Read Online Bring Forth Your Dead by J. M. Gregson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: J. M. Gregson
Ads: Link
architecture of the nineteen-nineties, being essentially a large brick box with a series of identical smaller boxes within it. Unless the sun illuminated its south face, it was difficult to know from the outside which side of the building confronted you; within it, only memory could determine for you which floor you were on. The net effect was to make you long for the ornamental excesses of those other and naughtier ‘nineties of a hundred years earlier. Lambert and Hook breathed deeply of the warm autumn air, looking with unconscious relief towards the beeches the planners had decreed should be left standing at the edge of the car park to preside over two thousand square metres of tarmac.
‘Do you think he did it?’ said Lambert when they were safely cocooned in the Vauxhall.
‘He couldn’t have. His grandfather was a county cricketer,’ said Bert Hook resolutely.
‘You think the genes are that strong? It’s a long time ago.’
Bert, having set up his chief, launched into the only verse he had ever willingly learnt by heart:
For the field is full of shades as I near the shadowy coast,
And a ghostly batsman plays to the bowling of a ghost,
And I look through my tears on a soundless-clapping host,
As the run-stealers flicker to and fro, to and fro:
O my Hornby and my Barlow long ago!
‘Written when even Jack Hobbs was a young lad. Somehow, I doubt whether in these insensitive times even clear documentary evidence of a grandfather at Lord’s would be accepted as irrefutable proof of innocence. Still, this is at least proof of sensitivity in my Sergeant, which I shall release to the tabloids in its full glory when the next bent copper hits the headlines.’
He was cheerful as he shaded his eyes against the sun. The case was beginning to acquire shape: a more appealing shape than he had anticipated it showing at this stage. He reserved judgment yet on whether David Craven was their murderer, but he had told them much—even more than he realised he had. It promised to be an intriguing case, and at this moment he had no doubt that he would meet its challenge. He hummed a little as he shaded his eyes against the low sun, which at this time of the day gilded even the most mundane Cotswold buildings with a brief glory. He had at that moment nothing but satisfaction in the thought of locking someone away for life.
It was well after five o’clock when they parked outside Oldford’s National Westminster Bank. Bank staff do not depart from home when the doors close to the public at half past three, as many uncharitable citizens still fondly believe, but at this hour only the manager was waiting to receive them. Privacy of this kind is an encouragement towards confidences; bank managers even more than solicitors choose sometimes to regard their customers’ secrets as though they were those of the confessional. But on this occasion there could be no reticence; this like other barricades must fall to murder.
George Taylor, the manager, knew it. He had given them difficulties on other occasions, even in cases of suspected fraud, but he had his records waiting for them now. Sober and a little nervous, he showed the frisson of excitement which contact with even the periphery of a murder inquiry brought to the honest citizen. ‘Both Craven’s children bank with us,’ he said. ‘So does Walter Miller, though I can’t see the relevance of his account to your investigation.’
‘Neither do I, at the moment,’ said Lambert patiently. He had almost forgotten about Edmund Craven’s old friend. ‘It may be that none of the accounts will throw up anything of great interest to us. But we are assembling all the facts we can in the early stages of an inquiry, and the financial ones may well be important. Don’t underestimate your importance in the world, George: it grows all the time.’ Lambert knew they were going through the preliminaries of salving Taylor’s conscience about the disclosure of information about his
‘Do you think he did it?’ said Lambert when they were safely cocooned in the Vauxhall.
‘He couldn’t have. His grandfather was a county cricketer,’ said Bert Hook resolutely.
‘You think the genes are that strong? It’s a long time ago.’
Bert, having set up his chief, launched into the only verse he had ever willingly learnt by heart:
For the field is full of shades as I near the shadowy coast,
And a ghostly batsman plays to the bowling of a ghost,
And I look through my tears on a soundless-clapping host,
As the run-stealers flicker to and fro, to and fro:
O my Hornby and my Barlow long ago!
‘Written when even Jack Hobbs was a young lad. Somehow, I doubt whether in these insensitive times even clear documentary evidence of a grandfather at Lord’s would be accepted as irrefutable proof of innocence. Still, this is at least proof of sensitivity in my Sergeant, which I shall release to the tabloids in its full glory when the next bent copper hits the headlines.’
He was cheerful as he shaded his eyes against the sun. The case was beginning to acquire shape: a more appealing shape than he had anticipated it showing at this stage. He reserved judgment yet on whether David Craven was their murderer, but he had told them much—even more than he realised he had. It promised to be an intriguing case, and at this moment he had no doubt that he would meet its challenge. He hummed a little as he shaded his eyes against the low sun, which at this time of the day gilded even the most mundane Cotswold buildings with a brief glory. He had at that moment nothing but satisfaction in the thought of locking someone away for life.
It was well after five o’clock when they parked outside Oldford’s National Westminster Bank. Bank staff do not depart from home when the doors close to the public at half past three, as many uncharitable citizens still fondly believe, but at this hour only the manager was waiting to receive them. Privacy of this kind is an encouragement towards confidences; bank managers even more than solicitors choose sometimes to regard their customers’ secrets as though they were those of the confessional. But on this occasion there could be no reticence; this like other barricades must fall to murder.
George Taylor, the manager, knew it. He had given them difficulties on other occasions, even in cases of suspected fraud, but he had his records waiting for them now. Sober and a little nervous, he showed the frisson of excitement which contact with even the periphery of a murder inquiry brought to the honest citizen. ‘Both Craven’s children bank with us,’ he said. ‘So does Walter Miller, though I can’t see the relevance of his account to your investigation.’
‘Neither do I, at the moment,’ said Lambert patiently. He had almost forgotten about Edmund Craven’s old friend. ‘It may be that none of the accounts will throw up anything of great interest to us. But we are assembling all the facts we can in the early stages of an inquiry, and the financial ones may well be important. Don’t underestimate your importance in the world, George: it grows all the time.’ Lambert knew they were going through the preliminaries of salving Taylor’s conscience about the disclosure of information about his
Similar Books
