‘Can I help you?’ Then he turned to Stout. ‘Don’t I know you? I remember, you were a policeman. That dreadful case when I was a boy. Do you know, you’ve hardly changed.’
‘Still am a policeman, sir. Here to ask you a few questions.’
And still Lord remained courteous and composed. Too courteous? Porteous wondered. Wouldn’t most people be irritated, hostile, if they were interrupted in the middle of breakfast. But perhaps it had become a habit to be pleasant. Perhaps that was why he was so successful. He treated them now with a puzzled good humour.
He asked to be allowed to dress first and they let both of them go, because even if Reeves was hiding out somewhere in this big house and tried to do a runner the team outside would get him. That might be better even. Save them having to search and it would look better in court if he had been trying to escape.
‘Does Phillippa have to be involved in this, Inspector?’
Phillippa, the wife, had remained silent throughout.
‘We do have questions for both of you.’
And he accepted even that without a fuss.
While they were waiting in the kitchen the boy came in for breakfast. He shovelled in cereal, then, well trained, stacked the bowl in the dishwasher and returned the milk to the fridge. He showed no curiosity about who they were.
‘Do you need a lift to school, lad?’ Stout asked.
‘No thank you.’ Very polite, very well brought up. ‘I get the bus from the end of the track.’
Like Carl Jackson, thirty years before. Doesn’t that haunt Paul Lord? Porteous thought. He was involved in the case even if it was only as a witness. How can he send his son up that lane every morning without a worry?
They carried out the interview in the conservatory, drinking the best coffee Porteous had tasted for years from chunky, hand-thrown mugs. Stout took the lead. That was what they had decided.
‘A bit of a coincidence you living here,’ he said. ‘After you were involved in the Carl Jackson case.’
‘Not really involved,’ Lord protested mildly. ‘I gave Alec an alibi. That was all. And not really a coincidence. I’d kept in touch with Alec. When Sarah’s husband died he knew she was wanting to sell. I was looking for bigger premises and he knew that too… He put us together. She saved on agents’ fees. We got the place for a good price.’ He shrugged.
‘It’s Mr Reeves we’re here about.’
‘Why?’
‘We’d like to talk to him. He seems to have disappeared.’
‘I mean, why do you want to talk to him?’
Stout paused. ‘It’s in connection with a murder inquiry.’
‘The body in the lake? Michael Grey? You’ve got things all wrong. Again. Alec had left town before Michael disappeared. Before he arrived even.’ He kept his voice amused. Still he wasn’t rattled.
‘He came back,’ Porteous said quietly. ‘To watch a production of Macbeth. It was special because Michael was the star and Alec knew him very well. We’ll call him Michael shall we, though that wasn’t his real name. Michael had been staying at Redwood, where Mr Reeves was working as a care worker. Were you aware of the connection at the time?’
‘No.’
‘Don’t you find that strange? You were the same age as Michael. Wouldn’t Mr Reeves have introduced you? So you could help the boy settle into his new school.’
‘He might have done I suppose, but he didn’t. It wasn’t necessary. Michael was confident, immediately popular. Alec would have recognized that he didn’t need any help from me. Besides, after the business with Carl, all the gossip at the time, my parents didn’t want me to have anything more to do with Alec. I expect he was trying to save me embarrassment.’
There was a pause, then Stout turned to Phillippa, changing his tone. ‘Are you a local woman, Mrs Lord? Had you heard about all this?’
‘Only what Paul’s told me. We met at university.’ When she’d gone off to dress she’d put on make-up. Her lips were glossy, her complexion flawless. She was dressed in a neat little skirt and a sleeveless top. A jacket was hung carefully on the back of a chair.
‘When did you first meet Mr Reeves?’ Stout asked.
She gave a frown, not because the question worried her but because she wanted them to see how irrelevant all this was. It was eating into the important business of her day. ‘He came to our wedding.’
‘Did he?’ Stout raised his eyebrows, a pantomime of surprise.
‘Paul doesn’t have many relatives. His side of the church would have been rather thin.’
‘And Alec is an old friend,’ Lord broke in. ‘He was very good to me.’
‘You’ve kept in touch ever since?’
‘Yes. Phone calls. Christmas cards. If he visits his sister he calls.’
‘Did he talk to you about his work?’
‘A little. Not in detail. He wouldn’t consider that ethical. Confidentiality must be very important in social work.’
‘Quite.’ Stout deliberately set down his mug. ‘You can tell us now, Mr Lord. After all these years. You were under pressure at the time, we all know that. A boy. But now there’s a chance to put things right… Where was Mr Reeves on the afternoon Carl Jackson disappeared?’
‘With me. Just as I said.’
Phillippa looked again at her watch. ‘Look, I’ve got a meeting. I really should go.’
‘A few more minutes, Mrs Lord.’ Stout didn’t even look at her. He continued to hold Lord’s stare. ‘When did you last see Mr Reeves?’ he asked suddenly.
‘I can’t remember the date. He phoned the day after the school reunion. He said he was going to be in the area, he’d like to take us out for a meal. We arranged to meet at The Old Rectory the following evening.’
‘What did he want?’
‘Want? Nothing. Our company perhaps. He’s a kind, elderly man. Occasionally he must get lonely.’
‘Did he talk about Michael Grey?’
‘I think we must have discussed the identity of the body in the lake. It was a matter of interest. Everyone in Cranford was talking about it.’
‘Did you introduce the subject, or did he?’
‘I did. I remember Michael going away in the middle of exams. We all thought he’d gone back to his father.’
‘At the meal at The Old Rectory, did Alec tell you that he knew Michael, that he’d worked with him at Redwood?’
‘No.’
‘Odd that, isn’t it? You were gossiping about the body in the lake. Enjoying the drama even. Nothing wrong with that. But Alec didn’t tell you it was through him that the boy had come to town?’
‘I’ve told you. Alec was scrupulous about confidentiality.’
‘So you did. Did he stay here the night after the meal?’
‘No. We offered to put him up, but he’d made other arrangements.’
‘What were those?’
‘I don’t know. I presumed he’d be staying with his sister.’
‘How did he seem that night?’
For the first time Lord hesitated before answering. ‘He seemed suddenly very old. We wondered if he might be ill. He said not, but it occurred to me that he’d arranged to meet us… almost as a way of saying goodbye.’ He looked up, gave a little smile. ‘Probably just my imagination. All that talk of death.’
There was a pause. Porteous could sense Phillippa’s impatience but still Stout held the stage and she didn’t dare move. When Stout spoke at last he was cheerful, a jolly surrogate uncle who should have been invited to the wedding too.
‘You said you got a good price for Balk Farm. You’ve made a lovely place here, a real family home. Why was the price so low? A payment was it, for backing up Alec’s story all that time ago?’
Lord stood up. At first Porteous thought Stout had succeeded in provoking him into losing control, but he held it together. All the taunting and bullying as a child had held him in good stead.