by Frank Smith
“No! Please, not hospital. I’ll be all right.” Vikki opened her eyes and struggled to sit up, but cool hands gently held her down, and she found herself looking up into the face of Joanna Freeborn. Vikki clutched the woman’s hand.
“Please, Joanna,” she pleaded. “I don’t want an ambulance. I’ll be all right. It’s just a few bruises.”
Joanna snorted. “Just a few bruises?” she scoffed. “You should see the size of the lump on the back of your head, for a start. Your face, your chest, your stomach … Who did this to you? What was it? Some sort of free-for-all?”
Vikki had prepared herself for the questions during her long walk from town. She eased herself into a sitting position to give herself time to collect her wits, and to avoid Joanna’s eyes as she lied to her.
“I went with this bloke,” she said. “He looked all right, but once he got me in the car, he drove out into the country and pulled off the road. Then he dragged me out of the car and started knocking me about. He was shouting at me all the while. Something about being on his patch, and he said if I came back again, he’d finish me for good.”
Vikki looked up at Joanna. “That’s the last thing I remember until I woke up in a ditch. I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t go back. Then I thought of you. I’m sorry, Joanna, but I didn’t know where else to go.”
Joanna put her arm around the girl and hugged her gently. “You’re safe here with me,” she told her.
Tears welled in Vikki’s eyes. “But please, Joanna,” she whispered, “don’t make me go to hospital.”
Joanna sighed. “Very well,” she said with obvious reluctance, “but I want you to promise me that you’ll tell me if you have trouble with your eyes—double vision, blurring, anything like that. Promise?”
“I will. Honestly.”
“Hmm!” Joanna looked sceptical. Without taking her eyes off Vikki, she lifted her head and spoke to someone behind her. “I think the first thing we need to do is strip her off, clean her up, and do what we can for those cuts and bruises,” she said.
“I’ll do it.” The voice was low and curiously melodious; the same voice Vikki had heard when she first woke up, and she was suddenly afraid. She’d never considered the possibility that someone else might be there on Joanna’s boat. “We need some Elastoplast. Do we have any?”
“I think so. I’ll see.” Joanna rose to her feet, careful to avoid spilling the bowl of steaming water the second woman carried as they manoeuvred around each other in the confines of the narrow boat. She disappeared, and the young woman set the bowl down beside the bunk and, with gentle fingers, began to undress Vikki.
“Careful, now,” she warned as Vikki tried to help. “Just lie still. I can manage. And don’t be afraid to tell me if I’m hurting you.” She smiled. Unthinking, Vikki returned the smile … and winced.
The young woman winced in sympathy and shook her head. “Lie still,” she admonished once again. “Just relax; you’re very tense.” She had a pleasant, soothing voice, and the water was lovely and warm. Vikki closed her eyes and began to drift.
The woman wasn’t much more than a girl herself. Fair-haired and slim, her features were small and regular, but her eyes were large and soft and brown and ever so slightly bulbous. Like those of a rabbit, Joanna had thought when first they’d met.
Where she had come from, Joanna didn’t know. Neither had the girl volunteered her name. She had just appeared one night when they were packing up after a show. She wore a long print dress with little if anything beneath it, and sandals. Nothing else. Her worldly possessions were contained in a rucksack that she carried by the straps rather than slung across her shoulders. That position was reserved for her guitar.
She said simply that she’d like to join them. She wouldn’t be any trouble. She’d done a little acting but she liked singing best, and when members of the group tried to put her off, she sat cross-legged on the floor and began to play.
Her voice was thin, but there was a haunting quality about it that caught and held them. Her slender fingers caressed the strings to draw forth sounds that flowed like water from a bubbling spring. The notes grew stronger, surging like a mighty river, then faded once again to the murmur of a placid stream.
It was late and most of them had to work the following day, but for twenty minutes this thin, pale girl held them spellbound with her magic. And when the last note faded, a sigh went round the room, more eloquent than thunderous applause. The girl rose to her feet and slung the guitar over her shoulder. She didn’t speak; just stood there quietly, looking from one to the other with those enormous soft brown eyes.
“What’s your name?” It was Joanna who spoke first.
“I am whoever you say I am,” the girl replied.
“Then I shall call you Bunny. Where do you live?” The girl pointed to the rucksack and shrugged. “Then you’d better come home with me,” Joanna told her, and Bunny had been with her ever since.
Bunny never talked about herself. But she was no stranger to work. Less than a week after she came, she landed a job cleaning rooms at the Invisible Man, where Joanna worked behind the bar. And she went through the narrow boat from stern to stern, cleaning, polishing, and doing all the things Joanna had promised herself she would get around to doing one day but never did.
Joanna returned. “What do you think?” she asked in a low voice. Vikki lay with her head on one side, eyes closed, breathing regularly.
Bunny paused and eyed the girl critically. “Somebody has certainly beaten the shit out of her,” she said matter-of-factly, “but she’s young, and apart from that lump on the back of the head, I don’t think there’s any permanent damage.”
“She must have walked all the way out here, poor kid. And in those shoes!” Joanna lifted one of Vikki’s feet. The heels were rubbed raw, and broken blisters covered much of the ball of the foot. “Funny, but I never thought I would see her again.”
“This is the girl you told me about? The one in the cells?”
“That’s right.” Joanna sighed. “She says she was beaten up because she was operating on someone else’s patch, but I don’t know. The thing I can’t understand is why she’s so terrified of going into hospital.”
“You think whoever did this might be looking for her?”
“Could be,” said Joanna slowly. “But perhaps it’s better not to ask. At least for now.”
CHAPTER 8
“No one admits to seeing or hearing anything unusual, apart from those who were disturbed by that Rugby crowd tearing up and down the corridor on the fourth floor.”
Tregalles rubbed his eyes and squinted at his notebook. “Except for one thing,” he continued, “and I don’t know whether it means anything or not. A Mr. and Mrs. Lyon say they were returning to the hotel around midnight when they saw a girl sneaking into the hotel. They thought it a bit odd at the time, but decided it was none of their business, so they didn’t mention it to anyone until they were questioned this morning.”
“Did you get a description?”
Paget, Tregalles, and Superintendent Alcott were seated around a table in a vacant room on the first floor of the Tudor Hotel. Tregalles had commandeered the room as a temporary office from which to co-ordinate the enquiries in the hotel. The room was stuffy; both Paget and Tregalles were having trouble keeping their eyes open, and Alcott’s chain-smoking didn’t help. Alcott himself had, for the most part, remained silent, his sharp eyes flicking from one to the other as he listened carefully.
Tregalles wrinkled his nose. “Not much of a one, I’m afraid. Young, fair-haired, slight build—that’s as much as they could remember. They said they only saw her for a few seconds, and for most of that time she had her back to them. The odd thing was, they say she had—”
“—bare feet?” Paget finished for him.
Tregalles stared at him. “How did you know that?” he demanded. “Did someone else see her, too?”
“Perhaps. Go on. What did this couple mean when they said they saw
her ‘sneaking in’?”
“She went in ahead of them, but stopped just inside the door as if undecided about going further. According to Mrs. Lyon, she and her husband stopped and waited outside the door because they half expected the girl to turn round and come out again, but she didn’t. Instead, she took off her shoes and ran across to the stairs.”
“Go on.”
“That’s it. They discussed it on their way up in the lift, but decided that the girl had simply seen someone inside she didn’t want to meet, and had skipped up the stairs in order to avoid them.”
“Was anyone else in the lobby when they went through to the lift?”
“Just Quint, and Mrs. Jones.”
“You said it was around midnight. Before or after?”
“Within five minutes either way, they told me. They seemed quite sure about that.”
“Sounds like the same girl Quint claims he saw leaving the hotel at about twenty-five minutes to one,” Paget observed.
“Which ties in with the time of death and the evidence that there was a young woman in the room with Bolen,” said Alcott. “Looks straightforward enough to me. Bolen was having it off with this girl, things got rough and she stabbed him.” The superintendent butted his cigarette and lit another.
“It ties in with the time the phone call came from Bolen’s room,” Paget agreed, “but we don’t know that this particular girl was ever in Bolen’s room. She may have nothing to do with this case at all, so I think we had better keep our options open. And time of death is still open until we can get medical confirmation. Unfortunately, Reg didn’t have a chance to give us any details before he had his heart attack, and when Charlie played Reg’s tape, he said he couldn’t make out the words because Reg was wheezing so heavily. He’s going to try to get it cleaned up electronically, but it may take some time. Meanwhile, we need another pathologist to do the autopsy as soon as possible.”
Alcott drummed stained fingers on the table. “I’ll talk to Worcester,” he said, “but let’s concentrate on finding this girl.”
“Those knickers in Bolen’s bed were small,” said Tregalles thoughtfully. “And the Lyons say the girl they saw was very young. She could be some schoolgirl who was making a bit on the side. Might be worth checking into; find out if Bolen was partial to youngsters. It would explain her sneaking in and out of the hotel like that.”
“Did Bolen make any phone calls?” Paget asked.
“Yes, he did, as a matter of fact.” Tregalles flipped the pages. “One. A Broadminster number at nine thirty-two P.M. I haven’t had a chance to follow it up yet, but the cross-reference listing shows it belongs to a Douglas Underwood, 54 Stirling Crescent.”
Alcott grunted. “That’s just down the road,” he observed. “Better talk to Underwood and find out what the call was about. Anything else?”
“Bolen’s car was in the car-park,” Tregalles told him. “Charlie had it taken away for further examination. And that’s about it, I’m afraid, sir.”
“Any further news on Reg’s condition?” asked Paget.
Tregalles grimaced. “Not good,” he said. “Charlie says they’re talking about an operation either later today or first thing tomorrow morning.”
Alcott shot an inquiring glance at Paget. “Anything else?” he demanded.
“It’s just that it seems to me Bolen’s death came at a very convenient time for his family,” Paget said slowly. “I don’t think we should overlook that possibility as a motive. If Bolen had been allowed to push this deal through at Ockrington, it could have ruined the lot of them.”
Alcott lumbered to his feet, scattering ash as he did so. “That’s as may be,” he said brusquely, “but let’s not go off a some wild-goose chase. Concentrate on finding the girl.”
As they left the room, Paget told Tregalles to remain in the hotel and interview the day staff. “And get some people round to the homes of everyone who has the day off. I want to know everything they can tell us about Bolen, and why he spent so many weekends here in the hotel. Find out what went on in the Elizabethan Room last night, and if we can get the names of diners who were seated near Jim Bolen, let’s have them interviewed as well.”
Tregalles nodded. “And you will be … ?”
“Having a word with Douglas Underwood.”
Leaving his car at the hotel, Paget walked the short distance to Stirling Crescent. It was a pleasant little backwater of semi-detached houses with small front lawns bordered by neatly trimmed hedges and low brick walls. Mature shrubs and bushes vied for space, with hydrangeas seemingly a particular favourite, and number fifty-four was no exception. Blooms the size of dinner plates grew in profusion beside the short driveway leading to the garage.
A plump middle-aged man, wearing a grey track suit and a pair of wellingtons, was stretched across the bonnet of a Granada Scorpio Estate, applying polish with sweeping strokes. What little hair he had was light and sandy, and the skin beneath it glowed pink in the morning sun.
“Good morning, sir. Nice car,” said Paget admiringly. “Lovely colour.”
The man straightened up and beamed at Paget through rimless glasses. “That’s tourmaline metallic green, that is,” he said proudly. “Comes up a treat, doesn’t she?”
“She does indeed. Are you by any chance Mr. Underwood? Mr. Douglas Underwood?”
The man’s smile faded. “I am,” he said neutrally. “And you are … ?”
“Detective Chief Inspector Paget. I wonder if I could have a few minutes of your time?”
Underwood’s face took on a guarded look. “Chief Inspector?” he repeated. He glanced at the car as if trying to think of an infraction serious enough to warrant the time of a chief inspector on a Sunday morning. “What’s this all about?” he asked cautiously.
“Routine enquiries,” said Paget vaguely. “I’d just like to ask you a few questions. We can do that here, or we could go into the house if you prefer.”
“No. No, this will be fine.” Underwood picked up the bottle of liquid polish, screwed the cap on carefully, and wiped his hands on a piece of cloth. “What’s it about?” he asked again.
“Tell me, were you at home last evening, sir?”
Underwood hesitated. “Y-e-e-s,” he answered cautiously.
“Did you receive a telephone call from a Mr. James Bolen?”
Underwood opened his mouth, closed it again and said, “Aahhh!”
“Was that a yes or a no, sir?”
“Well, yes, I did, now that you mention it.” Underwood looked down at the bottle in his hand, unscrewed the cap, then screwed it back on again.
“Would you mind telling me the substance of that conversation, sir?”
“It was … It was a private matter,” the man said stiffly.
Paget shook his head. “Not any longer, I’m afraid. Mr. Bolen died shortly after making that telephone call to you, which is why I’m here.”
Underwood looked stunned. “He died? What happened?”
“The telephone call?” Paget prompted.
“Ah, yes, well … He-umm …” Underwood swallowed hard and looked down at the bottle in his hand. “He offered me—aahh—a job,” he said in a low voice.
“I see. You are unemployed at the moment, are you, Mr. Underwood?”
The man looked up sharply. “No, of course not. I have a good job.”
“Working for Lambert?”
Colour flared in Underwood’s face. “How … ?” he began, then compressed his lips as if to prevent himself from saying more.
“How did I know you worked for Lambert? I didn’t until I saw the Lambert logo on your car,” said Paget. His voice hardened. “Now, you say Bolen offered you a job. What sort of job? And why did he wait until late on a Saturday evening to make you that offer?”
Underwood looked down at his hands, brows drawn together as if studying them. “The job was … well, it was just part of it,” he said in a low voice. “What he really wanted was information about the bid we are putting in on a
job. He said he was prepared to pay for the information, but of course I turned him down.”
“I see. Was that job, by any chance, the one at Ockrington?”
Underwood looked startled. Sweat glistened on his brow as he nodded confirmation.
“And you say you turned him down?”
Underwood looked offended by the question. “Well, it wouldn’t have been right, would it? I mean, I’m not saying I couldn’t have used the money; I could, but there’s such a thing as loyalty, isn’t there?”
“Very commendable, I’m sure,” said Paget. “Tell me, was this the first time Bolen had approached you?”
Underwood shifted from one foot to the other, then shook his head. “He has approached me a couple of times in the past, but I turned him down each time.”
“No doubt you informed your employer of these approaches by Bolen?”
“Well, no. I mean, what would have been the point? As I said, I turned Bolen down, so there was no harm done.”
“Was that the only reason, sir? Or were you, perhaps, waiting for a better offer?”
“Of course not!”
Paget left it for the moment as another thought occurred to him. Harry Bolen had said that his brother was not in his room, nor was he anywhere in the hotel as far as he could tell, and Underwood’s house was only a short distance away. “Did Mr. Bolen come to see you after you turned him down?” he asked.
“Certainly not.”
“Did you go to see him or meet him somewhere?”
“No.” The answer came swiftly—a bit too swiftly, Paget thought.
“Did he say anything that might indicate he intended to go out, or that he was expecting anyone?”
“No.”
“How did he react when you turned him down?”
“He offered me more money, tried to talk me round, but I kept telling him I wasn’t interested, so he finally gave up.” Underwood shot a questioning glance at Paget. “What was it?” he asked. “Heart attack? Something like that?”