by Frank Smith
‘Did she offer any explanation for the swollen face?’
‘Tried to tell me it was an accident,’ the woman scoffed. ‘Fell of the bus, she says, but I wasn’t born yesterday. After all that shouting and carry-on when Lenny came home? That boy will be the death of her, and I told her so.’
Paget and Tregalles exchanged glances. ‘Are you saying it was Lenny who did that to his mother?’ Tregalles said.
‘Like I said, she tried to say it wasn’t, but that’s Beth for you. Keeps a tight rein on her feelings, does that one. But I heard them going at it,’ she said. ‘Lenny shouting, and then there’s this sort of crash, and I heard Beth, well, sort of cry out. I tell you, it gave me the shivers.’
‘Then what happened?’
‘Lenny and that girl of his came out of the house and went off on the motorbike. Glad to see the back of ’em, I was, I can tell you.’
‘What time would that be?’
Mrs Turvey thought about that. ‘Can’t say I noticed the time,’ she said. ‘But it would be a good half-hour before Beth came out of the house.’
‘Between seven thirty and quarter to eight, then,’ Tregalles said. ‘Would that be about right?’
The woman began to nod, then paused. ‘No, I tell a lie,’ she said. ‘It was a bit before half-past seven. He always revs that bike up so loud you can’t hear yourself think, and I was thankful that he did it before I sat down to watch the telly.’
Tregalles made a discreet note. ‘You say Mrs Smallwood mentioned falling as she got off the bus. What bus would that be?’
The woman shrugged. ‘The one from town, I expect. Not that I believed her. Funny, though, it was the first time I’ve known her come home on the bus for months. Late, she was, too.’
‘I don’t suppose you know what time that was,’ Tregalles ventured hopefully. It wasn’t entirely a vain hope; Mrs Turvey seemed to keep a sharp eye on the comings and goings of her neighbour.
The woman thought. ‘It must have been around six,’ she said slowly. ‘Yes, that’s right, because she was later than usual and I remember wondering why she hadn’t been brought home by that Mr Beecham.’
‘Mr Beecham?’ Paget raised an enquiring brow.
‘He’s Beth’s boss. At the bank. Brings Beth home in his car.’ Mrs Turvey gave Paget a knowing look. ‘Stops there a good long time, too, some evenings. But he didn’t bring her home tonight. Came round later, though, in ever such a state. Banging on the door and calling out, so I went to see what that was all about. He wanted to know where Beth was, so I told him she was up at the church. Ever so short with me, he was. Not like him at all.’ She lowered her voice. ‘To tell you the truth, I think he’d been drinking.’
‘And what time was that, Mrs Turvey?’
‘Must have been going on for nine, I should think. It was beginning to get dark.’
‘Do you know where Mr Beecham lives?’
Mrs Turvey didn’t know, but she had the impression it wasn’t far away. Paget questioned her closely, but there was little the woman could add to what she’d already told them. Paget switched direction. ‘How old is Lenny Smallwood, Mrs Turvey?’
‘Nineteen.’
‘And he lives at home?’
‘That’s right. Except Beth did say something that made me think he might not be living there much longer. Talked about going to see the police tomorrow. And not before time, neither, as far as I’m concerned. Sounded like she meant it, too. He’s a nasty bit of goods, is Lenny, and that’s a fact. Not that I’ve ever known him to hit Beth before, but then, you never know what goes on behind closed doors, do you?’
Paget was about to ask another question, but Mrs Turvey held up her hand. ‘Now, fair’s fair,’ she told him. ‘I’ve answered all your questions; now you answer mine. I want to know what’s happened. I know we don’t always get on, especially when it comes to the way Lenny carries on, but I like Beth Smallwood. She’s a good soul if only she wouldn’t let that son of hers walk all over her. I hope she does throw him out, then we can all have some peace. Now, what’s this all about, eh?’
Tregalles looked at Paget, and the chief inspector nodded. ‘I’m afraid I have to tell you that Mrs Smallwood is dead,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry.’
The woman stared at him. ‘Dead? Beth? You can’t … How? What happened?’
‘We don’t know ourselves at this point,’ Tregalles told her. ‘It appears that she may have been attacked while she was working in the church.’
‘Oh, my God!’ The woman shook her head in disbelief. ‘But why? Who’d want to do such a thing?’ She paused and her expression changed. ‘He must have come back,’ she said softly as if to herself. ‘Beth told him he’d have to leave and he wouldn’t like that, would he?’ Mrs Turvey looked at Paget. ‘It was Lenny, wasn’t it?’ she said. ‘I was right. I knew it! I knew there’d be trouble one day. You ask my Fred. I always said…’
‘Mrs Turvey,’ said Paget sternly, ‘I must caution you not to jump to conclusions. We don’t know who is responsible, and until we do it would be most unwise to indulge in speculation. Now, perhaps you can help us further. Do you know if Mrs Smallwood had any other close relatives?’
Doris Turvey shook her head. ‘If she had any, I never heard her speak of them.’
‘I see.’ Paget stopped, head on one side, listening. The deep-throated sound of a motorbike could be heard coming down the lane. ‘Is that…?’
‘That’s Lenny, now,’ Mrs Turvey said. ‘I’d know that bike anywhere.’
There was a burst of sound, then silence. Paget opened the door and stepped outside, followed closely by Tregalles. It was very dark, but light from the open doorway outlined the bike. A helmeted rider was in the act of dismounting when Paget called out to him: ‘Mr Smallwood? Leonard Smallwood?’
The figure paused, then in one swift motion remounted the bike and kicked it into life. Both policemen started forward, but they were too late. The bike leapt forward, almost unseating the rider before he brought it under control, and roared off into the night.
* * *
It was two o’clock by the time Paget let himself into the silent house. He scooped up a fistful of handbills that had been shoved through the letter-box, and walked through to the kitchen. He tossed them on the table. More rubbish for the recycling bin.
He yawned and stretched. He was tired but his mind refused to let him rest. He kept picturing the face of the woman on the chancel steps. Was Tregalles right? Was it simply a case of a robbery that had gone terribly wrong? Or was there more to it than that? Certainly the son’s behaviour was suspicious, taking off like that when they approached him. But had it anything to do with the murder?
He filled the electric kettle and plugged it in, then slumped down in a chair to wait for it to boil.
Idly, he began to sort through the handbills and found an official-looking letter mixed in with them. Personnel Department, Metropolitan Police. What was that all about after all this time?
Curious, he tore open the envelope. Inside was another envelope, this one addressed to him at his old office in Victoria Street, and it bore a Canadian stamp.
He opened the envelope, took out the letter and read:
Dear Neil, Abject apologies for not writing before, but you know what it’s like when you’re settling in. Can’t believe that it’s almost five years since I left, but I suppose it must be. I always meant to write, but the first two years were a bit hectic, and well, you know I’ve never been much good at that sort of thing, so all I can do is say sorry again.
But I must tell you why I’m writing now. You’ll never believe this but I’m getting married!!! Knew that would knock you over, but it’s true!
Patrick Truscott, the perennial bachelor, was getting married. Paget shook his head and smiled.
Patrick had been best man at his wedding, but they had lost touch with each other after Patrick went to Canada to join a communications company as a security adviser. There had been a couple of Christmas cards, but then nothing. T
heir last Christmas card to him had been returned stamped ‘Not known at this address’, and there had been nothing since.
Then Jill had died.
Paget closed his eyes. He didn’t have to look at the calendar to be reminded of the date. It would live forever in his brain. Three more days. He’d been aware of the date for weeks, yet, perversely, he’d tried to put it out of his mind. Three years ago this Friday was the day Jill died. God! it was hard to believe that she’d been gone for three years. He could see her now in his mind’s eye as clearly as if she were there in front of him: dark hair, dark eyes, vivacious, with that peculiar lop-sided grin of hers. So short a time together. Four years. If only …
The shrill whistle of the kettle interrupted his thoughts. He unplugged it without being conscious that he’d done so, his mind still full of memories. He picked up the letter and began to read again.
He stopped. He felt as if he’d been kicked. His hand closed on the letter and slowly crushed it. ‘Damn you, Patrick!’ he said fiercely. ‘Why now? Why did it have to be now?’
Chapter 6
Tuesday – 14 May
‘Leonard Ronald Smallwood. Nineteen. Charged last year with possession of stolen goods. First offence. One year probation.’ Tregalles dropped the sheet in front of Paget, and moved back to prop himself against the wall, careful not to spill his mug of coffee. ‘Word is that Smallwood was lucky to get off so lightly. He’s well known as a tearaway, and there’s more than a suspicion that he’s into drugs in a small way. Selling coke to kids, mostly. Nothing they can prove so far, but the locals reckon it’s only matter of time before they have him.’
Paget picked up the sheet and stared at it. His mind, usually so orderly and focused, was still preoccupied with the contents of Patrick’s letter. He forced himself to concentrate. ‘No word on his whereabouts, then?’ he said.
‘No. I shouldn’t think it will be long, though.’ Tregalles eyed Paget over the rim of the mug. ‘Problems, sir?’ he asked.
‘What?’ Paget seemed startled by the question. ‘Oh. No. Just thinking. Nothing to do with the case,’ he said brusquely. ‘What about other relatives? Any luck there?’
‘Nothing so far. Charlie’s people are in the Smallwood house this morning, and I told him we’d be along shortly.’
Paget glanced at the time. Using the dead woman’s key to gain access, he and Tregalles had taken a brief look round the cottage before leaving Farrow Lane earlier that morning, but a thorough search was best left to Charlie’s team. ‘You go ahead,’ he said. ‘I think I’ll go over to the bank to have a word with this chap, Beecham. He should have a file on Mrs Smallwood, and I’d like to know why he went round to see her last night. Has Charlie finished in the church?’
‘Just finishing up when I spoke to him this morning.’
‘Anything of consequence to report so far?’
‘He said they had more fingerprints than they knew what to do with, and it would take time to sort them out. Trouble is, they could belong to almost anyone; the church is open to the public. But he did say that one print they found on a candle under one of the pews near the body matches several found in the belfry.’
The sergeant finished his coffee. ‘I’ll be off, then,’ he said, ‘unless you have anything else in mind?’
‘No. No, you go ahead,’ Paget said absently.
‘Right.’ Tregalles paused at the door and looked back. There was a grim set to the chief inspector’s face that hadn’t been there last night, and the sergeant didn’t think it was entirely due to lack of sleep. He closed the door quietly. Best not to ask, he decided.
* * *
It was quicker to walk to the Northern and West Counties Bank in Font Street than it was to take the car and try to find a parking space. Besides, Paget felt he needed the air to clear his head. He’d hardly slept at all last night after reading Patrick’s letter. Even now, the words continued to echo inside his head.
It was the best move I’ve ever made, Patrick had written. Things are so much different here, and to be honest, I’ve been very lucky. In more ways than one, as you will see by the pictures. I can’t wait to see you two, and have you meet Louise. Isn’t she a smasher? I still can’t believe that I’m actually getting married at my age. Me, the confirmed bachelor.
Louise is a nurse. She and a friend came out here from Coventry a year ago. Her friend went back, but Louise liked it so much (and she met me, which clinched it) that she wants to stay here. We still have to sort things out with Immigration, but we don’t see any major difficulties.
The thing is, Louise’s parents and her four brothers and their wives are all still in England, as are all her old friends, so we are coming over there to be married in June. As you know, I don’t have any family left, but you two are as close to family as anyone could be, so I want you to be my best man, and Louise would like Jill to be a bridesmaid. Louise’s best friend, a girl she trained with, is to be her maid-of-honour. And Louise says not to worry about the dress; she’ll sort that out with Jill when she sees her.
The wedding is set for June 29th, but we will be arriving in London June 15th, so perhaps we could all get together before Louise and I leave for Coventry on the 17th. I know it’s short notice, but I would like you both to meet Louise as soon as we arrive. I know you’ll love her …
Already, Paget hated her. He knew he was being completely unreasonable, but he couldn’t help it. In fact, if the photographs were anything to go by, Louise looked like a very nice girl. Well, not a girl, exactly; she was probably close to his own age.
Paget ploughed his way across Bridge Street with a total disregard for lights on amber. In fact, he admitted grudgingly, she looked like just the right sort of woman Patrick needed. But to stand by Patrick’s side again as he had at his own wedding … Without Jill? No, he couldn’t do it. That was just too much to ask of friendship.
* * *
‘This gentleman is Detective Chief Inspector Paget, Miss Fairmont.’ The young woman who had taken him to the offices behind the counter spoke in hushed tones as if afraid of being overheard. ‘He asked to see Mr Beecham, and I didn’t know…’ She trailed off into an uneasy silence.
Rachel Fairmont looked over her glasses at Paget. A slight frown puckered her brow, and Paget couldn’t decide whether the woman was annoyed or merely puzzled by his presence there.
‘Thank you, Pauline,’ she said crisply, her eyes still on Paget. ‘I’ll take care of it.’ She waited until the girl had gone, then rose to her feet. A white cardigan hung loosely from her shoulders, and she tugged it closer to her as if for protection as she came out from behind the desk.
She was a tall woman, slim, fine-boned, neatly attired in what struck Paget as an old-fashioned way: buttoned white blouse, straight grey skirt that ended well below the knee, and neat black shoes. She wore little make-up, and her only adornment consisted of silver earrings in the shape of leaves. Her hands were long and slender, and she wore no rings.
It was hard to tell her age. Mid-thirties he guessed, and not unattractive if only she would get rid of those odd-shaped glasses and the severe hair-style.
‘I’m afraid Mr Beecham isn’t available – that is – well, actually he’s not here today,’ she said, and it seemed to Paget that she was choosing her words very carefully. ‘If you would care to tell me what you wished to see him about, perhaps I can direct you to someone else.’
Paget wondered why Beecham had chosen this particular morning to be absent, but that could wait. ‘In that case,’ he said, glancing at the brass plate on the door behind the secretary, ‘I’d like to have a word with the manager. Mr Gresham, is it?’
‘Yes, but…’ The secretary looked at her watch and frowned. ‘I’m afraid Mr Gresham isn’t here either,’ she said worriedly. ‘It’s most unusual for him to be late. He always lets me know if … Oh! Here he is now.’ There was a note of relief in her voice as a heavyset man entered the office.
‘Mr Gresham, this is Detective Chief Inspec
tor Paget,’ she said breathlessly. ‘He wanted to see Mr Beecham, but I told him Mr Beecham wasn’t here today, so he said he’d like to talk to you.’
The manager stopped, set down his briefcase and held out his hand.
‘Arthur Gresham,’ he said, eyeing Paget speculatively. ‘Chief Inspector, you say? Perhaps you’d better come through to my office.’ His grasp was firm and brief.
Inside the office, Gresham took off his coat and waved Paget to a seat. He sat down behind his desk, took off his glasses and began to polish them. ‘Now then, Chief Inspector, how can I help you?’
But Paget answered with a question of his own. ‘Tell me, was it just my imagination or would I be right in thinking that your secretary was being somewhat evasive when I asked for Mr Beecham?’
Gresham slipped his glasses back in place and pursed his lips. ‘Harry Beecham left us yesterday,’ he said bluntly. ‘In the light of what seems to be a continuing recession, we could no longer justify his position at Northern and West Counties. It’s unfortunate, and it pains me deeply to have to resort to these measures, especially when it involves people who have been with us for so many years, but there it is. And, since that information won’t be released – officially, that is – until later this morning, I can understand Miss Fairmont’s reluctance to say more.’
‘I see.’ Was it just coincidence, he wondered, that Elizabeth Smallwood was murdered on the same day that her boss was dismissed, then later came pounding on her door? ‘You have another employee, an Elizabeth Smallwood?’ He paused, waiting for Gresham’s reaction.
The manager leaned back in his chair, folded his hands across his bulging midriff, and began to rock gently. ‘Yes,’ he said cautiously. The slight lisp Paget had detected earlier had become more pronounced. ‘Mrs Smallwood is one of our employees, but I’m afraid she is not here today either. She rang to say she’d had a bit of an accident.’
‘When was that, Mr Gresham?’
‘Last evening. She rang Miss Fairmont at home to say she wouldn’t be in today. Said she’d taken a bad tumble as she was getting off the bus.’