Die Happy (4 page)

There was amusement around the table and a relaxing of tension, as Marjorie had intended. She closed the meeting quickly and gathered her papers whilst the members departed. ‘Christine, could I have a quick word with you, please?'

Mrs Lambert liked Marjorie Dooks, but she stopped now reluctantly, because she knew what was coming. The person who had chaired the meeting waited a moment until they were alone in the room. ‘Did you broach the matter of an appearance at the festival with your husband?'

‘I did. He wasn't enthusiastic. Unlike some policemen, he doesn't enjoy the publicity he already receives.'

Marjorie smiled. ‘Fact of life, Christine. John Lambert is a local celebrity, as we all know. Something of a local hero, indeed. A popular policeman is a rare phenomenon nowadays. We should like to exploit that.'

‘But didn't Sue Charles say that she'd be happy to introduce her crime writer?'

‘Indeed. And so she should. But I had an idea last night. I thought it would be good to have John on the platform with them, so that we could explore the real situation in serious crime against that depicted in fiction. It would make the question and answer session after David Knight's talk much livelier.'

‘I'm not sure I could get John to do that. As I said—'

‘We'd need Mr Knight's agreement, of course, but I'm sure Sue could secure that. It wouldn't need any real preparation on your husband's part.'

Mrs Dooks was in her masterful mood. It would take a braver woman than Christine Lambert to confront her with a blank refusal. She said, ‘I'll talk to John about it. It's difficult for him to give definite promises about attendance, of course. He might be involved in the investigation of a murder at the very time we want him with us.'

She was merely searching for an excuse, of course. At the time, she had no idea how ironic a ring those words would have during the week of the festival.

THREE

T
wo days after she had chaired the literary festival committee, Marjorie Dooks attended the local council meeting. There she expressed herself forcefully on things as diverse as the appalling state of the Gloucestershire roads after the ravages of a hard winter and the need for more resources for primary schools from the local education authority.

As usual, with the end of the financial year in sight, the need to set the lowest possible level of council tax dominated all discussions, with the result that many assurances of support in principle were offered to her and no firm promises made. This was the usual state of affairs in local government; they agreed with her sentiments, but nothing was going to happen. Marjorie held her peace and refrained from voicing that thought. She recognized the dilemmas they collectively faced, but the reality was that she could see no way of securing the finance needed to implement her proposed reforms. It was immensely frustrating, but to resign and abandon ship would be an evasion. Evasions were not part of the Dooks creed.

The fact that she understood exactly why these things were as they were didn't prevent her from feeling disheartened as she drove back to the big house on the outskirts of Oldford. But she didn't allow herself to be depressed for long. It was good that she had the festival to think about and to plan. She had more control there, and the programme was shaping up promisingly. Five o'clock, the dashboard clock told her. With a bit of luck she'd have an hour, perhaps two hours, to herself before James returned. Hadn't he said that he had a meeting this afternoon which might go on for a while?

But the big BMW was in the drive when she got there. She felt a rush of resentment that she was not to have the time alone that she had anticipated. James was sitting in a chair in the conservatory with the
Telegraph
business section open upon his knee. He had not heard her come through the house; she paused for a moment to study him and prepare her smile before she went through to the conservatory.

He was ageing well, Marjorie decided reluctantly. She had spent an unusually long time in front of the dressing table mirror before she had gone to the council meeting, noting with surprise that the crows' feet were extending around her eyes and that the lines on her neck were becoming deeper and more obvious. She had allowed herself a small moment of melancholy at the swiftness of life's passage, at the relentless advance of the body's decay. Then she had told herself with her usual brusqueness to snap out of it.

The memory of that moment four hours earlier now made her more piqued by the capacity of men to grow more handsome as the years advanced. Some men, anyway. She should probably be happy that James was one of them, but at that moment she was not. He had a good head of hair, not very much diminished in thickness or tone from the days when she had first known him thirty years ago, but silvering becomingly at the temples. His features seemed mysteriously to retain most of the tan they had acquired during their summer holiday in Tuscany; he still looked healthy and vigorous at the end of a winter that had been the longest and coldest for twenty years.

His blue eyes remained clear and sharp. He read the paper without glasses, which she could not, but she noticed now that he was holding it a long way from his face and peering at it a little. Such a small, comical vanity should have inspired affection in one who loved him. Marjorie was surprised how contemptuous she felt when she noted it.

She took a deep breath, then opened the glass-panelled door and accorded him her smile. ‘You managed to get away early after all.'

‘Yes. The chairman cancelled the meeting. Got back later than expected from New York. Matthew doesn't think anything can function properly without his presence. He's probably worried we might make a decision without him.'

‘No. Not good at delegation, most British industrialists, are they? The papers foster the doctrine of their supremacy. The solution to the problems of an ailing firm is always a new chairman. No wonder megalomania sets in when they're continually fed the myth of their own importance by the financial press.'

He smiled, recognizing a familiar theme in her. ‘Whereas in the Civil Service there was no need for autocracy. You merely advised and implemented. All the important decisions were taken by politicians.'

‘That's just the myth we liked to foster. And it's a while now since I was a civil servant. You should try organizing unpaid volunteers some time, when you've no sanctions if they don't toe whatever line you've drawn for them.'

James Dooks tried to simulate the interest in local affairs he had never really felt. ‘Yes. How's the literature festival coming along, by the way?'

It was two days since the meeting in the library complex. She realized now that she had been waiting for him to ask about it. When he had finally done so, dutifully and belatedly, she felt merely irritated. ‘It's taking shape quite well. Dealing with the artistic temperament is a new and enlightening experience for me. I've no doubt it would be very good for you.'

He smiled. ‘No thanks. Do you want to eat out, as I'm home in plenty of time?'

‘No. It's only a Marks and Spencer's meal for two, but we should eat it today. It won't take very long to prepare.' Somehow she couldn't face eating out alone with him and the long silences whilst they sought for something safe to say to each other. It was much easier when they were out socializing with other people; perhaps it was easier to sustain the fiction that all was well when you had other voices to bring into the conversation.

He came into the big dining kitchen when she called him and opened the bottle of wine that had come with the meal. He glanced at the label, then said as he sat down at the table, ‘How did your meeting go this afternoon?'

For a moment she was pleased that he had remembered her council concerns. Then she realized that he had looked at the calendar by the telephone where they each entered their commitments and picked up the information from there. She should have been glad even that he had taken the trouble to check on her day. Instead, she was more annoyed than if he had never asked his question. She dismissed the council meeting briskly, without commenting upon her concerns or her frustrations.

As if he sensed her mood and was anxious to dissipate it, he began clumsily loading the dishwasher when they had finished. Even that annoyed her; he was so pathetically anxious to please that he was acting outside his character. She knew she was being petty and unreasonable, but she chose to ignore that. At that moment, she just wished to be rid of him, even for a few minutes, so that she could compose herself to behave better. Thank heavens for the television! You didn't have to talk much, once the goggle box was busy.

She glanced up at the clock on the wall and said as lightly as she could, ‘There's a programme about opera on BBC Four in five minutes. If you go and put it on I'll bring the coffee through on a tray.'

James smiled and said, ‘That reminds me. I think we'll probably get our invitation for Glyndebourne again this year. Clive Morrison, who entertained us there last year, owes me a favour. I'll give him a ring tomorrow, if I get the chance.'

It was not until she glanced at the clock that she saw the white foolscap envelope on the unit beneath it. James followed her gaze and said, ‘Oh, I forgot about that. It was behind the door when I got home. It's addressed to you, without a stamp. It must have been delivered by hand.' He went into the lounge dutifully as he had been told to do; a moment later she heard the sound of the television newsreader.

She inspected her printed name on the envelope, then slit open the end of it with the small kitchen knife beside it. It contained a single sheet of paper, neatly folded.

Her first reaction was surprise, not fear. Nothing remotely like this had happened to her before. You read about it in books, or heard other people talking about something similar. You never expected it to be part of your own experience, and when it occurred you could not quite believe it. For sixty seconds her mind raced, but she could not have said what she was thinking, what emotions were hammering in her head.

There were only twelve words on the sheet, but the print was large, black and uncompromising.

Peter Preston was nursing his wounds. That damned woman Dooks had no standards. If the citizens of Oldford had had any sense, they'd have put him in charge of the literary festival from the start and given him a free hand with budgets and speakers. But they hadn't, and it was no surprise that they hadn't. Provincial, that's what they were, so you shouldn't expect anything other than provincial attitudes.

He said as much to his wife, but she'd heard it all before. He shouldn't have got involved if he was going to get upset like this, Edwina told him. She had lost count of the number of times before when she had had occasion to tell him that. A very conventional woman, Edwina. That was both her strength and her weakness.

‘I've a good mind to withdraw my support altogether,' said Peter.

‘You mustn't do that.' She was assailed by visions of him around the house all day, increasingly fractious as he realized that he had lost all influence on the intelligentsia of the area. ‘You'd miss the festival if you weren't involved.'

She was right, of course. Some small part of his inner self saw that quite clearly. ‘This place just doesn't appreciate everything I've done for it over the years.'

‘I don't know why you allow yourself to get so upset about these things. You should realize by now that you're always going to be disappointed.' Another of her hackneyed, predictable statements; he could have foretold it, word for word. Didn't she realize that stuff like that would just infuriate him? For a surprising, delicious moment, he saw himself with his hands round her throat, squeezing the life out of her, watching her eyes dilate with terror as her string of clichés was stilled for ever.

It was a glorious vision, as fleeting as it was delightful. It left him shocked but delighted. It was another sign that he wasn't as other men, when it came to the strength of his emotions. Another sign that his extra sensitivity meant that he felt things more keenly than the common run of men. Peter was wrong there, as he often was; his knowledge of human nature was nothing like as profound as he proclaimed it to be. He didn't realize that all over Britain on any single night there were thousands of married men and thousands of married women who enjoyed delicious escapist moments as they envisaged choking the life out of a perpetually irritating spouse. He would have been astonished to know that even that conventional woman Edwina occasionally thought of him with his eyes staring sightlessly at the ceiling and those too-mobile lips stilled for ever.

Fortunately for the forces of law and order, only a tiny percentage of people ever transform thought into action. Any murderous move of that sort would certainly set Peter Preston apart from other men.

Christine Lambert chose her moment and her menu with great care. They had steak and their first Jersey Royal new potatoes of the year, with purple sprouting broccoli from their own garden. She had one glass of a very agreeable Merlot and John had two. They had cheesecake for dessert; she passed him a second helping without a word after his first longing glance at what was left. She sent him into the lounge to decide upon their television viewing for the night, whilst she cleared the dishes and prepared the coffee. She poured him a brandy to drink with his, then, after a moment's consideration, set a second, token measure for herself beside it on the tray.

The feminists would have been tutting long ago, she thought. But she had her methods of achieving things, old-fashioned but generally effective. She looked at the tray and wondered if she was overdoing things, whether John might see through her obvious ploys. But men were credulous creatures, when your weapons were food and drink. That was surely a thought of which even the most modern woman could approve.