by Frank Smith
Then, why didn’t he come to look for you when you didn’t turn up for work? He knew where you’d gone. If he really loved you, wouldn’t he have been concerned? Wouldn’t he have come looking for you?
But he hadn’t come, had he? Because he thought that you were dead!
Amy trembled beneath the covers as suspicion grew. Could it have been Tony behind the light inside the shed? The more she thought about it, the more it seemed possible.
But why would Tony want her dead? What had she done? Why…?
‘Oohh, Jesus!’ she said aloud, and began to shake. Someone put a cool hand on her forehead and murmured something soothing, but Amy wasn’t listening to the words. She was remembering Tony’s behaviour that night in the belfry. She had only his word for it that he had found that woman dead. How did she know that he hadn’t killed her? Amy remembered how he’d acted in the car as they drove away. How he’d made her promise to forget she’d ever seen a body in the church. She remembered how his fingers had dug into her flesh; how he’d looked at her.
There was a dark side to Tony; a side of which she’d been secretly afraid. Deliciously afraid until now; sensing it as one might sense a dangerous undertow beneath the surface of a placid pool.
The throbbing in her head was gone. She tried to think, but everything seemed fuzzy. The sound of voices faded. She was getting warm. Disjointed thoughts drifted through her mind: crouching in her shallow hiding place and trembling with fear as the beam of the torch swept past; listening to her attacker stumbling across uneven ground as he searched for her; the sporadic hum of traffic on the road above; shivering long after the sounds were gone, too scared to move in case the killer was still out there waiting for her.
Then nothing. She must have passed out. For how long, she had no idea, but it was daylight when she opened her eyes. She remembered trying to move; remembered the searing pain before everything went black once more.
But she must have moved because the next thing she remembered was crawling through mud and wondering what her mother was going to say when she saw the state of her clothes; clawing her way up the embankment inch by hard-won inch.
The memories became jumbled. Her mother was calling to her, stroking her hair, but she couldn’t answer.
‘Good. She’s asleep,’ the nurse said quietly to the constable. ‘You might as well go and have something to eat while you can. She’ll be out for hours.’
* * *
Although Amy Thomson didn’t remember it, she had wakened in the ambulance, and when the attendant asked her if she could tell him what had happened, she’d said somebody had tried to kill her in the sheds. Then she passed out again.
The ambulance attendant gave the information to the constable who had followed them in, and the constable had in turn radioed the information into Charter Lane.
Which was why the railway sheds were now cordoned off, and men were slowly searching the area. It was a thankless task. The area was littered with rusting pieces of machinery and broken cable reels, an accumulation of discarded take-away cartons, bottles and rusty tins; a shoe; cardboard boxes; several tyres; and burnt patches in the grass where children had built fires.
They found bloodstains on a tuft of grass in a small depression in the ground some distance from the sheds. The grass around it was pressed flat. Other bloodstains were found outside the nearest shed, and on the concrete floor of the shed itself, but there was little else to show there’d been a struggle there.
* * *
Paget glanced at the time. Still time for one more call, he decided. He should be calling it a day, but he didn’t want to go home. Didn’t want to be alone with his thoughts. Not tonight.
Terry Ling lived in Tyler Road on the edge of what was known as the ‘Old Town’. A row of Georgian houses had been converted into flats in the 1970s, and Ling lived on the first floor of number 33.
A removal van stood outside. The front door was propped open and furniture was being moved into a ground-floor flat. Paget entered the building and climbed the stairs to the first floor. The hallway was dark, and the carpet on the floor was wearing thin, but apart from that the place seemed to be well maintained. Ling’s flat was at the very end of the hall, overlooking the street. Paget knocked.
Terry Ling opened the door. He started at Paget blankly for a second, then his brows drew together in a puzzled frown. ‘Chief Inspector?’ he said questioningly.
‘Sorry to trouble you at home, Mr Ling,’ said Paget perfunctorily, ‘but I wonder if I might have a word? May I come in?’
Still looking puzzled, Terry Ling stood aside for Paget to enter. The flat was small and sparsely furnished, but everything was spotless. Small carpets of oriental design dotted the polished floor, while framed photographs of what Paget took to be scenes of Hong Kong by day and night took up much of one wall.
‘Your work, Mr Ling?’ Paget indicated the photographs as they both sat down.
Ling made a deprecating gesture. ‘I used to dabble,’ he said, ‘but I haven’t done any since coming to this country.’
‘You have an eye for composition,’ Paget said. He, too, had ‘dabbled’ in photography in his younger days, but came to realize that he lacked that crucial ‘something’ that changed a picture into a work of art.
Ling shrugged modestly.
‘Your wife…?’ Paget glanced around. ‘Is she at home?’
Ling shook his head. ‘As I told you the other day, my wife works.’ His chin came up and his eyes seemed to challenge Paget. ‘She cleans offices. She is a doctor of philosophy, and she cleans offices so that we can enjoy the luxury of this.’ His tone was bitter as he flicked a hand to indicate the flat.
‘So you spend most of your evenings alone here in the flat, as I believe you said was the case last Monday?’
Ling nodded but remained silent.
‘One of your neighbours claims he saw you leave here that evening, and he says you were gone for some time.’
Ling’s gaze never wavered. ‘He was mistaken,’ he said tonelessly.
‘He has made a sworn statement, Mr Ling.’ Ling looked away. Paget waited. ‘Where did you go?’ he prompted.
‘I told you, I…’
‘It won’t wash, you know,’ Paget broke in softly. ‘I should tell you that the man also saw you return, and I don’t know why he would want to lie about a thing like that.’
Terry Ling looked down at the floor. He shrugged. ‘I went for a drive,’ he said. ‘There was no one here; I was restless. I had a lot to think about.’
‘Such as Beth Smallwood’s promotion?’
Ling’s head came up sharply and his eyes flashed. ‘Among other things, yes.’
‘Such as?’
Ling regarded Paget stonily, then sighed resignedly. ‘If you must know, I wanted to think about my position. It became very clear last Monday that I have no future with this bank – at least while Gresham is in charge.’ Ling got up and walked to the window and stood looking out. ‘I am supposed to be in training for a management position,’ he said dully, ‘but they will use almost any excuse to keep me out of their exclusive club. I thought Birmingham was bad, but these small country towns are ten times worse.’
He turned to face Paget. ‘Just give it time, old chap,’ he mimicked. ‘Not quite the way we do things here, you know. I’m sure you’ll learn. Just give it time.’ Ling’s imitation of Arthur Gresham, including the accompanying mime of pushing out his lips and polishing his glasses, was almost perfect.
‘Time,’ he said contemptuously. ‘I know more about banking than Gresham will ever know. I could do his job tomorrow, and I could bring in more business.’
Paget doubted that. Not in Broadminster. Whether Ling liked it or not, the people here accepted change very slowly. It wasn’t just a matter of his being Chinese – at least, not entirely – it was a matter of trust and acceptance, and Terry Ling simply did not fit the mould. Apart from anything else, he was too aggressive. Paget didn’t doubt that Ling was clever, but
that was part of his problem. He wanted everyone to know it, and that wouldn’t sit well at all.
The question was: did Ling see Beth Smallwood’s promotion as the final indignity? There could be little doubt that it was a slap in the face, and Ling would not take kindly to that.
Ling sat down again and faced Paget. ‘You must understand, I had a great deal to think about, Chief Inspector,’ he said earnestly. ‘We are expecting our first child in October. I have to do something. That’s why I went out. I needed to think things through.’
‘Where did you go?’
‘Nowhere in particular. I just drove around. I like to drive; I think better when I’m driving. Sorry, but quite honestly I can’t tell you where I went.’
‘Were you anywhere near Farrow Lane?’
‘I don’t know where Farrow Lane is.’
Paget let it go. ‘Why didn’t you tell me this when we spoke the other day?’
Ling grimaced. ‘Isn’t it obvious? I hadn’t done anything wrong, but I knew that if I told you that I had been out just driving around, you would have jumped to the wrong conclusion as you have now. Yes, I’m unhappy about the way I have been treated by the bank; yes, I believe I can do a far better job than Beth Smallwood would have done, but I certainly wouldn’t regard killing her as a solution to my problems. Give me a little credit, Chief Inspector.’
‘What about the telephone call?’
Ling’s eyes narrowed. ‘What telephone call?’
Paget sighed heavily. ‘Let’s not play games, Mr Ling,’ he said. ‘The call you made to Gresham’s house. You spoke to Mrs Gresham. She recognized your voice.’
‘How could she? We’ve never…?’ Ling stopped and his mouth twisted into a wry smile. ‘She didn’t, did she?’ he said softly. ‘She’s never heard my voice as far as I know.’
‘Her description was accurate enough for me to guess it was you,’ said Paget. ‘Especially when she said you sounded hostile. What did you intend to say to Mr Gresham, had he been there?’
Terry Ling stared at the floor and shook his head. ‘I really don’t know,’ he said wearily. ‘I was so upset by then that I might have said anything.’ He lifted his head. ‘Perhaps it is just as well that he was out.’
* * *
Rita Thomson stared out of the window of the police car. The doctor had said there wasn’t any point in staying. Amy would sleep until morning, and she would probably feel more like talking then. Go home and get some rest, he’d advised.
Rest. That was a good one. How were you supposed to rest with your daughter in hospital after she’d been out all night, and someone had tried to kill her?
It had been a close thing, the doctor said. The blow had been a glancing one, but it was hard enough to crack her skull and break Amy’s collar-bone. Even half an inch to the left and … Rita pressed her lips together. She was close to tears. What was Amy thinking of, going down there in the middle of the night? She must have gone to meet some boy. Stupid, stupid girl! Hadn’t she been warned often enough?
The car pulled up beside the house, and people in the street stopped to stare. The driver, a uniformed WPC, helped Rita out, and she hurried to the door without looking to right or left. Let them stare. There would be all sorts of rumours flying round within the hour. She found her key and opened the door.
‘We’ll see you inside, Mrs Thomson,’ said the man in plain clothes. Vickers, he’d said his name was. Detective Sergeant.
Rita walked unsteadily down the narrow passage and made straight for the kitchen. She paused. ‘Her bike,’ she said, surveying the space it normally occupied. She turned to Vickers. ‘What happened to Amy’s bike?’
‘Are you sure she used it last night, Mrs Thomson? There was no bike found at the scene. Could it be outside?’
Rita tried to think. ‘It was gone this morning,’ she said. ‘I just assumed…’
‘Have a quick look round outside,’ Vickers said to the constable. ‘What is it we’re looking for, Mrs Thomson? Colour? Make?’
Rita described the bike. ‘It cost a lot of money,’ she ended. ‘We can’t afford to lose it. Apart from anything else, Amy needs it for work.’ It suddenly hit her that Amy wouldn’t be going to work for a while, and tears spilled down her face.
Vickers guided her to a chair and sat her down. ‘You’ll feel better for a cup of tea,’ he said. ‘Just tell me where it is and I’ll put the kettle on.’
Tom Vickers ambled around the kitchen as if he’d lived there all his life. He seemed to know instinctively where everything would be even before she told him. And she didn’t mind. Normally, she wouldn’t have anyone, other than Amy, of course, messing about in her kitchen, but there was something comfortable about Vickers.
He wasn’t a young man. Fiftyish, she guessed. Grey hair, ruddy face, kindly eyes, and an easy manner. He looked like somebody’s uncle, and while he busied himself making the tea, he talked.
Rita found herself responding. She told him everything: how she had discovered that Amy was not in the house; how she’d felt; why she hadn’t reported Amy missing. She even told him about Amy’s father; the divorce; things she’d never spoken of to anyone before, not even Amy.
The WPC had returned to say there was no sign of Amy’s bike, and she had radioed a description into Charter Lane. Some kid might have picked it up and taken it home, but whether anyone would report it was very much open to question.
Vickers filled Rita’s cup again. ‘Do you mind if I have a look round Amy’s room?’ he asked casually. ‘It seems she won’t be able to talk to us until tomorrow, and there might be something that will give us a clue as to why she was down at the sheds at that time of night. The sooner we can start looking for the person who attacked her, the better for everyone.’
Rita half rose from her chair. ‘I haven’t had a chance to tidy her room,’ she began, but Vickers put his hands on her shoulders and pushed her gently down again.
‘Not to worry, Mrs Thomson,’ he told her. ‘I’ve seen untidy rooms before. You just sit still and finish your tea. Top of the stairs, is it?’
‘Back bedroom,’ said Rita automatically, settling back in her seat. She felt too tired to object. Besides, it might help.
Upstairs, in Amy’s room, Rita would have been surprised at how swiftly Vickers moved. The room was small, and there was hardly room to move between the wardrobe, a small chest of drawers, and a narrow single bed. There were film magazines and romance novels everywhere; in the drawers; in the bottom of the wardrobe; on top of the wardrobe; under the bed.
And it was on top of the wardrobe, well hidden behind a stack of books, that Vickers found the diary. He sat down on the bed and opened it and flipped through the pages, then turned to the most recent entry and began working his way back.
Fifteen years old! Vickers shook his head. Either Amy had a very active imagination or she led an extremely interesting life. Especially with someone called Tony. He came to the previous Monday, read the entry, then whistled softly.
Vickers made his way downstairs and showed the diary to Rita Thomson. ‘Have you ever seen this before?’ he asked. She looked blankly at the book and shook her head. ‘I’m sure that’s not our Amy’s,’ she said. ‘Can I see?’
Vickers hesitated, then handed her the diary. ‘I shall have to take it with me,’ he told her. ‘I’ll give you a receipt for it, of course.’
Rita slowly turned the pages. What little colour there had been in her face drained away. Tears trickled down her face as she shoved the book back into Vickers’ hands. ‘Take it,’ she whispered hoarsely. ‘Take it away. I don’t want to see it. I didn’t know. Honestly, I didn’t know.’
‘Is there anyone who could come and stay with you tonight?’ Vickers asked.
Rita shook her head. ‘I don’t want anyone here,’ she said fiercely. ‘Please go, now. I’ll be all right.’ She saw the doubt in Vickers’ eyes. ‘I will,’ she insisted. ‘Now, please go. You’ve been very kind, but please, just leave me alone.’
<
br /> * * *
Paget was hungry, but the thought of having to prepare a meal when he got home didn’t appeal to him at all. Neither did he feel much like going to a restaurant; not on his own.
He compromised by stopping at the fish and chip shop at the bottom end of Church Street, and had to stand in line for more than twenty minutes before being served. The shop was warm, and he almost fell asleep standing there, but by the time his order had been filled, the hot smell of fat had put him off the food.
He sat in the car and picked at the meal. The chips weren’t bad but the batter on the fish was soggy and his appetite had gone. He got out of the car and dumped the remains of the meal into the bin.
He was tired. He’d have to be careful driving home. It would be so easy to fall asleep. A sudden gust of wind splattered rain against the windscreen. Another cold and wet weekend?
The day was almost over. Jill’s day, and all he wanted to do was sleep. He should be feeling something, he told himself, but there was nothing. Nothing but an emptiness that refused to go away.
Chapter 21
Saturday – 18 May
Paget arrived at the hospital shortly after seven, happy to have something positive to do on this rainy Saturday. Tom Vickers had telephoned him at home the night before to tell him of the diary he’d found in Amy Thomson’s room, and now he found the girl awake and more than willing to talk.
Amy’s night had been filled with dreams, and she woke up bathed in sweat. Memories flooded in, and the more that she remembered, the more certain she became that it was Tony who had tried to kill her. He was the one who had killed the woman in the church. He’d just made up that story about there being money in the shed. He’d even gone to the trouble of putting an envelope there so she would see it and go right in, but she wouldn’t mind betting there wasn’t any money in it.
When Paget arrived, Amy couldn’t talk fast enough. She told him everything: about Tony Rudge taking her to the church on Monday evening; his having a key to the church and the belfry; even having sex with him. She held back nothing, describing the panic Tony had been in when he’d shaken her awake in the belfry.