by Frank Smith
‘Explained, Dandridge?’ Ormside raked the man with a look. His voice was ominously low as he asked the next question. ‘Just what do you mean by “explained”?’
Dandridge shifted uncomfortably in his seat. ‘Well … That there was a murder investigation in progress, like,’ he stammered. The constable knew he was in trouble but the penny hadn’t dropped as yet.
Ormside shook his head despairingly. ‘You told him there was a murder investigation in progress,’ he said, ‘and suddenly he changes his mind about having to get down Farrow Lane, and drives off.’ Ormside’s voice sank even lower. ‘You didn’t by any chance tell him the name of the person killed, did you, Dandridge?’
‘Well, I…’ Colour flooded into the constable’s face and he ran a finger round the inside of a tightening collar. ‘I – I might have done, Sarge,’ he said weakly. He turned to Paget. ‘I was just trying to make him understand, sir,’ he said desperately.
Paget sighed. There was nothing to be gained by berating the man now. Better to salvage whatever they could. ‘What was Gresham’s reaction when you told him the name of the victim?’ he asked.
Dandridge glanced down at his notebook, decided it wasn’t going to help him, and put it away. ‘He looked … sort of, well, sort of stunned, sir,’ he said slowly.
‘He wasn’t the only bloody one,’ Ormside muttered. He cocked an eye at Paget, but the chief inspector shook his head. ‘All right, Dandridge,’ he said brusquely. ‘Make a full report. Include everything you’ve told us here, and let Sergeant Nolan have a copy. I’ll be having a word with him myself,’ he added ominously. ‘Now, get out there and do something useful for a change; you’ve wasted enough time for one day. You can make it up by working an extra hour tonight. But –’ Ormside raised a warning finger – ‘I’d better not see your name on the overtime sheet tomorrow, m’lad, or I’ll have you. Got it?’
‘Yes, Sarge.’ The constable avoided Paget’s eyes as he turned and made for the door on the double.
‘God! but you’re a tyrant, Len,’ said Paget as Dandridge left the room. ‘That lad was quaking in his boots.’
‘And so he should be!’ Ormside growled. ‘Put a bit of ginger up his arse, perhaps he’ll remember to keep his mouth shut in future.’
* * *
Sylvia Brown was a slim, energetic woman of about twenty-five. She lived with her husband and two daughters in a semi-detached house in Valencia Crescent. The crescent was in one of the new housing estates that had mushroomed on the edge of Broadminster in the early ’eighties – and all but died a few years later.
Mrs Brown was in the middle of baking scones when Paget arrived. ‘I hope you don’t mind if I carry on,’ she said as she led him through to the kitchen, ‘but I must get these done so I can get on with Trevor’s dinner. He’s a teacher at the school across the way,’ she explained. ‘He comes home for his dinner every day.’
She brushed a straying strand of hair away from her face with the back of a floury hand. ‘I’m sorry, but I’m not quite sure what it was you wanted,’ she said. ‘Something to do with Claude Gresham, wasn’t it?’
‘That’s right,’ Paget said. ‘Although it has more to do with his son, actually.’
‘Arthur?’ A frown of disapproval crossed her face.
‘That’s right. I’m told that he visits his father quite regularly, and that he was there last Monday evening. Do you recall seeing him there that night?’
Sylvia began to work the dough gently with her fingers. ‘Last Monday,’ she said ruminatively. ‘No, he wasn’t there last Monday; at least I didn’t see him. Mind you, that’s not surprising. He usually makes sure he’s gone before I get there.’
‘Oh? Why is that, Mrs Brown?’
Sylvia Brown wrinkled her nose. ‘Let’s just say we don’t get along.’
‘May I ask why?’
Sylvia picked up a cutter and began to lift rounds from the pastry and place them on a metal tray. ‘He can’t keep his hands to himself,’ she said without looking up. ‘Takes after his father. Claude is just as bad but he’s barely mobile, so he’s not a problem. But Arthur … Take a look at his left hand the next time you see him. You’ll see four little marks just above the knuckles. He made the mistake of trying it on when I was setting out Claude’s tray. He was lucky I only had a fork in my hand at the time. I told him if he ever tried it on again it would be his balls.’
A grim smile tugged at the corners of her mouth as she glanced at Paget. ‘Haven’t seen much of him since then.’
Paget couldn’t help but return the smile. ‘So you didn’t see him at all that night?’
‘No, and I was in and out of the room several times from about seven thirty on. Claude was there, sleeping in his chair, but I didn’t see Arthur.’
‘Claude seems to think his son came about seven,’ Paget prompted.
Sylvia nodded. ‘Yes, if he was there at all that night, that would be about right. He never stays long. Sometimes no more than a few minutes. I think that’s why Arthur reads to his father. Claude nods off after ten or fifteen minutes, and he quite often doesn’t wake up until it’s time to go to bed.’
‘When is that?’
‘I start getting them into their beds by eight fifteen,’ Sylvia said. ‘By the time they are all settled down it’s usually between nine fifteen and nine thirty.’ She grinned. ‘They’re worse than kids, some of them, wanting this and wanting that just so they don’t have to put out the light.’
Sylvia Brown picked up the cutter again and began to lift more rounds. ‘Funny, really,’ she mused. ‘He comes two or three times a week, and yet he’s always looking at his watch as if he can’t wait to be gone. Sometimes I wonder why he comes at all.’
Which was exactly what Paget wondered as he drove back into town.
* * *
Ivor Trent confirmed that he had met Arthur Gresham in the Three Crowns the previous Monday evening. Trent was a short, stubby man with a florid face and bulging midriff. ‘He wanted to talk to me about a proposal the cricket club will be putting forward to enlarge their club house,’ he said. ‘All perfectly above-board,’ he added defensively.
‘I’m sure it was,’ said Paget, and wondered why Trent was so defensive. ‘Do you recall what time it was when Mr Gresham arrived?’
‘A few minutes after nine. I got there spot on nine, and he came in a few minutes later. Arthur had suggested ten, originally, but I had another appointment later on, so he agreed to nine o’clock.’
‘So he arrived about five or ten minutes past nine? You’re quite sure about the time?’
‘Quite sure.’
‘I see. And how did he seem when he arrived?’
‘Funny you should ask that,’ said Trent. ‘He seemed a bit upset. In fact I got the impression that his mind wasn’t really on our discussion at all. Which was why I suggested we meet again the following morning in my office. As I said, I had another appointment and had to leave by twenty to ten.’
‘So you met again next morning?’
‘Actually, no. Arthur rang me at home later that night and cancelled. We met later in the week.’
Although Paget questioned Trent closely, he couldn’t shake him on the time Gresham had arrived. So where had Gresham been between the time he left his father shortly after seven, and ten past nine?
And what was he doing at Farrow Lane the following morning, when he’d told his wife he had a meeting to attend? A meeting that his secretary knew nothing about.
Returning to his office, Paget found a note from Ormside waiting for him. He picked up the phone and rang the sergeant’s desk.
‘We’ve traced Beecham’s movements for a good part of the time after he left the bank,’ Ormside said. ‘He appears to have made a round of the country pubs south of here, drinking whisky everywhere he went. The last one was the Waddling Duck at Cricklade. He was drinking doubles there.’
Cricklade was a small village about a mile from Broadminster’s southern boundary, and no mo
re than a few minutes away from Farrow Lane.
‘Did he talk to anyone? Utter threats? Anything like that?’
‘Apparently not. Just sat off in a corner and drank steadily wherever he went. The landlord of the Waddling Duck says he didn’t see Beecham go, but he thinks it was somewhere around eight.’
It didn’t help. The case against Beecham still hinged on Rudge’s testimony, and even the greenest of briefs could blow that away without half trying.
* * *
‘I hate to say it, but I think Harry Beecham was right about one thing,’ said Paget. ‘Beth Smallwood paid a very high price for her promotion. I think Gresham either raped her, or left her with so little choice that she was forced to submit.’
Paget sipped his coffee without really tasting it. He and Tregalles had retired to the relative quiet of Paget’s office to review what they had.
‘Knowing what we do now, that Beth was embezzling money, she might well have agreed to anything to avoid exposure,’ Paget continued. ‘But let’s suppose for a moment that Gresham had reason to believe that Beth had had a change of heart and intended to lay a complaint against him. Wouldn’t his reaction be to try to stop her?’
‘But why would Beth Smallwood submit to him in the office in the afternoon, then change her mind later on?’ Tregalles asked reasonably. ‘Even assuming that she did – and I think that’s a hell of a big assumption – how would Gresham know that? And how would he know that she’d be in the church? She didn’t know herself until the vicar rang her.’
‘But we do know that she rang Nancy King to say she wanted to come in and set the record straight about her testimony in Lenny’s court case,’ said Paget. ‘What if she mentioned that to Rachel, and Rachel got it wrong? She had difficulty understanding Beth, if you remember. If I’m right, Beth had suffered badly at the hands of Gresham in the office and she’d been knocked about by Lenny when she got home. She had been physically and mentally battered throughout the day, and even without a swollen tongue, I doubt if she’d be all that coherent. What if Rachel thought Beth meant she was going to the police to tell them about what had happened in Gresham’s office that afternoon, and Rachel passed it on to Gresham?’
Tregalles thought about that. ‘That not only assumes that Rachel knew what had happened in the office,’ he said slowly, ‘but implies some sort of complicity if she informed Gresham of what she thought Beth was about to do.’
‘Not necessarily. What if Beth told Rachel that she wouldn’t be in to work because she was … oh, let’s say: “going to the police station in the morning to tell them everything,” for example. It may not have made any sense to Rachel, but it might have scared the hell out of Gresham if she told him.’
‘But she said she didn’t ring Gresham that night, and Mrs Gresham confirmed that,’ Tregalles objected. ‘And she didn’t have a chance to talk to him next morning because you were there before Gresham arrived.’
‘Perhaps she didn’t have to,’ said Paget quietly. ‘Perhaps Gresham was with Rachel when Beth rang.’
Chapter 27
It had been a long and difficult day, and Andrea McMillan was looking forward to going home. Hands thrust deep inside the pockets of her white coat, she made her way along the corridor toward the desk.
She was almost past the door to Lenny Smallwood’s room before she realized that it was closed. Strange. She grasped the handle and pushed the door open.
Lenny was half out of bed, leaning down toward a girl, hands to his face, covering his nose. The girl was holding something in cupped hands. Like an offering, thought Andrea. Both Lenny and the girl looked startled.
Andrea moved forward swiftly as she realized what was happening. The girl shrank back, but Lenny reached out and snatched something from her lap and began cramming it into his mouth. Andrea grasped his wrist, but he pulled away, face buried in his hands, snuffling, rooting like a pig as he gulped the substance down. White powder flew everywhere.
‘Bitch!’ Lenny screamed as he lunged upward and grasped her by the throat. Andrea twisted away, slipped and fell across the girl. She tried to get up, but Lenny was out of bed, astride her back, fingers digging into her throat. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t cry out …
The girl wrenched herself free and scrambled to her feet. Lenny’s fingers dug in deeper, pulling Andrea’s head back until she thought her neck would snap. From the corner of her eye, she saw the girl reach for the water jug beside the bed. She felt the splash of water on her face, then nothing.
* * *
‘Haversall, here, sir. There’s been an incident at the hospital involving Lenny Smallwood, sir. The duty sergeant instructed me to call you. It seems a doctor found a girl in Smallwood’s room. She was giving him cocaine, and when the doctor tried to stop her there was a scuffle and the doctor was knocked unconscious. They’re searching for the girl now, but so far they’ve…’
‘The doctor?’ Paget broke in. ‘What was the name of the doctor?’ He gripped the phone, fearful of the answer.
‘The name, sir? Just a moment. Yes, here it is. Dr McMillan. Apparently she…’
Haversall looked startled as the line went dead. ‘Well thank you very much, sir!’ she muttered indignantly as she too hung up.
* * *
Normally, it took twenty minutes to drive from his home in Ashton Prior to the centre of Broadminster, but Paget made it to the hospital in thirteen minutes flat. He dashed up the steps and ran headlong into a cluster of police and hospital security staff.
‘Fourth floor, sir,’ said one of the men in answer to Paget’s enquiry. ‘Would you like me to…?’
But Paget was gone.
He ran into more hospital security people as he stepped out of the lift on the fourth floor, but his eyes went immediately to Andrea, who was sitting in a wheelchair beside the work station desk, a blanket draped around her shoulders. Her eyes were closed and her face was almost as white as the bulky dressing covering the left side of her head.
A nurse hovered over her. She said something Paget could not hear, but Andrea waved her away without opening her eyes.
The sight of Andrea in pain chilled him to the core. What the devil were they thinking about? She ought to be in bed! He moved swiftly to her side.
‘Andrea, I … Are you all right?’
Of course she’s not all right, you idiot! Why was it, he thought desperately, that he could never seem to find the right words when he was near this woman?
Her eyes opened in surprise. She tilted her head to look up at him, and winced. ‘Neil…’ she said, and stopped. He could see bruises on her throat.
‘Don’t try to talk,’ he told her swiftly. ‘You ought to be in bed.’ He glanced accusingly at the nurse.
‘Don’t tell me, tell Dr McMillan,’ the woman bridled. ‘God knows we’ve tried.’
‘I’m all right,’ Andrea insisted hoarsely, but the weariness in her voice belied her words. ‘Besides, I have to get home.’
‘You’ll do no such thing,’ a voice boomed beside Paget’s ear. ‘Take her down to 428, Nurse, and don’t listen to anything she says to the contrary. Understand?’
‘Yes, Mr Stone.’
‘But Sarah…’
‘Sarah will be well taken care of by your Mrs Ansell,’ Stone said flatly. ‘I’ll telephone her myself. Now get on with it, Nurse.’ He turned and glared at Paget through steel-rimmed glasses as if expecting an argument from him.
Paget watched as Andrea was wheeled away. He wished he could go with her, but at least he felt better now that someone was insisting that she receive the attention she deserved.
He introduced himself to Stone. The consultant was a big man, heavily built, and taller than Paget by a couple of inches. He wore his hair long, and his plump face was almost lost in a mass of straggling whiskers.
‘Ah! Paget. Yes. Andrea spoke of you,’ he said. ‘The Smallwood boy. Mother murdered. Read about it last week. Well, he’s done it now. Don’t know what the stupid little bugger thoug
ht he was trying to achieve, stuffing himself with cocaine like that. He’ll be lucky if he lives. Swallowed the lot, packets and all, and they could do some real damage.’
‘But what about Andrea? How badly is she hurt?’
Stone eyed him curiously. ‘She’ll be fine after a good night’s rest,’ he said. ‘We’ll keep an eye on her for any after-effects from the head injury, but there is no indication at present that there will be. Throat will be sore as hell, of course, but no permanent damage.’
‘Tell me what happened,’ said Paget.
Stone shrugged. ‘Your people can probably tell you more than I can,’ he said, ‘but I gather she walked into Smallwood’s room and caught some girl feeding him cocaine. When he saw Andrea, he started shoving everything into his mouth. She tried to stop him, and that’s when he attacked her. Andrea remembers Smallwood trying to choke her, and she saw the girl pick up the jug, but she can’t remember anything after that.’
‘And Smallwood?’
‘Hard to say. They’re working on him now. Apart from anything else, he seems to have done himself some internal damage when he jumped out of bed, so it’s impossible at this stage to say what they’ll find.’
‘What about the girl?’ No one had mentioned a name, but Paget was prepared to bet the girl was Tania Costello.
‘No idea. She seems to have vanished. I heard one of your chaps say he thought she’d escaped on a moped.’
* * *
The light was fading in room 428, and Andrea McMillan felt that she was fading with it. The throbbing in her head seemed to be subsiding, although her throat still felt as if it were on fire, and it was agony to swallow.
But as shadows deepened in the room, she recalled the anguish in Neil Paget’s face as he’d looked at her tonight. It was as if he were sharing in her pain, and she knew that he had come because of her; not because of Lenny; not because a crime had been committed, but because of her and her alone.