[Lambert and Hook 21] - A Good Walk Spoiled Page 5

  Bert Hook said, ‘Chief Superintendent Lambert will be overseeing our inquiries, Mr Cullis. How many people here have you told about what happened to you last Thursday night?’

  ‘None. The first thing your uniformed people said was that I should keep this to myself.’ Richard didn’t add that he didn’t want his staff wondering just why he had been in that particular pub at that particular time.

  ‘I understand that you are in charge of research and development but do not work in the laboratories yourself. Can you give us the name of one of your senior people who has been here for a long time? It obviously needs to be someone in whom you have absolute trust, but we’d like to speak to a person who is in daily contact with the most recently employed laboratory staff and working alongside them every day.’

  ‘You think I don’t know my own people?’

  Hook wondered if the man was always this prickly and whether the people he directed here were happy with their boss. But perhaps it was fear which was making him touchy: he had certainly been badly shaken by his experience four days earlier. He said patiently, ‘It’s quite possible that this undercover traitor doesn’t exist, that he or she is simply a mischievous figment of your attacker’s imagination, as DI Rushton suggested. If such a person is working here, any suspect behaviour is more likely to be spotted by someone doing the same sort of work alongside him or her every day than by someone who doesn’t spend much time in the labs.’

  ‘Yes, I can see that. I’m sorry. I suppose the person you should talk to is Mrs Young. She’s been here longer than I have. As a matter of fact, Debbie Young was interviewed with me for my job eighteen months ago.’ He might as well tell them that: the woman was pretty sure to blurt it out before they’d talked to her for five minutes. He smiled. ‘Debbie’s an excellent research worker who knows the sort of work we do in the labs here better than anyone. One of her jobs is to help new research scientists we take on to find their feet here.’

  ‘She sounds ideal. We’ll see if Mrs Young has any thoughts on the matter. I trust she can be relied upon to keep this confidential?’

  ‘I’m sure she will. She’s a talented scientist and a most reliable member of our staff.’ He nodded his approval of her: if Debbie Young started complaining to them about her husband being sacked, let them think her paranoid, not him.

  Debbie Young didn’t talk to anyone about the questions the CID officers asked her, but the news that plain-clothes police had been in the place asking questions inevitably flew round the factory at lunchtime.

  By the end of the day, everyone knew that it was suspected that they had an infiltrator working among them. Rumour being the manyheaded sensationalist hydra that it is, the talk by the end of the day was of not one but several potential saboteurs working in various parts of the factory, intent on tampering with products being sold to the public rather than studying what went on during laboratory experiments. Two days later, after the CID’s discreet questioning had revealed nothing of note, the firm’s press officer had to issue a denial that any such devilish moves had ever been suspected.

  Even denials are useful media starting points during the ‘silly season’, when Parliament is in recess and many people are on holiday. The national and local press reminded the public of the more extreme crimes undertaken by animal rights fanatics, of research scientists being physically attacked and an innocent woman’s remains being removed from her grave merely because of a supposed connection with laboratory experiments. The secretary of the animal rights organization, All God’s Creatures, refused to comment on the attack in Gloucester, but added the smug generalization that her members were ‘committed to fighting the exploitation of animals wherever it occurred and with whatever weapons present themselves’. The company’s shares lost ten per cent on the stock market, then began to edge back up as the scare disappeared from newspapers and television.

  Exactly two weeks after she had talked with Richard Cullis in the laboratory, Priscilla Godwin again stayed behind to write up the results of her day’s work. It was nothing to do with Richard, she told herself. She merely liked to have the place to herself for quiet concentration.

  When he walked through the deserted lab and came into her office it was ten to seven: no more than ten minutes later than the time of their brief conversation a fortnight earlier. She couldn’t help wondering if he as well as she had been conscious of the day and the time. Cullis had that knowing, humorous look about his features as he said, ‘The dedicated scientist pushing back the frontiers of knowledge, working on into the night again.’

  ‘Or the woman who isn’t efficient enough to record her dull findings when there is noise and activity going on around her.’ She shouldn’t do herself down like that: she could hear her mother’s voice ringing in her ears.

  ‘And still too busy with other things after work to come for a drink with her boss, no doubt.’ He gave her the roguish smile which showed her that he didn’t take either his own or her words very seriously, that he had other and more exciting fish to fry. He did it well, perhaps because it was such a habit with him that he was scarcely conscious of it now.

  ‘I wouldn’t mind a drink, Richard.’ With her daring use of his first name, Priscilla felt a blush rising and was furious with herself. People with her dark hair and eyes and pale complexion shouldn’t suffer from the condition; educated, experienced thirty-year-old women should in any case have moved beyond such things years ago. Nevertheless, she was sure that she felt her cheeks reddening. She made a belated attempt to recover her ground, to show that she and not he was controlling the situation. ‘Not tonight, though. I think I told you that I go round to my mother’s on Tuesdays. She’ll have a meal ready for me. I could do tomorrow or Thursday, though.’

  ‘Let’s make it Thursday, shall we? And why not let me treat you to a modest meal?’

  ‘Oh, let’s not do anything like that, anything as formal as a meal.’ He might be attractive, but he had a wife tucked away somewhere. Priscilla was playing with fire and she didn’t quite know why she was doing it. Yet she didn’t want to put him off. ‘We could always grab a sandwich or a snack in the pub, if we felt like it.’

  ‘Very well. The lady shall call the shots. The modem lady shall as usual be in charge. What time?’

  ‘Seven thirty?’

  ‘Seven thirty it shall be. Give me your address and I’ll pick you up at exactly that hour.’ He made a mock bow to show his subservience to her wishes. And then, with another smile which promised much to come if she wished it, he was gone.

  Five

  Whilst Richard Cullis was making his play for Priscilla Godwin in the laboratory, Jason Dimmock was playing golf with his wife. That was an unusual event in itself, but there was an even more remarkable accompaniment to the activity. He was being patient with her shortcomings at the game.

  ‘Just keep your head still and take the club-head through the ball,’ was all he said after Lucy Dimmock’s third topped iron in a row sent the ball trundling hopelessly along the ground in front of them.

  Lucy glanced at him thunderously before she stalked after her ball without a word. An experienced golfer like him must surely know that it was dangerous to offer advice to an infuriated woman with a six iron in her hand: she might miss a golf ball, but a human target offered much greater scope. She sighed, then took another, deeper breath, trying to control her raging emotions. He was doing his best to be friendly, so she must bear that in mind. The fact that he was so good at this game no doubt made it more difficult for him to understand the frustrations of lesser players.

  As if they wished to reward such charitable thoughts, the capricious gods of golf now smiled upon her. She took no great trouble over her next stroke because she had ceased to expect success. But the very middle of her club-face descended upon the back of that elusive white ball, seemingly from the perfect angle, because the ball soared high and straight, hung for a delicious moment against the blue of the evening summer sky, and then descended gracefully t
owards the short grass of the fairway.

  It was going on to the green! The ball bounced once, twice, three times, and then rolled obligingly to within six feet of the distant flag. Lucy stood very still and tried to look as if she had expected this amazing thing.

  ‘Good shot! Wonderful shot!’ said her husband. Jason could not keep the incredulity out of his voice, but Lucy did not mind that. She smiled a modest, superior smile and walked after her ball with head held high and shoulders back. It was a little late in the day for skylarks, but she was sure that some sort of birdsong was ringing through her head.

  It didn’t last, of course. There were some bad shots on the remaining three holes, and desire still outstripped performance by a good deal. But the confidence of that stroke she had hit on the fifteenth was still with her. If she could not quite replicate the beauty and perfection of that moment, there were still several quite respectable strokes, which ensured that the ball rose into the air and stayed there for a second or two.

  Jason seemed genuinely pleased with her, even though he appeared to think it was his tuition which had prompted the improvement: men were gullible creatures, and nowhere more so than on the golf course. He even managed to convince her that her efforts pleased him more than his own game, which as usual was highly competent. Yet both of them were conscious that he was on his best behaviour: the last time they had been out in the fresh air together was when they had had that row on May Hill, and neither of them wanted a repeat of that.

  ‘You can sleep with me tonight if you get down in two putts!’ he called to her when she reached the edge of the eighteenth green. She looked hastily towards the clubhouse to make sure that no one had overheard, then putted too hastily, so that the ball pulled up seven feet short of the hole. ‘Give you that one!’ he said with a mischievous grin. He picked up her ball and gave her the ritual small kiss with which mixed golf is expected to conclude, holding her a fraction longer than was necessary, to show his real affection.

  Lucy hugged him back, wanting to reciprocate, to tell him that she only wanted him, that he should put that insane, dangerous jealousy behind him because there was no reason for it. But she found that she was too careful of her actions to behave spontaneously. She was glad when they went to the car and began the mundane distractions of stowing clubs and shoes away.

  When they sat with a drink on the veranda in the warmth of the setting sun, Lucy was happy to let Jason purr on about the improvement in her golf, because she could not trust herself to lead him into any more meaningful thoughts about their relationship. She wanted to reassure him that the affair which so troubled him was no more than history now, but she was frightened of any subject which might trigger his jealousy.

  She was quite glad when the golf-club steward asked him to go to the phone.

  The steward spoke discreetly to Jason in the hall. This was a situation he had handled many times before. ‘It’s Mr Cullis’s wife. Apparently he told her that he was playing golf here this evening. I thought that as a colleague you might be able to handle it.’

  In other words, lie to save a friend’s skin. Tell his wife that something had cropped up at work, that Cullis had had to entertain an unexpected and important visitor. Even say that you’ve seen him and he’s still out at the far end of the course, if you can’t think of anything better. Jason Dimmock smiled knowingly at the steward, said, ‘All right, Chris, I’ll handle this,’ and watched the white-coated man depart gratefully to resume his position behind the bar.

  Then he went across to the members’ phone and picked up the instrument. ‘Mrs Cullis? Oh, hello, Alison, it’s Jason Dimmock here. I’m afraid there must have been some misunderstanding. Richard certainly isn’t at the golf club and hasn’t been here.’

  Take that, bastard.

  ‘You don’t normally have Thursdays off.’

  Bert Hook’s sons were being curious when he least wanted them to be, as is the habit of children everywhere. ‘In CID, you take time off when you can, build it round the work you’re doing.’

  Fourteen-year-old Jack was appropriately sceptical. ‘I think you’re still suffering from that straight drive of mine you tried to stop in the nets. I thought you were limping when you came in yesterday. You’re not going to see the doctor, are you?’

  ‘Of course I’m not. And don’t you get above yourself, young Jack. I’ll whistle one through and take your middle stump out, when I’m fully fit.’

  ‘Mr Dalton says dads who can’t accept their age are one of the banes of this country. They keep pulling muscles and providing work for doctors and osteopaths.’

  Bert glared at his son, wondering how one small frame could absorb so much food so quickly and stay so lean. He said heavily, ‘Mr Dalton is twenty-three-years-old and a PE teacher. You should not look to such people for pronouncements on the mysteries of life.’

  ‘Shall I tell him that, Dad?’

  Eleanor Hook removed the smile from her face as she set more toast upon the table. ‘Get on with your breakfast, boys. Don’t forget your dad won’t be dropping you off: you’ve to catch the school bus today.’

  They’d been told this the night before, but twelve-year-olds tend to forget such details in their struggles with the greater themes of school and life. Luke finished the Shredded Wheat which the advert told him would make him as strong as Sir Ian Botham and said, ‘What are you doing today, then, Dad?’

  His mother said briskly, ‘Ask no questions and you’ll be told no lies, young Luke. Your dad’s got a day off, that’s all. Have you got everything you need for school in your bag?’

  ‘Not suspended, are you, Dad? Not being paid in kind for turning a blind eye to dubious ladies?’

  The papers had yesterday made delighted reports of a copper in Birmingham who had turned a blind eye to prostitution in return for personal favours rendered to him by the offending ladies of the night. Eleanor Hook said sternly, ‘Get on with your breakfast and keep an eye on the time, Luke.’

  ‘What’s payment in kind, Dad?’ Luke turned wide and innocent blue eyes upon a father struggling with his muesli.

  ‘I’m taking a day off. Can’t I do that without suffering the Spanish Inquisition?’

  ‘No one expects the Spanish Inquisition!’ said Jack, throwing back at his father one of his own favourite catchphrases. He took a large bite of toast and said calmly to his younger brother, ‘I expect he’s taking time off to work for some exam. It will be something to do with his Open University degree.’

  It was one of those occasional totally accurate, totally unexpected hits which are among the many disconcerting aspects of teenagedom. Before she could prevent herself, his mother said, ‘How did you know that?’ Then, aghast at her gaffe, she added uselessly, ‘It won’t be a proper examination, though, just a practice laid on by his tutor: the real exams are later in the year.’

  ‘It’s true, then.’ Jack nodded with immense satisfaction, then demolished the rest of his toast whilst the other three at the table watched him open-mouthed.

  Bert recovered first and snapped, ‘Don’t talk with your mouth full! How did you know that?’

  ‘That’s what they call a non sequitur, Dad. I know that because I did one at school and Mr Lewis said I must produce reasoned chains of argument. But I expect you’ve covered that with the Open University.’ Jack took a leisured drink from his mug of tea, enjoying the incomprehension around the breakfast table. ‘If you want to know how I guessed you were taking study time for your exam, I played a hunch. I expect you do that all the time at work, when you’re being a detective.’

  ‘We do nothing of the sort. Mr Lambert is a man for facts and logical deductions, not hunches.’

  Jack nodded thoughtfully. ‘How’s this for a logical deduction, then? A parent who normally downs his food like a hungry horse is pushing his muesli around his bowl as if he can’t raise an appetite. Ergo, he is nervous. Ergo, he has something to be nervous about. Not many things put Dad off his fodder, so it must be something out of
the ordinary. One of the few things he does which are not ordinary is to take occasional exams, which we all know make him nervous. Ergo, it might be the prospect of an exam which is making him want to throw up this morning.’ He beamed round the table, enjoying the effects of his little speech.

  ‘What’s ergo?’ said Luke.

  ‘You’ve got five minutes to get out for that bus!’ said his father.

  Ben Paddon watched the way the CID officers went about their investigation with interest. He had never seen anything like this before and he prided himself on being open to new experiences. A man and a woman in plain clothes, who someone had told him at lunch were a detective sergeant and a detective constable, were working their way methodically through the people who like him worked exclusively in the labs. They seemed to have begun with the people who had most recently arrived. Ben waited his turn with interest.

  Ben was twenty-seven now. He had worked in the laboratories at Gloucester Chemicals for two years; it was his first job doing pure scientific research and he had no intention of moving on. He knew he was not the kind of figure who normally impressed at a first meeting, as you had to do in an interview. He was a gangling six feet five, with legs which were a little too long even for such a frame and limbs which did not seem well coordinated. Because of this unpromising physical equipment, people were often surprised by his sporting skills: he had a good eye and used his reach well as a batsman on village greens, and he showed an adept touch where opponents expected him to be cack-handed on tennis courts.

  Sport, however, had not recently played a large part in Ben Paddon’s life and he felt that it was no longer a major interest for him.

  It took the police officers some time to work their way back to those people who had been here as long as him. Ben had the idea that they were not treating this too seriously now. They seemed to him to be rather going through the motions: he wondered if they had isolated a suspect among the people they had talked to earlier, or whether they had merely decided that the people who had been here for as long as two years were not real suspects.