Читать книгу Hard Evidence - Emma Page - Страница 7

CHAPTER 2

Rain began to fall early on Friday morning, dying away by eleven. It was almost noon as Detective Sergeant Lambert drove back to Cannonbridge. His inquiries had taken him to a couple of outlying villages where he had spent a fruitless morning chasing shadows. He felt tired and irritable, hungry and thirsty.

The sun shone down from a clearing sky. His route took him along minor roads little more than lanes, between flowering hedgerows, grassy banks starred with primroses, past orchards of pear trees snowy with blossom. His sour mood began to evaporate.

When he was still some half-dozen miles from Cannonbridge he rounded a bend and saw on the grass verge, a short distance ahead, a white Mini, standing sideways on to him, its back wheels sunk in the ditch. As he came up it became clear that the rear bumper had got itself hooked under a boulder, one of several strewn along the verge, which had fallen from the crumbling stone wall backing the ditch.

A girl crouched beside the vehicle, trying to free the bumper. She got to her feet as Lambert pulled up close by. He ran an appreciative eye over her. A pretty girl with strikingly beautiful brown hair glinting in the sunlight. She was trimly dressed in a dark green skirt, a smartly cut jacket in a muted grey-green check.

She was delighted at his offer of help. ‘I overshot the turning,’ she explained. ‘I was reversing and I skidded back into the ditch.’ She gestured over to the right. ‘I’m going to Calcott House.’ She saw the name meant nothing to him. ‘It’s a hotel,’ she added. ‘Quite near here.’

He got her to move aside the stone as he eased up the rear of the car. The end of the bumper was twisted and dented. ‘It’s no great damage,’ he assured her. ‘It won’t cost a fortune to put right.’ She thanked him profusely for his assistance.

‘This hotel you’re going to,’ he said. ‘Do they serve lunch to nonresidents?’ The notion of a decent meal in civilized surroundings appeared distinctly cheering. Particularly with the chance of a pretty girl to share his table.

‘I think they do,’ she told him. ‘I haven’t stayed there before. I used to live round here, in Calcott village, but I left three years ago. This is the first time I’ve been back – I’ve no family here any more. Calcott House used to be just a residential hotel but there were changes a few years ago; they did a lot to the place. I think maybe it changed hands at that time but I can’t quite remember. Anyway, they started doing bed and breakfast, catering for holiday-makers. I’m pretty certain they began doing meals for nonresidents at the same time.’ She gave him a friendly smile. ‘I’m sure they’ll give you lunch.’

He followed her Mini till they came in sight of tall wroughtiron gates standing open to a long drive flanked by flowering shrubs, running up to a large Victorian house framed by mature trees. A board by the gate assured him the hotel did indeed serve lunch and dinner to nonresidents.

In the car park the girl suggested it was time they exchanged names; hers was Julie Dawson. She wore an air of pleased expectancy as they walked across to the pillared entrance. ‘I always longed to come here when I was a child,’ she confided. ‘It seemed a mysterious, romantic place. But I never even set foot in the grounds. I used to make up stories about it. I used to tell myself: “One day, when I’m grown up, I’ll go and stay there.” I imagined that would be about as far as anyone could get in the high life.’

She gave him a grin, like an excited child. ‘Now here I am, walking in through the doors. I decided to come this weekend on the spur of the moment. I rang up and found they could take me. I was delighted.’

He waited for her in the lounge bar while she checked in. When she rejoined him he asked what she would like to drink.

She looked at his glass. ‘What’s that you’ve got?’

Nonalcoholic lager, he told her. She shot him a surprised, amused glance. ‘I still have to drive,’ he pointed out. ‘Unlike you.’ After a moment’s hesitation he added, ‘I’m a policeman. I’m on my way back to the station in Cannonbridge.’ He waited for the friendly expression to vanish from her face, for a look of cool wariness to succeed it.

But she leaned forward with an air of eager interest. She ran her eye over his dark suit, his white shirt. ‘Are you by any chance a detective?’ she asked. He admitted that he was. ‘I’m a detective sergeant, to be precise.’

She clapped her hands and gave him a gleeful smile. ‘How marvellous! I’ve never met a real-life detective before – I’ve never met any kind of policeman on a social level. I’ve always loved reading detective novels.’

‘I’m afraid it’s not always like it is in the books.’ He changed the subject without subtlety; he had no intention of spending the next hour talking about his job.

When she had finished her drink she suggested an inspection of the garden; there was plenty of time before lunch. They went out into the bright sunshine. The grounds were of considerable size and had clearly been laid out with much care at the time the house was built. They strolled past lawns, shrubberies, rockeries in full springtime splendour of pink and mauve, yellow and white. A dolphin fountain jetted cascades of diamond drops into the sparkling air; purple irises bloomed beside a pool. They followed a woodland walk through dappled green shade under an arching canopy of branches. The ground was carpeted with bluebells, forget-me-nots, violets, anemones. A relaxing air of peace and tranquillity brooded over the whole.

They wandered back towards the house and came upon a series of small individual gardens enclosed by formal hedges of clipped evergreens, each garden designed round a different theme. One had been entirely devoted to aromatic foliage plants in shades of silvery grey. Julie asked Lambert if he knew what the plants were. He had to admit he didn’t.

On a stone bench a few feet away a woman sat leaning back with her eyes closed. Beside her on the seat lay a folded newspaper and a spectacles case. At the sound of their voices she opened her eyes and sat up. She looked across at them and after a moment got to her feet and came over. A stocky woman, mid-fifties, with a vigorous appearance. Blunt features; short, iron-grey hair taken to one side and secured with a plain brown slide. No make-up; a scrubbed, clinically clean look. She wore a dark grey, chalk-striped suit tailored on lines of uncompromising severity.

With the briefest preamble of an apology for breaking in on them she began to identify the various plants for Julie, who listened with appreciative interest. A lonely woman, Lambert judged, snatching at any chance of conversation. As she gestured at the plants he saw that her stubby hands were bare of rings.

The stream of information flowed on unabated, and Julie began to exhibit signs of restlessness. She flicked a speaking glance at Lambert and started to walk away from the woman – still unflaggingly voluble – towards an archway cut through the hedge. Lambert fell in behind her. Undeterred, the woman went with them, continuing to hold forth about the garden and the grounds in general.

The three of them reached an open stretch of sward set at intervals with fine specimen trees in full flaunt of blossom. Some yards away a man, young and powerfully built, knelt with his back to them, working on a border. ‘That’s Luke Marchant,’ the woman said. ‘He does all the gardening here.’ She saw that Lambert didn’t recognize the name. ‘The hotel belongs to the Marchants,’ she explained. ‘Evan Marchant and his wife, they own and run it. Luke Marchant is Evan’s brother, he’s a lot younger than Evan. He’s done a wonderful job since he came here. It’s all he thinks about, the garden. He works all the hours God sends.’

Julie looked intrigued. She moved away from the other two, over to where Luke knelt, absorbed in his work. Lambert saw that she was attempting to engage him in conversation about what he was doing, her manner easy and affable.

‘She won’t get much change out of Luke,’ the woman beside Lambert observed in a sardonic tone. And from this distance it certainly appeared that Luke’s response was confined to a nod or shake of the head.

‘You really must take a look at the water garden,’ the woman advised Lambert. ‘“Water canal”, I gather, is the correct term for it.’ She indicated where it was. ‘It’s well worth seeing. Luke cleaned it out himself. He dredged it, repaired the stone and brickwork, a real labour of love. I’d come with you myself but it’s damp underfoot down there and I’m wearing a new pair of shoes.’ She gave a little laugh, glancing down at her shoes with pride, sticking out one foot for Lambert to admire. ‘I only bought them this morning. I couldn’t resist putting them on right away. I know they’re walking shoes but I’d rather not get them wet the first time I wear them.’

‘Very nice,’ Lambert remarked politely. Her feet were short and broad, the ankles thick and shapeless. The shoes, a laced pair made of stout leather in a shade of oxblood, looked as if they could withstand any amount of water and hard usage.

She wriggled her foot with satisfaction. ‘I never believe in skimping on shoes. If there’s one thing I learned early on in my working life, it’s to take good care of your feet, then they’ll never let you down.’

Julie came back and Lambert took her off to see the water garden. The woman returned to her seat on the stone bench.

Left to himself again, Luke Marchant sat back on his heels, his hands idle. He turned his head and gazed fixedly after the departing figure of the girl, her beautiful brown hair gleaming in the sunshine.