Death of a Nobody (12 page)

Lambert said, ‘But now he never will know, so you need no longer contend with that possibility.’

Ian had been congratulating himself on that for a day and more. Now, emerging from the mouth of someone else, what had been a relief seemed like a threat to his security. He said, ‘You’re saying that gives me a motive for his murder?’

‘Oh, we’re more concerned with facts than motivation, at this stage. No use pinning down a perfect motive and then discovering the chap couldn’t possibly have done it because he was somewhere else at the time.’ He smiled a little, studying Faraday’s broad-set eyes beneath the abundant crop of brown hair, speculating about the workings of the brain behind them.

‘Quite. And I was somewhere else on the night when Berridge died. Fifty miles away.’ Ian smiled, even managed to look confident: he was, after all, a successful salesman.

This time, Lambert did not return the smile. Instead, he said quickly, ‘Who told you when Berridge died, Mr Faraday? The death has been placed between six on Tuesday evening and eleven-fifty-two on Wednesday morning. We have not yet released any more definite time than that.’

Faraday’s mouth opened; his smile dived away into the cavity as swiftly as a startled lizard. ‘I — I thought… I suppose I just assumed he had been killed at night. Dead of night, and that sort of image, I suppose.’ The throwaway laugh he attempted did not sound convincing, even to himself.

‘Hmm. Mrs Berridge seemed to be making the same assumption. Interesting, that.’

Ian waited for them to enlarge on this, even to press him on the mistake he had made. Anything suddenly seemed an improvement on this stretching silence, in which his temple thumped and his brain obstinately refused to work. Eventually, he said rather desperately, ‘Anyway, I was away overnight, in Stratford. With Gabrielle. We went to the Royal Shakespeare Theatre. I expect she told you that.’

‘She did indeed.
The
Winter’s
Tale
, I believe. Mrs Berridge showed us the programme.’

Ian wished they would not keep calling her that. It was an unwelcome insistence on a connection he wished to obliterate as swiftly as possible. He said irrelevantly, ‘We shall be getting married, in due course.’ Then he wished immediately that he had kept quiet. It seemed to bind him even more closely to the murder of the man who had stood in the way of this alliance.

As if in response to that thought, Lambert said, ‘Sergeant Hook will take the details of your movements last night.’

‘I think Gabrielle has told you the essentials already.’

Hook said, ‘We need them from you, Mr Faraday.’

‘To see if our accounts agree?’

‘Any discrepancies between them would certainly be of great interest to us.’ When Bert Hook was scrupulously polite, it was always a danger signal, thought Lambert.

Faraday licked his lips. ‘Well, I was here for a couple of hours after I saw you on Tuesday afternoon, Mr Lambert. I suppose I left here at about six. I met Gabrielle in Stratford just before the performance. I couldn’t be sure of the time, but it must have been about twenty past seven. We just had time to buy a programme and get to our seats.’

‘And where did you meet?’

For a moment, he looked lost; perhaps it was just a genuine difficulty in recalling the exact point of their rendezvous. ‘Outside the theatre. We knew we wouldn’t have a lot of time to spare before the play, you see.’

The explanation was an unnecessary gloss, an attempt to justify where none was needed. Gabrielle Berridge had told them that they had met at seven, and by the Shakespeare memorial. There were discrepancies of twenty minutes and two hundred yards in Faraday’s account of their rendezvous; interesting, but perhaps not wide enough to be significant.

‘Do you think anyone on the theatre staff will remember you?’

Faraday shook his head. ‘I’ve thought about that. I should think it’s unlikely. The place was full, and the bars were crowded at the interval.’

‘And afterwards?’

‘We had a drink at the Swan. It was crowded, as you would expect at that time. I got the drinks at the bar, but I doubt if the girl who served me would remember it — she was run off her feet at the time.’

He gave every appearance of a man genuinely trying to be helpful. Lambert studied him for a moment, wondering whether the man would realize the crucial nature of his next question.

Faraday sat with legs crossed in his armchair. His lightly patterned shirt and tie were both expensive and fashionable, no doubt products of the business he represented. His suit was a well-cut dark-brown worsted, his shoes in supple burgundy leather. There was certainly anxiety in the brown eyes beneath the plentiful crop of well-groomed hair, but that was natural enough: they had made it abundantly clear that he was at the centre of a murder investigation.

Lambert said, ‘Have you anything which would prove conclusively that you attended the theatre on Tuesday evening?’

‘I thought you said that Gabrielle had found the programme for you?’

‘She did indeed. Without much difficulty. But perhaps you are not aware that programmes do not relate to a particular performance. At the Royal Shakespeare Theatre, you can even buy them in the theatre during the day, when no performance is taking place.’

‘I see. I hadn’t considered that.’ Faraday pondered the matter, then reached into his pocket. When he failed to locate what he wanted there, he said, ‘Other jacket, I think. Bear with me for a moment.’ He rose and strode swiftly from the room, as if action was a relief to him. They heard his feet hurrying up the stairs, then boards creaked briefly over their heads. In less than a minute, he was back with them, trying not to look too pleased with his find. ‘Will these be of any use? They’re the ticket stubs from Tuesday night. I see they’ve got the date and time of the performance on them.’

‘That should certainly be most useful.’ Bert Hook spoke stiffly, feeling that this was a play in which he deserved better lines. He took the rather grubby stubs, checked the information, made a note of their details on his pad, then returned them to their owner.

They took the name of the small hotel where Faraday had spent the night with Gabrielle Berridge, then listened to his account of their movements on the next day. It conformed exactly with what she had told them. As she had done, he seemed to relax as he retailed the places and the times, as though he knew as clearly as they did that the crisis period was on the previous night and now accounted for.

In fifteen minutes, they were back in the murder room at Oldford CID. Rushton had news for them. ‘Report’s come in from Forensic on the murder weapon. Prints from Berridge’s right hand on it.’

‘None from the left hand?’ Lambert was thinking of how he would put this in his report for the Coroner.

‘No.’ Rushton looked at the Ceefax. ‘Rather indicates that the victim’s hand was put on the handle after he was shot, they say. Looks as if the pistol had been wiped clear of all other prints and the killer wore gloves. That’s no more than we expected. But there is one interesting thing. There is a single print from someone else on the butt of the pistol.’

‘Who?’ Trust Rushton to hold back the interesting item, thought Lambert.

‘We don’t know yet. I’ve got two DCs going through records, but we haven’t turned up anyone yet. They’ve only been on it for about twenty minutes, but it shouldn’t take long to do a scan, with modern technology.’ He put the little plug for progress in automatically.

‘But the print could be from one of the people we’re interviewing.’

‘It could indeed. They’ve all allowed their dabs to be taken, but we haven’t had them processed and compared yet. But we should know in a few hours if it was one of them. Of course, it could be a contract killer. There are several of them that we do not have prints for, because they have never been identified.’

But a professional would never be so naïve as to leave a print behind, thought Lambert. With any luck at all, this was going to be one of their suspects.

16

Lambert, driving alone into Old Mead Park, decided that all new blocks of flats should have resident porters.

They were a great addition to security in themselves. And when a crime did take place, they were as useful as two extra members of a CID team. At least, they were if George Lewis was typical. His knowledge of the habits of the residents made it possible to eliminate most of them from suspicion, for he was able to confirm much of what they said individually to the door-to-door team. And his intimate knowledge of the building and of the interiors of many of the apartments was at the disposal of the police.

Lewis had assumed an interest in CID work from the moment when he heard of the violent death of his old friend Charlie Pegg. There was no humbug about Lewis. Once he knew of Berridge’s involvement in that death, he made no secret of his satisfaction at the violent death of this most affluent of his residents. Whatever the motivation behind this killing, George Lewis took it as just retribution for the dispatch of his friend.

Lambert now took steps to secure his continuing cooperation by giving him welcome news. ‘Sturley and Jones have been charged with the murder of Charlie this morning, George. And it will stick. They’ve virtually confessed now. Pleading that they were under orders from Berridge.’

‘They were, weren’t they?’ Lewis was anxious to have all the details of what had happened to Pegg clear in his mind.

‘Yes, Berridge was certainly the ultimate murderer. But those gorillas were his instruments. They’ll go down for a long time, don’t you worry about that.’

Lewis nodded, a small, rotund figure who yet acquired a surprising dignity in his concern for his dead friend. ‘If Berridge killed him, then I’m glad he died the way he did. He didn’t deserve anything better.’

‘I understand that you should feel that, George. I’ve been after Berridge for too long to shed any tears over him now. But I think you will understand that we can’t have people taking the law into their own hands. I still have to find out who killed him.’

The porter considered the proposition, saw the logic of the argument, shrugged his reluctance to accept it. ‘I suppose so. But I’m not a policeman. So personally, I hope whoever killed him gets away with it. I went to see Amy Pegg last night. She’s still devastated by what happened to Charlie. The two of them should have been able to look forward to a decent retirement.’ He spoke with the vehemence of deep feeling. Then, as if he thought such passion indecorous within a porter’s uniform, he said with a sudden bathos, ‘He was a good workman, Charlie. Better than people expected.’

Lambert realized that it was true: he had been surprised by the quality of the craftsmanship in the units Pegg had installed in the penthouse above them. He said gently, ‘Charlie wasn’t an angel. He spied a bit on people, you know, George. It may even have been that that led to his death, for all we know.’

He thought Lewis might have defended his friend or professed ignorance. Instead, the porter said, ‘I guessed that. From what you asked me about his notebook, when you came here after his death. He was always a nosey little bugger!’ It was said with affection. Lewis looked out of the window of his office, seeing not the vista outside, but the world he had inhabited with Charlie Pegg thirty years and more ago. ‘He could tell you scandal about anyone in our company in Cyprus, when he trusted you. But he kept it mostly to himself. And he was useful to you, Mr Lambert.’

The last sentence, as Lewis pulled himself back to the present, was almost an accusation. And with some justification: Pegg would still have been alive if he hadn’t chosen to act as a police snout. But CID men had to take help wherever they could find it, and Pegg had known the dangers. Lambert said gently, ‘He was paid for the help he gave, George. But I’m sorry he died, and I’m glad we got the men who did it. That won’t stop me from following up the murder of James Berridge. Now, it appears that Berridge was killed with his own weapon. Did you ever see him with a pistol?’

‘No. He was much too smooth for that. He always presented the image of the successful business tycoon round here.’ That was a common enough pattern. It was often the biggest villains who took care to be eminently, even excessively, respectable when away from the scenes of their crimes.

‘You know the layout of the penthouse upstairs?’

‘Yes. Better than almost any of the other flats. I’ve been here from the start, you see, and the Berridges had quite a lot of extra fittings put in. I was in and out with the workmen. Mrs Berridge was happy to leave it to me — she wasn’t around that much, even in the old days.’

Lambert noted that last phrase. He said quietly, ‘In the days before Mr Faraday came on the scene, you mean?’ He saw the hesitation in the smooth face above the uniform. ‘This is a murder enquiry, George. You’d much better be completely honest.’

Lewis smiled ruefully, as though he was grateful for the reminder of his duty. ‘Yes, I realized there was something going on. He came here to pick up Mrs Berridge occasionally, no doubt when he was sure that there was no chance of his boss being around. It was Charlie who confirmed it for me, though.’

‘And how did he know about it?’

‘I’m not sure. He only mentioned it because he thought I knew about it. And I suppose I did, really. He just confirmed it.’

‘The Berridges have an answerphone. Did Charlie listen to the messages recorded on it?’

Lewis looked uneasy, as if the dead man’s inquisitive behaviour somehow reflected on him. ‘I think he probably did, now. Both in the penthouse and in one or two of the other flats that had those things. But it’s only since you spoke to me about all those initials in his notebook that I realized that. I would have slung him out if I’d known at the time, friend or not.’

‘I’m sure you would, George. Now. Where did Berridge keep this pistol of his?’

‘I—I don’t know. I told you, I never saw it.’ He looked anxious, as though he feared they might not believe him. ‘I think he might have kept it in the top drawer of his desk, in his study, but I don’t know for sure.’

It was the second time Lambert had been told the weapon was kept in that drawer. Who had removed it? He said, ‘What makes you think he kept it there, George?’

Lewis looked uncomfortable. ‘I checked that room, when I let Charlie Pegg into the penthouse to work. Mrs Berridge told me expressly that he wasn’t to go into her husband’s study, you see. And — well, knowing Charlie’s weakness, I went in to check just how secure it was against nosey parkers.’ He looked thoroughly embarrassed by his betrayal of his dead friend. ‘I tried the drawers, to see if they were locked, you see. That top one was. I suppose when you mentioned a gun I thought immediately that there was where it might have been. But I didn’t know that.’

‘It’s a reasonable enough assumption, if the drawer was locked. Unless he carried it around with him, of course. As a matter of fact, you’re probably right. Mrs Berridge also thought that her husband kept a pistol in that top drawer.’

The porter’s face lightened, as if that took away from him the responsibility of giving information about the residents, even the worst of residents. Lambert said gently, ‘What time did Mrs Berridge leave here on the night of the murder, George?’

Lewis said, ‘I told you when you asked me before. I don’t know. For all I know, she was gone long before her husband was killed.’ It was curiously indefinite phrasing from this straightforward man. He looked away from the superintendent as soon as he had spoken, to the noticeboard he did not need, which listed the names of the residents.

George Lewis understood what the superintendent said about it being his job to uphold the law. But for himself, he still hoped that the killer of James Berridge would not be apprehended.

***

Gabrielle Berridge drove quickly, but she was in perfect control of her vehicle. The red Mazda sports coupe was immediately responsive, precise in its steering as she placed it into bends, holding the road without any tendency to oversteer. She enjoyed that feeling of unity with the car, of the bonding of driver and machine into an effective unit.

Normally, that is. Today, though she drove swiftly and safely, she did not feel the delight which normally lifted her spirit on the open road. As she approached her destination, she even found herself slowing down, stealing a little more time to organize in her mind what she had thought was already properly planned. Above the first opening buds of the chestnut trees which grew tall in the heart of England, she was conscious of sharp blue sky and flying white clouds. But the spring day seemed to be mocking her mission, as if nature’s brightness was emphasizing the pettiness of human duplicity.

She felt now that she could not succeed in this, that the attempt could only lead to humiliation for her. But she had said she would try, so there was no alternative. The tourist traffic was not as heavy as it would be in the summer months, though she saw half a dozen coaches in the car park as she drove over the Avon and into the town. The bunting was out across the Stratford streets for the Shakespeare birthday celebrations, and the town presented a bustling, cheerful front to its visitors. She turned away from the great brick warehouse of a theatre, through the narrow streets round the church where the bard was buried with his mysterious inscription and his bland plaster effigy, like the face of a Victorian industrialist.

Moving ever more slowly, as if she had communicated her reluctance to it, the sleek sports car turned towards where the slow-flowing Avon wound in a huge bend below the town. The streets were quiet here. The houses had the quiet air of discretion which dated from an age before the motor car. Gabrielle composed herself for a moment in the parked car. Then she got out, straightened her blue tartan waistcoat automatically, and went determinedly into the River Crescent Hotel.

To her relief, the man she wanted was behind the desk. He might have been anywhere in the building, for this was only a small private hotel and the proprietor had to be a ubiquitous worker. In the early days of her relationship with Ian Faraday, it had seemed the ideal place to avoid attention. She thought that even in the future, they would favour it against more pretentious establishments, for it had served them well and they would love it because of its memories.

‘Good morning, Mr Allan!’ she said. She was relieved that her voice did not sound nervous in her own ears.

The smile on the man’s face as he looked up was genuine, not professionally assumed. As owner and manager, he enjoyed his work. Neat and affable, unflappable whether on public show to his clients or in the stress of the kitchen at the back of this late-Georgian house, he was in control of the situation. He had worked for twenty years to acquire his own establishment, and he was determined to enjoy everything which went with it.

He meant it when he now exclaimed, ‘How nice to see you, Mrs Faraday!’ He was certain after yesterday of what he had long suspected, that this was not this striking lady’s proper name. But that would make no difference to either the service he offered her or the esteem in which he held her. He looked down at the bookings list in front of him, though he knew by heart which rooms were free. ‘We can give you your usual double room for the next two nights, if you want it.’

She smiled awkwardly. This would be the first time she had asked anything of this man outside his trade, and the words would not come naturally to her. ‘No, it’s not about accommodation this time, Mr Allan. I — I wanted to ask you a bit of a favour.’

‘Anything we can do to help, of course.’ His smile was as broad as ever, but he was puzzled. This elegant woman had always seemed so sure of herself before, so happy in the time she had spent under his roof. Happiness always brought confidence with it, he thought. Now she was unhappy, and he saw her for the first time anxious, even a little frightened, it seemed. Well, she was a good customer, the kind of considerate guest who made his work a pleasure. He would do what he could for her.

He had been hoping that it would be unconnected with what had happened yesterday. It seemed scarcely possible that this graceful, quietly spoken woman could be involved in anything more serious than a little extra-marital affair. But when Gabrielle said, ‘We stayed with you on Tuesday night,’ he divined where this was going. Already he was regretting that he was not going to be able to help.

Gabrielle made herself try the line she had thought up on the road from Oldford. ‘I don’t know if you guessed it, Mr Allan, but Mr Faraday is not in fact my husband.’ He shrugged a little, implying that he was a man of the world and these things were to be expected. She wished he would speak, but he did not. ‘Well, for reasons I won’t go into now, it’s important to us that we can establish that we were in Stratford quite early on Tuesday evening.’

Though he never looked down at them, he was conscious of her fingers twisting on the handles of the black leather handbag, a tiny gesture which made him at once aware of how important this was for her, and of how sharply sorry he was for her. Merely because he felt her willing him to speak, he said, ‘You came here after the theatre. That would establish that you were in the town by seven-thirty. Isn’t that early enough?’

She smiled, grateful for the sympathy she felt in his tone. ‘It would be, but I get the impression they want some sort of proof.’

Neither of them defined who ‘they’ were. He said, ‘Well, there’s your booking for the night recorded in our register.’

‘Yes. I — I was wondering… Could you say that we popped in here briefly before we went to the theatre? Just to dump our overnight things, you see. As we’ve done on other occasions. It’s suddenly become important for us, you see. We didn’t think it would be at the time. It’s far too complicated to explain, but I—’