by Frank Smith
“Did you see anyone or the stairs or in the corridor?”
“Not a soul.”
“Have you thought of anything, no matter how trivial, that seems odd in retrospect?” asked Paget.
Laura Bolen shook her head. “I’m sorry, Chief Inspector,” she said with a helpless gesture, “and I have tried.”
“In that case, Mrs. Bolen, thank you for being so patient. I wonder if we might have a word with your daughter before we leave?”
“Prudence? I’m afraid she’s not in at the moment, but why would you wish to talk to her? She wasn’t even here at the time.”
Paget frowned. “I thought I saw her car in the drive when we arrived,” he said.
Laura Bolen’s lips tightened. “You did,” she said coldly. “But Prudence has taken my car into town. I’m having an antitheft device fitted, and she offered to take it in for me, and I don’t expect her back for some time. Not that she’ll be able to help you very much. As I said, she wasn’t even here when all this happened. She was in Bristol, where she’s attending university. I telephoned her there not long after you left on Sunday morning.” Laura sighed. “I didn’t relish having to break the news to her over the telephone, but on the other hand, it would have been better coming from me instead of from her friend.”
“Her friend … ?”
Laura clucked her tongue and shook her head in self-recrimination. “It was my fault,” she said. “I should have been more circumspect. Pru’s room-mate, Joan Lassiter, answered the phone. She said Pru had gone out early for a bike ride with some friends, but she promised to have her phone me as soon as Pru got back. Unfortunately, I made the mistake of telling Joan why I was calling, and she blurted it out as soon as Pru came in. Pru was devastated. She and her father were very close. She rang me back as soon as she came in, and then came home immediately. Well, late that afternoon, to be more precise. She left straightaway, but she had trouble with her car as she was leaving Bristol, and had a terrible time finding someone to look at it—you know what it’s like trying to get service on a Sunday—so she didn’t arrive home until about five in the afternoon.”
“What was the trouble?” asked Tregalles.
“I think she said it was dirty petrol.”
“In that case, Mrs. Bolen,” said Paget as he rose to his feet, “thank you for your time and your patience. Please don’t get up; we can see ourselves out.”
As they made their way to the car, Paget said, “Get on to Bristol and ask them to have a word with this girl, Joan Lassiter. It’s not that I don’t believe her mother, but let’s make sure her story checks out and the girl was actually there. And ask them to find out what Lassiter knows about Malone. Find out if Prudence has talked to her about him. According to Harry, his brother was violently opposed to Prudence marrying Malone, which means they could have had a motive.”
“Right. But Mrs. Bolen was right about one thing,” Tregalles observed. “There is a public loo next to the convention rooms on the first floor of the Tudor. I saw it the other night.”
“That may be,” said Paget, “but if she knew about the back stairs, Harry must have known about them as well. In fact, didn’t Quint tell you that the Bolen Brothers built the place? So why did he go all the way round the front? Unless he wanted to be seen.”
John Bolen stood up and stretched his aching muscles. He had been hunched over the figures on his desk for what seemed like hours, and he would have liked nothing better than to dump the lot into the waste-paper basket and be done with it. But he owed it to his mother to make sure that everything was done properly, and he had promised himself he would do that, no matter how long it took.
The ringing of the telephone interrupted his thoughts. He sat down and picked it up. “John Bolen.”
“Oh, good! You haven’t gone, then.” The soft Scottish accent was unmistakable. It was Linda McRae, his fiancée, and she sounded out of breath.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, immediately concerned.
“Nothing, John. In fact, everything is just fine. Mother and Dad are down from Inverness, and they want to meet you. It’s a complete surprise. As I told you the other night, Dad didn’t think he could get away until next week, but he and Mum are here now. They can only stay for a few days, so I thought if we could all meet for dinner at Bridge House it would give them a chance to get to know you, and for you to get to know them. I took a chance and booked a table for seven o’clock; I hope that’s all right?”
John Bolen tilted back in his chair, lips compressed as he stared at the ceiling. No, it wasn’t all right; he had too much to do and so little time to do it. But what could he say? He had never met Linda’s parents, and although it had never been put into so many words, he knew the main reason for their visit was to take a look at this Englishman who had proposed to their daughter. He hadn’t expected them down until next week, but obviously things had changed.
“John? Are you there?”
“Sorry, Linda. I was just trying to think. I had intended going over to my mother’s to tidy up a few things before the funeral on Saturday, but I don’t think there is anything so pressing that it can’t wait. So I’ll see you there.”
“Seven o’clock.” Linda lowered her voice. “You’re not worried about meeting them, are you, John? You’ve no need; I know they’ll like you. Just let Dad talk about golf and fishing, and you’ll do just fine. As for Mum, she’s seen your picture and thinks you have a very nice face.”
John Bolen chuckled. “Then I’d better wash it for the occasion,” he said. “Love you, darling.”
“Love you, too—and don’t you dare be late!”
CHAPTER 20
FRIDAY, 29 SEPTEMBER
She might have been asleep. She lay on her side, one arm above her head, her face half covered by her hair. And then the doctor turned her over and Paget saw the bloated face.
The body of Simone Giraud was almost hidden beneath a knee-high tangle of grass and weeds, the long-neglected lawn of a vacant cottage in a quiet country lane. A weathered sign beside the gate said the cottage was for sale.
“That’s the couple over there,” Tregalles told him, pointing to an elderly man and woman who sat in a police car talking to a policewoman. “They say they’ve been looking for a cottage in this area, saw the sign and decided to take a closer look. Now they wish they hadn’t. Rang us on their cell phone just after ten.”
The doctor closed his bag and stripped off his latex gloves. “All the signs point to asphyxia due to strangulation,” he said. “The ligature marks are plain enough; looks as if a rope was used, but you never know what the PM will turn up. Do you know who will be doing it?”
“Probably the chap we had on loan from Worcester, Dr. Martindale,” Paget told him. “He did the one on Bolen.”
The doctor nodded. “Right. I’ll forward my findings to him, then,” he said. “I suppose you will need a copy as well, will you? I’m afraid I’m a bit rusty when it comes to the procedures these days. It’s been years since I did any work for the police.” He tossed the gloves into a plastic bag. “You can move the body now if you wish. I’m finished here.” He paused. “If it’s any help, I’d say she’s been dead for at least two days, possibly longer, but that’s not official, you understand.”
Paget watched as Simone’s body was placed inside a bag and zippered shut. He found it hard to equate this lifeless form with the vibrant woman he had interviewed on Monday.
The ligature marks were deep, and there were long scratches on the neck where Simone had clawed desperately at the rope as she struggled for her life. Very little blood. Not like Bolen. Had the killer learned, perhaps? Assuming it was the same man, Paget reminded himself. Prostitutes were prime targets for violence, but this was too much of a coincidence. And if Simone had known where Julia Rutledge was hiding, it must be assumed she’d told her killer. It was one thing to withhold such information from the police, but quite another when you were fighting for your life.
The mood in th
e Incident Room was sombre when Paget returned. Even before the death of Simone, there had been a feeling of frustration among the members of the team. The Bolen case was growing cold. Statements had been taken from well over a hundred people, and yet they were no closer to a solution than they had been on day one. Now they had another killing, and the best that could be hoped for was that the killer had left something at the scene that would give them a fresh start.
“Not much to report, I’m afraid,” said Ormside in answer to Paget’s question, “although we have had a reply from Bristol that could be interesting. Seems young Prudence Bolen wasn’t in Bristol at all when her mother rang on Sunday. She was here, staying with her boy-friend at the nursery. Her friend, Joan Lassiter, said that Prudence had asked her to cover for her if her mother called, but she wasn’t prepared to lie to the police for her.
“She said when Mrs. Bolen rang, she told her Prudence was out, but when Mrs. Bolen told her what had happened, she phoned Prudence at her boy-friend’s place and gave her the message. Prudence then phoned her mother, pretending she was calling from Bristol, and turned up at home some hours later.”
“Much later,” Paget said, “accounting for the delay by saying she’d had car trouble. For someone who was supposed to be very close to her father, she wasn’t very concerned about getting home. I think we’d better have a chat with Prudence Bolen and this fellow Malone first thing tomorrow … No, can’t do that. It’s Saturday, and I’ll be busy in the morning, so it will have to be the afternoon.”
“They’ll be at the funeral tomorrow afternoon,” Ormside reminded him.
Paget groaned. “That’s right, I’d forgotten that, and I want to be there. I’ll just have to fit it in as best I can. Tregalles is still out at the cottage, and you should be hearing from him soon on any leads that SOCO picks up there. Now, do we have anything new on Rutledge?”
Ormside shock his head. “Not a word,” he said. “We checked again with her parents—not that they seem all that interested—and we’ve contacted all known relatives and friends. Nothing.”
Paget sat drumming fingers on the desk. “When was it that Rutledge spent a night in the cells?” he asked abruptly. “Using the name of Vikki Lane.”
Ormside reached for his entry-book. “It was in August,” he said as he thumbed through the pages. “Yes, here it is. The fifteenth. Released on the sixteenth.”
“Have a word with the people on duty that night. It’s a long shot, I know, but someone might remember something about the girl.”
“Right. I’ll get …” Ormside lowered his voice. “Super’s heading this way,” he warned as Alcott came through the door.
“Ah, Paget! Thought I might find you here,” he said as he set a bulging brief-case on Ormside’s desk. He opened it and brought out a large, thick envelope.
“I’ve just this minute been told that I am to attend a seminar tomorrow with Chief Superintendent Brock,” he said. “The chief constable was supposed to be there as well, but he’s cried off, so there’s a seat vacant and Brock wants me to fill it.
“So …” Alcott paused long enough to find and light a cigarette. “What it all boils down to is this: I was supposed to be in Worcester tomorrow to give a talk on Community Policing at the close of a course we’ve been running there all week. Obviously, I can’t be in two places at once, so I want you to go in my place.”
“Oh, no,” said Paget firmly. “Not tomorrow. I’m sorry, sir, but my time is committed tomorrow morning, and there’s Bolen’s funeral in the afternoon.”
Alcott sucked deeply on his cigarette. “I don’t think you quite understand,” he said. “I’m sorry if it interferes with your plans, but I didn’t have a choice, and neither do you. I have everything here; you can take it home tonight and look it over. Anyway, it should be a piece of cake for you. If I remember rightly, you did eighteen months as an instructor while you were with the Met.”
“That was ten years ago!”
Alcott dismissed the objection with a wave of his hand. “You can do this with your eyes shut,” he said brusquely. “Now, then …”
“That’s not the point, sir. I have made a commitment to a friend for tomorrow morning, and I want to keep it. It’s very important to me.”
Alcott squinted at him through the smoke. “I’m sure your friend can make other arrangements,” he said quietly, “so we’ll consider the matter closed, shall we? You’re on at eleven tomorrow morning, so at least you won’t have to go down there tonight.” He stood up and handed the envelope to Paget. “You’ll find everything you need in there.”
Back in his office, Paget tilted back in his chair and rubbed his face with his hands. He didn’t know what he was going to tell Andrea. It seemed as if every time there was a chance of getting close to her again, some malevolent little god with nothing better to do pushed them farther apart.
But, on the more practical side, if he had to go, he might as well get some benefit from it and take a pool car. It would give him the opportunity to have his own car serviced while he was away, something he’d been intending to do for weeks. He picked up the phone and punched in a number. The phone at the other end rang only once before someone picked it up and said, “Mickey’s Garage.”
“Thought you might still be there, Mickey,” he said. “It’s Neil Paget.”
“Hi, Neil. What’s up? Car giving you trouble?”
“Not really. Tell me, do your blokes still work Saturdays?”
“Till one o’clock, yeah.”
“Good. Any chance of bringing the car in for an oil change and service check first thing in the morning?”
“Hang on a minute.” Paget waited. “Yeah, I can squeeze you in, but it won’t be ready till twelve or after. Anything special you want me to look at?”
“No. And I won’t be picking it up till Monday,” Paget told him. “I have to go out of town, so I’ll be using one of our pool cars over the weekend. I’ll have one of our lads bring my car in first thing in the morning. All right?”
“Fine. You’re booked in. Enjoy the weekend. I wish I could.”
Mickey would probably enjoy his weekend more than he would, thought Paget as he made his way downstairs. He stopped at the duty sergeant’s desk to make arrangements for his car to be taken in the following morning, then signed for an unmarked pool car.
It was six-thirty by the time he arrived on the doorstep and rang the bell below Andrea’s name-plate.
“Yes? Who is it?”
“It’s Neil,” he said. “May I come up for a moment?”
“Neil?” Andrea sounded surprised. “Yes, yes, of course.” The buzzer sounded and Paget opened the door.
He ascended the stairs to the first floor, and found Andrea standing in the open doorway of the flat. She wore an apron and had a tea-towel in her hands. “Hello,” he said awkwardly. “Sorry to trouble you like this, but I’m afraid I have some bad news.”
Andrea’s eyes searched his face. “You’d better come in, then,” she told him, and stood aside to let him by before following him inside.
“I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” he said hesitantly, but Andrea shook her head. “Just finishing the washing-up,” she told him. “What is it, Neil? You look terribly serious. Won’t you sit down?”
“Thank you, but I can’t stop,” he told her. “It’s just that … well, something’s come up. I had no idea until an hour ago, but I’ve been told I have to be in Worcester tomorrow morning, and I can’t get out of it. I really am sorry, Andrea. I know I promised faithfully to be there to help in the parade, and I was really looking forward to it, but now …”
He stopped, baffled by her reaction. “What? What is it?” he demanded. “What’s so funny?”
Andrea put a hand over her mouth and tried to smother a laugh. “Oh, Neil,” she said, “you should have seen your face! Honestly, I didn’t know what to expect; you looked so serious.” She straightened her face. “I’m sorry you can’t make it tomorrow, because I was rather lo
oking forward to having you along. But don’t worry, I’m sure I can get someone to fill in. What’s the problem at Worcester?”
He felt somewhat deflated. He’d been so worried about letting Andrea down after promising to be there on Saturday, but apparently it hadn’t bothered her at all.
“My super was supposed to be giving the closing talk at the end of a police course that’s been going on all week,” he explained. “But now he can’t go, so I have to go down in his place.”
“Well, can’t be helped,” said Andrea, “but it was good of you to come round to tell me. Do you have time for a cup of tea?”
“I’d like to,” he said, “but there simply isn’t time. I have a lot of swotting to do if I’m to get this talk right and not disgrace the Force tomorrow.” He moved toward the door.
“I’m sure you won’t do that,” Andrea told him as she saw him out. “Pity you didn’t come a few minutes earlier; you’d have been able to meet Sarah, but she’s gone with Mrs. Ansell to the library. You remember Mrs. Ansell?”
Paget nodded. “Your landlady, as I recall.”
“And much, much more,” Andrea said with feeling. “She’s been wonderful with Sarah.”
“Perhaps next time,” he said as he paused at the door.
Impulsively, Andrea reached out and squeezed his arm. “Good luck with your speech,” she said. “Give me a ring when you get home and let me know how it went, and I can tell you how things went at the parade.”
“I will,” he promised. “As soon as I get home.”
Andrea watched from the window as Paget left the building and got into his car. He didn’t look up. She wandered back into the kitchen and resumed the drying up. She was sorry Neil wouldn’t be at the parade tomorrow, but it was good of him to come round to explain. She smiled to herself. He really had looked stricken when he first arrived. So serious. So intense! She wished …
Suddenly impatient with herself, Andrea brushed the thought away. As her ever-practical mother was so fond of saying: “If wishes were horses, beggars would ride. So, if you really want something, it’s no good wishing. You must do something about it.”