by Frank Smith
CHAPTER 21
SATURDAY, 30 SEPTEMBER
Paget arrived at Hindlip Hall, headquarters of the West Mercia Constabulary, at precisely ten o’clock, and went in search of Tom Baldwin, the course coordinator.
“I thought Alcott was coming down,” he told Paget. “At least, that’s who I’ve got on my list to do the ‘Go-out-there-and-get-’em’ pep talk at the end.”
“Alcott couldn’t come, so they’re stuck with me, I’m afraid,” Paget told him.
“I’d better make a note of that,” said Baldwin as he stroked Alcott’s name from the list. “Still Chief Inspector, is it?”
Paget grimaced. “I haven’t been reclassified, if that’s what you mean. I think they finally gave up on that when someone pointed out they’d spent more money on the study than they could possibly save by dropping the rank of chief inspector. But I’m still keeping my fingers crossed. Now, which room am I in, and who’s on ahead of me?”
“Room twelve, and Lovett’s in there now,” Baldwin told him. “She was on yesterday as well.” Baldwin consulted his schedule. “She did ‘The Importance of Accurate Reporting—the Difference Between Looking and Seeing,’ and today she’s doing ‘Contamination of a Crime Scene.’”
“Grace Lovett?”
“That’s the one. You know her, then?”
“I do indeed. She works for Charlie Dobbs, and she’s a good analyst. She’s helped me out more than once.”
“Has she, now?” Baldwin twitched his eyebrows. “Good-looking gal. And she knows her job. I listened to part of her lecture yesterday, and she made it so interesting that some of the lads actually stopped looking at her legs and started taking notes.” He looked at the clock. “Why don’t you slip in the back and sit in on the lecture. You’ll be on next, anyway.”
“I think I’ll do that,” said Paget. “I’d like to hear what she has to say.”
“Right. And do us all a favour, will you, Paget? Make the closing speech short. Nobody will be listening anyway, because after a week of this, all they want to do is get the hell out of here.”
“Suits me. See you later, Tom.”
Grace had her back to him when he entered the room and took a seat at the back of the room. Using a projected diagram of a real crime scene, she was pointing out how easily crucial evidence could be destroyed by a single careless movement.
“Use your eyes, ears, and nose before you even move into the critical area,” she told them. “Assuming, as in this case, the victim is dead, stop and think before you move. The victim isn’t going anywhere, so what’s your hurry? Studying the scene from a distance is worthwhile, and it helps you decide how best to approach the body without disturbing the scene any more than necessary.”
Grace turned round and faced the class. “It’s been my experience,” she continued, “that more evidence is contaminated or destroyed in the first five minutes by the investigating officers than at any other time, so stop and think before you move.”
She looked out over the class and saw Paget. His presence there surprised her, and she wondered nervously what his reaction would be to the statement she had just made. It was one thing to be preaching to young constables and quite another to be telling senior officers how to conduct an investigation. On the other hand, what she had said was true, so she might as well press on.
“Now, turn to page twelve, diagram seven,” she said, and as the students shuffled their papers she felt her confidence returning. “Everyone got it?” she asked. “Now, take a good look at it and tell me what’s wrong with it.”
Paget sat back and listened—and learned. As Baldwin had said, Grace knew her subject, and she knew how to keep her audience interested. But suddenly it was over, and Paget was surprised at how quickly the last half hour had gone by.
“Now,” said Grace, “I want you all back here in ten minutes.” Superintendent Alcott will finish up the morning with a talk on Community Policing and the contribution each of you can make to good relations with the general public. And don’t try to skip off early, because there will be a roll-call and a head count.”
A groan went up around the room.
Paget waited until the room was clear before he approached the podium where Grace was packing up her things. “That was excellent,” he told her. “I really enjoyed your lecture, Grace. I’m glad I caught it.”
Grace Lovett flushed. “It’s very kind of you to say so,” she said. “Are you down here with Superintendent Alcott?”
“I am Alcott, today,” he told her. “I’ve been stuck with the closing lecture. You’re welcome to stay and listen, but I imagine you’ll want to be off home straightaway.”
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” she said. “How about lunch afterward before we start back? The dining-room is open.”
“Sounds good to me,” said Paget, “but please don’t feel obliged to sit through the lecture. I can meet you afterward.”
“I’d like to,” she said with such sincerity that he wasn’t quite sure what to say.
“For as much as it hath pleased Almighty God of his great mercy to take unto himself the soul of our dear brother here departed: we therefore commit his body to the ground; earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust; in sure and certain hope of the Resurrection to eternal life, through our Lord Jesus Christ …”
The words lingered in the hot and humid air above the open grave like mist above a meadow at the break of day. Laura Bolen stepped closer, stretched out her hand and let the dry earth trickle slowly from her fingers. It fell like the first spatter of rain on the polished wood of the casket below, followed by others as each member of the family cast their small handful of earth into the grave.
Tregalles, watching from a respectful distance, turned his attention to Prudence, the only one of the family who had not been interviewed to date. She was scrubbing at her hands with a tissue, and looking anything but pleased as she began to move away from the grave side. She paused for a moment, and looked to the right of where Tregalles stood, and gave a surreptitious wave before continuing on her way.
Tregalles looked in that direction. A man stood well back, head bowed, hands down and folded as if in silent prayer. Malone? Probably. Nice touch, Tregalles thought, especially for someone who hoped to join the family.
Two people who had been standing apart from the family began to make their way toward one of the cars. Keith Lambert and his mother, Emily.
Leaving the grave side on John’s arm, Laura Bolen paused. “Stay here and wait for me,” she told him. “There’s something I must do.” She left the gravel path and moved to intercept Keith and his mother before they reached their car.
Emily Lambert was a tall woman. She walked slowly, hunched slightly forward, troubled by arthritic knees and a crumbling spine, but she shrugged off the proffered arm of her son, preferring to use a sturdy cane instead.
Laura waited, and as they came abreast of her, held out her hand. “I’d like to thank you for coming to Jim’s funeral,” she said quietly, “and I want you to know that I appreciate the gesture.”
Emily Lambert drew herself erect. Her face was gaunt, her eyes deep-set. “He was my nephew,” she said in a clear voice. “I owed him that much.”
Laura drew in a deep breath and let it out again. “I would like to think that we have done more than simply bury my husband here today,” she said. “I would like to think that we have buried old animosities as well. I have no quarrel with you or any member of your family, and I would hope that we could start again.”
Emily regarded Laura with stony eyes. “I attended the funeral of my nephew because it was my duty to do so,” she said. “But one does not simply shrug off more than thirty years of unfounded accusations. Your husband dedicated his life to destroying my family and the family business—oh, yes, he did,” she insisted as Laura opened her mouth to protest, “and you only have to look at the lengths to which he was prepared to go in order to destroy us to know that’s true.
“And al
l because he believed everything his wastrel father told him,” the old woman continued bitterly. “Jack was my brother, but he was a slacker and a whiner, and a poor excuse for a man. The only reason he had a job at all was because I pleaded with my husband to give him a chance, but believe me, I’ve regretted that decision ever since.”
“Mother …” Keith Lambert laid a hand on his mother’s arm, but she shook it off. She turned to leave, but paused.
“If you really are sincere about burying the past, and if you want to know the truth,” she told Laura, “ask Bert Cox. He was there the day Jack died.”
Laura stood there, stunned by the reaction of the woman she had once liked very much and had thought of as her future motherin-law. She watched as Keith helped his mother into the car, then turned and sent a silent message of apology before getting in himself.
Laura walked slowly back to where her family waited. What had Emily Lambert meant when she’d said Bert Cox was there when Jim’s father had fallen from the scaffold all those years ago? Jim had never said anything about his uncle being there that day. Albert Cox was Jim’s uncle on his mother’s side. Laura vaguely remembered meeting him many years ago, but he had moved away, and she had no idea where he might be now.
Perhaps Jim hadn’t known his uncle was there that fateful day—or didn’t want to know.
“I don’t like the look of that sky at all,” said Grace as they left the building. “I think the sooner we get home, the better.”
Paget took one quick glance and agreed. The sun was shining at the moment, but off to the south-east the sky looked dark and brooding. The colours reminded Paget of a monstrous bruise—dark blues and blacks, and yellow around the edges. The air felt warm and clammy against the skin as they made their way to their cars.
“Do you need a hand with anything before I go?” he asked.
Grace shook her head. “Everything’s in the boot,” she told him. She stuck out her hand. “And thank you very much for lunch. I shouldn’t have let you pay, but you did promise to let me buy next time, and I shall hold you to it. Safe journey home.”
“It was my pleasure, Grace,” he said and meant it. “Drive carefully, and let’s hope we both get home before that lot breaks.” He nodded toward the darkening sky.
Grace turned to go to her car, then stopped. “That doesn’t look good,” she said, pointing to a large pool of oil beneath one of the cars. I think I’d better go inside and let somebody know.”
Paget took one look, and his heart sank. “No need,” he told her. “That’s my car; at least, it’s the pool car I came down in this morning.”
“Oh, no!” Grace looked horrified. “What are you going to do?”
Paget squatted down beside the car, but all he could see was a steady drip of oil. He unlocked the door and released the latch. “Let’s see how bad it is,” he said as he raised the bonnet and peered inside. One side of the engine was covered in oil.
Two uniforms came round the corner and stopped to watch. “Looks like you’ve got trouble, mate,” said one cheerfully. He had red hair and a ginger moustache. “They don’t run worth a damn without oil.”
“I am aware of that, Constable,” said Paget as he straightened up, “but thank you for your advice. Now, do you happen to know the number of the police garage?”
“Won’t do you any good, mate. Nobody there on a Saturday afternoon,” the man told him. His partner gave him a prod, but he ignored it. “Besides, they only take police vehicles. You’ll have to ring for a tow … What?” he demanded angrily as his partner prodded him hard again.
“It’s DCI Paget, isn’t it, sir?” the other man said.
“That’s right,” said Paget. He barely managed to conceal a smile as the first man’s neck tried to match the colour of his moustache. “And it is a police vehicle. It looks to me like a broken gasket, but whatever it is, it can’t be driven.”
“In that case it’s no problem, sir. But you’ll not get it seen to till Monday.”
Paget turned to Grace, who had been silent until now. “Any chance of a lift?” he asked. “I live in Ashton Prior, so it would be about five miles out of your way.”
“No problem,” Grace assured him. “But what about the car?”
“I’ll have to leave it and someone will have to come down and pick it up next week,” he told her. “If you don’t mind waiting, I’ll go inside and make arrangements.”
“We can take care of it for you, sir,” the second man told him. “If you’ll leave the keys with me, I’ll sign for them and have the car taken in.”
“Thank you, Constable, that’s very kind of you. I appreciate your help.” Paget surveyed the forbidding sky as he handed over the keys and gave the constable his card. “I can be reached at that number if there’s any problem.”
The man tore a page from his notebook and scribbled a receipt. The name was indecipherable.
“Make a note of when and why that page was torn out,” Paget warned. He waited while the man complied, then initialled the entry himself. Missing pages from a policeman’s notebook were always suspect.
“And your name is … ?”
“PC Quentin, sir.”
Paget thanked the man again before joining Grace, who was waiting in her car.
“Henceforth known as Kiss-arse Quentin,” ginger moustache muttered as they watched the car leave the car-park.
“I was trying to warn you, you stupid prat! Trying to save your balls! The way you were going on, he could have had you for breakfast.”
Ginger moustache pursed his lips and made kissing sounds. “Kiss-arse,” he said again as they went back inside.
“Up yours, too, Ginger.”
The first drops of rain splashed against the windscreen before they were clear of Fernhill Heath; huge, saucer-size drops that burst like miniature bombs against the glass. Grace switched on the wipers, but within minutes the drops had turned into a downpour, and she had to turn the wipers on full to keep the windscreen clear.
She was a competent driver, and Paget found himself relaxing in the passenger’s seat. The rain danced on the bonnet and drummed hard against the roof, making it all but impossible to carry on a conversation without shouting.
He had enjoyed his lunch with Grace. Not surprisingly, the talk had turned to work-related subjects, but he’d finally managed to get Grace to talk about herself.
She was originally from Sheffield, and her parents were still there. Her father was a senior manager with an international cosmetics firm, and her mother was a solicitor. She had two brothers, one older, one younger. Her older brother, Bob, was in genetic research, while her younger brother was mad on golf.
“That’s all he thinks about,” she said. “He’s good, mind you, and he’ll probably make a go of it—God knows he lives and breathes the game twenty-four hours a day—but Dad is none too happy about it. Thinks Stan should get himself a real job.”
“And your mother? What does she think?”
Grace smiled. “She thinks it’s great. She loves golf.”
“And what about you? How did you wind up in Broadminster as a forensic analyst?”
“I took two years of law before I realized it wasn’t for me,” Grace told him. “I wanted something more hands-on, something where I could see results. In many respects, my work isn’t all that different from yours: probing, sifting through clues, asking questions, and putting the results together. But how about you? Did you always want to be a detective?”
“No, not really. Oddly enough, I started out much the same way you did, except I took only one year of law before I decided to make the change. My father was a dentist, but it was my mother who nudged me in this direction. She was a social worker, and I think it was her stories of all the injustices and results of crime she saw every day that influenced me the most. She died suddenly when I was sixteen, a tumour she didn’t know she had until it was too late.”
Paget folded his napkin and laid it beside his plate. “So,” he concluded, “I
changed courses and became a policeman, and I’ve never regretted it.”
“You’re from London originally, aren’t you?” said Grace. “What brought you to Broadminster?”
“It’s a long story,” he’d said quietly as he glanced at his watch. “Some other time, perhaps.”
A flash of lightning jolted Paget out of his pleasant reverie. It ripped a jagged hole in the curtain of rain, and every tree stood out in stark relief. The crash of thunder followed within seconds, and Grace gripped the wheel harder as wind buffeted the car. “Close,” she said as she peered ahead. “I hope there aren’t any trees down.”
“If you won’t take it as a vote of non-confidence, I’d be more than happy to take over for a while,” Paget offered, but Grace shook her head.
“Thanks, but we’d have to get out to change over, and we’d be soaked. I’m all right if you are.”
Water several inches deep streamed across the road at the bottom of each hill, and Paget could feel the drag on the tyres as Grace ploughed through. Trees and hedges on either side protected them from the wind to some extent, but it was all Grace could do to hold the car steady once they left their shelter. Thankfully, there was little traffic on the road. Others had more sense, thought Paget.
Another flash of lightning lit up the countryside, and thunder rolled down the hills like monstrous bowling balls to crash against the car. “You’ll have to tell me where to turn off for Ashton Prior,” Grace shouted above the din.
“We still have six or seven miles to go,” he shouted back, “but I’ll let you know well ahead of time.”
They lapsed into grim-lipped silence for the next few miles, eyes glued to the road through the arc of windscreen wipers thumping back and forth with hypnotic regularity.
“It’s about half a mile further on,” said Paget. “I’ll tell you—Look out!”