a classical culture achieved its architectural fulfilment amidst the wide streets and tree-shaded open spaces of the new town.

  This has always been a place for civilized debate, not an arena for the knife and the bullet.

  Yet there is another Cheltenham beyond the Regency ironwork balconies and verandas, beyond the elegance of Lansdown Place and Montpellier Walk. The ubiquitous motor car has made its inevitable and relentless impact. The town is intersected by the A40 and five radiating major routes, so that it is now one of the most frustrating places in which to drive and one of the most difficult in which to park.

  Perhaps it is better communications which have brought some very undesirable people into this cultivated town.

  Yet road and rail have brought new sources of employment to an ancient part of England. The town is one of the few in the country where manufacturing industry, varying from thermostatic valves to watches and clocks, is thriving in the new century. Its festivals of music and literature bring creative forces into the town, but Cheltenham is probably more famous for the racecourse on its northern side, which brings an influx of visitors, most but not all of them welcome, into the ancient spa town.

  The educational facilities of the town reflect similar contrasts and tensions between tradition and modernity. On the Bath Road are two schools which enjoy a national fame. The Cheltenham College for Boys, built between 1841 and 1843 in early Gothic Revival style, thrived as a public school for the sons of Indian Army officers. Nearby is the Cheltenham Ladies’ College, founded by Miss Beale, an ardent Victorian champion of good education for girls, a school now renowned and caricatured throughout the country as the emblem of Establishment good taste and breeding.

  In other and newer parts of the town, among the harsher brick buildings of the second half of the twentieth century, there are other schools, educating the children of the workers and the unemployed of a modern industrial complex. Greenwood Comprehensive has very different buildings and a very different ethos from those of Cheltenham Ladies’ College and the Cheltenham College for Boys.

  Greenwood has equal numbers of boys and girls, for a start, and a much wider range of the social classes among its parents. It also has a far greater proportion of single parents attending – or failing to attend – its regular parents’ evenings, where the educational progress of its clientele is discussed. And as might be expected, this school has its share of what the jargon of the day calls social problems. Drugs have exchanged hands outside its gates, especially in the convenient darkness of winter evenings.

  Nevertheless, education is not the environment in which you would expect a man to have his head blown away.

  Greenwood Comprehensive School’s sixth form enjoys an interesting range of distinguished visi
tors, summoned to offer their experience and their views of life to those about to enter its full challenges. But policemen and social workers are also frequent visitors to the school, and two representatives of that burgeoning profession of the twenty-first century – the counsellor – are busily employed within the school.

  Yet let no one convince you that good education cannot be provided in establishments like Greenwood Comprehensive. There are bad schools working among the problems thrown up by settings like this, some of them almost defeated by the difficulties of staffing and resources. But there are also some very good schools, providing a lively and stimulating environment for learning amongst the social problems which surround them.

  Greenwood Comprehensive was one of these at the time of these events. It came agreeably high in the league tables of schools by which a desperate government tried to raise standards. If a proper allowance had been made for the background of its intake and the problems of its environment, it might well have come in the very top sections of the tables. The two famous private schools a few miles away had pupil-teacher ratios which were half those of Greenwood.

  But Greenwood Comprehensive School was the very last place where you would expect murder to be stalking.

  Every good school has a good head teacher. Because of the way the state system is set up, because of the power of the head to set the spirit and standards of the school, it is almost impossible to have a highly effective school without a highly effective head. Greenwood was no exception to this rule.

  Peter Logan had been its head teacher for five years. By a combination of vision, foresight and energy, he had made it one of the best schools of its kind in Gloucestershire. Energy might seem a mundane quality to outsiders, but it was the most important of these three in the day-to-day efficiency of a large school, and Peter had energy in abundance.

  Yet one would have said that Peter Logan was not at all the kind of person who would get himself involved in murder.

  For the energy which drove him was the servant of an unswerving vision. In Logan’s view, his school was already the best in the county. In a few years, it would be one of the best in the country. There were two key appointments coming up in the next few months, a Deputy Head and a Head of Sixth Form Studies. Peter knew what he wanted, and would make sure that he got it. Even if the first set of interviews didn’t produce the right person, he would wait and re-advertise. Staff appointments were the most important decisions you ever made in a school, and it was worth putting up with short-term inconvenience to get the right person.

  All this Peter Logan knew too well for it to need repetition. He was enunciating it for the benefit of his governors at their meeting on this Monday evening. They were a good body of citizens, on the whole. They wanted the school to succeed and took notice of what the Head told them. Once he had reassured them, they were only too eager to help its Head to implement his policies. They were backing a good man, after all. Peter had already convinced them of that: year by year, he brought them solid evidence of success in the school’s examination results.

  Everyone says that exam performance should not be the sole measure of a school’s success, that education is about more intangible things than merely passing exams and taking the first successful steps in life’s rat race. And everyone promptly adopts exam results as the only reliable guide to a school’s progress.

  But that was all right. The state school came out very well on the GCSE and A-level counts. Greenwood and Peter Logan produced the goods, and the school went forward, and everyone was happy.

  Or almost everyone. One person in the governors’ meeting watched the head teacher steadily, with no evidence of emotion. One person listened not to the arguments he outlined but to the ambition which lay behind them. One person weighed everything Peter Logan said and found it wanting. It was not objective, but one person was not concerned with being objective about the man who led Greenwood Comprehensive.

  One governor at least was consumed with a surprising hatred of this popular head teacher.

  The meeting proceeded smoothly enough. Peter Logan announced that the new bank of computers had been installed in the school’s IT centre. There were mutters of pleasure all round the table, even from the three elderly local councillors, who had no acquaintance with computers. Technology was always impressive, especially when you did not understand it.

  Various sponsorships had been arranged with local industry, which would not only defray educational costs for hard-pressed taxpayers but also establish employment links for the future. The governors nodded sagely: schools must not be ivory towers.

  This meeting, on the twenty-first of September, was the first one of the new academic year, so Peter Logan gave a simplified summary of the summer examination results and the final count of the number of pupils entering higher education, which had climbed over a hundred for the first time. He smiled with modest confidence at the earnest faces round the big table, and almost provoked a round of applause.

  The Chairman of the Governors thanked the Head for his lucid account of past successes and future plans. The meeting broke up in a quiet aura of self-congratulation: it is always more pleasant to be involved in a winning enterprise, to be agreeably swept along in the momentum of success.

  Tea and biscuits were brought in at the end of the meeting. The buzz of conversation and informal exchange of ideas sounded almost muted at one end of a school hall which could accommodate a thousand pupils. Inevitably, Peter Logan’s voice sounded continually above the rest; he was constantly asked for information, and his genuine enthusiasm for present achievement and future potential encouraged him to hold forth at length about his school.

  His Chairman of Governors announced eventually that he must be away, and most of his colleagues on the governing body drifted off in his wake. Peter Logan thanked them individually as they left, then retired to his own room for a brief period of silence and recuperation. Even a naturally gregarious man needed time alone. Even a man as much at home with his destiny as the successful head of a big school found some strain in meetings such as the one which had just gone so successfully. And there were preparations to make for the next school day, which would begin in another eleven hours.

  Logan’s was the last car to leave the car park. He walked out serenely to it in the warm darkness of early autumn, sniffing the air appreciatively in unaccustomed isolation. Usually there was the sound of childish voices all around this part of the school. He eased his Rover 75 past the caretaker’s house and drove unhurriedly and contentedly through the school gates and into the wider world outside the one he controlled.

  He did not see the other car which came from beneath the trees of the cul de sac near the school gates. It followed him at a discreet distance when he turned on to the main road, its attendance marked by no more than the twin beams of dipped headlights, a good eighty yards behind him.

  The last thing Peter Logan was thinking about was murder.

  Two

  They met on Mondays. Each of them felt a little easier arriving at the house in autumn, as the evenings drew in and night came earlier. You did not want to be seen attending such gatherings in the daylight. Next month, at the end of October, the hour would have gone back, and they would bring the times of their meetings forward. Somehow winter seemed to most of them the most appropriate season for these exchanges.

  All of them were men, and one or two of them looked seedy as well as shifty as they arrived. These were the kind of people you would look back at when you had passed them, to check that they were not up to something; they had a naturally furtive air about them, and behaved as if they had long since recognized the impossibility of appearing respectable. They wore clothes which were not just shabby but dirty as well, and their hair was lank and unkempt.

  But these few were the exception. For the most part, the members of the group who assembled at the semi-detached house in the quiet suburbs of Cheltenham were dressed neatly, even expensively, and both their clothes and their b
earing were respectable to the point of anonymity. This was an activity where you cultivated anonymity, as the best defence against discovery.

  None of them stood for long at the door of the house. Not one of them rang the bell and waited for admission. The door was not quite closed, and each of them as they arrived pushed at its paint-blistered surface and moved softly inside, before carefully restoring the door to its previous position, ready for the next quiet entry. Low-key movement and an awareness of the need to frustrate the curious world around them came naturally to each member of this group. When you were breaking the law, it behoved everyone to be careful.

  Inside the house, with the protection of solid walls about them, people gradually became more relaxed. The conversation flowed a little more easily as the cheap wine encouraged it. But the atmosphere was never lively, and the decibel level never rose above a quiet hum. Even as they sipped the wine and talked to their fellows, many of the men who met like this felt an unvoiced contempt for their companions. It was an emotion which was only surpassed by the deeper contempt they felt for themselves.

  Not all of them, however. Some of them had gone beyond that stage to something more reckless, a defiant proclamation of their strangeness which brought them near to something like elation.

  These were the men who produced the video cassettes and outlined their contents with pride and excitement. There was a heavy silence, then a tense, suppressed animation among the group as the videos were slipped into the player. Then came a sigh of collective satisfaction as the wide eyes of the children looked at the camera and the entertainment began.

  None of the men looked at each other as the showing proceeded. The sounds in the dimly lit room were confined to the occasional involuntary groan of pleasure.

  Even when the single light in the middle of the room went on at the end of the showings, there was not much conversation. This was a diverse group of men; they had little in common except their perversion, and words did not flow easily from many of them.