[Lambert and Hook 20] - Something Is Rotten Read online

‘We find it useful sometimes, yes. It may be a cliché, but at least people usually know what you mean when you use clichés. How long had you known Terry Logan, Mr Carey?’

  Michael kept his smile for a second or so: Mr Branagh would not be shaken by this abruptness. ‘I’ve only known him through our mutual love of the theatre. We were in two or three productions together, between seven and four years ago. I hadn’t seen him for almost four years. About two months ago, he got in touch with me about his production of Hamlet.’

  ‘That is admirably precise.’

  ‘Thank you. I thought so myself, as a matter of fact. I’d anticipated that you would ask me the question, you see.’

  ‘How well did you know him?’

  ‘Not well at all. As I say, we had a mutual love of the theatre, and enjoyed chatting about any production we’d both seen. We hadn’t much else in common.’

  ‘By all accounts, including that of DS Hook here, you’re a very talented performer. Mr Logan has directed several productions in the last four years. Didn’t you wish to be involved in any of them?’

  ‘I was working in a different area of the country until recently. It was my loss not to be involved: Terry is - was - a very gifted director. Imaginative, but practical as well; that’s not a common combination.’

  ‘So you had no hesitation in joining him when he asked you to be in Hamlet. ’ Michael smiled his widest, most winning smile and gave a little, humorous, self-deprecating shrug of his shoulders. He enjoyed that: only a man who was going to be a professional could act with his shoulders. ‘He offered me the Prince. Even in an amateur production, I wasn’t going to refuse that, was I? A man can spend a whole lifetime without getting the chance to play the gloomy Dane. Many fine actors have never had that opportunity.’

  Lambert glanced through the window at the drift of yellow leaves at the end of the lawn. ‘What time would you say that you got back here last night?’

  ‘About twenty past nine, I should think. But no one saw me. Even my landlords, who occupy the main house next door, are away at the moment.’ He decided to tease them a little. ‘In any case, I could always have stolen out, driven back to Mettlesham, and waited my moment to kill Terry as he came out of the hall, couldn’t I? I’ve no witnesses to corroborate the account of my virtuous mediocrity.’

  ‘If you did do what you suggest and went out again, there’s every possibility that someone in the area will have spotted a black Fiesta. House to house inquiries in a rural area are very dull for the officers involved, but they throw up the occasional fact which is quite vital to an arrest and an eventual court case. Who do you think killed Mr Logan?’

  As sudden as a bolt from a crossbow. That was probably one of their techniques. Michael was pleased to find himself so unruffled by it. ‘One of the cast, I should think, wouldn’t you? Some of them knew him far more intimately than I did. And where there is intimacy, there is often passion, isn’t there? And passion can lead to violence. Sorry, I’m just thinking aloud, not teaching Granny to suck eggs. Of course, other people as well as our cast probably knew where he was going to be on Wednesday night. Someone I don’t even know, from another area of his life entirely, could have been waiting for him to come out of the hall after everyone had left.’

  ‘That is a possibility that will be thoroughly investigated. I notice that you have not answered my question, except in general terms. Is there a member of your cast who you think might have killed your director?’

  ‘I don’t know, and I’ve more sense than to speculate, in something as serious as this. I think you’ll find that some of them have previous close associations with the victim.’ He gave them a small, helpful smile, enjoying the way he had selected his words as he played the helpful, rather naive young man.

  He was good in the role, very good. But Lambert’s experience told him that there was more here than was being offered to them. He found himself enjoying the contest with this intelligent, hyperactive young brain, happy that he was setting his own troubles aside as he concentrated upon their exchanges. ‘No doubt you chose that word “association” carefully. What exactly did you mean by it?’

  Michael Carey grinned, ruefully and winningly, as if some small ploy had been rumbled. ‘I intended it to cover a variety of relationships. From that enjoyed by Becky Clegg and Jack Dawes when they were pupils of Terry’s at school to the more mature connections undertaken with Logan by the admirable Maggie Dalrymple and Ian Proudfoot in quite different contexts. There, I said I wouldn’t speculate, and now I have, haven’t I?’

  He was not just good but very good, Lambert decided. His fresh face merely looked a little embarrassed. It was impossible to tell whether he was merely stating what he thought was obvious or whether he was deliberately implanting ideas of deeper and more sinister connections between Logan and the two older people mentioned. ‘You’re saying that Mrs Dalrymple and Mr Logan had some sort of liaison outside amateur dramatics?’

  ‘Oh, I’m saying nothing of the sort, Chief Superintendent. I’ve heard a few rumours, that’s all. No more than that. Don’t forget I’ve been out of this area for several years.’

  He was playing with them, and they could do little about it. He was a member of the public voluntarily helping them with their inquiries, not a man who had been arrested and taken in to custody for a grilling. Lambert glanced at Hook, who said, ‘How close was your own association with the deceased, Michael?’

  He noticed that the man who had corrected him about Autolycus had now picked up his own word ‘association’ and thrown it back at him, with a hint of irony in his Herefordshire tones. He was brighter than a DS had any right to be, this man.

  ‘It didn’t go beyond the theatre,’ Michael said cautiously, ‘I was grateful for the chances and the training he’d given me in the past. I was even more grateful when he gave me the chance to play the lead in Hamlet.’

  ‘And you’re going off to RADA next summer.’

  ‘If all goes to plan, yes. I’ve had the interview and been accepted.’

  ‘Did you use Mr Logan as a referee when you applied to RADA?’

  Michael had thought carefully about what they would ask him, but this was a question he hadn’t anticipated. ‘No, I didn’t.’

  ‘It would have been natural to do so, wouldn’t it? Terry clearly had a high regard for your abilities, and I understand he has both a considerable reputation and contacts within the world of drama.’

  ‘I had other referees. I hadn’t been in touch with Terry for several years.’ Michael gave them a smile: show them you’re relaxed; don’t let them see that you’re thinking on your feet, picking your way prudently through this. Think of this man Hook as Claudius, not Polonius, because he’s clever and potentially very dangerous to you. ‘Terry had known me as a callow young man. I wanted people who would speak of me as I am now, more mature as an actor and a person than I was four years ago.’ He gave them a modest, deprecating smile, slipping securely back into the part he wanted to play.

  Lambert was irritated by the control of this handsome young man, by the sense that he was playing a game with them. He said brusquely, ‘It’s a pity that you haven’t any witness to your movements after you left Mettlesham Village Hall on Wednesday night.’

  Michael Carey caught his opponent’s pique and rode upon it. ‘From your point of view as well as mine, I expect. It would be nice for you as well as me if you could eliminate me from your inquiries.’ He managed to produce the phrase with just the slightest hint of contempt for their mundane affairs. ‘But that is often the way with the innocent. It may be inconvenient, but they don’t see the need for alibis.’

  Lambert was far too professional to allow his dislike for this brilliant young creature to affect his conduct. He said evenly, ‘We shall almost certainly need to speak to you again, Mr Carey. If you propose to leave the area, you must let us know. And if anything—’

  ‘I shall be away this weekend, actually. Only in Warwick. Do let me know if there are any excit
ing developments. I haven’t played in melodrama and I should hate to miss any new experience.’

  He gave them an address and a telephone number, watched Bert Hook write them down in his clear, round hand, then saw them off the premises with the open and friendly smile which betokened his complete innocence.

  Michael Carey stared thoughtfully at the quiet autumn scene outside, with its myriad hues of orange and yellow in the trees, and then went indoors and picked up his mobile.

  ‘I’ll be with you this evening as planned. I’ve got some tales to tell which will engage even your erratic attention.’

  The psychiatrist told himself not to look at his watch. He was a busy man and this was routine stuff, as far as he was concerned. He had more urgent and tragic cases to deal with and he was anxious to be away. But he reminded himself that for the white-faced couple in front of him this was a unique experience.

  ‘Your daughter is in no physical danger, Mr and Mrs Lambert. I have talked to her myself and I do not think she is clinically depressed. I have asked one of my colleagues to see her later today, but I am sure that he will confirm this. I anticipate that we shall keep her here for another few hours and then send her home.’

  ‘You don’t think she is clinically depressed? After what happened last night?’ Christine Lambert knew that she should be relieved, but her first reaction was outrage that her daughter’s trauma should be downgraded like this. It must surely be more serious than this awkward man in the white cotton jacket was saying it was.

  The psychiatrist dropped into his more urbane mode. He used this a lot; sometimes he felt he spent half his life reassuring people. ‘That wasn’t a suicide attempt last night. It wasn’t even what people like to call a cry for help.’ He scratched his brain hard and was delighted when he came up with a name. ‘Jacky drank rather a lot and became confused, that’s all.’

  Christine glanced furiously sideways at her husband, who was nodding a little guiltily amidst his relief. Turning her eyes back to the doctor, she said, ‘But she took an overdose.’

  ‘No, she didn’t, Mrs Lambert. She was very drunk and probably not very conscious of what she was doing. She took three sleeping pills. The combination of barbiturates and alcohol made her insensible for a short time. It is not a combination which we would advise for anyone; on the contrary, we would absolutely forbid it. But it was not fatal, nor ever likely to be in the case of a healthy young woman. And it was certainly not an attempt at suicide.’

  An uncharacteristically embarrassed John Lambert spoke for the first time. ‘May we see her?’

  ‘Yes. She may well be asleep, but there’s no reason why you shouldn’t wake her if she is.’ Jacky wasn’t asleep. Her small, white, almost childish face turned towards them as they went into the ward. Her mother took the blue-veined hand she slid from beneath the bedclothes and said foolishly, ‘You look very tired, love.’

  ‘They pumped me out.’ She looked like a girl filled with the importance of an experience which they had never had. She transferred her attention to the lined face beyond her mother’s shoulder. ‘I’m sorry, Dad.’

  Christine said, ‘It’s not your fault. Your dad should never have plied you with whisky like that.’

  ‘It was me, Mum. I kept asking for it. And then later on I took the pills. I didn’t know what the effects would be.’

  ‘All the same, he should have had more sense than to push spirits at an inexperienced young—’

  ‘I’m not inexperienced, Mum. And I’m not as young as you think I am. But I’m what Dad used to call a bit of a twerp, years ago.’ All three of them giggled a little at the word, letting out a little of their tension. Then Jacky said, ‘Anyway, I think I’m going to be all right, now.’

  They took that assurance away with them, revolved it in their minds as the old car slowly warmed up on their way home. Christine was so preoccupied with it that she forgot to berate John over his foolishness with the whisky bottle.

  Fifteen

  Andrew Dalrymple chose to see the CID men at his works. No doubt the office staff would gossip a little about the detective visitors, but they were full of excitement already about the murder at Mettlesham and the boss’s wife’s proximity to it. The fact that Margaret Dalrymple was a local luminary, a councillor and a JP, meant that the press had already made her the most prominent figure among the cast of the ill-starred Hamlet.

  The journalists managed to convey that there was something faintly louche about a Conservative councillor involving herself in amateur dramatics, especially as a randy and adulterous Shakespearean queen. Now local radio and a salivating local press could imply, however obliquely, that Councillor Margaret Dalrymple, JP, was a suspect in a murder inquiry.

  Aware of watching eyes in the building behind them, Andrew greeted Lambert and Hook like old friends in the car park of the small plastics factory. Let them see that you had nothing to hide, that you positively welcomed detectives into your life. Let both your staff and the CID see that you were anxious to clear up this shocking business as quickly as possible.

  ‘How is the investigation going?’ he said earnestly, as he led the two men through to his office and instructed his secretary rather imperiously that they should not be disturbed.

  ‘It’s progressing,’ said Lambert enigmatically, and refused the offer of coffee. ‘We now know more about all members of the cast than we did yesterday morning. Including many things which they chose to conceal from us initially.’

  Andrew nodded, flicking a smile on to his rather florid face, and delivered the sentiments he had rehearsed in the minutes before they arrived. ‘I’m glad to hear it. The sooner this mystery is solved the better. Particularly for my wife, who is suffering attention from the media at a time when she is naturally very distressed.’

  ‘I see. Well, we would be nearer to a solution if you hadn’t withheld information from us yesterday.’

  Andrew felt himself flushing; he wondered how much of that would be apparent to this calmly challenging man with the lined, experienced face and the all-seeing grey eyes. He was the head of a prosperous business. It was a long time since anyone had challenged him directly, insultingly, like this, and he found himself unprepared for it. He sensed a blunt denial would only increase his problems. ‘My wife has a lot to lose. You can’t blame us for trying to avoid embarrassment.’

  ‘I made it clear to you that in a murder inquiry there can be no secrets. You chose to ignore that. You have a chance to retrieve things now.’ Lambert looked at the clearly distressed man behind the big desk. ‘Wherever possible, confidences are respected. Unless it proves to be evidence in a murder trial, what you say to us here need go no further.’

  Andrew Dalrymple stared hard at the leather panel in the centre of his desk, at the art deco pen set with its glass ink containers which he never used. He could see every facet of the cut glass and the silver decoration, every irrelevant detail he had never noticed before, as he forced himself into the most painful words he had ever uttered. ‘Logan had an affair with Maggie. Five years ago. About that, anyway.’ He still wasn’t sure how long it had been going on when he found out about it.

  Lambert said quietly, ‘How long did this affair last?’

  ‘About a year.’ He didn’t want these dispassionate, unfeeling men accusing him of inaccuracy, did he? Andrew studied the empty surface of his desk still, as if it was suddenly of intense interest to him.

  ‘How deep was the relationship between them?’

  Now at last he did look up into the man’s face and stared at it with hate. ‘How the hell do I know? What sort of question is that?’

  ‘An important one, Mr Dalrymple. I’m sorry I have to ask it, but it’s necessary, I assure you. A passing fling may have little significance for either party. A deeper relationship may leave passions which are still very strong, even five years later.’

  ‘You’re saying that my wife may have killed Logan.’

  ‘I’m saying that we need to know the facts about how
she felt about him at the time of his death. Just as we need to know similar facts about anyone else who was involved with Terry Logan.’

  ‘Oh, there were plenty of those!’ His snarling contempt was a relief to him. He wished there were more phrases he could fling at them, to release his pain and frustration. ‘Logan had no loyalty to anyone, least of all Maggie. I told her that, but she wouldn’t listen to me!’

  ‘Mr Logan was a single man. We’ve already heard that he had many liaisons.’

  ‘That’s what you call them, is it? Well, you’re right. Anyone who took his fancy got his full attention, for the time being at least. And he didn’t care whether they wore trousers or skirts. Oh, he was very versatile, was Mr bloody Logan!’

  Lambert studied the suffering man dispassionately, then gave the slightest of nods to Hook, who took up the questioning. Bert said quietly, almost apologetically, ‘We have to take these things into account, Andrew. You must see that this gives Maggie a possible motive for murder.’

  ‘She didn’t kill him.’

  The denial was automatic, unthinking. ‘You’re sure that this affair was all over?’ Hook asked. ‘Sure that the passions which no doubt went with it and the resentment at the way that it ended are now just history?’

  ‘How do you know how it ended?’

  Bert smiled at him, a psychotherapist encouraging talk and the release it would bring. ‘We don’t know, Andrew. And we don’t need all the detail, but we do need to be assured that—’

  ‘I’ll tell you how it ended. He was going off to meet someone else when he left her. Not even a woman, but a mere boy! Oh, I don’t mean he was under age - our Mr Logan was far too fly for that. But he was two-timing Maggie with a young man of nineteen or twenty. He said he needed innocence in his life as well as his Cleopatra, when she caught him out and challenged him! He laughed at her, told her she should try tipping the velvet with her own sex once in a while.’

  Andrew found it a relief, once he had started. He had thought he would never be able to humiliate himself like this, but now he had difficulty in closing his mouth on the bile he wished to pour from it. He fought to control himself, knowing that this kind of self-exposure was dangerous with these men, that even this sergeant who seemed so sympathetic was trying to lure from him things which he might later regret.