Stranglehold by J. M. Gregson

drinking much?’
    â€˜No more than usual. Hetty wasn’t a drinker. She’d have one to loosen her up, perhaps another one later. But mostly she drank orange.’
    For a man who had claimed he was not certain that he even knew the girl a quarter of an hour ago, this was an admission of detailed knowledge. But there was no point in rubbing it in now. Lambert was anxious not to blow the cover of their source of information, a young officer from the drugs squad who spent most of his nights now at the club, trying to find the big men behind the pushers of coke and heroin whom he had already identified.
    â€˜Did you meet Hetty Brown later in the evening?’
    â€˜No. Why the hell should –’
    â€˜The girl was murdered within four hours of when you last saw her in the club. You are among the last people to see her alive. Naturally we are interested in your movements during the rest of that evening.’
    Kemp said, ‘I didn’t see her again after I saw her at that table.’
    Lambert stood up, his eyes a good six inches above those of the stockier man, but no more than three feet away; Kemp had not resumed his seat after he had walked so abruptly to the window. ‘Our information is that she left the club because she had an arrangement to meet a man. Presumably not far away, since she had no transport of her own; so quite possibly in the club car park. You’re telling us that that man wasn’t you?’
    â€˜No. I was up here.’
    â€˜Alone.’
    â€˜Yes.’ There was just enough hesitation before the word to suggest to them that he was deciding to lie.
    â€˜Do you know who it was that she met?’
    â€˜No.’
    â€˜Can you provide us with any suggestions? It would be in your own interests to do so.’
    â€˜No.’
    â€˜We shall need details of the rest of your movements during the evening.’
    Kemp’s face was creased with hostility now; there could scarcely have been a greater contrast to the contrived urbanity with which he had begun the interview. ‘I had a drink downstairs. I came up here then.’
    â€˜Time?’ Hook contrived to sound as though he expected a lie.
    â€˜About half past nine, quarter to ten, I suppose.’
    â€˜You say you were on your own up here?’
    Again there was that momentary hesitation. ‘Yes.’
    â€˜For how long?’
    â€˜Perhaps a couple of hours. About that.’
    â€˜And what were you doing?’
    â€˜Paperwork.’ None of the three men in the room thought it was true, but Hook wrote it down.
    â€˜Did you have any more to drink?’
    â€˜A whisky, I think.’
    â€˜So the bar staff could probably confirm your presence here, some time after Hetty Brown had left.’
    â€˜No. I have my own bottle up here.
    â€˜Gents?’
    Kemp shook his head. ‘Not downstairs. There’s one up here, if I need it. But I drink my whisky neat.’ For a moment, the functioning of his bladder seemed to be more important to him than murder.
    â€˜What then?’
    â€˜I left the club.’
    â€˜Alone?’
    â€˜Yes. I’ve told you.’ He hadn’t, but they let that pass.
    â€˜And where did you go then?’
    He must have been as aware as they were that this was about the time of the killing. ‘I went home.’
    â€˜And arrived there when?’
    â€˜I couldn’t be sure. Some time around midnight, I suppose.’
    â€˜So your wife could confirm the time, presumably.’
    â€˜No. She was in bed and asleep when I arrived.’
    â€˜And you didn’t disturb her, of course.’ Lambert allowed his cynicism free rein.
    â€˜No. We have separate bedrooms. Not that that’s any business of yours.’
    The two men were still facing each other, not a yard apart. Hook, who was recording the detail of Kemp’s replies below them, thought they were like prize-fighters squaring up to one another. Lambert looked abruptly