Thread of Evidence

by Frank Smith

  Tregalles and Paget exchanged glances. No blood-stained clothing had been found in the room, which meant that if Bolen was dressed when he was stabbed, the killer must have removed the evidence.

  Paget nodded slowly. “Better check the clothing inventory with Charlie,” he told Tregalles. “And find out from Harry Bolen what his brother was wearing at dinner. Also, have someone ask John Bolen what his father was wearing when he went to see him in his room around nine o’clock Saturday evening.”

  Tregalles frowned. “What was he doing there?”

  “The same thing as everyone else, apparently. Trying to persuade his father not to go through with the Ockrington project. And he told me something else. He said his father was in a belligerent mood and couldn’t wait to get him out of the room because he wanted to telephone someone. He kept saying that he—whoever he is—had given him the wrong figures.”

  “And Bolen did make a call at nine thirty-two to Underwood,” Tregalles observed.

  Paget nodded. “I think Underwood has been supplying Bolen with the Lambert bids, and either by accident or design, gave Bolen the wrong figures. If Bolen insisted on Underwood bringing him the right set of figures that night, we could have ourselves another suspect. Anything else of significance in the autopsy report?”

  “Yes, there is,” said Ormside. “The scratches on the victim’s face were made after the man was dead, not during a fight or struggle. And there was no indication of recent sexual activity.” The sergeant set the report aside. “There’s more, but those were the main points.”

  “Anything in there about cuts by glass in Bolen’s feet?”

  “Not.”

  “I thought not.” Paget crossed the room to stand before a row of photographs from the crime scene taped to a board, and the others followed. “Take a look at the glass around the body,” he said. “If that glass was on the floor before Bolen died, he couldn’t help but tread on it, yet his feet are unmarked.” He picked up another photograph taken from a similar angle after the body had been removed. “You see that? No glass under the body, either. That lamp was smashed deliberately after Bolen was killed.”

  Tregalles nodded. “So the whole scene was a set-up,” he said thoughtfully. “Trouble is, who did what? You say that Brenda Jones told you it was a man who rang down for help that night, but we have all this evidence of a girl being in the room, possibly the same one Stella Green told me about.”

  “Which brings me to my contribution,” said Ormside. “We’ve identified the person whose prints were found all over the crime scene, as well as on the weapon.” He returned to his desk and picked up a printed sheet.

  “Julia Rutledge. Age seventeen. Twenty-one Crabbe Lane, Tupton, Northamptonshire,” he read out. “Convicted on nine separate charges of theft. Failed to return home after leaving the detention centre two months ago. No outstanding warrant. We have pictures.” He passed them across the desk.

  Paget and Tregalles studied them. The first one, presumably provided by the girl’s parents, showed a slight, fair-haired girl dressed in shorts and T-shirt, posing self-consciously against a garden wall. She was very thin and gangly, and looked to be about fourteen. The second photograph was a close-up head-and-shoulders shot against an off-white background. A police photograph. Her face had filled out a little, but her eyes looked enormous as they stared blankly into the camera. The third and fourth shots showed her face in profile. She looked very young and vulnerable, and yet there was a hint of defiance in the tilt of her chin.

  Paget flipped through the information sheets. There was not even a suggestion of violence in any of the charges, but apparently the magistrate had thought them serious enough to send her to a youth detention centre for three months. Paget checked the dates. Nothing prior to a year ago.

  “What’s this note?” asked Paget. “Review pending. Reference Section 79, Sub-section R49223-854, Case Number 7046-32.” He handed the sheet back to Ormside. “What’s that all about?”

  The sergeant frowned. “To tell you the truth, I didn’t pay much attention to it,” he confessed. “Would you like it followed up?”

  “It may not be important, but we might as well have as much information as possible on the girl. She has no record locally, I suppose?”

  “Not under that name, no.”

  Paget continued to study the picture. It was hard to imagine a kid like that mixed up in a brutal murder, but you could never tell by appearances. He turned to Tregalles. “You say you may have a lead on this girl?”

  “That’s right. Assuming it’s the same girl, and I think there’s a good chance it is. Stella Green told me about a girl who calls herself Vikki Lane. She described her as a skinny kid who’s been staying with another prostitute by the name of Simone Giraud.

  “I went round to the address she gave me, but neither of them were there. I spoke to another girl there, and she told me that Simone had gone to Shrewsbury on the bus this morning to do some shopping, but Vikki wasn’t with her. In fact, no one I spoke to admits to seeing Vikki since Saturday evening. Could be a coincidence that she disappeared about the same time that Bolen was killed, but I doubt it. I think we’re talking about the same kid.”

  “So when will this Simone be back?” asked Paget.

  “Don’t know for sure, but I have a policewoman waiting to pick her up as soon as she steps off the bus in Market Square.”

  Paget nodded his approval. “Run the name ‘Vikki Lane’ through the computer first thing tomorrow morning,” he told Ormside, “and see if there’s a record of any charges under that name.” He looked at the clock and rose to his feet. “I’ll be in my office,” he continued, “but let me know when this woman is brought in. I’d like to hear what she has to say, myself.”

  CHAPTER 14

  Keith Lambert looked pleased as he emerged from the conference room. The meeting with the dark-suited men had gone rather well, he thought. There had been some concern at the beginning when John Bolen arrived bearing a letter, signed by Harry and Laura, withdrawing the Bolen Brothers bid, but after a hurried consultation among themselves, it was decided to carry on and listen to what Lambert had to say.

  But as soon as it became apparent Lambert was not buying the “complete package” concept, the chairman, a plump, red-faced man by the name of Bollinger, objected immediately.

  “Completely unacceptable,” he declared. “It was made quite clear from the beginning that the land is not divisible. It is either all or nothing, and if this is your position, then we have wasted our time in coming here.” He began to straighten papers in front of him as if preparing to leave.

  Heads nodded around the table. There were fourteen of them in all. Cardboard name-plates identified each by name and the areas of expertise: “Min. of Def.”; “Min. of Ag.”; “Min. of Env.”; “Housing and Planning”; “Lands and Surveys”; “Regional Planning”; “Rural Dev.”; tapering off at the lower end of the table to such cryptic captions as “Eng. S.L. Div.” and “Eng. P.V.D.,” whatever they were.

  But one head remained still. Seated directly opposite Lambert was a thin-faced, mild-looking man whose name-plate read simply: “A. V. Vernon,” and his role there had remained unexplained when Bollinger made cursory introductions. Vernon sat back in his chair, fingers steepled beneath his chin, eyes half closed, and it seemed to Lambert as if the man had deliberately detached himself from the rest of his colleagues.

  But now he stirred himself and spoke. “On the other hand, Mr. Chairman, since we are here,” he said mildly, “might I suggest that we hear Mr. Lambert out?”

  Bollinger fussed with his papers. “Do you really … ?” he began, then stopped as heads began once more to nod, and he realized that all eyes had turned to Vernon. “Well, I suppose we could,” he conceded, “that is, if everyone is in agreement?” He looked around hopefully for a sign of disagreement, and found none.

  “Thank you, Mr. Chairman,” said Lambert formally. “I do appreciate the opportunity, and perhaps I should begin by say
ing that I understand the enormous pressures that have been brought to bear on your respective ministries when it was decided to close the training centre. Pressure from the businessmen and -women who depend on the Centre for their livelihood, pressure from environmentalists, who wish to see the land returned to its original state, and pressure from the farmers in the area, as well as others. So, I have tried to take that into consideration in my proposal.”

  Bollinger bristled. “If you are suggesting that we are under pressure to be rid of this land at any price, Mr. Lambert, you are very much mistaken. What we are talking about here is prime building land.”

  “One-third of it is potentially prime building land, I grant you,” Lambert agreed, “but I feel bound to point out that it will be years before a buyer sees a significant return on such an investment. This land has been on offer now for almost six months, and yet you have had only two serious bids, both of which were from local builders. And the reason for that is its location. When it first came on the market, a number of firms were interested, but when they began to add up the costs of transportation of goods and materials to the site, the need to work closely with local authorities, and the added burden of maintaining and developing the other two-thirds over a long period of time, they decided it wasn’t worth it. Which is why, until this morning, you’ve had only two bids. Now all you have is one.”

  Bollinger shrugged. “I repeat: If you think for one moment, Mr. Lambert, that we intend to give the land away, you are very much mistaken. My instruction from the—”

  “I’m sure that Mr. Lambert is well aware that he cannot expect to take over the land by default, Mr. Chairman,” Vernon broke in quietly. He leaned forward, eyes fixed intently on Lambert’s face. “Please continue. What exactly is your proposal?”

  Beside him, Douglas Underwood stirred and began to riffle through the papers in front of him. But Lambert touched his arm and shook his head. Instead, he lifted his own brief -case from beside his chair and set it on the table in front of him. “I have here copies of a proposal which I feel could be beneficial to us all,” he said as he took a stack of slim folders from his briefcase. “If you would be so good as to pass them around.” He distributed them to his right and left, and across the table, then waited until he was satisfied that everyone had a copy.

  Bewildered, Underwood scanned his copy and began to feel uneasy.

  “In essence,” Lambert continued, “what I am proposing is this: that we deal with the prime land, outlined in red on the fold-out map, as a separate issue. Determine a fair price, bearing in mind the length of time it will take to see a return on investment, then look at the development of the remaining land as a joint venture spread over a period of fifteen years. One immediate advantage is that you will have the hard-line environmentalists off your back, because I propose to begin immediately a reforestation project, including the ongoing management required until the trees are well established in the area marked on your map in green. I’ve had soil samples taken, and I’m assured that not only can it be done, but it would greatly improve and protect the other areas on your maps. I am prepared to underwrite this project completely, provided the land is turned over to me at the end of that time at a nominal fee of one pound.”

  There was a glint of amusement in Vernon’s eyes as he sat back in his seat. “And what do you propose to do with the rest of the land and the administrative buildings, Mr. Lambert?” he asked quietly. “Do you expect to pay only one pound for those, also?”

  Lambert smiled. “Not quite,” he said. “What I am proposing is that I lease the land and buildings for the next fifteen years, and be allowed tax concessions for the first five years, during which time I would upgrade the existing buildings and the facilities around them. At the end of the fifteen years, I would receive full title, again for a nominal sum.”

  “And what would you do with the buildings during that time?” asked Vernon. ‘If—and I say that reservedly—if we were to consider your proposal, we would insist on retaining the right of approval of any development you might wish to undertake.”

  “Of course. But I don’t anticipate opposition to what I have in mind,” Lambert told him soberly. “I propose to bring together a number of small, independent software companies, who are currently scattered around this and adjoining counties. Many of them deal with each other on a regular basis, and while they can conduct business from almost anywhere on the globe, they agree it would be beneficial to be closer together in a quiet environment where the overhead costs are low. I believe I can provide that environment.”

  Vernon raised an eyebrow. “Do you see this as another Silicon Valley, Mr. Lambert?” he asked laconically.

  Lambert laughed. “Hardly,” he said, “but on the other hand, we are talking about an industry that has grown exponentially, so who knows?”

  “Interesting,” said Vernon. He turned toward the chairman. “Perhaps this would be a good time to have the tea brought in,” he suggested, “after which we can examine some of the details of Mr. Lambert’s proposal.”

  “I think it went off rather well, don’t you, Douglas?” Lambert observed. “I suspect there will be a great deal of discussion between the delegation here and their masters in Whitehall this evening, but it’s a promising sign that we are to meet again tomorrow. In fact, I don’t think they have much option. I have no idea who this man Vernon is, but it’s clear to me that he is the power in the room, and if we can convince him, the rest of it will be a piece of cake. They want to be rid of that land, and I think we can take advantage of that.”

  Douglas Underwood had remained silent throughout the meeting, but now he could contain himself no longer. “You might have at least told me,” he burst out. “I spent three months sweating my guts out preparing those figures, and it was all for nothing! I felt like an idiot in there. Where did you get all that stuff, anyway? I’d never seen it before.”

  Lambert laid a soothing hand on Underwood’s arm. “Let’s just say it was contingency plan,” he said. “Had we been in a serious bidding war with Bolen, we might have used your figures, but when the Bolens decided to withdraw, I thought it worthwhile to try this on for size. But in all honesty, Douglas, if Bolen had not been killed, and had somehow convinced his brother to go along with him, I would have withdrawn our bid and let him take it. We don’t need Ockrington at the price they are asking, but if we can get it on our terms, then we should do very well indeed a few years down the road.”

  CHAPTER 15

  Simone was bone-weary. It had been hot in Shrewsbury, and she’d spent the best part of the day going from shop to shop looking, without success, for a comfortable pair of shoes. Tired and discouraged, she had made her way to the bus, only to be told that the three-o’clock bus no longer ran on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. She would have to wait for the four-fifteen.

  And now, instead of going straight home and putting her feet up for an hour before going out on the street again, she was sitting on a hard chair in an interview room, facing a detective sergeant and a detective chief inspector, and wondering what the hell it was all about.

  “Thank you for coming in, Miss Giraud,” said Paget once the preliminary information had been entered on the tapes. “We’ll try not to take up too much of your time.”

  Simone leaned back in her chair. “I didn’t know I had a choice,” she said. “Does that mean I can leave?”

  Paget nodded. “You are free to go if you choose,” he told her. “We cannot make you stay, but I believe you may be in a position to help us with our enquiries, and I’d very much appreciate your cooperation.”

  Simone eyed the chief inspector suspiciously. Was this some kind of “good cop, bad cop” routine, or what? she wondered. But the man intrigued her, and it had been a long time since anyone had bothered to call her “Miss Giraud.” She nodded cautiously. At least she’d stay until she found out what it was all about.

  “Thank you,” said Paget as he placed the photographs of Julia Rutledge on the table
in front of Simone. “I believe you know this girl. I’m told she has been staying with you. Can you tell us where she is now?”

  Simone glanced at the picture. Julia Rutledge? So that was Vikki’s real name. Not that she was surprised. Most of the girls had used other names at one time or another, but what did surprise her was that Vikki had been inside. That was evident by the pictures. But it did explain why the kid had been so scared when she’d been picked up the other week. She’d been afraid they’d find out who she was. But she’d been lucky; they’d just held her overnight and hadn’t bothered to take her prints or run a check on her.

  She shrugged and shook her head. “Doesn’t look like anyone I know,” she said.

  “I think you should take a closer look,” Paget suggested. “Bearing in mind that the penalties for obstruction, harbouring a person suspected of having committed a criminal act, and being an accessory to a crime are considerably harsher than those for soliciting.”

  She didn’t like the sound of that, and she didn’t think the man was bluffing. What the hell had the kid got herself into? Criminal act? Accessory to a crime? What crime? It went against the grain to help the police with anything, but on the other hand it wasn’t as if she owed the kid anything, especially since Vikki had taken off with some of her stuff.

  Simone tapped one of the prints with a blood-red fingernail. “So what’s she done?” she asked.

  “We think she may be able to help us with our investigation into the murder of James Bolen, last Saturday night,” said Paget, “and we are anxious to talk to her.”

  Simone sucked in her breath. The Bolen killing! It had been all over the papers that morning. A chill ran through her. Surely to God the kid hadn’t been involved in that! Suddenly, the image of a red Jaguar and a driver wearing sunglasses stirred in her mind, and she remembered watching Vikki as she leaned inside the car, all spindly arms and legs, and wondering why the man would prefer Vikki when he could have had her. And then the man had driven off, and Vikki had told her he’d changed his mind.