Mortal Taste by J. M. Gregson Read Free Book Online Page B

him at the moment. They had unearthed a tasty bit of embezzlement in a bank near the Welsh border, but that had now been passed to the Fraud Squad. He had only a little over two months of working life to go now and, in view of the irregular extensions Lambert had already been granted, even that was borrowed time. He was beginning to face up to the bleak prospect that his final murder investigation might be behind him.
    Golf should have been a welcome relaxation. Yet whilst he kept his end up in the post-match conversation with their opponents, Lambert found it difficult to lose himself completely in the banter. When they trooped into the dining room for a very acceptable meal, he scarcely noticed what he was eating. Then he listened with only half an ear to the ritual speeches and rather desperate jokes from host team captain and visiting captain.
    As soon as the formal proceedings were over, he wandered outside, away from the noisy hilarity which persisted in the clubhouse. The night was absolutely still, and surprisingly mild, considering that October was just around the corner. John Lambert moved away from the noise, a little way out on to the silent course, ignoring the dew upon his shoes. Here, all he could hear was the occasional hum of a car on the distant road along the base of the Malvern Hills, towering massively black above him.
    There was a vivid sliver of crescent moon, quite low in the sky, and the stars sparkled as brightly as he had ever seen them. He felt very insignificant; his problems disappeared for a moment in the face of the futility of his very existence. There was not a movement in the huge oak trees to his left. The autumn colour was late this year, and there was no leaf fall beneath the canopies of branches. The trees were still ‘those green-robed senators of mighty woods’ which poor consumptive John Keats had registered almost two centuries ago.
    John Lambert had lived twice as long as Keats already, and what had he to show for it? A few murderers put away, a few hundred villains locked up for a few years. It was an achievement of sorts, he supposed, but when the waters closed over him, his ripples would not last for very long.
    â€˜John?’ Hook’s voice from the doors of the clubhouse was barely audible.
    Lambert turned hastily back towards the clubhouse. The interruption of his private reverie was unexpected but not unwelcome. He moved rapidly through the car park. ‘I’m here, Bert. Enjoying a little solitude.’
    â€˜There was a call for you on the steward’s phone. I explained that we couldn’t use our mobiles in the clubhouse.’
    Lambert’s pulse quickened. This could only be serious crime, if someone from the CID section had sought them out here. ‘What was it, Bert?’ He was conscious of trying not to sound too eager.
    â€˜Some kids have found a body. Hidden under bushes in a park in Cheltenham. They think it’s the headmaster of a big comprehensive school. He’s been missing all day.’
    â€˜Suspicious?’ But he already knew the answer to that.
    Hook nodded, his face serious in the dim amber light from the open door of the clubhouse. ‘Shot through the head, apparently. But not a suicide.’
    Lambert didn’t ask any more. There would be plenty of time for questions and speculation, in due course. In the meantime, he had his murder. Some poor fellow he had never known had been shot through the head. By person or persons as yet unknown.
    Superintendent Lambert tried not to feel exultant as he went back to his car.

Seven
    C hristine Lambert found that her husband, who had been uncharacteristically lethargic of late, had finished his breakfast and was preparing to leave the bungalow when she came into the kitchen.
    She glanced at the clock: it was still twenty minutes short of eight o’clock. She said, ‘I thought you were winding down a little in your last few months. Getting ready for a life of