Thread of Evidence

by Frank Smith

  But the banging continued. Stella tried to ignore it, but she knew that if she allowed it to go on, it could get her thrown out. It wasn’t much of a place, but she wouldn’t find anything as cheap anywhere else. She flung the covers back.

  “All right! All right! I’m coming,” she shouted. “No need to knock the bloody door down.” The banging stopped. Stella pulled on a faded dressing-gown and padded to the door. “Who is it?” she demanded.

  “Police! Open the door!”

  Stella groaned. Police. What the hell did they want now?

  The pounding began again.

  Stella turned the key and opened the door. A dark-haired man with a pleasant but oddly crumpled face smiled at her. “Morning,” he said cheerfully. “Stella Green, is it? Sorry if I woke you up. Mind if I come in?” He didn’t wait for a reply but moved inside and closed the door. “Tregalles,” he said as he looked around. “Detective Sergeant Tregalles.”

  Stella moved to the bedside table, found her cigarettes and lit one. “So what do you want?” she demanded. “Haven’t you got anything better to do than go round waking people up?” The smoke caught in the back of her throat and she began to cough.

  “Those cancer sticks’ll kill you,” he told her solemnly as he dropped into a chair beside the door. “You should take better care of yourself, Stella.”

  The woman sat down on the bed and squinted at him through a haze of smoke. “So whadyawant?” she asked wearily.

  But Tregalles was in no hurry. “I could murder a cup of tea,” he told her. “Why not pop the kettle on while we have a little chat?”

  Stella remained where she was. “You want tea, go down the caff on the corner and pay for it,” she told him.

  He looked hurt. “Don’t be like that, Stella. I come as a friend.”

  Stella snorted, but her eyes were watchful. What was all this leading up to? Try as she might, she couldn’t think of anything she’d done that would bring a copper to her door.

  “Seen the paper this morning?” he asked as he pulled a copy from his coat pocket. He tossed it across the floor to land folded at Stella’s feet.

  Stella inhaled deeply and blew out a stream of smoke. She made no move to pick it up.

  “Better read it,” he advised. “Front page; you can’t miss it. About a friend of yours.”

  She didn’t want to pick it up. She had the feeling that she wasn’t going to like what she saw.

  He rose to his feet. “I think I will have that cuppa,” he said. He made his way into the alcove that served as a kitchen, found the kettle and filled it at the sink.

  Stella picked up the paper, opened it and looked at the headlines: PROMINENT BUSINESS MAN STABBED TO DEATH. She stared at the picture of Jim Bolen below, and suddenly felt cold. A smaller picture of the Tudor Hotel, with an arrow pointing to the window of room 203, filled the lower corner of the page. She read the article swiftly. Saturday night! The words seemed to leap from the paper, and she knew now why Tregalles was there. Stella tossed the paper aside and sat there drawing hard on her cigarette.

  A low-pitched whistle, rising to a fingernails-across-the-blackboard screech, came from the kettle. Tregalles, who had busied himself preparing the teapot and mugs, unplugged the kettle and filled the pot.

  “I think you’re going to need that when it’s ready,” he said as he stood in the doorway. He was no longer smiling.

  Stella reached for an ashtray and butted the cigarette. “Dunno what that’s got to do with me,” she said with a careless wave at the paper.

  Tregalles shook his head sorrowfully. “And you the last person to see him alive.” He sighed. “What was it, Stella? Crime of passion? Or wouldn’t he pay for services rendered?”

  The chill that had entered the pit of her stomach grew colder. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, but her words lacked conviction.

  Tregalles sighed heavily. “It’s no good, Stella,” he said. “We know you were with him that night. Quint sent you up there, didn’t he? Then you came down with some story about Bolen kicking you out and not paying you. So Quint, being the generous fellow he is, paid you off. Never occurred to him to go up and see what you’d done to Bolen, did it? I mean, why should it? He believed you, didn’t he? One of his regulars. You’ve been keeping his clients happy for a long time, haven’t you, Stella?”

  Tregalles lifted the lid of the teapot and used a spoon to fish out the tea-bag. “Milk in first?” he inquired.

  Stella reached for another cigarette and lit it. The taste in her mouth was foul, and much as she hated to accept anything from this man, she needed something to take the taste away. “Lemon,” she said tightly. “Bottom of the fridge.”

  Tregalles raised an eyebrow in mock surprise. “Fancy,” he said, but he opened the tiny fridge, found the half-dried lemon, and squeezed it into the mug. “There you are, Stel,” he said as he handed her the hot tea. “Don’t say I never do anything for you. Now, then, why did you kill Bolen?”

  He poured his own tea and sat down beside the door once more.

  Stella drank greedily. The tea was scalding hot. It burned the back of her throat and brought tears to her eyes. “I never …” she began, but stopped when Tregalles began to shake his head.

  “We’ve got witnesses, Stella,” he warned softly. “You were there in Bolen’s room.”

  “No! No, I wasn’t,” she protested. Quint! she thought disgustedly. This was his doing, the slimy little toe-rag! And that prissy woman who worked nights with him. But there was nothing to be gained by denying that she had an arrangement with the man. She was sure that Tregalles already knew that or he wouldn’t be here. “I was not in his room that night,” she declared again. “He wouldn’t let me in.”

  Tregalles looked unconvinced.

  “Look,” she said earnestly, “I’ve been with Bolen in the past; I admit that, but when Quint sent me up there Saturday night, Bolen wouldn’t let me in. Usually, when I knock—we have this sort of signal, you see, like I’d knock once ever so softly, then knock four times fast, like this”—Stella demonstrated on the bedside table—“he would open the door straightaway because he didn’t want anyone to see me outside his room. But not last Saturday. I knocked as usual, but he didn’t open the door. I thought perhaps he was in the loo or something like that, so I waited a couple of minutes, then knocked again.”

  Stella pulled on her cigarette. “There was no one about in the corridor, so I knocked harder, and I heard him come to the door. I said, ‘It’s Stella, Jim,’ but instead of letting me in, he told me to go away.”

  “He opened the door?”

  “No. The door was locked. I tried the handle several times. He told me to go away through the door. I couldn’t believe it. Usually, he’d have the door open and pull me inside quick as a wink. I thought he hadn’t heard me, so I told him again who I was, but then he got really angry. He said, ‘Piss off, Stella, I’m busy! And you can tell Quint not to send anyone else up, either!’

  Smoke trickled from Stella’s nostrils. “So I went straight down to see Quint and asked him what he thought he was playing at, sending me up there when Bolen didn’t want me. He didn’t like that, specially with that Brenda woman being there. I told him I didn’t give a shit what he liked, I didn’t like being messed about when I could have been making good money. He said he couldn’t understand it, that Bolen had asked for me specially. But he would say that, wouldn’t he? I think he just sent me up there on spec. He probably reckoned that Bolen would let me in and he’d get his cut as usual.” She snorted with disgust. “He gave me a lousy twenty quid, and he only gave me that to shut me up and get me out of there.”

  Tregalles eyed her thoughtfully. He had, of course, not spoken to Quint at all. Paget was keeping that bit of information about the man’s extra-curricular activities for later. Neither did Tregalles believe for a moment that Stella Green had been involved in Bolen’s murder. The timing was all wrong, for a start. Brenda Jones had said that Stella had come
down shortly after she came on shift at eleven, and it had been after twelve when Bolen called down from his room. But there was no need to tell Stella that.

  “Assuming—and I say assuming—for the sake of argument that what you’re telling me is true, has Bolen ever done this before?”

  “Never! Like I said, he couldn’t get the door open quick enough.”

  “So what was he doing with this other bird, then? The skinny kid, fair hair, pale, about sixteen years old?”

  “Bolen? You must be joking. He likes his pound of flesh, does Bolen. That’s what he used to say, ‘I’ll have my pound of flesh, Stel—a pound in each hand,’ and he’d laugh.” Stella looked down at the newspaper, and Tregalles was surprised to see that her eyes were moist.

  “So why do you think he sent you packing that night?”

  Stella looked off into the distance and frowned. “I don’t know,” she said. She seemed genuinely puzzled.

  “Unless somebody else was already in there with him,” Tregalles suggested. “Another girl.”

  “If he did have somebody in there, it wouldn’t be any sixteen-year-old!” she snapped. “He didn’t go in for kids.”

  “So who is this kid, then? She was seen by more than one person. You’ve been around long enough to know who’s working the patch.”

  Stella shrugged. Broadminster wasn’t all that big, and the man was right; she had been around a long time, and she knew every … Stella took a quick drag at her cigarette and stubbed it out.

  Tregalles was watching her closely. “What?” he demanded. “You’ve thought of somebody. Who is she?”

  Stella shook her head. “No, no …” she began, but the image in her mind grew stronger. But why would the kid be at the Tudor, of all places?

  “I need a name, Stella,” he said. “Give me a name. Because if you don’t, then yours will do just as well. You admit you went up to Bolen’s room; you claim you never went inside, but can you prove it? And it was a woman who killed him, Stella. Take my word. A name, Stella.”

  She knew he didn’t really believe that she’d had anything to do with Bolen’s death, but on the other hand, she knew that he could make life very difficult for her if he chose. And if they failed to find the real killer, they might just fit her up for the job. Stella sighed inwardly. To Jim Bolen, she had been a woman he’d paid to have sex with him, but they’d had a lot of laughs together, and she’d like to think that she had meant more to him than just another bed partner. She wanted to see his killer caught, and if that little tart had been involved in his death …

  “Talk to Simone,” she said. “She’s had a kid like that staying with her. Goes by the name of Vikki Lane. But for Christ’s sake don’t tell Simone it was me who told you!”

  He read the story beneath the headline once again. Not a word about the girl! They had to have her in custody, yet there was no mention of a suspect or even the usual euphemistic phrase of someone “helping them with their enquiries.” It wasn’t like the police to keep silent when they’d caught a killer red-handed at the scene of the crime, yet they’d said nothing. So why weren’t they letting on they had her? Why?

  The question refused to go away as he sat there, fingers drumming softly on the table.

  Unless … ? But no, it simply wasn’t possible! She couldn’t have been feigning unconsciousness. She’d been completely out of it when he left the room. He’d checked. And yet he felt a nagging twinge of doubt. Had there been a flicker of recognition in those pale-blue eyes when he’d pulled the eyelids back? Was it possible that she’d seen his face?

  Even if she had, he assured himself, she’d been so far gone that she would never remember it, at least, not well enough to point the finger at him.

  But what if she did? He felt the prickle of sweat across his brow. He couldn’t allow that. He’d spent too long planning this; he’d left nothing to chance. And yet things had gone wrong—little things, stupid things that never should have happened, and he’d had to improvise. He didn’t like that; and he didn’t like the fact that there had been no mention of the girl.

  CHAPTER 12

  The Bolen house was set well back from the road behind a stand of trees. It was quite large compared to others in the neighbourhood, but very plain, functional, almost utilitarian, and Paget wondered if it was a reflection of Jim Bolen himself. Two cars were parked near the front door, and Paget pulled in beside them. One was a white, top-of-the-range VW Passat, complete with sun-roof and all the bells and whistles, while the other was a red low-slung MG with a dogeared Paddington bear hanging from the rear-view mirror.

  He mounted the shallow steps and rang the bell.

  The door was opened immediately by a young woman wearing a faded blue shirt and form-fitting jeans. She was tall and slim, and had predatory eyes.

  “Saw you coming up the drive,” she said, her gaze frankly appraising. “You must be the policeman. John said he’d asked you to come.”

  He introduced himself. “And you are Miss Bolen?”

  “That’s right.” Prudence Bolen opened the door wider. “I’ll tell John you’re here,” she said, and left him standing in the entrance hall as she disappeared toward the back of the house.

  Moments later a young, bespectacled, bookish-looking man, but obviously a Bolen, appeared. He hurried forward, hand outstretched. “Chief Inspector Paget? John Bolen,” he said. His handshake was brisk and firm. “I must apologize for my sister; I did ask her to show you through, but I don’t think she listens to half the things I say. Please, come with me.”

  John Bolen led the way to a large, well-appointed office at the back of the house. Paget paused to look out of the French window at the manicured lawn almost completely surrounded by a box hedge and a variety of trees. A white-painted gazebo marked the far end of the garden, and sunlight shimmered on the surface of a small pond beside it.

  “Very nice,” Paget observed, more to himself than to Bolen, but the man picked up on the comment immediately.

  “We can talk in the garden if you wish,” he suggested. “To tell you the truth, I’ve been penned up in here most of day, and I could do with some fresh air.” Without waiting for an answer, he opened the doors and stepped out.

  The sun was bright, but there was a hint of autumn in the air, and the grass was still wet from the morning dew in the shadow of the trees. “Sorry to drag you all the way out here,” he apologized. “Ordinarily, I would have come to you, but my mother wanted me here. She asked me to go through my father’s papers to make sure that there was nothing outstanding. Harry—that is my Uncle Harry, whom I believe you met yesterday—intended to be here as well, but Aunt Dee is flying into Manchester this afternoon, and he’s gone to meet her.”

  “No problem,” Paget told him, falling into step beside Bolen. “You mentioned on the phone that there was a matter you wished to discuss?”

  “Yes. Well, to be truthful, it was my mother’s idea to ring you. She feels …” John Bolen spread his hands and sighed. Clearly Bolen was not entirely in agreement with his mother on the matter. “She feels that she wasn’t quite frank with you yesterday morning, and there are certain things you should know about my father if you are to find the person responsible for his death.”

  He hesitated before going on, making it clear that he was uncomfortable with what he’d been asked to do.

  “You see, for some time, now, he and my mother have been what you might call estranged. They’ve been living in the same house but more or less separate lives, if you see what I mean.”

  Paget frowned. “I’m not sure that I do,” he said.

  Bolen clasped his hands behind him and walked with his eyes fixed firmly on the ground. “Look, Chief Inspector,” he said stiffly, “I’d rather not be telling you this at all. I know my father had his faults, but … Well, the point is, my mother seems to think that it may help you with your investigation into his death. You see, Dad sometimes went with other women. I mean, well, you know …”

  Paget took pity
on him. “Prostitutes,” he said matter-of-factly. “If you are trying to tell me that your father was in the habit of staying at the Tudor Hotel most weekends for that purpose, Mr. Bolen, I should tell you that we have come to much the same conclusion.”

  “Ah!” The man looked both surprised and relieved, but only momentarily. A furrow of concern creased his brow. “Do you mean to tell me it was common knowledge?” he asked in hushed tones.

  Paget nodded. “Within certain circles, yes, I believe it was.”

  “I see.” John Bolen looked deflated. “Then perhaps I’ve just been wasting your time, Chief Inspector. I’m sorry.”

  “Not at all,” said Paget, “because there are a number of questions I would like to ask you, if you don’t mind.”

  “Please, go ahead. If there is any way I can help, feel free to ask anything you like.”

  “Thank you. To begin with, I would like to know more about this project at Ockrington. I’ve been led to believe that if your father had gone ahead with it as he planned to do, it could have had devastating consequences for Bolen Brothers. Is that true?”

  Bolen looked puzzled. “I’m not at all sure that I see the connection,” he said. “With my father’s death, I mean. From what my mother told me, I was under the impression it was more like a random act of violence.”

  “Oh, I’m not saying we’ve ruled that out,” Paget assured him, “but it seems there were a number of people opposed to the course he was taking, a lot of people who tried to talk him out of it, so it has to be considered as a possible motive for his murder.”

  Bolen flinched at the word murder, and it was clear that the idea of being included among the suspects did not sit well with him. He fell silent, and Paget had to ask the question again.

  “Yes, well, to be honest, we’d have been lucky to last a year with that millstone around our neck,” said John. “My father has mortgaged this house, the building in Broadminster, and other properties as well. The combined payments on those mortgages alone will impact heavily on our ability to carry on our day-to-day business. So the sooner we can get out from under those debts, the better.”