by Frank Smith
‘Could have been anybody, then, couldn’t it? I mean who knows what sort of yobs he might have taken up with?’
Paget shook his head. ‘I don’t think so,’ he said quietly, ‘because Barry was only interested in being accepted by people like you and your friends; educated people with bright futures, and he was prepared to do anything asked of him to gain that acceptance. And those robberies were not the work of yobs, Mr Corbett. They were carefully planned and executed by intelligent people, such as those attending the party last Saturday, and I think someone at that party felt threatened by what he heard, and decided to do something about it.’
Corbett tapped his cigarette nervously against the rim of the ashtray, but he remained silent.
‘I’m told you left university after the first year,’ Paget said. ‘Mind telling me why?’
Corbett butted the cigarette. ‘I was ill,’ he said. ‘I started the second year, but I was missing more lectures than I attended, so I packed it in.’
‘And of course, Barry died that summer, so he didn’t go back either, did he?’ Paget said. ‘I presume this obsession of his with trying to ingratiate himself with you and your friends continued back here during the summer holidays, for example?’
‘Oh, yes. It didn’t matter where you . . .’ Corbett stopped in mid-sentence and looked away.
‘So,’ Paget continued, ‘would it be fair to say that, like it or not, you did see a fair bit of Barry Grant, not only while you were at university, but back here as well during the holidays?’
‘But not to the same degree,’ Corbett protested. ‘I mean we all had summer jobs so we didn’t get together as much, but all right, yes, he did sometimes turn up when we were having a drink together, or something like that. Don’t ask me how he knew where we were. If it had been nowadays, I’d have said he was tracking us by GPS.’
‘You say Barry was always trying to impress people by telling them of his exploits, real or imagined?’ He waited for Corbett’s confirming nod before going on. ‘Which means that you must have learned quite a lot about what he was doing, or claimed to be doing. And given his nature, my guess is that he would find it almost impossible not to at least hint at what he was involved in.’
Paget looked thoughtful as he continued to look at Corbett. ‘Unless, of course you knew what he was involved in, because you were involved in the same thing yourself,’ he said quietly, then shook his head as if to dismiss the thought. ‘But then,’ he continued as if talking to himself, ‘you’ve already told me that you went out of your way to avoid Barry, so that hardly seems likely, does it?’
Corbett eyed Paget warily. He wasn’t quite sure whether he was expected to respond or not. His hand shook as he lit another cigarette and drew deeply on it. ‘Look, Chief Inspector,’ he said earnestly, ‘I’m not quite sure what you expect of me. I’ve tried to be honest with you, tried to cooperate, and I resent the implication that I was somehow involved with Barry Grant, when I was not.’
‘And yet you are clearly nervous about something,’ said Paget mildly. ‘And you have certainly gone out of your way to try to make me believe that neither you nor your friends could have had anything to do with Barry Grant. Did you and the others discuss this by any chance after what happened yesterday?’
‘Of course not!’ Colour flooded into Corbett’s face. ‘Why would we do that?’
‘You tell me.’
Corbett rose to his feet. ‘I think you have gone quite far enough with your questions, Chief Inspector,’ he said. ‘I have told you everything I know about Barry Grant, and I have nothing further to say on the subject. Now, I have work to do, and I would appreciate it if you would leave.’
‘Just one thing before I go,’ said Paget as he stood up. ‘I believe that whoever tried to burn the Grant house down yesterday morning was at the party last Saturday. Had they succeeded, Claire Hammond could have been killed, so, bearing that in mind, tell me this: do you know or do you suspect who that person was, Mr Corbett?’
‘No, I do not!’ Corbett snapped, then clamped his lips shut and drew a deep breath. ‘I’m sorry about what almost happened to Claire,’ he said stiffly, ‘and I’m glad she escaped without harm. But I’ve told you all I know, and I’m sorry I can’t be more helpful.’
‘Oh, but you have been helpful, Mr Corbett,’ Paget told him as he made his way to the door. ‘Very helpful indeed. Thank you for your time. I shall look forward to talking to you again.’
Corbett watched through the open door as Paget made his way past the secretary, now seated at her desk, and left the building. He closed the door, then returned to his seat. He sat there, eyes screwed up tightly, trying hard to recall what he might have said that had prompted Paget’s parting words.
Nothing! He’d given him nothing. The Chief Inspector was bluffing, trying to shake him and make him think he’d given something away. But on the other hand, what if Paget wasn’t bluffing?
Roger Corbett opened the bottom drawer of his desk, took out a bottle and glass, and poured himself a drink. He downed it quickly, then poured himself another before reaching for the phone.
There was a message from Fiona waiting for Paget on his return to Charter Lane, asking him to call her as soon as possible. He looked at the time and felt a twinge of guilt. Alcott was right, Fiona could be relied upon to deal with most things that crossed his desk, but it was hardly fair to leave so much to her while the Superintendent was away. He picked up the phone, then put it down again. Better to go up there and find out what she wanted.
What Fiona wanted was a word, and a serious one by the look on her face.
‘It’s Mr Alcott,’ she said with a flick of her head towards the closed door of the Superintendent’s office. ‘He’s in there, and he looks awful. I tried to talk to him; tried to ask him how his wife was, but he just said, “I’ll call you if I need you,” and almost pushed me out of the door. And that isn’t like him, Mr Paget. I know he can be a bit moody at times, but this is something different, and I’m worried about him. Have you heard how his wife is getting on?’
‘Nothing beyond what he told us the other day.’
‘Could you try to talk to him?’
‘I’ll see what I can do,’ he said. ‘Was there anything else?’
‘Some expenses that need a signature, but there’s no hurry for them. It’s Mr Alcott I’m worried about.’
‘How long has he been in there?’ Paget paused to ask as he made his way towards Alcott’s office.
‘Half, maybe three quarters of an hour, and not a sound out of him since he went in.’
‘Right.’ Paget opened the door to Alcott’s office and walked in.
The Superintendent sat hunched over his desk. Never a big man, he appeared to have shrunk. His face was drawn, his skin was sallow, and his eyes seemed to have receded into their sockets. His hands moved restlessly back and forth across the surface of the desk, straightening objects and rearranging papers for no apparent reason. He looked as if he hadn’t slept for days. Paget had intended to ask about his wife, but looking at the state Alcott was in, he was afraid of what the answer might be.
‘Oh! Sorry, sir, I didn’t realize you were here,’ he said apologetically as he closed the door. ‘Just came up to see what had come in this afternoon.’
Alcott lifted his head and stared at the Chief Inspector as if trying to decide whether to acknowledge him or not.
‘If there’s anything . . .?’ Paget began, but was silenced by an impatient wave of Alcott’s hand.
‘Fiona called you, didn’t she?’ he said accusingly. ‘Fussing about like a mother hen!’
‘She’s worried about you, sir, and with good reason, I’d say.’
‘None of her business,’ Alcott growled. ‘Nor yours, for that matter.’
‘Your wife . . .?’ Paget ventured, almost afraid to put the question. ‘How is she?’
Alcott lifted his head, then slumped back in his chair and rubbed his face with both hands. ‘Emphysema,’ he sai
d cryptically. ‘Marion has emphysema and now pneumonia. She’s on oxygen and they’re feeding her antibiotics intravenously. She’s dying, Paget, and I’m responsible.’
Paget remained silent. There didn’t seem to be anything he could say that wouldn’t sound like a platitude in the face of such a statement.
Alcott sat up straight and took a deep breath. ‘The damage to her lungs is permanent,’ he said. ‘Irreversible is what they said, and now, with this pneumonia . . .’ He lifted his hands and let them drop in a helpless gesture.
‘In that case, sir, shouldn’t you be with her, rather than here?’
‘Valerie, our youngest, is with her. Taken time off work.’ Alcott raised his eyes to meet those of Paget. ‘I had to leave,’ he said huskily. ‘I couldn’t take it, watching her, listening to her gasping for air. And I can’t stand being in the house on my own. Didn’t know what else to do but come here. God knows what I’m going to tell Celeste. She came up from Bristol on the weekend to see her mother, and she all but accused me of killing Marion then. Val hasn’t said it, but I’m sure she’s thinking it; I can see it in her eyes. And they’re right, Paget, it is my fault! It should be me over there in that bed, not Marion. She’s dying and there’s not a damned thing I can do about it!’
‘Except be with her,’ said Paget quietly. ‘Let her know you’re there. And it won’t help matters if you don’t look after yourself now. Have you slept at all?’
Alcott shrugged. ‘Doctor gave me some tablets, but they don’t seem to work.’
‘And when did you last eat?’
Alcott glowered. ‘You’re beginning to sound like the nurses over there,’ he said irritably. ‘Who wants to eat at a time like this?’
‘It’s not a matter of wanting to,’ Paget said firmly. ‘It’s a matter of whether or not you want to do what’s best for your wife, because if you carry on this way, you’re not going to be any good to anyone. Look, sir,’ he continued earnestly, ‘I know it must be extremely hard for you, but if you don’t look after yourself, you’ll wind up in hospital as well. Is that what you want?’
Alcott’s eyes narrowed and his lips compressed into a thin line. Paget hurried on before he could speak. ‘Come with me,’ he said, ‘and let’s get some food into you. I know you may not feel like it, I know you blame yourself for what’s happened, but you’ll only make matters worse if you fall ill yourself.’ He looked at the time. ‘That little place on Marlborough Street serves meals all day. It’s quiet and it won’t be too busy right now. Believe me, sir, you’ll feel the better for it.’
Alcott’s mouth twitched, and Paget felt sure his offer would be refused. But, slowly, the lines around the Superintendent’s mouth softened, and there was less hostility in the eyes as he raised them to meet Paget’s own. He heaved himself out of his chair. ‘You’re right,’ he said with weary resignation. ‘I suppose it is for the best, although I don’t know if I can eat much.’
‘We’re going out for a bite to eat,’ Paget told Fiona as they made their way out. ‘I’ll be on my mobile if anyone should need me.’
He continued on, but Alcott hung back. ‘Sorry I snapped at you,’ he said to Fiona. ‘It’s Marion. She’s not doing so well. I just wish . . .’ He shrugged in a helpless fashion. ‘Sorry,’ he said again.
‘It’s all right . . .’ Fiona began, but the words stuck in her throat. She cleared her throat and was about to try again, but Alcott was moving away.
‘I hope you realize,’ she heard him say as he rejoined Paget, ‘that this isn’t official business, so don’t expect to claim this meal on expenses.’
Fiona stared at the screen in front of her. Her vision was blurred; there were tears in her eyes, but she couldn’t help smiling. It seemed no matter how dire the circumstances, some things and some people would never change.
TWELVE
It was too nice an evening to stay inside after dinner, so Paget set up the lawn chairs on the shaded side of the house, while Grace brought out the wine and biscuits and cheese on a tray, and set them on a small table between the two chairs.
Now, sitting there quietly in the hush of the evening, he let his gaze wander over the pastoral scene. In the valley below lay the village of Ashton Prior, half hidden by trees and the shadows of the evening, while beyond, fading into the distance where land and sky melded into one, lay a patchwork of fields and farmhouses and villages whose names he could never remember. He closed his eyes and gave silent thanks to his father for choosing this place as his retreat from the noise and the pressures of life in the city.
It had been Paget’s retreat as well when Jill died; not just from the Met and the city, where people and places were constant reminders of memories too painful to bear, but a retreat into himself; a place where he could hide and shut out the world.
His retreat and his salvation as it turned out, thanks in no small measure to his late father’s housekeeper, Mrs Wentworth, who had literally bullied him out of his misery, and to Bob McKenzie, his old boss in the Met, who had persuaded him to rejoin the world.
He was grateful to them both, very grateful indeed, but it was Grace who had finally rekindled emotions and feelings he had long thought dead.
He sighed contentedly as he reached for her hand.
‘Watch out for the wine,’ she warned. ‘That table has wobbly legs.’
He groaned. ‘There I was in the middle of blissful thoughts and romantic dreams, and you shoot me down with talk of a table with wobbly legs.’
‘You poor man,’ Grace said with mock sympathy. ‘Sorry if I popped your bubble, but you would have been even more upset if the table had gone over and we’d lost the wine. So you see, I was really thinking of you at the time.’ She frowned. ‘Romantic dreams about who? Or should that be whom?’
‘Oh, just some woman I met a while back,’ he said, ‘but she’s gone now. Probably gone to fetch a wedge for the wobbly table. Anyway, you were looking very thoughtful there. What were you thinking about?’
‘The Alcotts,’ she said softly. ‘I haven’t been able to get them out of my mind since you told me about the state Mr Alcott was in today. Do you think he did go back to the hospital after you left him?’
‘He said he would go, but I don’t know if he did. I offered to take him myself, but he insisted on picking up his own car back at Charter Lane, and he went off from there. Honestly, Grace, I have never seen such a change in anyone in such a short time. The man looks as thin as a rail; not that he was ever fat, but his face is gaunt, and he looks as if he hasn’t slept since Marion went into hospital. I’m not even sure he’s changed his clothes in all that time.’
‘Is there anything we can do?’
‘I told him he only had to ask. He promised he would let me know if there was anything he needed, but I doubt if he will.’
‘No visitors, I suppose?’
‘Just family. I’m afraid it doesn’t look good.’
‘Can I do any shopping for him?’ Grace asked. ‘It’s not too practical to ask him to come all the way out here for a meal, but I could do a meal for him at home if that would help.’
‘I think his youngest daughter, Valerie, is taking care of that end of things, but I’ll let him know if I find that’s not the case.’
Paget’s thoughts drifted back to the conversation he’d had with Alcott at lunchtime. In all the time he’d known the Superintendent, the man had never had much to say about his family or his home life, but it had all come pouring out during the meal. He’d talked about his wife, about his daughters, even to the point of telling Paget about the scene at the hospital and again at home.
‘I know I’m to blame for Marion’s condition,’ he’d concluded, ‘and I wish to God I could undo what I’ve done to her, but I can’t. I feel guilty enough about it as it is, so the last thing I need is Celeste sniping away at me every chance she gets. Val’s been very good, and she tries to tone her sister down, but she’s no match for Celeste.
‘As for Marion,’ he said, pausin
g for a moment to draw breath and steady his voice, ‘if she isn’t going to recover, I’d just like her last days to be peaceful and quiet, but Celeste seems determined to carry on her fight with me at the bedside. It’s as if she wants to make sure that Marion dies hating me as much as Celeste hates me. I could understand it better if there had been a strong bond between her and her mother, but Celeste has been as cold and distant with Marion as she has with me ever since she was a teenager.’
He’d said no more until they were out in the street, and then it was just desultory chat to fill the time until they were back at Charter Lane.
Molly Forsythe looked at the time. She’d arranged to see Sharon Jessop at nine, so it was time to be going. The sun was almost down, and there was a faint breeze in the air, a welcome change from the oppressive heat of the day, and if she left now she could walk the short distance to Peel Street.
Sharon Jessop had done her best to put Molly off when Molly had spoken to her on the phone, but changed her mind when she was told the alternative would be to take time off work to come down to Charter Lane for a formal interview.
‘Then you’d better come over,’ she’d said, ‘but it will have to be later. I can’t put Laura to bed before nine with it being so light in the evening, and Jimmy will still be up. Still, I suppose he’ll be watching telly, so we can talk in the kitchen.’
Talk, yes, but there had been a distinct lack of enthusiasm in Sharon’s voice, and Molly couldn’t help wondering if she was wasting her time. And it would be a waste of time if Sharon Jessop proved to be no more forthcoming than Roy Appleyard had been when she and Tregalles had spoken to him earlier in the day, because the man had been in a belligerent mood from the very start.
‘I don’t know why you expect to find out anything now after thirteen bloody years,’ he’d greeted them. ‘Waste of time and taxpayers’ money if you ask me. Be better if you spent it doing something about the crime on the streets. Had my car done over three months ago. Window smashed, radio pried out, camera stolen. One of your blokes came round and spent God knows how long taking down details and asking damn-fool questions, and I haven’t heard a word since, not one bloody word!’