Malice Aforethought by J. M. Gregson Read Free Book Online

feeling suddenly like an arthritic crab under this unblinking scrutiny. He was beginning his backswing when Lambert said sharply, ‘Are you really happy with that grip?’
    Bert was. It had hit him a few sixes in his time on the grounds of Herefordshire and Gloucestershire. Lambert shook his head sadly and entwined his fingers into a network which Bert was sure he would never be able to repeat for himself. ‘Now try,’ said Lambert.
    Bert did. The ball remained obstinately on its peg as the clubhead flashed over it. Lambert roared with laughter to tell his charge he should not be embarrassed. Bert wondered how many years you would get for manslaughter under extreme provocation. But with this grip, he might even miss as large a target as John Lambert, he thought miserably.
    He got the ball away. Lambert criticised its direction. After three more attempts, he got one away straight. Lambert said it hadn’t gone high enough. Bert eventually got one away straight and high. Lambert took away his 7-iron and said he was now ready for something more ambitious. Bert said with savage irony that he was lucky to have someone so perceptive at his side. Lambert agreed.
    Lambert twisted Bert’s shoulders and pushed his hips into the appropriate position. ‘We’re building up your swing plane,’ he assured his charge. Bert counted the diminishing number of balls, concentrating on that single factor: it was his only gleam of hope in this dark world.
    With only three balls to go, the accident happened. Bert caught the ball flush at the bottom of his swing with the 4-iron which had given him so much trouble. The ball soared high, long, and straight, disappearing from his range of vision in what was admittedly now a very dim light. There was an interval of at least three seconds, as he stood back and gasped, then waited for the inevitable words of acknowledgement and praise from his delighted mentor.
    Then Bert heard a tut-tutting behind him from Lambert. ‘What on earth happened to your follow-through that time? Just look at where the club has finished! And look where your feet have finished!’
    From somewhere in the recesses of Hook’s subconscious, there surfaced an old tale he had read of Wilfred Rhodes coaching a youngster in the cricket nets of long ago. ‘ And thee look where t’bloody ball’s finished !’ he yelled. He dropped the iron and stalked away, leaving Lambert alone with his thoughts and the last two balls.

 
    Five
     
    The wife of the late Edward Giles made herself up with care and waited for the CID men to come at the appointed time. At eight thirty, she felt perfectly composed, but she noticed how much more nervous she became as the time crept round to nine fifteen. By the time she saw the dark blue Scorpio easing up the drive of her house, she trembled with a trepidation she had been determined she would not feel at the prospect of this exchange.
    Yet when she opened the door to Lambert and Hook, they saw a well-groomed woman in an Armani suit, who appeared composed and in control of her emotions. In the spacious drawing room, with its windows looking over vistas of weedless grass and borders where roses still gave a few brave flowers, she waved them towards a settee whose tapestried elegance could scarcely have been a greater contrast to Aubrey Bass’s sprouting sofa. ‘I’m sorry I was away when this happened,’ she said. ‘No doubt you would have preferred to see me earlier.’
    ‘Yes. We like to speak to the next of kin first, whenever possible. In this case it wasn’t. I trust the Irish police broke the news as well as these things can be done —there isn’t any easy way.’ Lambert, through the conventional words, was studying her closely.
    ‘They were as diplomatic and as caring as you would expect the Irish to be. They’re a warm-hearted people, despite their political troubles,’ said Sue Giles. She threw in the clichés readily enough, suspecting that even this grizzled detective Lambert