Thread of Evidence

by Frank Smith

  And that was the last she had seen of Vikki Lane.

  The thoughts flashed through her mind in an instant, but Paget had been watching her closely. “So you do recognize her,” he prompted. It wasn’t a question.

  “I don’t know anything about a Julia Rutledge,” she said slowly, “but this does look a bit like a kid I’ve seen around. Goes by the name of Vikki. Vikki Lane.”

  “I’m told she was staying with you,” said Tregalles.

  Simone shrugged. “I gave her a place to sleep for a couple of nights, that’s all,” she admitted. “But she left sometime last week.”

  “When last week?”

  “Thursday, Friday, I’m not sure.”

  Tregalles shook his head. “She was with you for the best part of a month,” he said, “and we have witnesses who saw you with her as late as Saturday night.”

  “So it was Saturday. What difference does it make?”

  “Where is she now?” It was Paget who asked the question.

  Simone tilted her head and met the chief inspector’s steady gaze. “I don’t know,” she told him. “And that’s the truth. I haven’t seen or heard from her since she left.”

  “But she was living with you; she must have told you something about herself,” he insisted. “What brought her to Broadminster? Had you known her before? Is that why she came?”

  Simone shook her head. “No. The first time I saw her was three or four weeks ago, when some bastard threw her out of a van right in front of me. She told me he’d picked her up on the road and said he was going as far as Hereford, but when he got into Broadminster, he turned off, stopped the van, then dragged her into the back and raped her. Took her knapsack and everything she had in it—not that she had much to start with, but he took it just the same, then pitched her out onto the street and drove off.”

  “Did she report it? Go to hospital?” asked Tregalles.

  “I offered to take her to hospital, but she wouldn’t have it. As for reporting it”—Simone shrugged contemptuously—“who would have believed her? Or me, for that matter? Not your lot, for a start. Besides, it was dark, it was raining, and I never thought to look at the number plate until it was too late.”

  “You said the driver told her he was going as far as Hereford,” said Paget. “Was that her destination, or did she intend to go on from there?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t ask, and Vikki never said.”

  “Did she ever talk to you of relatives or friends or anywhere she might go? She must have said something during the course of her stay. Please try to think, Miss Giraud. It’s extremely important that we talk to this girl.”

  “So you can fit her up for murder?” said Simone contemptuously. She stood up and placed her hands on the table, her dark eyes flashing as she looked down at the two men. “Look, I told you, the kid had just been raped, thrown out of a van, and she was down to skin and bones. I don’t think she’d had a decent meal in God knows how long. So I took her in and tried to help her. All right? I don’t know where she came from; I don’t know where she was going; and I don’t know where she is now. And I don’t believe she had anything to do with any murder!”

  Simone snatched up her handbag, slung the strap over her shoulder. “I’m tired and I’m hungry,” she said, “and I’ve had a sodding lousy day, so unless you intend to arrest me, I’m going home.”

  Tregalles moved to intercept her, but Paget remained seated. “If you wish to leave, then you are free to do so,” he told her, “but we do have hard evidence that places Julia Rutledge, or Vikki Lane, if you prefer, at the murder scene, and the sooner we can talk to her, the better.”

  Simone started to speak, but Paget raised his hand. “That doesn’t mean that we believe Julia Rutledge committed the murder,” he said. “In fact, I don’t believe she did, but we do know that she was there in the room at or about the time it occurred. Which is why I would like you to stay and try to think of anything that will help us find her.”

  Simone hesitated. There had been something appealing about Vikki, something forlorn and waiflike, and she didn’t want to drop the kid in it. But on the other hand, she knew nothing about her. And for some reason she could not explain, she believed this man when he said he didn’t think that Vikki was guilty of murder. Besides, on a more practical level, they could make life bloody miserable for her on the street if she didn’t at least appear to be cooperating, and she didn’t need the hassle.

  Simone sighed and sat down again. Might as well get it over with now as later, she decided.

  They were both dead-tired. Dee Bolen’s plane was two hours late arriving in Manchester and traffic was heavy on the roads, so it was after eight o’clock in the evening by the time she and Harry arrived home. Harry carried the suitcases into the house and set them in the hall.

  “I’ll take the small case up, but everything else can wait,” said Dee as she moved toward the stairs. “I know it’s early, but I think I’ll go straight to bed.”

  “I’ll see if there are any messages,” said Harry, “and then I’ll join you. I could use an early night myself. It’s good to have you back, Dee.”

  His wife mounted the stairs and entered the bedroom. She set the case down beside the dressing-table and sat down on the bed. She felt as if she hadn’t slept for weeks. She tried hard to talk herself out of having a shower, but she felt so grubby after sitting all that time on the plane, and then again in the car, that she couldn’t go to bed feeling as she did.

  Harry came in as she started to undress. “There was a message from Laura on the machine,” he told her, “so I rang her back. She sounds upset. She wants me to go over. Says it’s important.”

  “What, now?”

  Harry gestured helplessly. “What could I say? She sounds really upset.”

  “Have the police … ?”

  “No. There’s been no word from the police. It’s just … To tell you the truth, I don’t know what it is except it’s something to do with the business. I’d better go.”

  Dee began to dress again. “I’ll come with you,” she said. “I was going to go over first thing tomorrow, but I might as well go with you now.”

  “No.” Harry put a hand on her shoulder and shook his head. “I don’t know what it’s all about,” he said, “but she was quite insistent that I come alone. Besides, you’re tired. You should get some sleep.”

  Dee stared at him. “And you’re not? Look at you; you can hardly keep your eyes open. Did you tell her we’ve only just got in?”

  He nodded. “She knows that. She said she’s been trying to ring me all evening. I think it might be best if I go alone. I’ll be back as soon as I can. It sounds as if she’s been stewing about something all day and needs to talk about it.”

  “What about John? Can’t he go over?”

  Harry shrugged. “She says it’s me she wants to talk to,” he said wearily. He kissed Dee quickly on the cheek and turned on his heel. “I’ll make sure the door is locked,” he called as he started down the stairs.

  Dee heard the front door slam and began once more to get undressed. She couldn’t understand why Laura was so insistent on seeing Harry now. Couldn’t it wait till morning? She took off her earrings, opened the little trinket box, and was about to drop them in when something caught her eye. Dee moved the box aside and looked blankly at the tear-drop earrings made of onyx. Earrings she knew belonged to Laura.

  TUESDAY, 26 SEPTEMBER

  Simone wasn’t asleep when the phone rang, but she was loath to answer it. She didn’t feel like talking to anyone, especially at two-thirty in the morning. She buried her head in the pillow, but the phone kept on ringing.

  “What?” she snapped as she picked it up. “Don’t you know what time it … Vikki?” Simone struggled to sit up in bed. “Where the bloody hell are you?” she demanded angrily. “The police have had me in half the evening, asking questions about you. What the hell have you been up to? They say you were involved in this murder last Saturday. And what
have you done with my dress and evening bag?”

  Standing there in the box beside the road, Vikki shivered at the mention of the police. Simone sounded so angry. “What did they say?” she asked timidly. “The police, I mean.”

  “They’ve got your picture. They know you’ve been inside, and your real name is Julia Rutledge, and they say they know you were in the room where this guy, Bolen, was killed. They didn’t come right out and say so, but they think you did it. Did you?”

  Vikki’s legs turned to water. “I—I don’t know,” she said weakly. “Really, Simone, I don’t know. I might have done; it’s hard to explain.” She rushed on before Simone could speak again. “I’m sorry I took your dress and bag, but that’s why I phoned. I hid fifty quid under the wardrobe, and I want you to have it. I know it’s not enough, but it’s all I’ve got. I’m sorry, Simone. Really I am.”

  Simone brushed the apology aside, but at the same time her resolve began to weaken. The police had told her to inform them immediately if Vikki contacted her, and by the time they let her go she’d made up her mind to do exactly that. But now, hearing the kid on the phone, she wasn’t quite so sure.

  “What do you mean when you say you don’t know?” she demanded harshly. “Either you killed him or you didn’t.”

  Vikki gripped the phone and relived once more the scene that had rarely left her mind since she’d fled the Tudor. She’d expected Simone to be angry with her, but she hadn’t expected to hear such cold, accusing tones.

  “I don’t know!” she said tearfully, “and that’s God’s truth, Simone.” Quickly, before Simone could speak, Vikki poured out her story. “Please believe me, Simone,” she pleaded, “that’s exactly the way it happened, and I don’t know what to do. Joanna’s been awfully good, but if I stay here much longer, she’s bound to find out, and …”

  There was a sharp series of sounds and the phone went dead. “Vikki?” Simone held on, listening hard, but the line remained dead. “Shit!” She put the phone down. Call-box. Time had run out. She sat there on the side of the bed, waiting for it to ring again.

  Inside the kiosk, Vikki crammed the remaining coins into the slot, coins she’d stolen from Bunny’s rucksack while she and Joanna were at the pub. But nothing happened. She pounded the box with her fist; there was a click, and the mechanical sound of dialling tone grated in her ear. Vikki put the phone down, rested her head against the side of the box as tears streamed down her face.

  When the phone failed to ring again, Simone’s first thought was to tell the police, tell them what Vikki had told her, because if what the kid had said was true, there was a killer loose out there. On the other hand, they weren’t going to be too impressed with some bizarre tale about her being knocked out and not remembering what happened. Come to that, Simone wasn’t sure she believed it herself.

  She got back into bed. Best to stay out of it, she told herself. She’d done her best for the kid and there was nothing more she could do. She began to make herself comfortable when a thought occurred to her. She climbed out of bed again.

  Simone got down on her hands and knees and slid her hand beneath the wardrobe. Her fingers touched something, and she slowly drew it out. An envelope, folded once, and inside was fifty pounds.

  CHAPTER 16

  Dee was very quiet when Harry came down for breakfast. She’d been asleep when he returned last night, and after what he’d been through with Laura, he didn’t want to wake her and have her asking all sorts of questions.

  “Have a good sleep, then?” he asked as he sat down. Dee didn’t reply. She seemed preoccupied, and she didn’t look at him as she set the toast on the table. Probably still a bit jet-lagged, he thought as he opened the paper and scanned the front page.

  “Oh, no!” he groaned aloud. “It says here the police are looking for a girl they believe can help with their enquiries. God! I hope she wasn’t one of Jim’s; she’s just a kid! Have you seen this picture?”

  Dee didn’t answer. Instead she sat down facing him and raised her teacup. “What did Laura want last night?” she asked.

  Harry shrugged. “Oh, she was concerned about a lot of things: how the business would carry on, who would look after all the things that Jim used to take care of. You know the sort of thing.”

  “And it took till after midnight to discuss that?” Dee’s voice was flat and cold.

  So, Dee had simply been pretending to be asleep when he came in. But why the chill this morning?

  Harry set the paper aside. “I suppose it’s a sort of delayed reaction,” he said. “John was over earlier to help sort out the things that have to be done with regard to insurance claims, inland revenue and the like, but she wanted to talk to me about the future of the business.”

  Dee set her cup down and took something from the pocket of her apron. “What were these doing on the dressing-table?” she asked as she dropped Laura’s earrings on the table.

  “Oh, them. I found them when I was clearing up in the spare room,” he told her. “Laura left them behind, so I put them on the dressing-table so I’d remember to take them round sometime. They were by your trinket box. Why? You didn’t think that Laura had been in our—?”

  Harry broke off and stared at Dee. “You did, didn’t you?” he accused. “Oh, come on, Dee, you know better than that. Laura stayed here Friday and Saturday. You knew she was staying here. She was in the spare bedroom and I was in ours.”

  Dee’s eyes filled with tears. “It’s just that I found those earrings in our bedroom, and you told me on the way home that you hadn’t told the inspector that Laura was in the house in case he got the wrong impression, and how she came down in her dressing-gown. And then last night, when she wanted you to go over, I couldn’t help wondering …”

  Harry came round the table and put his arms around her. “It’s all right, Dee,” he said soothingly. “You were tired after that long flight, and your imagination was working overtime. But you know there is nothing going on between Laura and me. I love you, Dee, and I always will. I like Laura the same way you do, but that’s all. She was alone in the house last night, and she needed someone to talk to, and that’s all there was to it, believe me.”

  Dee buried her face in Harry’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, Harry,” she whispered. “I don’t know what got into me. Hold me, please.”

  Later, as Harry drove to the office, he wondered if he had made a grave mistake last night in promising to keep silent. Hopefully, it wouldn’t be for long, but he would have to watch everything he said to Dee or he would really have a problem.

  “Funny you should ask about Mr. Bolen’s clothing,” said Grace Lovett, “because I’ve been doing some checking on that myself.”

  She leaned back in her chair and crossed her long, slim legs. Belatedly, Tregalles realized that he’d been following the movement with more than passing interest, and forced himself to look away. There was a hint of amusement in Grace’s eyes as she continued.

  “I felt from the beginning that there was something odd about the clothes,” she said, “so I did some checking with Sergeant Ormside. According to several people in the dining-room that night, Bolen was wearing a sports coat, white shirt, dark tie, and charcoal-grey slacks, yet we found no slacks of that colour in his room. The clothing we found on the chair and on the floor, which one would assume he had taken off, consisted of”—Grace consulted a list—“a white shirt, light-grey slacks, black belt still in the loops, blue underpants, grey socks and black shoes.”

  She set the list aside. “The sports jacket and a brown suit were hanging in the clothes closet, and there was a brown belt in his suitcase. But when I was bagging the slacks from the chair, it seemed to me that the belt looked short, so I checked it against the belt in his suitcase, and guess what I found?”

  Tregalles shook his head.

  “The black belt was shorter than the other belt by a good two inches, and the marks made by the buckle were in a different place. In other words, that belt did not belong to Bolen becau
se he couldn’t have done it up—at least not without a struggle. It belonged to a slimmer man.

  “And then there were the number of shirts we found. Bolen was supposed to be there in the hotel for four days, yet we found only three shirts.” Grace shrugged. “Mind you, many men wear their shirts for more than one day, but I spoke to Ms. Bolen on the phone, and she told me that her husband invariably wore a clean shirt every day, sometimes more than one. So I took a good look at the collar of the shirt we found on the chair beside the bed. It was perfectly clean; not a hair, not a dark spot on it, and when I took a closer look, I found it had simply been crumpled to make it look as if it had been worn, and there were no marks around the waist where a shirt creases naturally beneath the pressure of a belt.”

  Grace rocked gently back and forth in her chair. “Conclusion,” she said, bringing her steepled hands together beneath her chin, “somebody wants us to believe that Bolen was naked when he was killed, when in fact he was at least partly dressed. The autopsy report confirms that. The threads they found inside the wounds will be compared with threads taken from Bolen’s other shirts to see if they match, or at least are similar, and I have no doubt they will be. All his shirts have the same label.”

  “Which means,” said Tregalles, “that the killer took away Bolen’s clothes because they were blood-stained, including the belt. He screwed up a clean shirt to make it look as if it had been worn and put another pair of Bolen’s own trousers on the chair. But he needed to find another belt from somewhere.” His eyes met those of Grace Lovett, who was nodding agreement.

  “So he used his own,” she finished for him.

  Tregalles was silent for a moment. “Which strengthens our theory that there was a man other than Bolen inside the room when Stella Green showed up at eleven, and that means Bolen could have died a lot earlier than midnight.”