A Killing Resurrected

by Frank Smith

  He pushed himself out of the chair. ‘I can talk to you about this later,’ he told Kevin, waving the sheaf of papers in his hand.

  ‘Just one question before you go,’ said Paget. ‘Would you mind telling me where you were between midnight last night and three o’clock this morning?’

  Bradshaw chuckled. ‘That’s usually my line in court,’ he said, ‘but it’s the first time it’s been asked of me. Better have your alibi ready as well, Kevin,’ he warned, ‘because you’ll be next. As for myself, I was home in bed, Chief Inspector, and I live alone, so I’m afraid you’ll have to take my word for it. Sorry.’ He paused at the door. ‘But if there is any other way you think I can help, please don’t hesitate to call me.’

  ‘And you, Mr Taylor?’ asked Paget as the door closed behind his father-in-law.

  ‘I’m afraid I find myself in much the same situation,’ Taylor said. ‘Ordinarily, I would have had my wife to back me up, but the fact is I spent last night alone in our old house down on Oak Street. You see, we have this very large antique wardrobe – it belonged to Steph’s grandmother, who brought it over from Holland originally, and it’s huge – so we decided at the last minute not to have it moved with the rest of the furniture, but to have it done by Whetheralls, who specialize in moving antique furniture. The trouble was they were booked solid, and they are the only ones who do that sort of thing around here. To make a long story short, they finally agreed to squeeze us in at seven o’clock this morning if I would agree to pay the overtime.

  ‘Anyway, I still had a bit of cleaning up to do, so I took the sleeping bag and our folding camp cot down to the house last night about eight o’clock, finished the cleaning up about one this morning, then slept there to be ready for Whetheralls at seven.’ Taylor sat back in his chair and spread his hands. ‘So, like my father-in-law, I’m afraid I don’t have an alibi either,’ he ended.

  ‘Your wife would have been in the house alone, then?’ said Paget.

  ‘Yes. We have a good security system in the house, so . . .’ Taylor stopped dead as he realized the implication of the question. ‘Are you seriously suggesting that Steph needs an alibi?’ he demanded.

  ‘I’m not suggesting anything, Mr Taylor. I’m simply trying to find out where everyone was during the time frame I mentioned. You, your father-in-law, and your wife were just three of the people who were there when Miss Hammond mentioned that we would be searching the house, so we will be putting the same question to everyone who was there. Which brings me back to the same question I asked Mr Bradshaw: did you notice if anyone there seemed to be paying particular attention to what Miss Hammond said?’

  Taylor shook his head. ‘As Ed said, everybody stopped talking to listen. Partly my fault, I suppose. In fact it was a bit embarrassing, really.’

  ‘I see. And the list of names . . .? And addresses would help if you know them?’

  ‘Of course,’ Taylor said tersely, ‘I remember who some of them were, but as for the rest, I shall have to talk to my wife. She is the one who organized everything, so I’ll have to get the list from her. In fact, it might be simpler all round if she could fax them to you.’

  ‘I’d appreciate that,’ Paget told him as he rose to leave. He took a card from his wallet and handed it to Taylor. ‘The fax number is on there, as is my telephone number. And if you should happen to think of anything that might prove helpful to the investigation, please don’t hesitate to call.’

  ‘Funny, that,’ Tregalles commented as they descended the stairs a few minutes later. ‘We passed right by the open door of Bradshaw’s office when we came in, and I know he saw us, yet he pretended he didn’t know we were there when he came into Taylor’s office later. Do you think he was just being nosy?’

  ‘Either that or he came in to make sure that his son-in-law wasn’t in any trouble,’ Paget said.

  ‘Wouldn’t trust either one of them,’ Tregalles declared. ‘And that story of his about the wardrobe . . . Even if it’s true, it doesn’t give him an alibi.’

  ‘On the other hand,’ said Paget, ‘he’d hardly make up something like that, because he’d know we’d check. But you’re right, neither he nor Ed Bradshaw have alibis, and I suspect we’ll hear much the same thing from everyone else. After all, most people are in bed at one o’clock in the morning, and it’s very hard to prove otherwise.’

  Apart from a couple of young boys squirting each other with water pistols, and clearly enjoying the soaking, the tree-lined street was deserted when Paget parked the car outside the Grant house. It was noticeably cooler here, and a welcome change from the oppressive heat in the centre of town. Even so, both Paget and Tregalles left their jackets in the car when they went up to the house.

  They could hear the deep-throated thrum of a powerful fan as they approached the open front door, and they were met by a strong rush of air as they stepped inside. Air that smelt strongly of petrol.

  ‘Mind the cables, sir,’ Detective Constable Molly Forsythe called from the far end of the hall. She waited until they had eased their way past the large fan in the narrow hallway before directing them into the conservatory. ‘Not nearly as much smell in here, sir,’ she told Paget, ‘and since the firemen left fans in each of the downstairs rooms, except this one, we’ve been doing the sorting in here. Not that we’ve found much, have we, Phil?’ she ended with a gesture towards the only other person in the room, a young Constable by the name of Wheeler they’d borrowed from Uniforms for the task.

  The young man lifted his arms above his head and stretched. His shirt clung to his body, and there were patches of sweat beneath the arms. ‘Couple of postcards from when he was in Leeds, and a few pictures of him when he was a kid, but not much else,’ he said wearily.

  Compared to Wheeler, Molly Forsythe looked remarkably fresh and cool in her crisp white shirt and navy skirt, Tregalles thought, and wondered how she managed it in this heat. Good-looking gal, too, with her short dark hair framing an ever so slightly plump face. And clever, he reminded himself. Commended for her marks being up there in the top twenty-five in the first phase of the Sergeants’ exams last March, Tregalles didn’t doubt for an instant that she would make Sergeant before the end of the year. Not that she didn’t deserve it, but he couldn’t help wondering if his own position would be in jeopardy when that happened. He still remembered how well she and Paget had worked together on the Holbrook case last spring, and he’d wondered then if there wasn’t some sort of chemistry between them.

  Audrey had scoffed at the suggestion when he’d said he wondered if Paget and Molly were ‘well, you know, attracted to one another’, and she’d been proved right. Not that he’d really thought there was anything going on between the two of them, but things like that weren’t unknown in the workplace.

  Still, he should have known better, he told himself. He’d felt more than a little foolish when he’d found that the reason Paget had insisted on Molly accompanying him was because he was evaluating her performance in the field prior to her taking the Sergeants’ exam. On the other hand, Paget had talked about the value of a woman’s point of view in an investigation, so perhaps he was thinking of making a change.

  ‘You all right, Tregalles?’

  The words cut in sharply on the Sergeant’s thoughts. He drew a deep breath. ‘Sorry, boss,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Came over a bit faint for a minute, there. Must be the heat and the smell.’

  Paget pushed a chair towards him. ‘Beginning to feel a bit that way myself,’ he said as he sat down. ‘Probably dehydrated. We could both do with some water.’ He cast a meaningful look at Wheeler.

  ‘Right, sir.’ The young Constable heaved himself out of the chair and headed towards the door.

  ‘The only picture I’ve found of Barry with a group of friends,’ said Molly as she shuffled through the papers on the table, ‘is this one.’ She handed the picture to Paget. ‘At least that’s who Barry says they are – you’ll see what he wrote on the back – but the more I look at the picture, t
he more I wonder if that was literally true. See what I mean, sir? He’s the one on the end; leaning in, big grin on his face, and yet none of the others are smiling. Maybe I’m reading too much into it, but it almost looks as if he pushed his way into the picture.’

  Paget studied the picture closely, then turned it over. ‘Some of my good friends on campus,’ he read. ‘It would certainly fit the profile we’ve been getting on the boy,’ he said, turning the picture over again to study it. ‘Attaching himself to people in an attempt to be accepted. Isn’t that Kevin Taylor in the middle?’ he asked, handing the picture to Tregalles.

  ‘That’s him,’ Tregalles agreed, ‘and the blonde girl hanging on his arm is his wife, or probably his fiancé back then. Remember the picture on Taylor’s desk? Same woman only older, not that she hasn’t worn well. In fact I’d say she’s improved with age. Good figure, and—’

  ‘Yes, well, I’m sure she would be delighted to hear you say that, Sergeant,’ Paget observed drily. ‘Anything else of interest?’ he asked Molly.

  ‘Not really, sir. SOCO finished up here shortly after lunch, but I don’t think they found very much. Other than that, there’s not much to report. Miss Hammond was here around lunchtime. She was anxious to see the damage for herself, and I think she was quite relieved to find it wasn’t as bad as she’d imagined. She told me she’s thinking seriously about moving in here once it’s cleaned up.’

  ‘How did she seem? Physically, I mean?’

  ‘A bit stiff with the bruises, but otherwise she appeared to be fine.’

  Paget nodded. ‘Glad to hear it,’ he said, ‘because I think I may have to talk to her again.’

  Wheeler reappeared bearing four glasses of water on a tray. He set it down and handed each of them a glass. Tregalles held his glass up to the light and made a face. ‘You didn’t happen to see any beer out there in the fridge, did you?’ he asked hopefully.

  The Constable picked up his own glass. ‘Sorry, Sarge,’ he said straight-faced, ‘there was, but we drank it all at lunchtime?’

  TEN

  Tuesday, July 14th

  The list of names of those who had been at the house-warming party on Saturday was on Paget’s desk when he arrived the following morning. Faxed over the previous evening, there was a note on the bottom explaining that the three names crossed out belonged to people who’d been invited but had not turned up for one reason or another, and those with crosses by their names were people who were relative newcomers to the area, and would not have known Barry Grant.

  As he went through the list, putting a mark against the names of those Claire Hammond had identified as being close enough to have heard what was said at the bar, it occurred to him that it might save some time if they could go over the list together.

  He looked up her number and reached for the phone.

  When Claire answered, he explained what it was he wanted to do. ‘I have a list of the people who were at the party last Saturday,’ he said, ‘and what I would like to do is to go over it with you, and have you give me a sort of thumbnail sketch of these people as you remember them. Do you think you could do that, Miss Hammond?’

  Claire hesitated. It wasn’t so much a matter of not wanting to help, but she felt guilty about talking to someone like Paget about her friends. Not that she could call some of them close friends, but she had known them for a long time, and she hadn’t made up her mind about Paget. He seemed straightforward enough, but he was a hard man to read, and after what had happened when she had mentioned David having been a friend of Barry’s, she felt she should be very careful about what she told the Chief Inspector in the future.

  It was almost as if he could read her thoughts. ‘I can appreciate that you might have some reservations about talking to me about people who may be friends of yours,’ he said, ‘but on the other hand, it would help me decide on what approach to take when I talk to them myself, rather than going in blind.’

  ‘I wouldn’t want them to think . . .’ she began, only to have Paget anticipate her concern once again.

  ‘Of course, anything you tell me would be held in the strictest confidence, Miss Hammond.’

  ‘When would you want me to come in?’ she asked cautiously.

  ‘Would it help if I came to you?’ he suggested. ‘Perhaps later on today?’

  He could hear the long, drawn out breath as she gave in. ‘I do have some time after eleven this morning,’ she said.

  ‘That would work well for me,’ he told her. ‘And thank you. I really do appreciate it.’ He hung up before Claire could have second thoughts and change her mind.

  Paget was five minutes early. Claire’s flat-cum-studio was on the second floor of a three-storey house that had been converted into flats in Horsefair Street. It was outside what was considered the high-rent district, but close enough and pricey enough to suggest that Claire Hammond’s business must be flourishing.

  ‘All the floors are the same,’ she told Paget. ‘They call them workshop flats, a good-sized work area at the front, and living quarters at the back. Ideal for someone with a small business like mine.’

  The work area was quite large. The windows overlooking the street faced south. ‘A boon in winter,’ Claire told him, ‘but it can get pretty hot and sticky in here by mid-afternoon in the summer. Still, it suits me well enough. Would you care for a cup of coffee, Chief Inspector? I made it just before you came, so it’s quite fresh.’

  ‘Thank you, Miss Hammond. Yes, I would. Just sugar, no milk.’

  ‘Good. If you’d like to sit down, it will only take a minute.’

  While Claire was out of the room, he looked around. Like the woman herself, the room appeared to be well organized and efficient. A large desk held a computer and all its wireless peripherals; a drafting table stood at an angle to the window to make the most of the light, and a large, round table, surrounded by comfortable chairs, occupied a corner of the room. Floor-to-ceiling egg-crate shelving on the wall dividing the workroom from the living quarters contained everything from swatches of material ranging from the finest tulle through drapery and upholstery material, to leather. Colour charts, and large metal rings containing colour chips were there as well, together with a variety of objects he couldn’t begin to identify.

  Claire returned and set a tray containing two full mugs of coffee and a bowl of sugar on the round table. ‘Do sit down,’ she said, ‘and help yourself to sugar.’

  Before sitting down herself, Claire went over to the desk and returned with a notepad. ‘I thought it might help if I jotted down a few things about the people I mentioned to you earlier,’ she said. ‘But if I could see your list, there may be someone on it I’ve forgotten.’

  Paget took several sheets of paper from his briefcase, along with a tape recorder. ‘I don’t have to use this,’ he said, ‘but with your permission, I would like to. It saves time and keeps the record straight.’

  Claire nodded her agreement. She had done the same with clients for much the same reason.

  ‘Right, then. I brought two copies of the list of people who attended the party,’ he said, ‘one for you and one for me. Perhaps we could begin by eliminating those who wouldn’t have known Barry Grant in the past.’

  They sat on opposite sides of the table, marking each name as they went down the list. Thirty-two people had been invited to the party, and only three had not turned up.

  ‘Which means,’ said Paget as they came to the end of the list, ‘that as well as Kevin Taylor, his wife, his brother, and his father-in-law, we’re left with five other people who could have overheard what was said at the bar. Unfortunately, we can’t leave it there. I think it’s safe to assume that they would have repeated what they’d heard to the other people at the party who may have known Barry Grant.’ He picked up his cup and was surprised to find it empty.

  ‘More coffee?’ Claire asked.

  Paget hesitated. Claire had been very cooperative up till now, but he sensed that she was not entirely comfortable talking ab
out her friends. So, the more he could get her to relax, the better. ‘If it’s no trouble,’ he said. ‘You make good coffee.’

  ‘It’s no trouble,’ she assured him. ‘I could use a refill myself. Just be a minute.’

  When Claire returned with the coffee, Paget asked about her work and what she was working on at present, and Claire found herself warming to the man. She’d thought him a rather cold fish when they’d first met in the Superintendent’s office; the way he’d looked at her then had made her feel as if he were questioning everything she said. But now, facing him across the table, she could see the faint trace of a scar that had left one eyebrow higher than the other, giving him a perpetual quizzical look. Probably an asset in his profession, she thought as she covertly studied his face.

  He had good features. Claire had discovered long ago that her interest in shape and form and structure was something that could be applied to virtually everything, not the least of which were faces. And Chief Inspector Paget had good, well-balanced features – apart from the raised eyebrow – but even that worked to his advantage, because it made his face more interesting. She wouldn’t call him handsome, exactly, but he was attractive in a rugged sort of way, and not nearly as intimidating as she’d first thought.

  Paget smiled. ‘Miss Hammond?’ he prompted.

  Claire felt the colour rising in her face. ‘Sorry,’ she said hastily. ‘I’m afraid my mind was wandering. Now, where were we?’

  Paget pursed his lips as he looked at the list. ‘I’ve met Kevin Taylor,’ he said, ‘but not his wife. What can you tell me about her?’

  ‘Stephanie?’ she said, frowning slightly. ‘I don’t know what I can tell you about her,’ she said slowly. ‘I didn’t know her at school. She’s a couple of years older than me, and I didn’t meet her until a few days before she and Kevin were married. David told me they met at university. I think he said she was taking Business Administration, or something like that. Her father is Ed Bradshaw, but I wasn’t formally introduced to him until last Saturday. David tells me that he is something of a fitness nut, which may be where Steph gets her energy from. She’s a very dynamic person. She plays golf, tennis, swims, works out at the gym, that sort of thing, and still finds time to run a consulting business from home.’