Close Call by J.M. Gregson

end of the evening?’
    Ronald Lennox responded promptly to the invitation, as Lambert had somehow known that he would. ‘Oh, we’d all had quite a lot over five hours or so. And none of us had to worry about driving home. I remember us congratulating ourselves on that, at the time.’
    â€˜Repeatedly,’ said his wife, with a touch of acid.
    â€˜I’d say that no one was blind drunk and reeling about, but we were all pleasantly pissed, if you’ll pardon the modernism,’ said Ron.
    â€˜Yes. That tallies with what Mrs Durkin and Mrs Holt have told us,’ said Lambert thoughtfully. ‘And how drunk would you say Mr Durkin was? In the same state as everyone else?’
    Ronald Lewis’s thin face cracked into an indulgent smile. ‘Oh, Robin was pretty far gone. We’d been drinking for hours, remember, and you usually drink rather more than you think you’re taking, in circumstances like that, don’t you? I know I realized that the next morning, when I had the biggest hangover I’ve had in years. Wasn’t fit for anything on Sunday, was I, Rosemary?’
    â€˜You certainly weren’t. And of course, we had to contend with the news of Robin’s death, before we were far into the day.’
    Lennox grinned ruefully. ‘I must have drunk a lot more than usual on Saturday night, because Rosemary had some difficulty waking me to give me the sad news. But to answer your question, I’m sure Robin was as merry as anyone at the end of the evening. I remember him going round with the brandy bottle, giving everyone a nightcap. And I’m sure he didn’t miss himself out.’
    â€˜That’s interesting,’ said Lambert tersely.
    â€˜May we ask why?’ said Rosemary Lennox quietly.
    There was no reason why they should not know. ‘The postmortem report shows that Robin Durkin had drunk only a moderate amount last Saturday night.’
    They both looked surprised. Ron Lennox said, ‘He didn’t give either of us that impression. Perhaps habitually he didn’t drink as much as we would have thought he did. Or perhaps he was one of those men who get drunk quite easily, so that you assume they’ve drunk more than they have.’
    â€˜That is a possibility, of course.’
    Rosemary looked at him sharply. ‘But you obviously don’t consider that the likely explanation.’
    â€˜From what you and other people have told us, it doesn’t seem likely, no. His wife, for instance, thinks he usually let himself go on occasions like Saturday night. She says that he was no drunkard, but she thought like you that he had drunk quite a lot during Saturday evening.’
    â€˜But why would it be important?’
    Lambert thought from Mrs Lennox’s shrewdly intelligent features that she had already guessed why. ‘We don’t know for certain that it has anything to do with this crime. But one explanation could be that Robin Durkin knew that he had an assignation coming up when your party was over. A meeting with someone, for which he wanted to keep his brain sharp, and unfuddled by too much alcohol.’
    Ron Lennox frowned. ‘I can see what you mean. But surely this chap who came into his garden and killed him took him completely by surprise? I can’t think that Robin was anticipating a meeting. Not by the way he behaved with us in that last hour.’
    Lambert shrugged. ‘I offered that as a possible explanation. It’s not the only one. I’m confident that we shall know a lot more about this by the end of the week.’ It was always as well to give the public the impression that you were in confident control and that things were moving steadily forward. Especially when there was a possibility, however remote, that the killer of Robin Durkin might be one of the two people confronting him so earnestly in this comfortable room.
    He said, ‘Thank you for your time. We may need to see you