by Frank Smith
The reader’s hand shook as the fingers smoothed the paper. £500? Why such a modest sum? Not that it would end there, of course.
It was short notice. The sender wanted the money tonight. The instructions were clear enough. Time, place, conditions, small notes, no police. Not that the police could be called in, of course; the blackmailer must know that.
The reader read the warning again. We will be watching you. Don’t try anything funny suggested that more than one person was involved. And yet the whole tenor of the letter suggested the work of one person, and not a very bright person at that. The instructions were amateurish; the language dramatic. And how many ways could you split £500?
No, this whole thing was the work of an amateur, the reader decided. But amateur or not, it could not be ignored.
* * *
It was half-past ten before Paget was able to get away from New Street. Chief Superintendent Morgan Brock had been at his boring worst, plodding through endless charts and graphs as he made each pedantic point. Costs were rising; break-in figures were up; crimes of violence were on the increase; and the percentage of cases solved had dropped two months in a row. When reminded that a total of nine members of the CID, including two inspectors, had been seconded to a special task force introducing new procedures throughout the region, Brock dismissed it as irrelevant.
While Paget smouldered silently, Alcott chain-smoked. There was no point in trying to reason with Brock. It would have only prolonged the meeting and accomplished nothing.
On their return to Charter Lane, Alcott went with Paget to the incident room for a briefing from Len Ormside.
The sergeant pulled a pad toward him. ‘We’ve found Mrs Smallwood’s sister,’ he said without preamble. ‘Her telephone number was one of those found in the Smallwood house. I’ve spoken to her on the phone. A Mrs McLeish. Lives near Oban. Husband’s a glass-blower. She’s agreed to come down on the bus, but she won’t be here until tomorrow. Apparently she hasn’t seen her sister for years, nor spoken to her. She didn’t come right out and say, but I gathered there may have been a bit of bad blood between them.’
Ormside flipped a page of the pad. ‘Charlie rang to say he’s had a report back from the lab regarding the candles in the church. The ones on the altar had burned down fifty-one millimetres, and the average rate of burn, according to the manufacturer, is twenty-seven millimetres an hour. Which means they were burning for 1.89 hours, or one hour and fifty-three minutes.’
Ormside looked at the two men to make sure they were following him, then consulted his notes once again.
‘The candles were doused when the auxiliary lighting went on, which was at 22.40. That’s an approximate time, but Charlie reckons it’s pretty close. So, assuming the candles were new, that means they were lit at approximately 20.47, or thirteen minutes to nine. Which ties in very nicely with Dr Starkie’s estimated time of death.’
‘No prints on the candles, I suppose?’
‘None. They’d been wiped with some sort of coarse cloth, according to the lab, which suggests that the murderer lit the candles since it seems hardly likely that Mrs Smallwood would do that.’ Ormside scratched his head. ‘But why go to the trouble?’ he went on. ‘I don’t see the point.’
‘Probably to add credence to the idea that Beth Smallwood was kneeling on the steps when she was attacked,’ said Paget ruminatively. ‘And to draw attention away from the candle holders as a weapon. Anything else, Len?’
‘They have a match on a set of prints taken from the belfry in the church.’ The sergeant looked askance at Paget. ‘Charlie said they came off a used condom, but I reckon he was having me on. You know Charlie.’
Paget grinned crookedly. ‘In this case, I think he was telling the truth,’ he said. ‘I was there when he found them.’
Ormside wrinkled his nose in disgust. ‘Sooner him than me,’ he muttered. ‘Anyway, the prints belong to a young tearaway by the name of Rudge. Antony Rudge. Got eighteen months inside for thieving. The original charge included GBH, but it was dropped. He’s out on licence now. Twenty-two years old, single, lives with his father, who owns Strathe House. It’s a guest house overlooking the river on the old Ludlow road.’
Ormside rose and went to a map on the wall where he pointed out the location. ‘Not far from the church,’ Paget observed. ‘I wonder if he was there on Monday night?’
‘Ah!’ said Ormside knowingly as he went back to the desk. ‘There’s something else that ties him in. Rudge said at his trial that it was Lenny Smallwood who was with him the night he got caught, and he claimed it was Lenny who bashed the owner of the house, Walter Latham, when he came in unexpectedly. But Smallwood got off with probation. Seems they couldn’t prove that Lenny was ever actually on the premises, and his mother managed to convince the court that he’d been at home with her that night. But he was nicked for being in possession of stolen goods.’
‘And we’re told that Lenny’s mother intended to come in on Tuesday morning to amend the evidence she gave in court,’ said Paget. ‘Interesting.’
Alcott, who had remained silent until now, said, ‘Sounds to me as if Rudge might not be too happy with his mate’s mother. And he’d be even less happy if she caught him in the church the other night while he was up to no good. Maybe she threatened to tell somebody. He grabs a candlestick and hits her.’
‘That’s certainly a possibility,’ Paget agreed, ‘provided we can put him there at the same time as Beth Smallwood. Right now, all we have are prints. We don’t know when those prints were made.’
Alcott shrugged and lit a cigarette. ‘That,’ he said cheerfully, ‘is your problem, Paget.’ He glanced at the time. ‘And my problem is I’ve got another meeting to attend.’
‘Anything else?’ Paget asked Ormside when Alcott had gone.
‘As I said, there were no prints on the candle or the candlesticks, but there are partials on the inside of the Cellophane wrapper the candles were in, and they don’t belong to the victim. They could belong to the killer, but the wrapper was so crumpled that they are having trouble getting enough of a print to work with.
‘There were also prints on the candle they found beneath one of the pews near the body. They match several prints found in the belfry. Not Rudge’s; someone else’s. Possibly a woman’s, but they can’t be certain of that.’ Ormside flipped through the notes before him. ‘And I think that’s the lot,’ he concluded.
‘Not bad to be going on with,’ Paget observed. ‘Any word from Tregalles?’
‘He said he was going to see someone who knew Harry Beecham and his wife. I expect he’ll be back shortly.’
‘Right,’ said Paget. ‘No news from the hospital, I suppose?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Then let’s pull Rudge in for questioning. See what kind of alibi he has for Monday evening. Meanwhile, I think I’ll take a run out to Golden Meadows to see a man about his son.’
* * *
Golden Meadows lay across the river, not far from the railway station. Paget turned off the main road at a faded sign that read: ‘Golden Meadows – a Home Away From Home’. The lane was narrow, bounded on one side by a sagging wire fence that marked the edge of the railway cutting, and on the other by brambles that reached out to brush the car.
The lane was short, abruptly ending in a circular driveway. Paget dutifully followed the sign directing visitors to the right, and parked the car.
The building was a long, low, brick structure punctuated at regular intervals by narrow windows. They were streaked and dirty, and the metal frames were rusted, staining the bricks below. It was not at all the sort of place Paget had envisioned. Surely Arthur Gresham could have done better than this for his own father, he thought as he mounted the steps leading up to the front door.
The foyer was dimly lit. A sign on one of the doors said: OFFICE, and beside it was a sliding glass panel, partly open. He looked inside, but there was no one there.
‘There’s no one about,’ said a voice behind
him. He turned to see a white-haired woman watching him from a wheelchair. She hadn’t been there a moment ago, and he hadn’t heard her approach. ‘They’re seeing to lunch,’ she told him.
‘I see. Thank you,’ said Paget. ‘Could you tell me where I might find Mr Gresham?’
The woman frowned in thought. ‘Ah! You mean Claude,’ she said. ‘Oh, yes, he’s down at the end.’ She pointed down a passageway which led off to the right. ‘Thirty-six or thirty-seven, I think it is. He doesn’t come out much these days. You might as well go down. They’ll be busy for a good half-hour yet. Not enough staff, you see.’
‘Thank you again,’ said Paget, glancing at the gold band on her finger. ‘Mrs…?’
‘Wickins,’ the woman supplied. ‘You a relative?’
‘No.’ The answer seemed inadequate. ‘It’s a business matter,’ he explained.
The woman nodded. ‘Not many visitors bother coming any more,’ she said. ‘Got two sons in Bridgnorth, but they don’t come. Husband died eight years ago and I’ve been here for three.’ She sighed. ‘Mind you, I know they’re busy, what with family and all, but still…’
Abruptly, she spun the wheelchair round and departed as silently as she had come.
Claude Gresham’s name, together with three others, was on the door of number 36. The door was partly open, and Paget knocked and entered.
The room was fairly large, but four empty beds took up much of the space. At first, Paget thought the room was empty, but a slight noise drew his attention to a bald-headed man dozing in a chair beside one of the beds. He had slumped to one side, and a book he had been reading lay face down on the floor. Paget picked it up. It was a large print edition of Le Carre’s Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy. He set it on the bed. A name-plate on the footboard said: ‘C. B. Gresham’.
Paget pulled up a chair and sat down carefully, but the chair creaked, protesting beneath his weight. The man stirred and opened his eyes. A thin stream of saliva dribbled from the corner of his mouth and dripped on his collar. He stared blankly at Paget, then slowly pulled himself upright.
‘Arthur?’ he enquired. The voice was thin and reedy, as was the man himself. His face was deeply lined, and his eyes were set deep within their sockets. He fumbled for his glasses, which were hanging by a cord around his neck, and put them on.
‘You’re not Arthur,’ he said accusingly. His speech was slightly slurred, and Paget realized that one side of his face was paralysed. ‘What time is it?’ he demanded. ‘Have I had my dinner?’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Paget. He consulted his watch. ‘It’s ten minutes past twelve. Do they bring it to you here?’
‘Molly does, if she’s here.’ The old man scowled. ‘The others don’t. They say if I’m hungry I’ll go to the dining-room. So I say to hell with them and stay here. Food’s not that good anyway. Who are you? Health visitor?’
‘Policeman,’ said Paget, and introduced himself. ‘I’d like to ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind, Mr Gresham.’
‘And if I do?’
‘That’s entirely up to you, sir.’
‘Hmph!’ The old man looked disappointed. It was as if he were looking for an argument. ‘What about?’ he demanded. ‘If it’s about this place, then you’d better take off your coat and get out your notebook. Will I have to testify in court?’
Paget laughed. ‘No, it has nothing to do with Golden Meadows,’ he said. ‘I’d like to talk to you about your son, Arthur.’
‘Why? What’s he done?’
‘I don’t know that he’s done anything,’ said Paget. ‘But I do need to confirm something he told me. He said he came here to visit you last Monday. Do you remember that?’
‘There’s nothing wrong with my memory,’ Claude Gresham snapped.
‘I didn’t mean to imply that there was, sir.’
‘Yes you did. I could hear it in your voice. Just because I’m getting old and dribble down myself, it doesn’t mean I’ve lost my senses. What do you want to know for?’
‘One of the bank’s employees was killed on Monday night,’ Paget explained, ‘and it makes our job much simpler if we can account for the movements of everyone who came in contact with her shortly before she died. It’s a process of elimination,’ he concluded, ‘so if you can confirm what your son told us, you’d be doing him a favour. Was he here on Monday evening?’
‘What day is it today?’ Before Paget could reply, the old man leaned forward and tapped him on the knee. ‘Now don’t go getting the idea that I’m senile just because I asked you that,’ he said sharply. ‘It’s just that every day’s the same round here. I’ve not had the news on today, so I’ve lost track.’
‘It’s Thursday,’ Paget told him.
‘Ah!’ The old man leaned back. ‘Let’s see, now,’ he mused. ‘It wasn’t last night, and it wasn’t the night before, so, yes, that’s right, it was Monday.’
‘I see.’ Despite what Claude Gresham had said, Paget couldn’t help wondering how reliable the old man’s memory was. ‘Do you happen to recall what time he came and what time he left?’
Gresham eyed him shrewdly. ‘Who died?’ he asked abruptly. ‘You said it was a woman. Do I know her?’
‘I don’t know. Do you? Her name was Beth Smallwood.’
Claude Gresham shook his head. ‘No, never heard of her,’ he said. ‘Do you think Arthur had something to do with her death? Is that why you’re asking?’
Paget met the penetrating gaze head on. ‘When it comes to murder, Mr Gresham, I suspect everyone until it can be proved that they couldn’t possibly have done it,’ he said quietly.
The old man remained silent for some time. ‘He was here,’ he said at last. ‘Came about seven – something like that. Don’t know what time he left, exactly.’ He shrugged. It was almost an apology. ‘See, sometimes I fall asleep, and I did that night. When I woke up Sylvia was in here making sure we were all tucked up for the night, and Arthur was gone.’
‘Would Sylvia have seen your son leave?’
‘You’d have to ask her, but she’s not on today.’ The old man sighed. ‘We don’t see that many visitors,’ he said. ‘There’s some in here who never see their families. Stick us away and forget us, mostly. Not that Arthur is like that,’ he added hastily. ‘He’s been very good lately.’
‘How often does he come to see you?’
‘Two or three times, some weeks,’ said the old man. ‘Doesn’t stay long; just pops in. Brings me the odd book. I expect he’ll be here again tonight.’
The answer surprised Paget. He hadn’t thought of Arthur Gresham as a man who would go out of his way to visit his aged father.
The old man pursed his lips and paused before he spoke, and Paget was reminded forcibly of Arthur. ‘Funny how he’s changed,’ he mused. ‘Didn’t use to come at all when I first came in here. Never used to see him from one month to the next. But now he comes regularly two or three times a week. I’ve told him he needn’t, but he says it’s no trouble.’
‘And he’s been doing this for some time?’
‘Oh, yes. Been doing it for months, now. Took him a while to realize what it’s like to be stuck in here, I suppose.’
A short, stout, matronly woman bustled into the room, carrying a tray. She stopped short when she saw Paget. ‘I’m sorry, Claude,’ she said. ‘I didn’t realize you had a visitor. I’ve brought your dinner.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Custard tart for afters,’ she said. ‘But don’t tell the others. It’s jelly in the dining-room.’
Paget got to his feet. ‘I was just about to leave,’ he said, ‘so I’ll let you get on with your dinner, Mr Gresham. And thank you for your help.’
But Claude Gresham had already dismissed his visitor from his mind as the woman set the tray before him. ‘You’re a good girl, Molly,’ he said fondly, and reached out quite casually to run his hand up beneath the woman’s skirt.
Just as casually, Molly smacked his hand away. ‘You keep that up, my lad, and I’ll give your custard tar
t to someone else,’ Paget heard her say as he left the room. It seemed that Arthur Gresham had more than one thing in common with his father.
Chapter 15
Strathe House was tucked into the hillside above the river. Built originally in the 1920s as a small but exclusive hotel, it had fallen on hard times during the ‘thirties, and had somehow missed the recovery enjoyed by others after the war. Now, its clientele consisted mainly of commercial and other itinerant travellers seeking relatively cheap lodgings for a night or two. Occasionally, an overseas visitor would turn up, lured by carefully worded advertisements, but they seldom stayed there long.
Viewed from the outside, the building still retained some of its old-world charm, but inside was another story. The carpets were frayed and threadbare; the floors squeaked abominably; the paintwork was cracked and chipped; the lighting was poor; and the plumbing was, to say the least, unreliable. But there was no money to put it right, nor was there likely to be in the foreseeable future.
As Jack Rudge saw it, it was a classic case of Catch 22. To make the place over in order to attract more people, he needed money, but in order to get the money, he needed more people. He’d cut costs to the bone as it was, using part-time workers and youngsters such as Amy, and doing as much as possible himself. There was Tony, of course, but he was next to useless. Always skiving off if he got half the chance. And Rudge was almost certain that it was Tony who was pinching cigarettes.
Jack Rudge was in this gloomy frame of mind when a car pulled up outside and a man got out. Two-piece suit; good quality; air of authority; no luggage. He groaned. Not another bloody inspector! He hadn’t seen this one before, but he was quite certain that the man would not be asking for a room.
He put on a smile as the man entered and came to the reception desk. ‘Good afternoon, sir. Lovely day after that bit of rain. What can we do for you?’
The man acknowledged the greeting with a nod and produced a card. ‘Chief Inspector Paget, Westvale Police,’ he said. ‘Are you Mr Rudge?’