Do you want to get done for speeding, next? the voice in Harry’s head asked him as he drove through the town, towards the pub. He braked dangerously, and put on his lights, as fog began to blur the edges of the buildings.
Do you think she did it, or what? No, of course he didn’t think she’d done it. She looked as if she hadn’t slept since it had happened. Anyway, the grapevine said it had been professional. Terrorist style. No, she had nothing to do with it. But Amblesea might have. He hadn’t finished with Amblesea, or Annie, come to that. But he’d let her stew for the night, and wonder what he was going to do. She might know something about Culver that she was keeping quiet about, after all. But no, she didn’t do it.
Then why were you needling her all the time? What was it all about? She made him angry, Harry thought, taking out his cigarettes and flipping open the top. He pushed a cigarette into his mouth, switched hands on the steering wheel, and conducted a search of his clothing for his lighter. Culver was too good to be true, and those letters proved that Annie Maddox had loved him with an accommodating, forgiving love that made Harry angry.
Maybe, the voice persisted. But that’s no reason for you to tear into her like that.
Harry swore viciously as his lighter failed to turn up. He could see it. He ‘had a picture’, as an Italian girlfriend of his used to say. A picture of his lighter sitting just to the right of the fruit bowl on Annie Maddox’s coffee table.
Psychological? the voice in his head asked smugly, as he searched for somewhere to turn the car round.
‘Mr Lambert?’ The receptionist looked warily at Harry as he came into the foyer.
‘Is she in?’ he asked, pointing at the door.
‘If you mean Mrs Maddox,’ she said coldly, ‘she isn’t available.’ Her voice still held the South London accent that was all but gone from Annie’s.
He smiled at her. ‘Only, I left my cigarette lighter in her sitting room,’ he said.
She slid open her drawer and picked out a slim gold lighter. ‘Is this the one?’ she asked.
‘That’s it!’ He smiled again.
She was a tall, well-built blonde. Harry liked tall, well-built blondes.
‘Do you smoke?’ he asked, offering her his packet.
‘No, thank you.’
‘Do you mind if I—?’
‘Be my guest.’
Harry leant on the desk. ‘That’s better,’ he said, exhaling smoke with the words. ‘I can think now. I can’t think without a cigarette.’
She pushed the ashtray towards him.
‘Pity she’s not here,’ he said. ‘There was just one more thing I wanted to ask her.’
‘Perhaps I can help,’ she said.
‘Well – we’re making enquiries about Mr Gerald Culver. You know, the MP. We understand that he was an occasional visitor here.’
She shook her head.
Harry smiled. ‘Is there a Mr Maddox?’ he asked.
‘He died,’ she said.
‘Did he?’ A little whistle escaped Harry. ‘She’s none too lucky, by the sound of things.’ He flicked idly through one of the local newspapers piled up on the desk. DRIVER’S WIDOW HITS OUT, a headline read. ‘How did her husband die?’
‘He just suddenly died,’ she said. ‘Brain haemorrhage, they said.’
Thirty-eight-year-old widow Anne Fowler yesterday hit out at what she called the ‘couldn’t-care-less’ public, the article began.
‘How old was he?’ Harry asked.
‘Thirty-six.’
He let the page fall shut. ‘Now, that’s what I call unlucky,’ he said. ‘When did it happen?’
‘Just over three years ago. Not long before she came here.’
‘Can I have your name?’ Harry asked.
‘Linda Benson,’ she said.
Harry crushed out his cigarette. ‘How long have you been here, Linda?’
‘Today?’
‘No,’ Harry said, with exaggerated patience. ‘How long have you worked here?’
‘Eighteen months,’ she said.
‘Let’s try again, then, pet. I understand that Mr Culver used to be a fairly regular visitor here.’
‘Was he?’
‘Yes,’ Harry said, through his teeth. ‘I believe he visited your Mrs Maddox.’
‘Did he?’
‘I would like to ask you some questions about his visits here.’
Linda looked quite baffled. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I know nothing about any visits.’
‘I don’t know who you think you’re helping with your refusal to co-operate,’ Harry said heavily.
Linda sighed. ‘And I don’t know who you think you’re kidding,’ she replied.
He grinned. ‘Myself,’ he said, disarmingly.
Linda turned as the corridor door opened, and Annie Maddox appeared. ‘It’s Mr Lambert,’ she said.
‘Yes, so it is. I thought you’d left, Mr Lambert.’
‘Came back for this,’ he said, holding his cigarette lighter between his forefinger and thumb.
‘I’m so glad you’ve got it back. Now perhaps you’d like to leave?’
He dropped the lighter into his pocket. ‘I’d rather have another word with you, if I may.’
She looked quickly at Linda, then back at Harry. ‘Come in,’ she said, holding the door.
He followed her down the corridor, back into her sitting room. ‘I seem to have got off on the wrong foot with you,’ he said, as Annie closed the door. ‘I usually find I hit it off with women, too.’
‘Do you?’ Annie asked coldly.
‘Not this time,’ said Harry. ‘Obviously.’
‘Is this what you wanted to say?’
‘No – I was just—’
‘Then please say whatever it is quickly. I’m extremely busy.’
A slow smile spread across Harry’s face. ‘Oh, yes. There must be at least half a dozen people here.’ His eye fell on a snapshot stuck behind a vase. Gerald Culver smiled confidently at him.
‘This is the way your boyfriend liked the place, isn’t it?’ Harry asked, holding up the photo. ‘Half empty? Is that why he didn’t come in the summer?’
She reacted to his bit of deduction, and he felt as pleased as a schoolboy. ‘Please put that back,’ was all she actually said.
‘The letters,’ he said, although she had not asked for an explanation of his uncanny powers. ‘They were only written in summer.’ He put the photo back as requested, and turned to face her. ‘Close season, of course.’
Annie walked to the door, and opened it. ‘Goodbye, Mr Lambert,’ she said.
Harry felt very angry when he looked at Culver’s smiling face, then at Annie Maddox and the eyes that burned with too little sleep. He strode across, and pushed the door shut with a bang. ‘It’s me or my ex-colleagues in the Murder Squad,’ he said. ‘Which do you prefer?’
Annie didn’t speak, but she walked away from the door.
‘You said something earlier,’ Harry said. ‘About having to work when he was here.’ He took out his cigarettes. ‘What did he normally do if that happened?’
‘It didn’t normally happen. But if it did, he didn’t do anything much. He’d have a drink, or a game of snooker, or something.’
‘He came here to play snooker, did he?’
Annie eyed him impassively. ‘That’s probably closer to the mark than you think,’ she said, her face expressionless.
Harry stood up, made to walk to the door, then stopped as though he had just remembered something. ‘Oh yes,’ he said, turning. ‘Mrs Culver said to let you have these.’
He drew the bundle of letters from his pocket. ‘I almost forgot,’ he said, putting them down on the coffee table. ‘And this.’
The key dropped on to the letters, and she looked up quickly.
‘It does belong to you, I take it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Does it open this door?’ he asked, and held up his hands before she said it again. ‘I know. Mind my own business. But it occurs to me that if he had a key to your place, maybe you had one to his.’
‘I didn’t.’
No, thought Harry. You wouldn’t.
The letters, no longer private, lay on the table, and she had made no move to touch them. She was naked in those letters, Harry thought angrily, and the bloody fool hadn’t even had the sense to get rid of them.
‘Any chance of calling off your watchdog?’ he asked.
Annie affected not to understand.
‘Linda,’ he said. ‘You’ve got a very loyal staff.’
‘Linda’s a friend of mine,’ she said.
‘Well, I’d like to ask her some questions. She won’t answer them unless you say she can.’
Annie’s eyes remained on him as she reached over and pressed the button on the intercom.
‘Reception.’
‘Mr Lambert’s just coming along, Linda. He wants to ask you some questions.’
There was a silence, then a crisp ‘All right.’
Harry inclined his head slightly. ‘Thank you.’
‘I’m not afraid of your questions, Mr Lambert.’
‘I thought it was none of my business.’
‘Mrs Culver didn’t know Gerald as well as she thought she did,’ Annie said, opening the door. ‘Perhaps I didn’t either.’
Harry walked along to reception, and Linda turned as he opened the door.
‘What do you want to ask me?’ she said.
Harry smiled. ‘What time do you get away?’ he asked.
There was a suspicion of a smile. ‘Nine,’ she said.
‘Will you come for a drink with me?’
‘No, thank you.’ She seemed to be going to leave it at that, but then she expanded. ‘I’m meeting someone,’ she said. ‘Sorry.’
Harry leant on the desk. ‘How well did you know Culver?’ he asked.
‘Just to chat to,’ she said.
‘Did he ever meet anyone here? Business meetings, that sort of thing?’
She shook her head.
‘What happened if Annie was busy when he came?’
‘He’d pass the time with whoever was on reception, or go in for a drink or something,’ Linda said. ‘But he didn’t often come on spec.’
Harry glanced into the bar, not yet open for business.
‘What about New Year’s Eve?’ he asked. ‘Did you see him?’
‘No. Sandra was on duty when he was here.’
‘When’s she on duty again?’
‘Tonight. She takes over from me.’
The corridor door opened, and Harry unconsciously straightened up, to present as good a picture as possible to the very pretty blonde who emerged.
‘You must be Mr Lambert,’ she said, sounding so like Annie that it made Harry smile.
‘This is Christine, Annie’s daughter,’ Linda said.
‘Hello,’ Harry said. ‘Have you been warned off me?’
‘No. Mum says you’re trying to find out what happened to Gerald.’
‘More or less,’ Harry agreed, as the shutters were noisily pushed up in the bar. ‘Would you like to help me?’
She shrugged slightly. ‘Is Pete here yet?’ she asked Linda.
‘No, I haven’t seen him.’
‘Would you like a drink while you’re waiting?’ Harry asked.
‘Yes, all right.’ She glanced at Linda. ‘Tell Pete where I am when he comes,’ she said. ‘I don’t think I’ll be much use to you,’ she told Harry.
‘Never mind,’ Harry said. ‘It’s a good excuse to have a drink with you.’
She drank tonic water, as it turned out, so she didn’t even cost him much. Harry offered her a cigarette, which she took.
‘Thank God,’ he said. ‘I was beginning to think I was the only smoker left.’
‘I don’t smoke much,’ she said. ‘Pete keeps trying to make me stop.’
‘Pete’s your boyfriend?’
‘Yes.’ She looked at her watch.
‘Late?’
‘He always is. We’re not going anywhere in particular.’
‘Do you work here?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Relief work – I stand in for other people on their days off.’ She smiled. ‘So I do anything and everything.’
‘Does that mean you’re sometimes on reception?’
‘I cover for Sandra on Monday, and Linda on Thursday. And weekends twice a month.’
‘Weekends?’ Harry leant forward. ‘Saturday’s when Culver usually visited your mother, isn’t it?’
She stiffened slightly. ‘Sometimes,’ she said.
‘How did you feel about that?’
She didn’t answer, and Harry let it go.
Pete walked over to the table where Christine sat with Lambert. ‘Hi,’ he said. ‘Sorry I’m late.’
‘This is Pete,’ Christine said. ‘Only an hour or two late.’
‘Harry Lambert,’ he said. ‘Pleased to meet you. What can I get you?’
Pete warmed to him. ‘A lager,’ he said. ‘Thanks.’
‘Can I get you another?’ he asked Christine.
‘No, thanks. I’m fine.’
Pete watched him as he made his way to the bar. ‘What’s he like?’ he asked.
‘He’s quite nice,’ Christine said. ‘He used to be a policeman. Scotland Yard.’
Pete pulled a face. ‘I’ve had enough of policemen,’ he said.
‘One long cool lager,’ Lambert said, when he arrived back. He sat down. ‘Cheers,’ he said.
Pete lifted his mug, slightly suspicious of Lambert’s friendliness.
‘Did you know Gerald Culver?’ Lambert asked him.
‘No,’ said Pete. ‘I knew about him, but I never met him.’
‘Were you here on New Year’s Eve?’ he asked Christine. ‘When Culver came?’
Christine glanced at Pete before she replied, and Pete wished she hadn’t because he saw Lambert noticing.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘But we didn’t see him.’
‘Oh.’ Lambert seemed unconcerned. He twisted his glass backwards and forwards between finger and thumb. ‘Did you know he was here?’ he asked. ‘At the time, I mean?’
Pete saw a little frown of puzzlement on her brow as she answered. ‘No,’ she said slowly. ‘I didn’t find out until the evening. Why?’
‘Oh, it just seemed odd. Since he and Pete had never met. I’d have thought you would have taken the opportunity to introduce them.’
‘I might,’ she said.
‘He didn’t stay long, did he?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘He had some function in London.’
‘So your mother said.’
‘Then why are you asking Christine?’ Pete asked, suddenly aware of what Lambert was trying to do.
‘It’s what’s known as double-checking,’ Lambert said easily.
Pete put down his glass. ‘Just so long as we’re all clear on that,’ he said.
Christine looked slightly flustered.
‘I’m just trying to find out who murdered the guy,’ said Lambert.
‘But I don’t know when he came and went,’ Christine said. ‘What’s the point in asking me?’
‘I want to know if your mother told you the same things she told me,’ he said.
‘Are you accusing Annie?’ Pete said, dropping his voice to a whisper.
‘I have to know if I’m being given the whole story, that’s all.’ He turned back to Christine. ‘Did she tell you she’d had a fight with Culver?’ he asked.
‘She – she didn’t tell me anything,’ Christine said.
Poor Chris, Pete thought. She had never told so many lies in her life. As she looked at him, her eyes went to the doorway, and he could see the dismay. He didn’t need to turn round.
‘Ah, Miss Maddox,’ Grant boomed heartily. ‘Is your mother still in the building, do you know? She’s not in her room.’
‘I don’t know. I’m sorry,’ she said.
‘Ah well, never mind. I don’t believe we’ve met,’ he said to Lambert, holding out his hand. ‘James Grant.’
‘I’ve been hearing about you,’ Lambert said. ‘Very nice place,’ he added, looking round. ‘I’m Harry Lambert. Pleased to meet you.’
They shook hands, and Grant went off to boom heartily at someone else.
‘I didn’t know Mum was going out,’ Christine said. ‘She must be avoiding him.’
‘She’s probably hiding under the bed,’ Pete said. ‘Though on second thoughts, maybe it should be somewhere less suggestive.’
‘It’s like that, is it?’ Lambert said.
‘He’d like it to be,’ said Christine, with a smile.
Lambert finished his drink. ‘Ten past nine,’ he said, standing up. ‘I have to go and talk to – Sandra, is it? – on reception.’
‘Sandra, yes.’
‘Thanks for your help. I’ll maybe see you around.’
He walked off, and Pete let out a sigh of relief. ‘Do you think Annie did tell him about the row?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know. But I’m sure I wasn’t going to.’ She pursed her lips. ‘It’s too late now to go anywhere,’ she said.
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I can think of somewhere.’ He leant across to kiss her, to annoy her, to get pushed away.
‘People will see!’ she said.
He grinned. ‘Let’s go to your room, then,’ he said. ‘Where people can’t see.’
She stood up, and he followed her out of the bar.
‘Chris,’ he said, once they were in the staff corridor. ‘You couldn’t let me have a fiver, could you? Just till I get my money.’
‘You already owe me ten!’
‘I know,’ he said. ‘But I’ll give you a fiver this Thursday, and ten next.’
The lift doors opened, as did her purse.
Why couldn’t he feel about her like he had about Lesley? Pete took the fiver, and pushed it into his pocket. She was worth ten of Lesley, he knew that. And somewhere in the future, he really did have a dream of being married to Christine, of providing for her, of having children and dogs and cats. A dream he’d never had with Lesley.
He even liked Christine’s mother, though it probably wasn’t reciprocated.
Lesley wouldn’t have pushed him away if he’d tried to kiss her in the bar. A bit more pushing away wouldn’t have done Lesley any harm. Lesley, telling him she was leaving. Lesley, refusing to come to the phone. Refusing to see him.
The lift arrived, and Christine took out her door key. ‘Before we go in,’ she said, looking up at him. ‘I just want to be sure you know it’s me you’re with.’
He coloured slightly. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘You’re right – maybe I shouldn’t come here while Grant’s here.’
‘Maybe you shouldn’t.’ She still hadn’t unlocked the door.
‘I’ve blown it again, haven’t I?’
‘I’m not having you thinking about her all the time you’re with me.’
‘No,’ he said, as the lift doors slid shut behind him, and the lift went whining down. ‘Will you come over tomorrow?’
She nodded her reply, and he took the stairs.
Harry Lambert was still talking to Sandra as he got to reception. He called good night as Pete passed, but Pete didn’t really hear him until it was too late to reply.
‘He just looked a bit cross,’ Sandra was saying. ‘You know.’
‘As though they’d had words?’ Harry asked.
‘Yes. At least, that’s what I thought.’
‘And did you see Mrs Maddox?’
‘No. She didn’t come out.’
Grant passed, going up the wide staircase, and raised a hand to them.
‘At least someone’s speaking to me,’ Harry said. ‘What’s he like?’
‘Mr Grant?’ Sandra took a moment before replying. ‘I like him,’ she said.
‘I hear he’s a bit sweet on Mrs Maddox,’ Harry said.
‘Oh, no. I don’t think so. His wife’s left him. I think he’s just a bit lonely.’
‘Right, well – thanks, Sandra. I might see you again some time.’
‘I hope so,’ she said.
Harry drove back that night, through the driving rain on the motorway, having to concentrate on every inch of the road.
It was after midnight when he parked in the yard of the builders, bumping in past the sign that said it was a private car park, and the gates were locked at six every night. He locked up the car and splashed through the puddles that had gathered in the uneven side street.
Inside, he surveyed his fridge unenthusiastically, and poured himself a scotch instead.
Possibles. Annie, if they had had a big enough row about something. Grant, if he was taken with Annie and happened to be a homicidal maniac. Christine, even, if her silence re Culver was read as murderous rage.
All highly improbables, but possibles.
Pete? Christine said he’d been in the commandos. He’d be handy with a knife. He was quick to rise to Annie’s defence – and he wasn’t all that much younger than her.
He smiled to himself. Given that anyone could be a psychopath, then anyone could have killed him. Including his own wife, though she would hardly have drawn his attention to her motive by sending him to see Annie.
Linda, Sandra, Sammy the barman. No doubt if he dug deep enough he’d find out that Culver had failed to say please or thank you or have one yourself at some time; the fact was that none of these people seemed to have the slightest reason for killing the man.
Except Annie, he told himself. Perhaps she was tired of playing second fiddle. Perhaps Culver had used her once too often.
Then he thought of the letters, and remembered just how prepared Annie was to play second fiddle. He felt angry again, and certain that whoever killed Culver, it wasn’t Annie Maddox.