A Killing Resurrected

by Frank Smith

  ‘Impressive,’ Paget commented. ‘Would that be Grey’s gym over by St Anne’s?’ He asked the question thinking that Grace might know Stephanie Taylor.

  ‘Oh, dear, no,’ Claire said with a grin. ‘She and Kevin belong to Fairwinds. Steph goes out there at least three times a week. I go to Grey’s. But I have played tennis with her a few times. She’s very good.’ Claire grimaced. ‘Beats me every time, for what that’s worth.’

  ‘Would she have known Barry Grant?’

  Claire nodded. ‘They were both at Leeds at the same time. In fact I’m told he had quite a crush on her for a while until Kevin warned him off.’

  ‘How did Barry take that?’

  ‘I don’t know. You would have to ask Kevin or Steph about that.’

  Paget nodded and looked down at his list. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘So let’s move on. What can you tell me about this chap, Roger Corbett?’

  The Rose and Crown had undergone a number of changes since the time of the robbery, the biggest one being an expansion into the premises next door to make room for a dining area, and it was to a table in there that the landlord, Thomas Grady, led Tregalles and Molly Forsythe.

  ‘No,’ Grady said in answer to a question from Tregalles about the kitchen, ‘that’s been changed as well. Had to move with the times and put in ovens, metal tables, refrigerators – two of them – and don’t think they were cheap! Then there was the dishwasher, all new water pipes, ventilation and electrics. I tell you, there were days when I gave serious thought to packing it in, but we were well into it by then, so there wasn’t much choice. It was a case of carrying on or losing everything we’d worked for. Used to be you could go into a pub for a quiet pint and a game of darts, but now it’s all food and fancy drinks. Hell of a lot more work and damned little to show for it.’

  Grady was a big, red-faced man, jowly and running to fat. His breathing was laboured, and he wheezed when he talked. ‘Don’t know what you expect to find after all this time,’ he said truculently. ‘If your lot couldn’t find the bastards who robbed me thirteen years ago, I don’t know how you expect to find them now.’ He shot a meaningful glance at a clock on the wall. ‘So whatever it is you want to know, best be quick about it, because I’ve got a lot to do before opening time.’

  ‘I shouldn’t think we’ll be very long,’ Tregalles told him, ‘but that depends to some extent on how good your memory is. I’ve read the statement you gave us back then, but sometimes people remember little details that were missed at the time, and I’m wondering if anything like that has occurred to you?’

  Grady shook his head. ‘Not that I haven’t thought about it a good many times over the years. Those bastards took every last penny of the New Year’s weekend’s takings, to say nothing of smashing all that crockery, including the wife’s fancy plate collection. She’d’ve gone spare if she’d still been alive to see it. Worth a bit, some of them pieces were, but the insurance wouldn’t have it. Believe me, if I’d remembered anything, I’d have let you know.

  ‘Look,’ he said, ‘we could sit here all day and I’d still have nothing more to tell you, so unless you have something new for me, and like I said, I’ve got better things to do. I’d help you if I could, but I can’t tell you any more than you already know.’

  Molly slid her notebook into the pocket of her coat, and rose along with Tregalles. ‘Your daughter, Sharon, was there that night, wasn’t she, Mr Grady?’ she said.

  ‘Aye, she was,’ he said in a softer tone. He pointed to a picture on the wall of a bright-eyed girl smiling into the camera. ‘That’s her, there.’

  ‘Pretty girl,’ Molly observed. ‘Lovely smile.’

  ‘That’s why I keep it there,’ Grady said grimly, ‘because she’s had little enough to smile about since. Not that I didn’t warn her, but she wouldn’t listen, would she?’

  ‘We would like to talk to her,’ Molly said. ‘Can you tell us where we might find her?’

  ‘She’ll not be able to tell you any more than I can,’ Grady said. ‘She was scared stiff at the time, but she soon got over it. In fact I think she enjoyed being the centre of attention with her friends, talking about it all the time. But then, she was only eighteen at the time, and they don’t take anything seriously at that age, do they?’

  ‘We’d still like to talk to her,’ Molly persisted.

  Grady shrugged. ‘Don’t see as it can do any harm,’ he said. ‘Married name’s Jessop. Husband’s a lorry driver, at least he was last week, but you never know with that one. She never knows where he is, either, or when he’ll be home, except on pay days – hers, of course. Leaves her to bring up two kids, working full time, then expects her to keep him supplied with beer money. I keep telling her to pack it in. Get a divorce, I tell her, but she doesn’t listen to me. Never has for that matter since her mum died.’

  He sighed, and for a moment looked genuinely sad. ‘She lives not ten minutes from here in Peel Street,’ he said. ‘Number 12, but she’ll not be home now. She works on the till at Fairways Foods. Doesn’t get off till six this week. Now, I don’t mean to be rude, miss, but I do have to get on.’

  ‘Perhaps we could go out through the kitchen,’ Tregalles suggested. ‘I’d like to take a look for myself, even if things have changed, and I want to take a look at the back lane as well.’

  With Grady leading the way, they went through the kitchen to the back door. The smell of fresh-baked pies permeated the air, and Tregalles lingered beside a tray containing something like three dozen meat pies in the vain hope that Grady would suggest he try one.

  The room itself hadn’t changed; it matched the photographs taken of the scene at the time of the robbery, but the old wooden kitchen table had been replaced by a stainless steel work-table; the fireplace had disappeared, and in its place were two large ovens. Stainless steel sinks, a dishwasher, and commercial-sized microwave stood against another wall, and the space where the Welsh dresser had been was now occupied by the two refrigerators Grady had mentioned.

  A young oriental lad stood at the centre table wrapping sandwiches in cling-wrap, and stacking them on a long wooden tray, while a small, dark-haired woman stood at the sink, washing lettuce. Neither of them looked up as Molly and Tregalles passed through, in fact the woman bent even lower over the sink and kept her face averted as they went by.

  Illegal immigrants? Possibly, Molly couldn’t help wondering, but she wasn’t about to ask.

  ‘Just one more question before we go,’ Tregalles said as they reached the door. ‘Does the name Barry Grant ring any bells from back then? Young lad, bit of a show-off by all accounts. About the same age as your daughter.’

  Grady frowned in thought, then shook his head. ‘Doesn’t mean anything to me,’ he said, ‘but if he was the same age as Sharon, she might have known him. You’d have to ask her. Why? Does he have something to do with the robbery? Was he one of the bastards who robbed us?’

  ‘Still working on it,’ Tregalles said evasively.

  ‘Have you talked to him?’

  ‘Can’t, I’m afraid. He’s dead.’

  ‘Just as well if he was one of them,’ Grady growled. ‘Saves me the trouble of strangling the bastard myself.’

  Little had changed behind the pub. A van parked there would have blocked the narrow lane completely, but no one else was likely to be using the lane at the time of night the robbery had taken place.

  ‘Fat lot of good that did us,’ Tregalles grumbled as they made their way back to the car. ‘I told the boss it would be a waste of time, but he wouldn’t have it. And I doubt we’ll do any better by talking to Grady’s daughter.’

  ‘Still, it’s worth a try, isn’t it?’ said Molly. ‘She’ll be at work now, but we could go round this evening.’

  ‘Can’t go tonight,’ Tregalles told her as they got into the car. ‘I have an ESSA meeting tonight.’

  ‘I’ve heard of ESL, but what’s an ESSA when it’s at home?’

  ‘English Schools Swimming Association. I’m
on the committee, and we’re preparing for a competition at the end of August, and I have to be there.’

  ‘I could go to see Sharon myself,’ Molly offered. ‘Unless you’d rather . . .?’

  ‘No, no,’ Tregalles assured her hastily. ‘As a matter of fact, it might be better if you did go on your own; she might talk to you more than she would to me. Now, what was the name of the next one on the list? The one who organized the poker games back then.’

  ‘Walter Roach was the solicitor who organized the games,’ Molly reminded him, ‘but he left Broadminster several years ago, so the name I have at the top of my list is Appleyard. Roy Appleyard. He’s the man who tried to resist when they demanded money. He owns that big plumbing supplies business in Glendower Road, but his office is in the back of the Bathroom Boutique, which he owns as well. When I phoned him this morning, he said he’ll be in the office all day, but he also said he wasn’t interested in talking to us unless we were coming to tell him we’d recovered his money.’

  ELEVEN

  ‘Mr Corbett?’

  The man lowered the newspaper and peered at Paget over the top of his glasses. ‘Yes,’ he said cautiously. ‘Mr . . .?’

  ‘Paget. Detective Chief Inspector Paget. Sorry to just walk in on you like this, but there is no one at the desk out front, so . . .’

  ‘Ah, yes, of course.’ Corbett swung his feet off the open filing drawer, closed it, and folded the newspaper. ‘Joanie’s probably in the back doing some copying or making tea,’ he said. ‘I wasn’t expecting you to get round to me so quickly.’ He took off his glasses and slipped them into his shirt pocket. ‘Not that I can tell you anything anyway,’ he added quickly, ‘but Kevin said you’d be making the rounds.’

  ‘You were talking to Kevin Taylor?’

  ‘That’s right. He phoned me last night to tell me you wanted to talk to everyone who was at the party last Saturday.’ Corbett’s tone changed to one of anxious concern. ‘I couldn’t believe it when I heard that someone had tried to burn down the old Grant house, and Claire could have been trapped inside. Terrible business, but I really don’t see how I can help you. Kevin told me about your theory that it was someone at the party who did it, but with all due respect, Chief Inspector, I really do think you’ve got it wrong. I mean it’s not as if any of us could have had anything to do with what happened to Kevin’s father back then, is it?’

  He looked to Paget for a response, and when none came, he let out a long breath in a sigh of resignation and said, ‘Still, since you’re here, I suppose . . .’ He waved a hand in the general direction of a chair facing the desk. The words and the gesture hung in the air, a grudging acceptance of the inevitable.

  Paget moved in and sat down.

  The office was small, with barely enough room between the desk and the wall for Paget to sit comfortably. The desk itself was metal, scuffed and well-used, as were the bookcase and chairs. A tiny fan in one corner of the room was doing its best to move the stale air around, but it was a losing battle.

  Not exactly a top-of-the-line estate agent’s office, he decided.

  As for the man himself, Roger Corbett did not look well. His face was pale, his eyes unnaturally bright, and every so often a nervous tic tugged at the corner of one eye. The fingers of his right hand were nicotine-stained, and there was a half-open packet of cigarettes beside the ashtray. Corbett saw Paget’s glance and, as if taking it as a cue, slid a cigarette out, stuck it in his mouth, and lit it. He inhaled deeply, then settled back in his chair and crossed one leg over the other.

  ‘Right,’ he said with false heartiness. ‘Fire when ready, Chief Inspector.’

  But Paget was in no hurry to begin, taking time to loosen his jacket and settle himself more comfortably in his chair while he covertly watched Corbett. The man was doing his best to appear relaxed, but his whole body was tense, and one foot kept tapping the side of the desk as if to make sure it was still there.

  ‘Since you know why I’m here, I’ll get straight to the point,’ Paget said briskly. ‘In the letters Barry Grant left behind, it’s clear that he and several friends were involved in the botched burglary and the killing of George Taylor and Mrs Bergman. And, since you and some of the others who attended the party last Saturday were classmates of his at Westonleigh, and were at university together, I’ll be talking to each one of you to find out which friends he was referring to. So, how well did you know Barry yourself?’

  ‘Now, wait just a minute!’ Corbett’s foot hit the floor with a resounding thump as he uncrossed his legs and sat up straight. He plucked the cigarette from his mouth and waved his hand at Paget as if warding him off. ‘I think you’ve got this all wrong, Chief Inspector. I was never a friend of Barry’s. None of us were. In fact we were always trying to avoid him.’

  ‘Why was that?’

  Corbett shrugged uncomfortably. ‘He just didn’t fit into our group,’ he said evasively. ‘It’s true we all went to the same school and then we all went on to Leeds, but I took Philosophy, and Barry went into Engineering. Kevin was reading Law, Steph was in Business Admin, and Graham was taking Accounting, so we were scattered all over the place. I don’t know if you are familiar with the campus? It covers a lot of ground, but even so, it was hard to avoid Barry. He was always trying to ingratiate himself; trying to impress us with wild stories about what he’d done or intended to do. We couldn’t go anywhere without him popping up and making a nuisance of himself. He was always there.’

  ‘So tell me, Mr Corbett, if Barry Grant was always there, as you say, when did he have the time to become involved with another group to the degree that they functioned as a well organized and disciplined gang who committed several crimes?’

  Corbett shook his head. ‘God only knows,’ he said. ‘But I can assure you that it was none of our crowd.’

  ‘When you say “our crowd”, whom do you mean, exactly? Was this some sort of exclusive club?’

  Corbett shifted uncomfortably in his chair. ‘No, of course not,’ he said, ‘and I didn’t mean it to sound like that. It was just that we all got on well together, and someone like Barry just didn’t fit in. Apart from myself, the ones from here were Kevin and Steph, Pete Anderson, Graham Williams and John Chadwell. There were a couple of others who weren’t from around here: Jamie Mac-something-or-other, I forget his last name, and an Australian by the name of Don Wyatt. Don’t know where either of them are now. We lost touch once we left uni.’

  ‘And those from here were all old classmates from Westonleigh?’

  ‘That’s right. We’d all been to Westonleigh, although not all in the same year, and I didn’t get to know some of them well until I got to Leeds. Except Kevin, of course. He was a year ahead of me in Westonleigh, but we ended up as partners on the debating society team in his last year there, and we became good friends.’

  A faint smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. ‘And then there was Steph, of course,’ he said with a meaningful look at Paget. ‘Now that was a surprise, I can tell you.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Finding out that she and Kevin were living together. I mean I thought I knew Kevin pretty well, but that was a surprise, and one of the first things Kev said to me when I arrived in Leeds was that I wasn’t to say a word to anyone back home. I thought he was kidding at first, but he was deadly serious. He said his father was dead set against Steph for some reason, and Kev didn’t want him to find out, so he swore me and the others to secrecy.’

  ‘Did he say what his father had against the girl?’

  ‘No. Never did.’

  ‘Do you know if Kevin’s father ever found out?’

  Corbett butted his cigarette in the ashtray. ‘I doubt it,’ he said, ‘because Kev went back home and worked for his dad the following summer, and from the way he’d spoken about the old man, I doubt if that would have happened if he knew that Kev was still seeing Steph.’ He frowned. ‘But I don’t see what that has to do with your investigation, Chief Inspector.’

 
Paget ignored the implied question. ‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘where were you between one and three o’clock yesterday morning, Mr Corbett?’

  For the first time since Paget had entered the office, Roger Corbett’s face creased into a genuine smile as he leaned back and laced his fingers behind his head. ‘Ah, yes,’ he said with a touch of smugness, ‘I was wondering when we would get around to that. And I’m glad you asked, because I do have an alibi for those hours. I’m staying at a friend’s house while my wife is away, and she can verify that I was there.’

  ‘The friend’s name?’

  ‘Irene Sinclair. She was at the party, too, by the way, but you can take her off your list of suspects because she didn’t live in Broadminster back then.’

  ‘And you were in her house overnight?’

  ‘I was,’ Corbett confirmed, ‘and before you start asking if I could have slipped out without her knowledge, I’m sure she would have noticed if I had, because we shared the same bed.’

  ‘Indeed?’

  ‘Indeed,’ Corbett repeated. He seemed to be waiting for Paget to ask another question, and a flicker of irritation crossed his face when Paget remained silent. ‘My wife knows all about it, if that’s what you’re wondering,’ he said waspishly. ‘In fact we are all good friends; have been for years, so I suggest you look elsewhere.’

  He leaned forward to emphasize his next words. ‘And believe me, Chief Inspector,’ he said earnestly, ‘if you are looking for a connection between any of us and Barry Grant, you’re wasting your time. He was a complete outsider, and none of us had anything to do with him.’

  ‘Someone did,’ said Paget, ‘and it seems more than likely that they were people he’d known for some time. People who knew him well enough to trust him to do what he did best, like stealing vans when they needed them. You said yourself he was always looking for ways to ingratiate himself.’