Thread of Evidence

by Frank Smith

  But even as he yelled the warning, Grace was braking hard, and the car came to rest with its nose buried in a mass of leaves and twisted branches. “Thank God I wasn’t going any faster,” she breathed, “or it would have hit us coming down.”

  A huge limb, almost half the tree, blocked the road.

  They sat there in silence for a moment. “Are you all right?” he asked.

  Grace breathed in deeply. “A bit shaken,” she admitted, “but I’ll live.”

  “In that case, there’s only one thing for it. I’ll get out and shift it before someone else comes along and slams into us. Sit tight.”

  Before Grace could answer, he was out of the car and fighting his way through rain and wind and broken branches. He managed to get hold of a branch close to the main stem of the limb, and heaved. Nothing moved. He tried again and the branch broke off. He began to strip some of the lesser branches away in order to make the task of moving the limb easier.

  He was soaked to the skin and progress was painfully slow. Between the buffeting wind, water pouring over the road, and slithering about on wet leaves, he was having a hard enough time just keeping his feet under him, and an even harder one trying to shift the tree.

  The car door slammed, and Grace was suddenly there beside him.

  “You’ll never do it on your own,” she shouted, “but if I can get a good grip on this side, and you pull from where you are, we might move it.”

  “Right, but watch your step. Try to avoid stepping on the leaves; they’re slippery as hell.”

  Grace lifted a hand in acknowledgement and began to pick her way through the twigs and branches. “Got it,” she yelled. “On the count of three. One, two, three!”

  Paget pulled hard. The limb began to move. He slipped and fell, scrambled to his feet and they tried again. Slowly, inch by inch, they pulled the massive limb far enough to one side to allow the car to get by. Paget grabbed Grace’s hand and steadied her as she clambered back through the debris.

  “I’ll drive,” he told her, “then I won’t have to direct you. All right?”

  Grace nodded and made for the passenger’s side of the car. They both fell into their seats and sat there trying to catch their breath. “Thanks, Grace,” Paget panted. “I couldn’t have shifted that lot without your help, but your clothes will be ruined.” He turned to look at her, and started to laugh.

  “What?” Grace dabbed at her face with a sodden tissue. “What’s so funny?”

  “I’m sorry,” he said, still grinning, “but it’s your hair.”

  Grace flicked the rear-view mirror round to look for herself and a low chuckle rumbled in her throat. “Rat-tails,” she said ruefully, pushing her long blonde hair back with both hands. “What a mess!” She turned to face him, and began to grin herself. “I wish your colleagues could see you now,” she chuckled. “Chief Inspector, sir!”

  “I can imagine,” he said as he did up his seat-belt and set the mirror back in place. “But we’d better get on. The sooner we get to the house, the sooner we can dry ourselves off.” He started the car. “And I think it’s time we dispensed with this ‘Chief Inspector’ business, at least away from the job. My name is Neil.”

  Grace thrust out her hand. “Pleased to meet you, Neil,” she said solemnly. He took her hand and shook it, and they both laughed for no reason at all.

  CHAPTER 22

  The drive from the main road into Ashton Prior was a nightmare. Culverts were plugged, and normally placid streams ran like rivers across the road. Paget eased the car through, praying that the roadbed had not washed out beneath the roiling water, and when he finally turned into the short drive leading to his house, it was with a deep sense of relief. He’d driven in storms before, but nothing quite like this one, and he was more than thankful that the house was close to the top of a hill.

  He switched the engine off, leaned his head against the head-rest, and sat there listening to the sound of rain drumming on the roof. Jagged forks of lightning slashed their way to earth with stunning regularity, and thunder echoed and re-echoed through the valleys, seemingly without end. Grace, too, sat there in silence, eyes closed as she offered up a silent prayer of thanks.

  She turned to Paget. “Thanks,” she said simply. “I’m not sure I would have made it if I’d been on my own. I’m glad your car broke down.”

  He smiled wearily. “So am I,” he said, and meant it.

  They made a dash for the house and almost fell inside. Paget closed the door, and suddenly it was calm. The storm still raged outside, but they could hear again, talk in normal voices and be heard.

  “Better get those wet clothes off,” he told Grace briskly. “There’s a bathroom upstairs if you’d like to take a hot shower, and in the meantime I’ll see if I can find something for you to wear. I can find you a shirt and pullover, but …” He scratched his head. Grace was only a couple of inches shorter than he was, but a pair of his trousers would go twice around her slim figure. “To be honest,” he confessed, “I don’t know what we can do about the rest of you.”

  Grace smiled. “If you have a few safety-pins, and you’ll let me look through your linen cupboard, I think I can manage to put something together,” she told him. She turned toward the stairs. “I’ll be as quick as I can, because the sooner you get out of those wet clothes and have a hot shower yourself, the better. Which door is it?”

  “First on the right, and the linen cupboard is just down the hall from there. Next to that is the spare bedroom, so I’ll put whatever I can find in the way of clothes and safety-pins in there.”

  Paget waited until he heard the bathroom door close, then climbed the stairs himself and went into the bedroom, pausing only long enough to pick up a towel along the way. He stripped down completely, and towelled himself vigorously. The house itself was warm, but the combination of rain and wind had chilled him to the bone.

  He put on a fleece-lined track suit, something he hadn’t worn in years, but it was warm and smelled only faintly of the mahogany-lined drawer in which it had lain since the day he moved into the house. For Grace, he found a clean shirt that was too small for him, and a fisherman’s jersey that would probably come down to her knees. The sleeves would be much too long, but they could be turned up, and at least it would keep her warm. He ransacked the drawers, tossing in anything that looked remotely useful, then took everything along to the spare bedroom. He dropped the bundle on the bed, placed half a dozen safety-pins on top, then went downstairs and put the kettle on.

  He turned on the radio. Two of the local stations were off the air, but a third was giving sports results. The kettle boiled, and he busied himself making tea.

  As he had hoped, there was an update on the weather. The police were warning people to stay off the roads. A bridge was out on the Clunbridge Road. The power was off in parts of Broadminster, and there were other scattered outages affecting Ludlow, Craven Arms, and a number of the surrounding villages. Work crews had been dispatched, but conditions were extremely hazardous, and restoration was expected to be slow.

  Trees and power lines were down everywhere, and once again the message was repeated: “Please stay off the roads.”

  Grace appeared in the doorway and did a slow pirouette as she entered the room. “What do you think of the latest in summer fashions?” she asked.

  The shirt looked good on her. Her shoulders were surprisingly broad, and the shirt was pulled in and held by a large towel wrapped around her waist. A second towel had been twisted into a turban, revealing her long, slender neck normally masked by her shoulder-length hair. And on her feet, she wore Paget’s hiking socks.

  “Stunning,” he told her, and meant it. “Love the socks. The tea’s hot if you’d like some.”

  “Oh, good! I’m dying for a cup.”

  “Like anything to eat?” he asked as he poured the tea.

  “No, thanks. I’m still full from lunch.” She nodded toward the radio. “Any news about the storm?”

  “They’re warn
ing everyone to stay off the roads,” he said. “A lot of trees and power lines down. I think we were very lucky to get through at all.” He shivered suddenly.

  “I think you had better go and have that hot shower,” said Grace. “You’ll feel much better after it, believe me.”

  “I think you’re right,” he agreed. “What did you do with your clothes? We should be getting them dried out. Can they go in the drier?”

  “Yes, everything can go in if we’re careful with the setting,” she told him. “All but the tights. They’re a complete write-off after clambering through all those branches, and I’m not sure my shoes will ever be any good again. Still, could have been worse. I’ll start the clothes off while you have your shower. Now go on before you catch cold.”

  He smiled. It had been a long time since a woman had ordered him about, he thought as he made his way upstairs, and it came as a pleasant change to his normally dull routine. Especially when it was done by someone as beautiful and charming as Grace Lovett.

  Andrea McMillan looked at the time. Almost five o’clock and Neil hadn’t telephoned. Perhaps he was still stuck in Worcester because of the storm. They were warning people to stay off the roads, so perhaps he had decided to stay over. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to ring.

  Andrea punched in the number. There was a crackling on the line, but that was all. She tried again. That was better. The phone rang several times, but now there was a loud hum on the line. The ringing stopped. Somewhere close by, lightning struck the ground, and a burst of sound exploded in her head. Andrea snatched the phone away from her ear so fast she dropped it. Stupid thing to do, she admonished herself, phoning in the middle of a lightning storm. Still shaken, she picked up the phone and held it gingerly some distance from her head.

  Nothing. Not a sound.

  She put the phone down. She wished she had been able to talk to Neil. She didn’t care for storms at the best of times, but this one seemed almost malevolent in its fury, and just hearing Neil’s voice would have been reassuring. Fortunately, it didn’t seem to bother Sarah, who was playing happily with a farm set on the floor, moving cows out to pasture, and sheep into pens.

  Andrea moved to within a few feet of the window and stood looking out. It was still chucking it down and showed no signs of stopping. A jagged fork split the skies, and everything in the room stood out in stark relief. Andrea shivered and switched on the lights. At least they were still working, thank goodness. Another crash. The lights flickered but stayed on.

  Better put the kettle on while she still had the chance, she decided. She’d long ago set out the candles and the matches, just in case.

  “Someone was trying to phone you,” said Grace as Paget came down the stairs, “but I think the storm must have taken the line down, because when I answered there was no one there and it sounded dead.”

  He thought guiltily of Andrea. He should have tried to call her as soon as he got in. He’d promised her he would. But he’d been so busy drying off and sorting out something for Grace to wear that it had completely slipped his mind.

  “Probably a friend,” he said. “They said they might call. I’ll try to ring them later.”

  Showered and changed, he looked refreshed, and Grace thought once again of the difference in the man when he was away from work. He was warm and friendly, far more relaxed than she had ever seen him, and she offered up silent thanks for the storm that had brought them so unexpectedly together.

  “Any problems with the drier?” he asked.

  “No, it’s quite similar to mine. I’ll need to use your iron, though.”

  “No problem,” he told her, “so long as nothing happens to the electrics.”

  Grace grimaced at the prospect. “Perhaps we should have something to eat in case we do lose the electricity. Do you have any candles?”

  “Top drawer beside the sink,” he told her, “together with a box of matches. I haven’t looked at them for ages, but that’s where they were the last time I saw them, and I’m sure Mrs. Wentworth hasn’t moved them.”

  “I was wondering who Mrs. W. was,” Grace said as she checked the drawer. She pointed to the magnet on the fridge, and the note beneath it.

  “My daily housekeeper without whom I would be completely lost,” he told her. “She used to own this house before my father bought it, and she stayed on as his housekeeper. When Dad died, I more or less inherited her. That’s the way we communicate; we leave each other notes. I’m gone long before she gets here in the morning, and she’s gone by the time I get back at night. She doesn’t come in on Saturdays and Sundays, so we sometimes go on for months without seeing each other, but the system works very well.”

  Grace opened the fridge. “She certainly looks after you,” she said as she surveyed the shelves. “What do you fancy for your supper? Fish? Salad? What looks like a cold meat pie?”

  “It’s chicken and veal,” he said. “It’s one of Mrs. Wentworth’s specialities. She has a number of them, but that’s one of the best. It’s great warmed up in the oven.”

  “Sounds good. Why don’t we have some of that and salad to go with it, then? No, you sit still,” she told him as Paget moved to help her. “Just tell me where things are and I’ll get it ready. I enjoy working in the kitchen.”

  A crash of thunder rocked the house and they both ducked instinctively. “That was close!” breathed Grace. She looked shaken as she returned to what she’d been doing. “I was hoping that the storm would have let up by now, so that once my clothes are dry I can get back home.”

  “You’re not going anywhere,” Paget told her firmly. “It would be crazy to even try, with the way the roads are. The storm is bound to be over by the morning and we can try it then. I’ll come in with you in case there’s a problem. I can either get my own car back from Mickey’s Garage, or failing that, get another pool car. Is there anyone who will be worried about you? Anyone expecting you home tonight?”

  “No, but …”

  “Then it’s settled,” he told her. “You’re staying here tonight.”

  Grace entered the room. She was wearing his dressing-gown, and her feet were bare. The sleeves hung down to her fingertips, and she had pulled the cord tight around her waist to take up the slack. Her hair was dry, and it hung loosely around her shoulders. Her blue eyes shone softly in the light, and she reminded Paget of a little girl, scrubbed and clean and ready for bed.

  But Grace was anything but a little girl; she was a very lovely woman, and he had become increasingly conscious of that as the evening progressed. They’d sat in the two big armchairs, Paget with his feet stretched out, Grace with hers tucked under her, sipping wine and chatting quietly while music played softly in the background. The sound of thunder slowly faded to a distant grumble and the rain abated.

  Paget couldn’t remember when he’d spent a more pleasant evening.

  Now, as she came toward him, he rose to his feet. Grace touched him lightly on the arm. “I came to say good night, Neil,” she said, “and to thank you for everything. I’ve enjoyed today so very much in spite of the storm.”

  Their eyes met. She looked so lovely standing there. He wanted to reach out and draw her to him, to take her in his arms and hold her close, to …

  He tore his gaze away, afraid that she might see reflected in his eyes the feelings she had stirred in him.

  “I should be thanking you,” he said gruffly. “Believe me, I have enjoyed this evening more than I can say, and I’m most grateful for your company.” He kept his eyes averted as he moved away. “But it’s late,” he went on, “and you must be very tired, so I’ll let you get to bed. I put clean sheets on the bed earlier this evening and turned them down to air, so I think you should be comfortable.”

  Grateful! As she lay in the strange bed, the word seemed to be etched against the darkness, and gratitude was not what she’d seen in Neil’s eyes. In that all too fleeting moment he had let down his guard, and she had sensed a warmth and passion responding to her own.

&nb
sp; So why had he drawn back? Grace didn’t know the answer, but she comforted herself with the knowledge that beneath the hard exterior was the man she wanted, and nothing would ever change her mind.

  Downstairs, Paget went through the house, putting out the lights. It was the charged atmosphere, he told himself. The excitement of the storm; the way the two of them had been thrown together; the wine, the soft music. Grace was a lovely woman. There was bound to be a physical attraction.

  But it was more than that, he thought as he made his way to bed. He liked her, liked her very much. He’d felt at ease with her, enjoyed her company, and he was sorry she would have to leave tomorrow.

  He paused at the top of the stairs and looked down the hall. The guest bedroom door was closed, and he could see no light beneath the door. He remained there for a moment longer, then went into his own bedroom and firmly shut the door.

  He needed an older map, one that showed the canals as they were before so many sections had been abandoned. Parkinson Arm, or something like that, Simone had said, and she’d been too scared to lie. She didn’t know where it was, but it couldn’t be all that far away if the woman who lived on a narrow boat had been in the local jail with Vikki.

  Joanna. He felt sure she had given him the woman’s right name. Said she’d heard it often enough. She’d been terrified of the knife. Sweat had poured out of her when he had drawn it lightly across her face.

  The narrow boat was near a pub. An odd name. She couldn’t remember it, said she couldn’t think while he had the rope around her neck, twisting it tighter and tighter, the knife point laid against her cheek just below the eye.

  Then suddenly she was choking. Her head sagged and she’d gone limp. He thought she was faking, trying to get him to loosen the garrotte. But she was dead.

  It should never have come to this, he thought angrily. It wasn’t the way he’d planned it at all. He hadn’t wanted to kill the woman, but she had seen his face, and there was no other way. It was the same with Vikki; as long as she was alive she could be a threat to him. He didn’t want to kill her either, but he couldn’t afford not to. Perhaps he was mistaken; perhaps she hadn’t seen his face well enough to identify him, but he dared not take that chance.