by Frank Smith
The smile faded. ‘That’s right,’ he said cautiously.
‘I’d like a word with your son, Tony, if he’s about,’ said Paget.
Rudge’s expression became grim. ‘What’s he done now?’ he demanded. ‘Whatever it is, I didn’t know about it. I’ve tried my best with that lad, but I haven’t got eyes in the back of my head.’
‘I’d just like to talk to him,’ said Paget.
‘What about?’
Paget remained silent.
Rudge sighed heavily. ‘All right, don’t tell me, then,’ he said sullenly. ‘I’m only his father!’ He jerked his thumb in the direction of a narrow opening. ‘He’s out the back doing the flower beds – that is if he hasn’t skived off by now.’
‘Thanks,’ said Paget as he moved toward the passageway.
Tony Rudge scrambled to his feet as he heard the sound of the back door opening. He dropped his cigarette and ground it beneath his heel, snatched up a spade and thrust it into the ground.
‘Tony Rudge?’
Tony turned as if surprised. He didn’t know the man coming toward him, but he suddenly felt uneasy. ‘Who wants to know?’ he asked.
The man approached and held out a card. ‘I do,’ he said quietly. Tony peered closely at the card, but he didn’t need to read it to know that this man was a policeman.
He felt the prickle of sweat beneath his collar. He wanted to run. What had gone wrong? How could anybody know? Unless …
Unless they’d caught the killer. He shivered but covered the movement by picking up his jacket and slipping it on.
‘Cool when you stop digging,’ he remarked in what he hoped was a steady voice. He lit a cigarette.
Paget eyed him thoughtfully. ‘We found a set of your fingerprints in a most unusual place,’ he told the boy, ‘so I thought I’d come round to see if you could offer an explanation.’
They couldn’t have! He’d been careful. He’d used gloves; there wasn’t any way he could have left prints on the paper or the envelope. He’d even used gloves when he’d shoved it through the letter-box.
‘Don’t know what you mean,’ he said, frowning.
‘I think you do. Where were you Monday night?’
‘Monday?’ Tony almost fainted with relief. He scratched his head. ‘Dunno,’ he said. ‘Why?’
‘Think harder,’ Paget told him. ‘And think about who was with you.’
Oh, shit! Amy. She’d told someone. But she couldn’t prove it. He’d say she was lying. He’d say she had a crush on him and he’d told her to get lost, and this was her way of getting back at him.
Tony pretended to think. ‘I was around here as far as I can remember,’ he insisted. ‘Why? What’s all this about fingerprints? I haven’t done anything.’
Paget sighed. ‘You left your prints all over the belfry and the doors in St Justin’s church the other night,’ he said. ‘Now don’t mess me about, Tony. I want to know who you were with and what you were doing there.’
* * *
Frances Duncan was the owner of Creations, a small but exclusive art gallery in Bridge Street. She had a mannish, skeletal face whose outlines were made even sharper by the way her hair was pulled back and tied behind her head. Her skin was pale, almost translucent, and her neck seemed to be extraordinarily long. She wore a simple black dress with three-quarter length sleeves, and both wrists were adorned with several heavy bracelets. She would be about fifty, Tregalles judged.
They sat close together, knees almost touching in a tiny office at the back of the gallery. Ms Duncan, as she preferred to be called, sat sideways behind her desk in her tilted swivel chair, while Tregalles perched on a folding metal chair facing her.
Ms Duncan lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply and blew a stream of smoke toward the ceiling. ‘Harry Beecham,’ she said ruminatively. ‘I haven’t seen him for ages. Not that I ever knew him well. I knew Helen, of course. Helen Best, she was when I first met her. Such a pity. So much talent. What’s this all about, Sergeant? Is Harry in some sort of trouble?’
Tregalles dismissed the suggestion with a wave of his hand. ‘It’s more of a background check, really. A woman who works at the same bank was killed the other night, and we have to do a routine check on everyone who knew her.’ He went on quickly before Ms Duncan had a chance to speak. ‘But you say you know Helen Beecham better than Harry?’
‘Knew, Sergeant. Knew. I haven’t seen her in years. But what prompted you to come to me for information?’
‘I couldn’t find anyone who knows much about the Beechams,’ he told her. ‘They don’t seem to have any friends or relatives, and as far as I can tell, they have absolutely no social life at all. In fact, I can’t find anyone who has seen more than a glimpse of Mrs Beecham in years. But someone did say they remembered that she used to exhibit paintings here.’
Frances Duncan nodded slowly. ‘Yes, she did, and I wish I had some of her stuff now. She was just beginning to become known. She had a marvellous talent; fresh and clean and exciting. She was self-taught, you know. Never had the money to go to art school. Orphaned when she was just a child – two or three, I believe – and brought up by an aunt. Then the aunt died when Helen was still quite young. Left her nothing to speak of. Helen was working in a draper’s shop at the time; pitiful wages, so she didn’t have any money of her own.’
Ms Duncan fell silent. The cigarette smouldered between her fingers, and Tregalles’s eyes began to water.
‘I didn’t know her then, of course,’ the woman continued. ‘I found out most of it later when she began bringing some of her sketches to me. Funny little thing. Timid, almost apologetic for troubling me. Quite frankly, I didn’t believe the work she brought in could be hers, but it was. She had a marvellous eye for line.’ Ms Duncan grimaced wryly. ‘We could have made a lot of money between us if she’d carried on.’
‘What happened?’
Frances Duncan shrugged. ‘She just stopped coming in. To be honest, I thought she had decided to take her business elsewhere after that write-up in Arts World, and I was furious. But then I heard that she was ill, and I thought that once she was better she would come back again.
‘But she didn’t. The illness dragged on, and she began having these fits of depression, and as far as I know she’s never touched a pen or brush since.’
Tregalles frowned. ‘You say she was ill,’ he said. ‘Ill in what way? I mean did she go to hospital or what? Did you see her? Talk to her at that time?’
‘I really don’t know how it started. I spoke to her on the telephone several times. I had people asking for her work, but she seemed quite distant, indifferent. She sounded listless; as if even talking was too much trouble. So different from the way she was at the wedding. I felt sorry for Harry. Such a nice man. He was devastated. And so soon after they were married. He used to pop in from time to time to let me know how things were, but he stopped coming after a while.’
‘When exactly did this happen?’
‘Five years ago. I remember the wedding was in March. The fifteenth, as a matter of fact. I remember because we made a bit of a joke about it being unlucky. You know, the “Ides of March” and all that. Unfortunately, it turned out to be a very bad joke.’
‘Five years ago,’ Tregalles mused. ‘How old is Helen Beecham?’
‘She must be about thirty-six or seven by now. I know she was over thirty when she married Harry.’
‘They married late.’
Ms Duncan nodded. ‘This was Harry’s second marriage. His first wife died a couple of years before he met Helen. It was her first, of course, and I was so happy for her. She was such a mouse before, but she seemed to blossom when she met Harry. And her work improved. It had been good before, but she seemed to catch fire then, and there was no stopping her.’
Frances Duncan lit another cigarette. Smoke trickled from her nostrils. ‘It’s a damned shame,’ she said fiercely. ‘She could have gone straight to the top.’
* * *
‘I can’t find
anyone who has a bad word for Harry Beecham,’ Tregalles said. ‘The neighbours say you can set your watch by him each morning as he leaves for work – at least you could before Tuesday, but one woman did say she’d noticed that he’d been coming home later in the evening these past few months. He appears to be devoted to his wife; even does the shopping because she has this thing about not wanting to leave the house.’
‘Doesn’t Mrs Beecham ever go out?’ Len Ormside asked. He, Tregalles, and Paget were seated around his desk in the incident room.
‘The neighbours say she will only talk through the letter-box if anyone comes to the door, and she never asks anyone in. One or two say they have seen her in the garden in the summer, but they say she disappears if anyone speaks to her across the fence. It’s almost as if she panics and runs for cover as soon as anyone comes near.’
‘That certainly fits with what Beecham told me the other day,’ said Paget, ‘and I must say the man seems harmless enough. It’s just that I have trouble believing that he would go right past the church without going in, especially when Mrs Turvey said he seemed so hell-bent on talking to Beth Smallwood. He said he didn’t go because he thought there would be others at the church as well, but I have trouble with that.’
He turned to Ormside. ‘Have someone make the rounds to see if we can find out where Beecham went after he left the bank that day,’ he said. ‘I suspect he spent a good part of the day drinking, so try the pubs. Someone should remember him. Find out if he talked to anyone, and what his mood was like.’
Ormside made a note.
‘Right. Well now, Tony Rudge.’ Paget hesitated. ‘The boy admitted to having been in the belfry – not that he had much choice with his prints all over the place – but claimed they were there from the time when he and Lenny Smallwood used the place to store stolen goods. When I mentioned the condoms, he suddenly “remembered” that he’d taken a girl up there some weeks ago, but he claimed he met her in a pub and didn’t know anything about her except she called herself Pat. He said that any other prints we’d found up there must be hers.
‘He’s lying, of course. Forensic says that at least two of the condoms were used as recently as Monday evening, which puts Rudge and his girlfriend in the belfry at or close to the time when Beth Smallwood was murdered.’
‘And we know he had good reason to hate Beth Smallwood,’ said Tregalles. ‘What did he have to say about that?’
Paget shrugged. ‘What could he say? He denied it; said that was all in the past, and continued to swear that he hadn’t been near the church for weeks.’
‘So what happens now?’ asked Ormside.
‘We find out who Rudge’s girlfriend is, then bring them both in for questioning.’ Paget glanced at the time and rose to his feet. He still had a report to prepare for Alcott before he went home.
Ormside and Tregalles exchanged glances. ‘This girl called Pat,’ Tregalles ventured. ‘Did Rudge give you the name of the pub where he is supposed to have met her?’
‘He claimed he couldn’t remember. But don’t waste your time on that. I’m quite sure Rudge made that up.’
‘Then, who are we looking for, exactly?’
‘His real girlfriend, of course,’ said Paget as he made his way to the door. ‘The one he was with on Monday night.’
Chapter 16
The view from room number 12 at the top of Strathe House was the best of all by far, but hardly anyone ever saw it because the room was small and cramped and seldom let.
Which was why Tony Rudge chose to meet Amy there. He wasn’t taking much of a chance. The stairs leading up to the room were steep and narrow, and since only five of the twelve rooms were occupied, there was hardly anyone about.
He glanced at his watch. Where the hell was Amy? He’d told her to meet him here before she went home. Time was getting on, and his father would be shouting for him any minute to come and help with dinner. He was dying for a cigarette but he didn’t dare light up. This was supposed to be a non-smoking room, and if his father ever came up and smelled smoke – and he would – he’d blame Tony.
Impatiently, he paced the floor. Of all the rotten luck! Why did Lenny’s mum have to go and get herself killed in the church while he was there? Not that he was sorry she was dead; she bloody well deserved to be after the way she’d lied in court to get her precious Lenny off. But in his haste to get away that night, he’d quite forgotten fingerprints. But then, who the hell would think of lifting prints from condoms, for God’s sake? Filthy bastards. You’d think they’d have better things to do.
But he’d have to watch his step. That chief inspector was no fool, and he’d be back to ask more questions. Tony paced up and down the tiny room. He daren’t go through with his original plan for tonight; they might be watching him.
Thank God he’d been able to head Paget off about the girl. At least they didn’t know about Amy. If they ever found out he’d been bonking a fifteen-year-old …
The door opened and Amy slipped through and closed it behind her.
‘Took you bloody long enough,’ Tony greeted her belligerently.
The girl looked hurt. ‘I couldn’t get away before,’ she said. ‘Your dad said…’
‘I don’t give a damn what my dad said,’ he snapped irritably. ‘I wanted you…’ He stopped abruptly, remembering what it was he wanted the girl to do. He held his temper and forced a smile.
Amy’s face lit up. ‘You wanted me and you couldn’t wait,’ she said archly. She came to him and slid her arms around his waist. ‘Love me, Tony,’ she whispered.
He kissed her and caressed her body, then gently pulled away. ‘Later,’ he said gruffly. ‘Sit down. We have to talk.’
They sat on the bed because there was nowhere else to sit. Amy slid her hand between his thighs, but he took hold of it and held it firmly. ‘I said we have to talk! Don’t you ever think of anything else?’
‘Not when you’re around, Tony,’ the girl said dreamily.
She was becoming tiresome, but he needed her. Tony kissed her lightly. ‘Just hold the thought for a bit,’ he told her. ‘Tonight it’s business first.’
She giggled. ‘Monkey business, I’ll bet.’
Her childish mannerisms irritated him. He was beginning to wonder what he’d ever seen in her. True, she had a great little body, but there were plenty of other girls out there. He would have to put her off him somehow – but not yet.
He smiled down at her and stroked her hair. ‘I want you to do me a favour,’ he told her. ‘There’s twenty quid in it for you.’
‘Twenty quid? You’re joking!’
‘I’m not.’
Amy pulled away and looked at him. ‘You don’t want me to do something weird, do you?’ she said hesitantly. ‘I mean, I like it the way we do it now, and I thought that you did too.’
‘Good God, no.’ He laughed. ‘Silly girl,’ he chided. He pulled her into his arms. ‘It’s nothing like that. I just want you to pick up a package for me. Well, an envelope, really. Will you do it?’
‘Why can’t you do it?’
‘Because it would violate the conditions of my probation,’ he told her glibly. He slid his hand beneath her blouse and began to stroke her breast. ‘You see, there’s this bloke I loaned some money to while I was in the nick, and he’s out now and wants to pay it back. But we’re both out on licence, so we can’t meet. It’s against the rules. Consorting with known criminals, it’s called.’ He was pleased with the explanation, and Amy wouldn’t know enough to challenge it.
‘Why can’t he just send it through the post?’
Tony shook his head. ‘You know what Dad’s like. Even if it’s addressed to me, he’d open it, and I don’t want him to know about it. If he gets his hands on it, I’ll never see a penny of it.’
Amy nuzzled contentedly against him and raised her lips to his. He kissed her tenderly. ‘So what do you want me to do?’ she asked.
‘Well, he’s got to leave tonight, so he said he’d hide the money in
a safe place down at the old sheds beside the railway lines, and I could pick it up there. But I can’t, you see, because of the police. That’s why I want you to do it for me.’ He began to undo her blouse.
‘Let’s not talk, Tony.’ Amy caught his hand and tried to move it down, but Tony pulled away.
‘In a minute, Amy,’ he said, laughing gently. ‘Don’t be so damned impatient. I want it too, you know, but I have to get this sorted first.’
The girl wriggled impatiently. ‘So tell me what you want me to do.’
‘I want you to go down to the sheds and pick up the envelope for me, that’s all. OK?’
‘But why can’t you do it? You wouldn’t be meeting him, so they couldn’t say you were consorting or whatever it is, could they?’
‘Because I think the police are watching me. You saw that man who came round this afternoon?’
‘Yeah. Who was he?’
‘He’s a chief inspector, and he’s got it in for me. He’s just waiting for me to make a slip, then bang! he’ll have me back inside. You wouldn’t like that, would you, Amy?’
The girl turned a troubled face toward him. ‘He can’t do that, can he, Tony? I mean, what’s he got against you?’
Tony shrugged helplessly. ‘They found out that I know Lenny Smallwood,’ he said, ‘and they seem to think that I might have had something to do with his mum’s death.’
Amy’s eyes opened wide. ‘They don’t know that we were there, do they?’ she asked fearfully.
‘Of course they don’t,’ he assured her. ‘They know that I was in the church sometime or other because my prints were there. But I said that was from when I used to meet Lenny there. They don’t know about you, and there’s no way I’d ever let them know.’
Amy flung her arms around his neck and kissed him. ‘I don’t know what I’d do if you had to go away,’ she said fiercely. ‘You won’t, will you, Tony? You won’t ever leave me, will you?’
‘Of course not, but I’m relying on you to help me,’ he told her. ‘You will pick up the money for me, won’t you, Amy? I really need it.’