Thread of Evidence

by Frank Smith

  “But she stayed on the street? She was still working?”

  The girl hesitated, and Paget shook his head impatiently. “I’m not interested in what she was doing there,” he assured her. “Just in what might have happened.”

  “She said she’d give it another hour, then pack it in for the night if there was nothing doing.”

  “What time did you get home?”

  “About two.”

  “And you noticed nothing untoward? Simone’s door was closed?”

  “I suppose so. Can’t say I noticed.”

  “Your room is next to hers. Did you hear anything during the night?”

  Janice shook her head. “When I put my head down for the night, that’s it,” she said. “They could’ve hammered on the wall and I doubt if I’d’ve heard them. Sorry.” She looked at Paget with worried eyes. “It’s this business with Vikki, isn’t it?” she said. “I saw the kid’s picture in the paper, and Simone said you’d had her in. She’ll be all right, won’t she? Simone, I mean.”

  Paget could only shrug and shake his head. He thought of what Simone had told them about a man who had called Vikki over to his car, a man who wore dark glasses and drove Jim Bolen’s car. It had to have been Bolen’s car, taken from the car-park while he was having dinner, because there wasn’t another one like it in Broadminster. It was all part of a carefully constructed plan to make it appear that it was Bolen himself who had propositioned Vikki and, once at the hotel, abused her to the point where she had turned on him and killed him.

  But the plan had gone awry when the girl managed to get away. Now the killer was searching for her, which meant he must believe either that Julia Rutledge could identify him, or she had something in her possession that would point to him.

  And the logical place to start was with the woman who had been with Julia Rutledge when he’d made his approach that night. Simone. It wouldn’t be hard. Simone had never seen enough of his face to recognize the man, so all he would have to do was cruise the streets and pick her up. But once she’d seen his face, her chances of survival would be very slim indeed.

  The fact that he had found it necessary to search her flat suggested that Simone had been unable—or unwilling, perhaps—to tell him what he wanted to know, so he’d taken her key and searched the place in the hope of finding something that would lead him to Rutledge.

  The question was: Had he found what he was looking for? And was he even now on his way to complete the job he’d started?

  “We’ve had one hit on the computer under the name of Vikki Lane,” Ormside greeted Paget when he returned to Charter Lane. “She was held overnight for soliciting here in Broadminster. No prints were taken, so there was no connection made between Vikki Lane and Julia Rutledge.”

  “Anything that would give us a clue to her present whereabouts?”

  “I’m afraid not, sir. She gave Simone’s address, and it was Simone who paid the fine.”

  Another dead end, thought Paget bitterly. He’d left SOCO dusting for prints in Simone’s flat, but he was sure it would prove to be a waste of time. “Is that it, then, Len?” he asked irritably. “Is that the best we can do?”

  “About the only good news,” said Ormside, undaunted by Paget’s sour mood, “is that Reg Starkie has been moved from intensive care to a regular ward. His doctor says he’s still pretty groggy, but you’re welcome to try to talk to him if you really feel it’s urgent.”

  Paget thought about it for a moment, then shook his head. “It can wait,” he told the sergeant. “Give him a couple more days to mend.”

  Eleven o’clock. Dee pressed a button on the remote control, and the television screen faded to black. She slid down in the bed and lay there, arms behind her head, staring up at the ceiling. Should she try ringing the office again? She turned her head and looked at the telephone beside the bed as if seeking an answer from the instrument itself. And what if there was no answer? Again. She thought of ringing Laura, but what good would that do? She could ask to speak to Harry, but Laura would probably deny that he was there.

  But he had to be there. He hadn’t answered any of the calls she’d made to the office last night or tonight, and yet that was where he’d said he would be. Dee had hardly seen him since she’d come home to find Laura’s earrings in their bedroom.

  Since then he’d been out all day at work, and gone again all evening. Midnight last night, and here it was after eleven again tonight. So much to do since Jim died, he’d said by way of explanation.

  She wanted to believe him. Dee felt the sting of tears behind her eyes. The thought of Harry straying had never entered her mind before last Monday. She’d always been very proud of their marriage; she’d never so much as looked at another man, and she had never doubted Harry for a moment.

  Until now.

  Was Harry losing interest? Laura was an attractive woman, and Harry had always said he admired her, but was it something more than admiration now?

  Dee slipped out of bed and stood in front of the mirror. She remained there for a long time, turning this way and that, examining her face and every inch of her body with a critical eye. She didn’t think she looked so bad, considering she would be fifty in a couple of years. She certainly hadn’t let herself go like some women she knew. She swam, she played tennis, and she’d been doing tai chi for years.

  On the other hand, Laura was three years younger, and she could still turn men’s heads.

  Dee climbed back into bed. Twenty-five past eleven. She turned out the light and lay there, her body taut as she stared into the darkness.

  But the darkness could not blot out the pictures in her mind.

  Mark Malone waved goodbye as he watched the twin tail lamps disappear into the darkness. Pru hadn’t wanted to go, but he’d insisted. “You shouldn’t be here at all,” he’d told her gently. “You should be at home, helping your mother. She needs her family around her at a time like this. There must be a great deal to do, and your being there would mean a lot to her.”

  But Pru had clung to him. “John’s there,” she told him. “He enjoys that sort of stuff—ploughing through papers and making out lists, sorting out this and that. She doesn’t need me.”

  “But I need her on my side,” he told her. “I need to prove to her that I really want you for yourself, not, as your father said, simply for your money.”

  Pru pulled away. “We don’t need her permission to get married,” she said, sulking. “Sometimes I wonder if you really want to marry me at all.”

  Malone put his arms around her and pulled her to him. “How can you say that, Pru? I want us to be married just as much as you do, but I don’t want to be the cause of friction between you and your mother. I could never forgive myself if that happened.”

  He kissed her. “Be patient, my love. It will all work out, you’ll see, and we will be together forever.”

  “Oh, Mark! I do love you so much,” she whispered fiercely. “I do try to be patient, but it’s so hard!”

  The lights of the car disappeared. Malone shut the door and locked it. He yawned and wondered whether to clean up before going to bed or not. He’d wanted to wash up after they’d eaten, but Pru wouldn’t let him; all she’d wanted to do was get into bed. He liked sex as much as anyone, but Pru was insatiable.

  He yawned again. Better do the washing up now, he decided. He hated facing dirty pots and pans first thing in the morning.

  “I’m not surprised you’re tired after spending the evening with that little vixen,” someone said. “I thought she’d never leave. I’ve been out there in the car in the back lane for close to an hour.”

  “Jealous, are we, Ronnie?” Malone turned to face the speaker.

  “Of her? You must be joking.”

  Veronica Beresford moved out of the shadows and into the light. She was tall, sleek, and moved with a feline grace that aroused him even now. “I hope you’ve left enough for me,” she said archly as she took his face in her hands and kissed him. Her tongue darted betwe
en his lips, and he pulled her roughly to him, his broad hands tearing at her clothes.

  She pulled her head away. “Do be careful with the threads, lover,” she warned. “They cost the earth, and even dear old Trevor might notice if they’re torn to shreds.”

  Without a word they moved to the bedroom, stripping off their clothes in frantic haste. Malone pulled her toward the bed, but Veronica held back.

  “I’m not getting into a bed where you’ve just had her,” she told him. “The sheets aren’t even cold!” She dropped to her knees. “Come down on the floor.”

  Malone slid down beside her, his mouth seeking hers, when suddenly, embarrassingly, he yawned!

  He felt the colour rushing to his face. “I’m sorry, Ronnie …” he began, but Veronica put her fingers against his lips.

  “I understand,” she said soothingly. “You’ve had a busy night, haven’t you, lover? But don’t worry, I’ll do all the work. Just lie back and think of England.”

  CHAPTER 19

  THURSDAY, 28 SEPTEMBER

  The area around Cresswell Street had been literally blanketed with uniformed and plain-clothes police going from door to door, working through till almost midnight last night, and back at it again this morning, asking the same questions over and over again. Have you seen this woman? When? Where? What time was that? Did you hear anything? See anyone cruising the street?—which, considering the neighbourhood, was thought by most to be a silly question, but it still had to be asked.

  Simone was well known, and apparently well liked by many of the residents of Cresswell Street, because a number of the locals had come forward to say that they had seen her in the street that night. A list of names, together with approximate times, had been compiled on the whiteboards in the Incident Room, but there was nothing later than ten past ten. A woman who lived over one of the shops in the street was returning from walking her dog when she saw Simone standing outside the darkened chip shop at the bottom end of Cresswell Street. Simone had patted the dog, the two women had exchanged a few words, and they’d said good night.

  After that, nothing! Simone had simply vanished, and any hope they’d had of finding Rutledge through Simone had vanished with her. That in itself was bad enough, but Paget’s immediate concern was the fate of Simone herself. If, as he suspected, she had been picked up by the killer, the chances of finding her alive were, at best, extremely thin.

  Grim-faced, Paget stared at the whiteboards and shook his head. More than four days into the investigation and they were no closer now to finding Bolen’s killer than they had been on day one. He sighed heavily.

  “We don’t have any choice,” he told Tregalles. “We have to start again from scratch. We go over every bit of evidence again, and we concentrate on the people who had the most to gain from Bolen’s death.

  “Len,” he said to the sergeant who had been listening at his desk, “I want backgrounds on all members of the Bolen family and on Keith Lambert: relationships, personal situations, business connections, financial positions, and anything else you can think of. Dig deep. But most of all let’s check and double-check their alibis. Tregalles and I will be talking to the principals themselves, but I want every angle covered. And get a couple of people over to the Tudor Hotel and have them interview the staff again; maybe lean on them a bit if they seem to be holding back at all. Especially Quint. Let’s make sure they’ve told us everything.”

  He glanced at the clock. “And let’s hope to God we find something before someone else is killed.”

  “Sorry if I seem distracted, Chief Inspector,” John Bolen apologized, “but it’s been a bit hectic around here since my father died. Harry and I have spent most of our time working with solicitors, banks, and building societies, trying to come to some sort of agreement with them regarding the mortgages Dad took out. We would like to cancel them, but there are penalties, and no one is willing to negotiate until the will is probated. Unfortunately, while all that is going on, we are faced with some pretty stiff monthly payments we can ill afford.”

  Paget and Tregalles were seated in a small glass-walled office in the corner of a larger office in the Bolen Building. They had once again been going over John Bolen’s visit with his father the night he died, but had discovered nothing new. Now Bolen looked pointedly at his watch. “I have an appointment with one of the solicitors in half an hour,” he told them, “but I can give you a few minutes.”

  “Speaking of your father’s will,” Paget said, “I believe you told me that your mother is the sole beneficiary as far as the business is concerned, but are there any other bequests or provisions?”

  Bolen sat back in his chair and regarded Paget and Tregalles with brooding eyes.

  “As I told you,” he said with exaggerated patience, “my mother inherits my father’s share of the firm, which amounts to fifty-one percent. Harry owns forty-nine percent. I inherit nothing. My sister inherits nothing. Does that make my mother the—what’s the term you use?—prime suspect?” he asked sarcastically.

  “Not necessarily,” Paget said blandly. “As you mentioned the other day, if your father had gone ahead with the Ockrington project, everyone in your family would have lost, including your uncle, so in that sense, everyone had something to gain by his death.”

  Before John Bolen could reply, Tregalles put a question to him. “As I understand it,” he said, “your father was very much in charge of the day-to-day running of the firm when he was alive. Who is in charge now that he is gone? Would that be you, sir?”

  Bolen eyed Tregalles for a long moment, then shook his head. “No, although, because of the family connection, and my familiarity with our financial position here, I have been working with Harry to get things sorted out, but he is nominally in charge.”

  Paget raised an eyebrow. “I was under the impression that your uncle avoided the administrative side of the business,” he said. “He told me he prefers to oversee the jobs themselves.”

  “He does,” John agreed. “But when it comes down to it, Harry is just as capable of running this business as my father was. People tend to underrate Harry because he is less aggressive, but he grew up with the business, and he’d have no trouble running it. Whether he wants to do that is another question, but you’d have to talk to Harry about that.” He looked at his watch again. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m afraid I must prepare for my meeting,” he said.

  “Just one more thing before we leave,” said Paget as he rose to his feet. “Can you tell me where you were last Saturday evening between the hours of, say, seven and nine?”

  John Bolen frowned. “Seven?” he repeated. “My father was alive when I left him about nine-thirty, so why seven?”

  “If you would just answer the question, sir?”

  Bolen frowned. “Very well, but I don’t know that it will do you much good. I was at home, by myself, trying to think of some way to stop my father from going through with the Ockrington project. Short of murder, that is—in case you were wondering,” he added sardonically as he rose to usher them out.

  A begrimed Isuzu Trooper loaded with building materials stood next to Prudence Bolen’s bright-red MG outside the front door of Brookside. Paget put his hand on the bonnet of the Isuzu as he passed and found it barely warm.

  Laura Bolen answered the door, and standing in the hall behind her was Harry. “I’ll be off, then, Laura,” he said loudly. He looked at Laura as if expecting her to say something, but she remained silent. “Just popped in for a minute to see if Laura needed a hand with the arrangements for the funeral on Saturday,” he said by way of explanation. With a nod to the two detectives, he ran down the steps and got into the Trooper as Laura closed the door.

  Paget introduced Tregalles. “Sorry to trouble you again, Mrs. Bolen,” he said, “but we would like to ask you one or two more questions.”

  Laura made no attempt to conceal a sigh of resignation. “In that case, I suppose you’d better come through,” she said. She turned and led the way across the
entrance hall to a spacious living room overlooking the garden at the side of the house.

  “Please sit down,” she said stiffly, gesturing to a leather sofa. She took a seat facing them and clasped her hands in front of her. Her cheek was still swollen, and the colour of the bruise could still be seen beneath her make-up. Her face was slightly flushed, and Paget couldn’t help wondering what Harry Bolen had been doing there in the middle of a day when there must be so much to do at work.

  “I know we’ve been through all this before,” he began, “but sometimes people remember things later, so please bear with me when I ask you to go through everything once more, beginning with when your brother-in-law arrived after his flight back from Canada?”

  The expression on Laura’s face said clearly that she thought it all a waste of time, but she made no comment. Perhaps she felt it was easier to comply than to argue the point. And perhaps it was a waste of time, thought Paget, for what she told them was essentially the same as she and Harry had told him Sunday morning.

  “You said you stayed in the car while your brother-in-law went up to your husband’s room,” Tregalles observed. “Are you quite sure that’s correct, Mrs. Bolen?”

  “Yes … ?” An unspoken question hung there in the answer, followed by a hesitation and what appeared to be the dawning of a recollection. “Oh, my goodness; I’d quite forgotten, Sergeant. I did leave the car. But on the other hand, it’s not something one is apt to remember, is it?”

  A half-smile touched her lips. “I’m sorry,” she said apologetically, “but I did leave the car for a few minutes. It was a chilly night and … well, the fact of the matter is, I had to go to the loo. I knew there was one next to the conference rooms on the first floor, so I left the car and went up the back stairs. I wasn’t gone long, and I came Straight down again and waited in the car for Harry.”