by Frank Smith
She frowned, confused. ‘The woman in the church…’ She caught her breath. ‘Please don’t look at me like that, Tony. Tony!’ Her voice rose. ‘Don’t look at me like that!’ She began to whimper.
His mouth formed a thin line as he turned his attention back to the road. ‘There was no woman,’ he said so softly that Amy had to strain to hear him. ‘Understand?’
Amy swallowed hard and nodded.
‘Then say it!’
‘Th-there was no woman,’ she said, stumbling over the words.
His hand shot out and gripped her arm. ‘I didn’t hear you,’ he shouted. ‘I want to hear you say it, Amy. I want you to say it and believe it!’ His fingers dug into her flesh.
Tears streamed down the girl’s face. ‘There was no woman!’ she screamed at the top of her voice. ‘There was no woman! There was…’ Her voice broke, and she fell back sobbing in her seat.
Tony Rudge stared into the night. His grip relaxed on her arm. He patted her shoulder lightly. ‘Good girl,’ he said. ‘Now just remember that.’
Chapter 4
‘Dead ugly’ was the way one local resident had described St Justin’s church, and no one had felt obliged to challenge the description. Utilitarian and unadorned, with its squat, square tower and foreshortened nave, it had neither grace nor beauty. Even the stonework, which should have mellowed with the passing years, had instead turned dark and sombre. But it was old, almost five hundred years old, and that, apparently, was sufficient reason for its continued preservation.
Once part of a large estate some distance from the town, St Justin’s now found itself within Broadminister’s boundaries, the rest of the estate having been sold off piecemeal long ago. The church was bordered on three sides by open farm land, but to the north only a thin strand of trees stood between St Justin’s and a new development known as Broadmere. Once that was complete, the push would be on to tear the old church down.
And no doubt there would be others pushing just as hard to save it.
So thought Detective Chief Inspector Paget as he parked his car beside a forensic van. He got out and locked the door. A uniformed constable approached, recognized him, and stepped back quickly as Paget ducked beneath the yellow tape.
‘They’re all inside, sir,’ the man said unnecessarily.
Paget entered the churchyard through the open lich-gate, now held back by yellow tape and draped with plastic sheeting. The grass was wet, the gravel soft beneath his feet, but at least the rain had stopped.
He mounted the steps and stood for a moment, surveying the scene.
Broad-shouldered and a couple of inches over six feet, his size was still impressive, but his old colleagues from the Met would certainly see a difference in him from the man they’d known three years ago. He was leaner now, his face was thinner, and his once brown hair was streaked with grey. His nose, always a prominent feature, had taken on a sharper thrust, and his eyes were more deep-set. His wife’s untimely death had taken a heavy toll, and there was about the chief inspector an air of aloof detachment. It was as if he had withdrawn to some secret place inside himself, and that which he presented to the world was merely armour, sword, and shield.
Inside the church white-coated men and women performed their work in silence, while uniformed men stood about looking as if they wished they could be elsewhere. Below the chancel steps, two men stood talking while they watched a third man on his knees beside the body of a woman. The taller of the two men – the one who looked more like a doleful undertaker than a policeman – was Inspector Charlie Dobbs, the officer in charge of Scenes of Crime. The shorter, dark-haired man was Detective Sergeant John Tregalles, while the wheezing, rotund man on his knees was Dr Reg Starkie, the local pathologist. He talked softly as he worked, speaking into a lapel microphone.
Paget moved swiftly down the aisle, head thrust forward as if testing the air as he took in every detail of the scene. There was a chill about the place; an odour of decay and rising damp and sheer neglect. Not normally over-sensitive to atmosphere, he could not escape the feeling that in their quiet way the walls were crumbling, returning inexorably to the earth from whence they came.
‘Charlie. Tregalles,’ he greeted the two men cryptically. ‘Sorry I’m late, but I was the other side of Bewdley when the call came through. What have we got?’
Tregalles consulted his notebook. He was some four inches shorter than Paget, a rubbery-faced, compact man with the strong upper body and tapering hips of a competitive swimmer. His dark hair and swarthy complexion bespoke his Cornish ancestry, although he himself had been born and raised in Bethnal Green and, despite his fifteen years in the border country, was still, like Paget, a Londoner at heart.
‘The victim’s name is Elizabeth Smallwood, according to the documents in her handbag,’ he said. ‘Late thirties. Lives close by at number 7 Farrow Lane. Found more or less as you see her now on the steps. Severe head injury. Looks as if someone hit her very hard with a not-so-blunt instrument. She also appears to have been beaten about the face.
‘According to the two men first on the scene, she looked as if she might have been kneeling on the steps when she was struck. Handbag was rifled; contents scattered about the floor. Money and credit cards are gone, assuming she had some in the first place.’
‘Married? Single? Next of kin?’
‘Widow, according to a neighbour. She worked for Northern and West Counties Bank in Font Street.’
‘Anyone been notified?’
‘A constable has been to the house – it’s just down the lane from here – but there was no one home. He spoke to a neighbour, a Mrs Turvey, and she said there’s a son, Lenny, who lives there with his mother, but she had no idea where the son might be. But she did volunteer the information that wherever he was, he was probably up to no good.’
Paget raised an eyebrow at that, but made no comment. ‘Who reported it?’ he asked.
‘Anonymous phone call from a box across the river in the Flats,’ Tregalles told him. The Flats, as the area had come to be known locally, was originally a marsh, but developers had filled it in and built scores of terraced houses there. ‘The call came in at nine forty-three. First uniform on the scene logged in at ten o’clock exactly. I haven’t heard the tape, but I’m told it was a young woman or girl who made the report. She said there’d been an accident, and there was a dead woman in St Justin’s church. Then she rang off without giving her name.’
‘An accident?’
‘That’s what she said,’ Tregalles closed the notebook. ‘Looks more like a robbery gone wrong to me.’
Paget’s answering grunt was non-committal. Tregalles was probably right, but he wondered why the call had come from across the river. ‘Has the call-box been sealed off?’
Charlie Dobbs spoke up for the first time. ‘Had that done first thing,’ he said, ‘but it’s outside a pub, and someone was using it when my man got there, so I don’t think we can rely on it being much help.’
‘Anything to indicate why Mrs Smallwood was here at this time of night?’
‘She’d come to clean the brasses and put new candles on the altar. I rang the vicar – his name and number are on the board in the porch – and he told me he’d asked her to do that in preparation for a wedding tomorrow afternoon.’
Paget frowned. ‘I didn’t think this church was in use.’
‘It isn’t. That is to say they don’t hold services here any longer, but it is an historic building, and it’s open to the public from ten till three each day from May to September. And they do the odd wedding here, apparently. I’ve asked the vicar to come over.’
Paget remained silent for a moment as he surveyed the scene once more. ‘You say she came to put new candles on the altar,’ he said slowly. ‘Are those the old candles or the new ones on there now?’
‘The new ones, I should think,’ said Charlie. ‘We found what looked like the old ones close to the body, together with the Cellophane wrapper from the new candles.’
‘Yes. We put them out when we got our own lights going.’
Paget continued to stare at the candles. ‘Heavy candlesticks,’ he observed thoughtfully. ‘No doubt you’ll be checking those out. And it might not be a bad idea to find out how long it takes for these candles to burn down this far. Perhaps, too, you could find out exactly what time it was when they were put out.’
Starkie was starting to pack his instruments away. ‘Want to take a look before I send her on her way?’ he asked Paget.
The chief inspector knelt beside the body. Elizabeth Smallwood looked peaceful in death – except for the gaping wound just above the left ear. The auburn hair was glued to her head with matted blood, and the collar of her coat was soaked in it. Paget looked away and breathed deeply several times before continuing his examination.
‘This bruise on the cheek,’ he said to Starkie. ‘Could that have been done some time before she died?’
The pathologist nodded. ‘At least an hour earlier, I’d say. Possibly more, as was the one above her eye and the bruise on her leg.’
‘Time of death?’
Starkie pursed his lips as he looked at his watch. ‘Estimated time of death,’ he emphasized, ‘is somewhere between eight thirty and nine thirty. I may be able to narrow that down a bit tomorrow, but I doubt if it will be by much.’
Paget got to his feet and was dusting off his trousers when Charlie, accompanied by a thin, anaemic-looking man, approached him. ‘Crawford tells me he thinks there is something interesting about the door leading to the belfry,’ he said. ‘Want to come along?’
‘I don’t know if it means anything,’ the man said half apologetically as he led the way to the back of the church, ‘but it seemed a bit odd to me. There’s fresh oil on the hinges and the lock, but the door is not supposed to be opened according to the sign.’ He pointed.
The sign read: TOWER STAIRS UNSAFE. THIS DOOR IS TO BE KEPT LOCKED AT ALL TIMES. A faded signature followed, and the condition of the notice suggested that it had been in place for a long time.
‘What about the main door?’ Paget asked. ‘Have those hinges been oiled?’
‘No, sir. I did check them.’
‘Any sign of a key?’
‘No, sir.’ Crawford glanced at Charlie. ‘But I could open it. It’s a very simple lock.’
‘Better wait for the vicar,’ Charlie told him. ‘He may have a key and an explanation.’
‘Right.’ Crawford sounded disappointed.
* * *
The Reverened Parslow arrived shortly after midnight. He was a small, pale, sharp-nosed man with thinning hair, and Paget took an instant dislike to him. Parslow’s expressions of shock and horror sounded hollow to the chief inspector’s ear. Indeed, the vicar’s primary concern seemed to have less to do with Elizabeth Smallwood’s untimely death than it did with the wedding scheduled for later in the day.
‘It really is most inconvenient,’ he said petulantly. ‘The bride’s parents will be most upset.’
Parslow could tell them little about Elizabeth Smallwood. He did know that she was a single mother, and that she lived with her teenage son at the bottom of Farrow Lane. He said he’d first met her one Saturday afternoon when he’d found her praying in the church. They had struck up a conversation, and she had said how sad it was that no one seemed to care for the church any more. ‘I told her that we simply didn’t have the money to keep things up,’ Parslow said, ‘and it was then that she volunteered to come in once a week and spruce the place up a bit. That was early last year, and she’s been doing it ever since.’
When asked about a key to the belfry, he said it was kept in a cupboard in the vestry. He went off to get it for them, but returned within minutes looking annoyed.
‘It’s gone,’ he said. ‘The key’s gone. Someone has forced the lock on the cupboard.’
‘When was the last time you saw the key?’ Paget asked him.
Parslow scratched his head. ‘I really can’t recall. You see, there’s no need to go into that cupboard in the ordinary way. There’s nothing in there but a few old hymn books and odds and ends. And the key, of course. So I am afraid I can’t help you. It’s the only key to that door as far as I know.’
‘Mrs Smallwood didn’t have a key, then?’ Tregalles asked.
‘No, but she did have a key to the main door.’
‘That must be the key we found in her handbag,’ Tregalles said. ‘Any others, apart from your own?’
‘None that I know of. In fact I had to have one made for Mrs Smallwood. Before that there was only the one.’
‘Not to worry,’ Charlie said. ‘I’m sure my man can open it.’
‘Really?’ Parslow seemed intrigued. ‘You do understand, of course, that the church cannot be responsible for your safety if you go up into the belfry. I mean, it has been declared unsafe, although to be quite honest, I’ve been up there myself and I couldn’t see the reason for the notice. But it was inspected by engineers, I’m told, so I expect they knew what they were doing.’
Crawford had the door open in less than a minute. It swung outward noiselessly to reveal stone steps ascending into the darkness. The steps were badly worn and the edges were beginning to crumble, but they appeared to be solid enough. Charlie led the way, using a powerful torch to guide them.
The stairs took them to a small room. ‘It’s the old bell-ringers’ room,’ Parslow explained. ‘Hasn’t been used in years.’
Charlie moved slowly around the room. He bent to examine something on the floor. ‘Candle wax,’ he said. ‘I’d say somebody has been up here, and not too long ago at that.’ He straightened up and moved to the far end of the room, the harsh light of the torch probing ahead of him. He stopped before a dark recess. ‘Something in here,’ he muttered as he squatted down. He reached in and gingerly pulled out a cardboard box. ‘Looks like rubbish,’ he said over his shoulder. He probed the contents with his gloved hands.
‘Bloody hell!’ he exploded softly, and Paget heard the sharp intake of breath from Parslow as he craned to see.
‘Condoms!’ he announced disgustedly. ‘And used ones at that!’
Chapter 5
The cottage was in darkness, and there was no answer to their continued knocking. ‘Try the keys from Mrs Smallwood’s bag,’ Paget said. ‘One of them should fit.’
‘Here! What do you think you’re up to, then?’
The two men turned to face a large, sharp-featured woman wrapped in a dressing-gown. She stood outside the open door of the cottage next to number 7. Her feet were clad in trainers without laces, and her hair was stiff with curlers.
‘Police,’ Tregalles said, introducing himself and Paget. He produced his warrant card. ‘Would you be Mrs Turvey?’
‘I would,’ said the woman. ‘What’s young Lenny done this time, then? This is the second time someone’s been round tonight.’
‘You must be chilly,’ Paget said. ‘Perhaps we can talk inside.’
Doris Turvey eyed him critically. ‘Chief Inspector, eh?’ she mused. ‘He must have done something serious to bring you out this time of a night.’ She motioned them to follow her inside. ‘I’ll switch the fire on,’ she said. ‘It’s that cold for May. Sit yourselves down, then. Would you like some tea?’
‘Thank you, but we won’t be staying long,’ Paget told her.
The room was small and cluttered with furniture, and an astonishing number of knick-knacks of the seaside holiday variety occupied almost every square inch of space. Wisely, the two men chose to remain standing just inside the door while Mrs Turvey knelt beside a chair to switch on the electric fire.
‘Funny, there being no one home next door,’ the woman said. ‘Can’t say I�
��ve ever known Beth Smallwood to be out this late.’ She glanced at the clock on the mantel. ‘It’s after twelve. That’s not like her. She said she was just going up to the church.’
‘What time was that?’ Paget asked.
The woman thought for a moment. ‘Must have been after eight o’clock,’ she said at last. ‘Yes, it was, because Coronation Street was finished and I’d made a cup of tea. Say ten past.’
‘Where was she when you spoke to her?’
‘Right outside that door. We had a few words, and…’
‘What about?’ Paget asked.
Doris Turvey squinted at him. ‘What do you want to know that for?’ she demanded. ‘What’s this all about? Something’s happened, hasn’t it? It’s young Lenny, isn’t it?’
‘Why do you say that?’ Tregalles asked.
Doris Turvey grimaced. ‘I should have thought you’d know more about that than me,’ she said. ‘I mean, he is out on licence.’
Paget loosened his coat. The room was becoming warm. ‘Could we go back to your conversation with Mrs Smallwood?’ he said. ‘You say she told you she was going to the church. Did she say if she was meeting anyone there? Anything like that?’
Mrs Turvey shook her head. ‘She just said she was going up to the church to tidy up like she usually does. Oh, yes, and to take some candles. She had them in her bag. For a wedding there tomorrow.’ She glanced at the time. ‘Well, today, now, I suppose,’ she amended.
‘Did you talk about anything else?’
‘Just young Lenny, like always. Never a moment’s peace when he and that girl of his are about. Playing that rock music while his mum’s at work. Comes right through the wall, it does, and with my Fred on nights he can’t sleep, you know.’
‘Did you notice anything different about Mrs Smallwood when you were speaking to her?’ Paget broke in. ‘Did she seem all right?’
Doris Turvey looked at him. ‘Ah, so that’s it, is it?’ she said, nodding sagely. ‘No, she wasn’t all right. Her face was all swollen, and she’d hurt her leg.’