by Frank Smith
‘You were asleep when he left the room?’ Paget asked. ‘You don’t know what made him go down in the first place?’
Amy shook her head. ‘All I know is what he told me when he woke me up and started throwing everything into the sleeping bag.’ She went on to describe how she had gone down into the church to see the body for herself because she hadn’t believed Tony, then told Paget what had happened in the car.
‘He had me so scared. I couldn’t think straight,’ she went on. ‘And he warned me not to say anything to anybody when he dropped me off at the end of our street. But I couldn’t just let her lie there with nobody knowing what had happened to her, could I? I kept thinking, What if she’s still alive? I couldn’t see how she could be, but what if she was? That’s why I rang the police.’
* * *
Both Ormside and Tregalles were in the incident room when Paget arrived. Len Ormside had planned on coming in to do some work as it was, but Tregalles had promised Audrey that he would take the children to their swimming lessons this Saturday morning, and she had objected strenuously when he’d told her he had to work.
‘You haven’t had a Saturday off in weeks,’ she flared, ‘and the kids were so looking forward to you going with them to the baths. Can’t Mr Paget get someone else for a change?’
‘It’s not his fault, luv,’ Tregalles had told her soothingly. ‘It is a murder investigation, and we have to follow up these things straightaway.’
‘Hmph! I might have known you’d take his side, but what am I going to tell the kids?’
Tregalles sighed. ‘Sorry, luv, but I don’t have much choice, do I?’ he said. ‘And they’re old enough to understand.’
But would they understand? he wondered now.
‘Are you with us, Tregalles?’ Paget’s left eyebrow was raised to its fullest as he fixed the sergeant with a penetrating stare.
‘Sorry, sir. Thinking of something,’ Tregalles said as he searched his memory for what had just been said. Ah, yes. Rudge. ‘So Tony Rudge was there when the murder was committed,’ he said. ‘And he had a motive.’
‘But if Rudge just wanted to kill Amy Thomson,’ Ormside put in, ‘why bother putting the envelope there at all?’
‘Amy seems to think it was to make sure she went all the way into the back of the shed,’ Paget told him. ‘But there’s something odd about that whole business, so let’s have him in and he can tell us for himself.’
* * *
Tony Rudge shook his head sadly and spread his hands. ‘She’s a nice kid, but she’s lying, Mr Paget. Like I said, she’s got this sort of crush on me. Follows me about. Wants me to take her out. It’s a bit embarrassing, really. I’ve tried to be nice to her; tried to tell her to find a boyfriend more her own age, but it’s no use. It’s spite, that’s what it is. She’s doing this to get back at me, that’s all. She made it all up.’
Tony tilted the wooden chair back, trying to appear at ease, but inside his head thoughts were whirling madly. How much did they really know? he wondered. More to the point: how much could they prove?
The interview room was warm, and the only sound was the quiet hum of the tape recorder. He was dying for a cigarette, but when he’d reached for one, the sergeant had pointed to the No Smoking sign and shaken a warning finger.
‘My super doesn’t think Amy’s lying, and neither do I,’ said Paget. ‘He wants you charged with murder in the case of Beth Smallwood, and attempted murder in the case of Amy Thomson.’
Tony laughed nervously. ‘That’s bullshit, and you know it,’ he scoffed.
‘Is it? We know that you and Amy were together in the church the night Beth Smallwood was killed.’ Paget held up his hand as Tony opened his mouth to protest. ‘And it’s no good denying it because we have the evidence to prove it. Both of you left your prints behind in the belfry, and I’m told that not only do we have your prints on the condoms, but also two distinct samples of public hair, which I have no doubt will prove to be yours and Amy’s once tests are completed. I should think that bit of information will be of great interest to a jury, especially since Amy is only fifteen.
‘We also have Amy’s prints on the candle she dropped close to the body, and we have a detailed account of what happened in her diary.’
‘Just because it’s in her diary doesn’t mean it’s true,’ protested Rudge.
Paget ignored the comment. ‘You went downstairs while Amy was still asleep, and you found Beth Smallwood there – the very woman who had testified that Lenny was at home when Walter Latham was hit on the head when he caught you in his house. You took all the blame for that crime, so you had every reason to hate Beth Smallwood.’
Paget eyed Tony Rudge stonily. ‘Perhaps you didn’t go down there with the intention of killing her,’ he went on. ‘It seems more likely to me that there was an argument and you grabbed a candlestick and hit her with it. Then, realizing what you’d done, you tried to make it look like a robbery gone wrong, then ran back upstairs, woke Amy and gave her some cock-and-bull story about finding a dead woman downstairs.
‘You made Amy promise not to say anything to anyone, and you thought you’d succeeded. You didn’t think anyone would discover the body for some time, did you? But suddenly the police were there, and it didn’t take you long to figure out who had told them, did it? Only one person could have told them, and that was Amy. Which meant that she’d become a liability. You couldn’t trust her, could you, Tony? She had to be silenced, which was why you persuaded her to go out there to the railway sheds in the middle of the night. You were waiting for her, weren’t you? Waiting there to kill her.’
Tony Rudge laughed nervously. ‘That’s bloody ridiculous,’ he said, but his voice shook and he couldn’t keep his hands still. ‘Me? Kill someone?’ His voice rose. ‘You must be joking!’ He made an effort to steady his voice. ‘Look, Mr Paget, I admit I didn’t like Lenny’s mum, not after what she did to me in court, but I didn’t kill her. Besides, like I said, you’ve got it wrong. I wasn’t there with Amy. I was with this bird I met in a pub, but not last Monday. It was a couple of weeks before.’
Paget rose from his seat and stood looking down at Tony Rudge. ‘On your feet, Rudge,’ he said roughly. ‘You are to be charged with the murder of Elizabeth Smallwood, and the attempted murder of Amy Thomson. This interview is now terminated at –’ he glanced at the time – ‘13.21. Bring him along, Tregalles.’
Tony gaped at him. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He shrank back in his chair as Tregalles came round the table and grasped his arm. Paget was already making for the door.
‘It wasn’t me! Honest to God, it wasn’t me!’ Tony shouted. ‘Mr Paget, wait! Please. I know who killed Lenny’s mum. I know…’
He fell back into the chair as Tregalles released his arm, his whole body shaking as if about to fall apart.
Paget had his hand on the door. ‘I don’t believe you, Tony,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘I’ve had enough of your lies. Get him on his feet, Tregalles.’
‘I was there!’ Tony shouted hoarsely. ‘I know I said I wasn’t, but I was. I saw who killed her. You have to believe me,’ he pleaded.
Paget hesitated, then turned slowly as if reluctant to waste any more time on the boy. ‘And Amy?’ he said.
Tony groaned. ‘She – she was there,’ he admitted. ‘She’s telling the truth. We were in the church that night.’
‘And the railway sheds? You sent her there?’
‘I didn’t think there was any danger. Honest to God, I didn’t.’
Paget returned to the table and stood looking down at the young man. ‘I’m waiting,’ he said.
Now that he had Paget’s attention, Tony suddenly became cautious, and a crafty look came into his eyes. ‘If I tell you what I know, what’s in it for me?’ he asked.
Paget turned on his heel. ‘Forget it,’ he said roughly. ‘Carry on, Sergeant.’
‘All right. All right!’ Tony scrambled to his feet and tried to push past Tregalles, so anxiou
s was he to stop Paget from leaving. ‘I’ll tell you everything. Look, just put the tape back on.’ He was gabbling now. ‘Please, Mr Paget…?’
Paget sighed heavily and turned back once more. He nodded to Tregalles to start the tape. ‘This had better be good, Tony,’ he said as he sat down. ‘It had better be damned good.’
* * *
For the second time in less than a week, Paget stood on the doorstep of number 83 Hawthorn Drive, waiting for someone to answer the door. But this time he was accompanied by Tregalles and WPC Jane Whitby. A white van containing three men stood at the kerb.
Once more, it was Harry Beecham who answered the door. If anything, Paget thought he looked worse than before. Beecham blinked at them owlishly, shielding his eyes as if unused to daylight.
‘Oh! It’s you, Chief Inspector,’ he said shakily.
‘May we come in, Mr Beecham?’
Beecham looked at each of them in turn. ‘You mean all three of you?’
‘If you don’t mind, sir.’
Harry Beecham seemed to gather his wits. ‘I’m not sure that I should,’ he said uncertainly. ‘What’s this all about?’
‘It would be best if we talked inside,’ said Paget. ‘Is your wife at home?’
‘Of course she’s at home,’ said Beecham with some asperity. ‘And I don’t want her disturbed. She…’
Paget’s voice hardened. ‘I do have a warrant to search this house,’ he said, producing it for Beecham to see. ‘Now, please stand aside.’
‘But why search my house? I’ve told you everything I know.’
‘Unfortunately, sir, some of your answers are not consistent with information recently received, and the sooner we can clear the matter up, the better.’
Beecham wavered, then gave way, standing back as Paget and the others filed into the hall. ‘Where is Mrs Beecham, sir?’ Paget asked.
‘Look, I’ve let you in, but I will not have you disturbing my wife,’ said Beecham. ‘I told you before, she’s ill, and I don’t want her upset.’
‘Is she under the care of a doctor?’
‘Yes. Well, no, not exactly; not at the moment, but…’
Paget nodded to Jane Whitby. ‘Take a look,’ he said tersely.
The WPC moved off down the hall. Beecham made as if to go after her, but Tregalles blocked him. ‘You can’t do this,’ Beecham protested angrily. ‘You have no right. My wife is not well.’
Jane Whitby pushed open the door to the kitchen. It was a long, narrow room at the back of the house, with a window overlooking the garden.
A woman standing at the sink looked up and her eyes opened wide when she saw the policewoman standing there. She was very thin and pale, and her skin looked almost translucent in the afternoon light. Her grey hair was short, uneven, cropped close to her head. It looked, Jane thought, as if it had been cut with dull scissors. She looked old, but when the policewoman drew nearer, she could see that her first impression was wrong. The woman was probably not much more than forty.
‘Who are you? What do you want?’ The woman began to back away and raised her arms in front of her face as if afraid of being attacked.
‘Mrs Beecham? Helen Beecham? My name is Whitby. Constable Whitby of the Westvale Constabulary, and I’d like to ask you a few questions.’
‘What are you doing here? Where’s Harry? Where’s my husband?’ Helen Beecham’s voice began to rise, and she looked scared to death.
‘It’s all right, Mrs Beecham,’ Jane Whitby said soothingly. ‘Mr Beecham is talking to Chief Inspector Paget in the hall. May I sit down?’
Helen Beecham’s slender hands twisted the tea-towel she was holding into a tight ball. ‘Harry won’t like it,’ she said. ‘You’re not supposed to be here.’ Her eyes flicked to the door as if she sought escape, but Jane Whitby was directly in her path. ‘I shouldn’t be talking to you. Please go away.’
There was fear in the woman’s eyes, and Jane Whitby hesitated. She’d been told that the woman was ill, but something was wrong here. This woman was scared out of her wits.
‘It’s all right, Mrs Beecham,’ she said again. ‘I won’t sit down if you don’t want me to. If you’ll just…’
Behind her, Jane heard the sound of running feet, and the door was suddenly flung open. Harry Beecham burst into the room, followed closely by Paget and Tregalles. He pushed Jane Whitby aside as he went to his wife. ‘It’s all right, my dear,’ he said softly as he pulled her to him. ‘It’s all right. Don’t worry. I have to go out for a little while, but you’ll be all right. I shall be back shortly.’ He kissed his wife lightly on the forehead and turned to go, but she clung to him.
‘I don’t want you to go,’ she whispered. ‘Do you have to, Harry?’
‘I’m afraid I must,’ said Beecham, ‘but I shan’t be long. This lady will stay with you while I’m gone, so you’ll be all right. You don’t have to talk to her. Just remember that. You don’t have to talk to her.’ He turned to face Jane Whitby. ‘And I don’t want you badgering her,’ he said sternly.
‘You need have no fear of that, sir,’ Paget said coldly.
‘And if you run like that again,’ Tregalles put in, ‘you’ll find yourself in a great deal of trouble, Mr Beecham. Shall we go?’
Behind him, Paget stared. He’d never met Helen Beecham in his life, but there was something terribly familiar about this woman. He knew he’d seen her before. Or a picture of her …
A picture!
He felt the chill of recognition, and yet it couldn’t be. Not this frail, grey-haired old woman. Their eyes met and he knew he wasn’t wrong.
Helen Beecham was the dancer in the charcoal sketch.
Chapter 22
‘Hello, Bernie. How’s business, then? Doing all right, are you?’
Bernie Striker froze. He hadn’t heard the sound of the shop door opening, neither had he heard anyone approach. But he knew the voice. Must have come in through the back. That was Archie Stern’s style.
Bernie fixed the closest thing he could manage in the way of a smile on his round face, and turned to face the speaker.
‘Didn’t hear you come in, Archie,’ he said nervously. ‘Sorry. Busy. You know how it is?’ His hands were sweaty; he wiped them on his shirt.
‘I asked you how business was, Bernie?’ said Stern pleasantly.
The big man shrugged. ‘Times aren’t what they used to be,’ he said cautiously. ‘Not that much money about, but I scratch a living.’
‘Really?’ Stern seemed surprised. ‘Funny, but I heard you were doing quite well, Bernie. The only shop in town. All those bikers coming in. They never seem to be short of money. Seems to me you’ve got it made.’
Bernie shrugged again. ‘There’s good days and bad days,’ he admitted. He wiped his brow. What the hell did Archie want? He wasn’t here just for chat. ‘Was there something you wanted?’ he ventured tentatively. ‘I mean, I didn’t think…’
‘Best not to,’ said Archie. Then, seeing Bernie’s puzzled frown, he added, ‘Think, that is.’ He glanced around as if looking for something. ‘I don’t see it,’ he said, frowning. ‘What happened to it, Bernie?’
Bernie blinked at him. ‘I – I don’t know what you mean,’ he said, thoroughly mystified. ‘What don’t you see, Archie?’
‘Lenny’s bike. I understand he left it here. He owes me, Bernie, and I’ve come for it.’
‘Ah!’ It wasn’t warm in the shop, but Bernie could feel the sweat beading on his brow. He closed his eyes and tried to think. What the hell was he going to say? ‘I didn’t realize … I mean I stripped it down. See, I didn’t want it here in the shop in case the police came round after Lenny – after he left, like.’
Archie Stern tilted his head and raised a brow in mild surprise. ‘You didn’t think he’d be back for the bike?’
‘Well, I…’ Bernie stopped. He didn’t know what to say, and he wanted desperately to get it right. ‘I did ring to let you know he was here,’ he said.
Archie nodded. ‘Tru
e,’ he said, ‘but that does leave us with a problem, doesn’t it, Bernie. I mean, what would I do with a bunch of parts? Eh? What was the bike worth, Bernie? Eight, nine thou?’
The fat man spread his hands and shook his head. ‘Probably more like four, maybe five,’ he said.
Archie frowned. ‘I heard that Lenny put five thousand down on the bike when he bought it, and he still owed you four, plus interest.’
‘Ahh – yes, well, yes, that’s right; I remember now,’ said Bernie.
‘And you financed the rest yourself at twenty per cent, I’m told.’
A sickly smile came over Bernie’s face. ‘It’s just business,’ he shrugged. ‘The kid couldn’t get a loan from anyone else. There was a risk. You have to charge a bit extra for that.’
Archie nodded. ‘Oh, I agree, Bernie,’ he said earnestly, ‘but the fact remains that it was my money Lenny used for the down payment. Now Lenny can’t pay it back, and you’ve dismantled the bike. My bike, Bernie.’
Bernie swallowed hard. ‘I didn’t know it was your money, Archie, or I’d never have sold him the bike,’ he said. ‘If it’s the money –’ he felt as if he were about to choke on the words – ‘I think I could manage to raise the five thou b-by next week.’
Archie Stern slowly shook his head. ‘Not good enough, Bernie,’ he said sadly. ‘See, Lenny didn’t steal money. He stole merchandise. Merchandise that belonged to me, and he sold it at cut-rate prices. It grieves me, Bernie, but I have to recover what I lost. It’s business, Bernie. You understand business, don’t you?’
Bernie nodded miserably. ‘I did give you a bell when Lenny showed up here the other night,’ he reminded Stern again. ‘I mean I did try to help.’
‘Which is why I’m going to be reasonable,’ said Stern. He glanced around the shop as if taking stock. ‘Twenty should just about cover it,’ he said as his eyes met Bernie Striker’s. ‘And I’m doing myself down at that, Bernie.’
‘Twenty thousand?’ Bernie squeaked. ‘Jesus, Archie, where am I going to get twenty thou? I’d have to mortgage the shop, stock and all to get that kind of money.’