Close Call by J.M. Gregson Page A

separately at a later stage of the enquiry. Am I right to presume that neither of you knew Mr Durkin before you moved into Gurney Close?’
    Rosemary Lennox smiled. ‘That is correct. One of the interesting things is how a disparate group of people can be brought together by the common problems of moving into a new neighbourhood. Hence my suggestion for the street party. I remember thinking on Saturday night how good it was that such different people should be enjoying themselves together. And then this happened.’ She looked past Lambert and out of the big window of her sitting room at the dangerous world outside, and shook her head sadly.
    It was her husband who broke the silence which followed. He said quietly, ‘I knew Robin before we moved in here.’
    They both turned to look at him, more because of his tone than because what he said was particularly startling. He forced a smile to disperse their solemnity. ‘There’s nothing sinister about it. I know him for the same reason that I know hundreds of other people in the local community, Superintendent. I taught him, years ago.’
    â€˜How many years ago, Mr Lennox?’
    â€˜Sixteen, seventeen years ago. Something like that. We could check the dates in the school records, if it’s important.’
    â€˜And is it, Mr Lennox?’
    He smiled, as if he were pleased to have thrown his little surprise into the exchanges. ‘Of no importance at all, in my opinion. A matter of supreme irrelevance, as one of my colleagues used to say.’
    Lambert answered his smile. ‘What kind of a pupil was he?’
    Ron Lennox grinned at the recollection, and his lined face looked suddenly more attractive with mirth. ‘Bit of a nuisance, if you want to know. In fact, I’m aware of the convention that one shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, but Rob Durkin was a right little bugger when he was at school!’
    â€˜In what way?’
    â€˜Oh, nothing vicious, you know. High-spirited adolescence, you’d call it. But high-spirited adolescence can be a pain in the arse when you have to deal with it. Especially without the sanctions you used to have when I started teaching forty years ago!’
    Rosemary was surprised to hear her normally fastidious husband describe the vanished schoolboy as both ‘a little bugger’ and ‘a pain in the arse’. She sensed that a familiar diatribe about modern discipline was in the offing. She said hastily, ‘You never said you’d taught Robin, Ron. Not even on Saturday night, when everyone was being relaxed and indiscreet.’
    â€˜Professional discretion, Rosemary. Robin never acknowledged that I’d taught him, so I thought he might not wish to have those days recalled. Perhaps he wasn’t proud of the way he behaved at school: I think some of the other teachers had more trouble with him than I had. I’d have been perfectly prepared to have a laugh with him about the peccadillos of his youth, but I didn’t think it was up to me to raise the matter.’
    â€˜And his school career was the only contact you had with him until the last few weeks of his life?’ asked Lambert.
    â€˜Indeed it was. And I wouldn’t like you to go away with the idea that the young Rob Durkin was anything more than a high-spirited boy. There was nothing vicious at all about him. He was the same as hundreds of other boys with a lot of energy and a little mischief in them.’
    â€˜Nevertheless, thank you for recalling those days.’
    â€˜Not at all. I only mentioned them because I felt I must be strictly accurate in answering your questions. We don’t want to be hauled into the police station and given the third degree because of some small omission at this stage, do we, Rosemary?’ Ron laughed at his little witticism, a high, startling sound in the quiet room.
    Lambert took an amicable leave of them then. And Mrs Lennox was left wondering why her