by Frank Smith
He folded the map and put it away. He might have better luck trying to track down the pub. The library should have a copy of an AA book listing hotels and pubs. He’d try that; look for pubs in the area with odd names, and find out which ones were close to a canal.
CHAPTER 23
SUNDAY, 1 OCTOBER
Grace was already busy in the kitchen by the time he came downstairs. She was dressed once more in her own clothes, sans tights, with one of Mrs. Wentworth’s aprons on to protect herself from spitting fat.
“Eggs, bacon, fried tomatoes, toast, the lot!” she told him. “A good Sunday breakfast to start you off.”
“Sounds good,” he said with an inward sigh of relief as he took his place at the table. He’d lain awake for a long time after going to bed, wondering whether Grace had noticed anything in the way he’d looked at her as they’d said good night, but obviously she hadn’t, and he was thankful. He didn’t want anything to spoil the camaraderie they’d enjoyed the day before.
Grace contented herself with cereal and tea. “I have to watch my weight or I’d be like a barrel,” she’d confessed the night before. Paget doubted that very much; Grace was in great physical condition. She enjoyed exercise, she told him, and mentioned that she belonged to a local walking group.
“It’s a loose-knit sort of thing,” she explained. “We encourage one another to get out and walk the hills, enjoy the countryside and keep in trim. I noticed you have hiking boots, Neil. Do you get out very much?”
“I haven’t been out for years,” he said. “Jill and I used to go, but, well, to tell you the truth, I hate hiking alone. Besides, I never seem to have the time.”
“You should come out with us one weekend,” she told him. She hadn’t pressed him, but the thought intrigued him and lingered in his mind.
Surprisingly, considering the condition of the roads, the Sunday papers arrived at their usual time, and Grace and Paget spent the morning going through them and just generally lounging about. At half past ten, Grace made coffee, and they left for town shortly after eleven. Twigs and branches littered the road, but local farmers were out in force, clearing the roads of debris with tractors and front-end loaders, and the run into town was actually quite pleasant. Trees not stripped of leaves looked fresh and clean, the sun was shining and the sky was clear, and it looked as if they might be in for a stretch of nice weather once again.
Mickey’s Garage was directly opposite St. Michael’s Church, and churchgoers’ cars were parked on both sides of the street, leaving barely enough room for Grace to drive onto the apron in front of Mickey’s Garage. The garage was supposed to be closed on Sundays, but when Paget knocked on the side door, he wasn’t at all surprised when Mickey opened it.
“Thought you might be here,” Paget greeted him. “Can’t stay away from it, can you?”
The little man shrugged. “Got nothing better to do, to tell you the truth,” he said as he stepped outside. “But I wasn’t expecting to see you till Monday. Not that it matters. Your car’s ready.” He glanced across to where Grace was waiting. “Is she with you?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Paget, and went on to explain what had happened to the pool car.
“Wouldn’t have happened if you’d had your cars done here,” Mickey declared. “But you will go with the lowest bidder, and you only get what you pay for.”
“You don’t have to convince me,” Paget told him. “If it were up to me …”
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Mickey sighed. He lowered his voice. “But who’s the bird?” he asked. “Looks like you’ve pulled a nice one there.”
“A colleague from work,” said Paget, “and she’s simply giving me a lift.”
“She’d give anybody a lift, she would,” said Mickey. “Some colleague! You should see what I’ve got for colleagues. They don’t look like that, I can tell you.”
“What do I owe you?” Paget asked to get Mickey off the subject. Grace was sitting in the car with the window down, and he was afraid she might hear Mickey’s high-pitched voice.
“Dunno,” said Mickey. “I’ll look it up tomorrow and let you know.”
“Fair enough, and thanks.”
Paget went over to where Grace was waiting. “The car is ready, so thanks again for the lift home, and—well, just everything.”
“I enjoyed it, Neil.” Grace dropped one eyelid in a slow, conspiratorial wink. “Back to ‘Chief Inspector Paget’ tomorrow,” she said with mock solemnity. She started the car. “And don’t forget the walking group. I think it would do you good to get out again. Bye.” She waved as she drove away.
Across the road, where he was waiting for Audrey and the children to come out of church before meeting friends for lunch, John Tregalles could barely contain himself. He’d maintained for some time that Grace Lovett was after Paget, but he could hardly believe his eyes when he saw her drive up to the garage, and saw Paget get out of the car. The sly old devil! How long had this been going on? he wondered. No wonder Paget had looked so embarrassed when he’d tripped over Grace and grabbed her up there in Bolen’s room the other morning.
He glanced at the time, impatient now for the service to be over. He could hardly wait to tell Audrey.
Still feeling guilty about not phoning Andrea on his return from Worcester, he tried ringing her from the car. The phone rang several times, then switched to the machine. “It’s Neil, Andrea,” he said. “Just phoned to let you know I survived the storm and made it back from Worcester despite the miserable weather. Hope your parade went off all right. Talk to you later.”
He glanced at the time. Almost twelve. He was close to the hospital, so he might as well do something useful while he was in town.
He made his way up to Starkie’s room and found a smartly dressed woman sitting by the doctor’s empty bed, thumbing through a magazine. She glanced up and smiled.
“Chief Inspector Paget,” she said as she stood up. Her smile broadened. “No, we’ve never met,” she assured him, seeing the question in his eyes, “but Reg pointed you out to me one day, and I’ve seen your picture in the paper. I’m Ellen Starkie.”
In marked contrast to her husband, Ellen Starkie was small, trim, and smartly dressed. She wore a two-piece suit, charcoal-grey with the faintest of pin-stripes, a white tailored blouse, dark stockings, and fashionable shoes. Her face was quite round beneath a fringe of blueblack hair, and there was more than a hint of the Orient in her features.
They shook hands. There was something vaguely familiar … Paget snapped his fingers. “You’re on television!” he said. “Something to do with arts and crafts? I’m afraid it’s not a programme I normally watch, but I remember seeing you occasionally on Saturday mornings.”
“‘Craftswoman’ is the name of the show,” she told him. “It’s not the sort of programme that would appeal to many men, so there’s no need to apologize. Won’t you sit down? Reg will only be a minute or two. He’s in the loo.”
“How is he?”
Ellen Starkie compressed her lips and shook her head. “I can only repeat what they keep telling me: ‘As well as can be expected, considering his general condition.’” Her eyes were steady on his face, but there was a tremor in her voice as she continued. “But as I’m sure you know, he’s not in very good condition.”
Paget nodded sympathetically.
“So much is up to Reg,” she continued. “If he does everything the doctors say he should, then there’s no reason why he can’t be back to normal within a few months. But you know Reg.”
Indeed he did. Reg Starkie was a stubborn man, and Paget couldn’t see him accepting the stringent rules that would ensure his speedy recovery. No smoking, no drinking, and regular exercise? That was not a regimen that would go down well with Starkie.
“It’s early days,” he said soothingly. “This heart attack was a warning, and I’m sure he of all people will recognize the implications, and do what must be done.”
“I hope you’re right,” she said, but her expre
ssion was one of doubt. “Still, at least he’s up and about again, and of course he’s not been able to smoke, so that’s a start.”
The door in the corner of the room opened, and Starkie came lumbering through, clutching a piece of equipment Paget always thought of as a hat-stand on wheels. One of the wheels caught on the door jamb, and Starkie muttered an oath as he wrenched it free. The whole thing swayed precariously before righting itself. The tube connecting the bag to the needle taped to his hand tightened dangerously, then fell slack once more.
“Bloody contraption,” he muttered as he started toward them. “What the hell are you two grinning at?”
Paget straightened his face. “Love your night-shirt, Reg,” he said. “Do you need any help?”
Starkie scowled and shook his head. That he was finding it hard going was evident, but he seemed determined to make it on his own. At least his colour was much better than it had been, and Paget was pleased to see the man on his feet again.
Starkie reached the bed and eased himself onto the edge. He lay back against his propped-up pillows, panting hard. His wife stood by the side of the bed and put a soothing hand on his brow. Starkie shot her a grateful glance and put his own hand over hers and patted it.
“I’m all right, now,” he told her as his breathing eased. He looked at Paget. “Slit me open from stem to gudgeon,” he said proudly, “but they tell me I’ll be doing laps around the corridors before I leave, and I should be out of here by next weekend. God! I hope they’re right. Do you know what I had for dinner last night? Guess. Go on, guess.”
Paget shook his head. “No idea,” he said. “What did you have for dinner?”
“A piece of fish you could put in your eye, and six grapes! And the fish was over-cooked! Six bloody grapes! Do you know I’ve lost nearly a stone?”
“That’s good at least,” said Paget. He turned to Ellen. “But I think six grapes is cutting it a bit fine, don’t you? Perhaps you could push it up to eight or ten when he gets home.”
“And you can bugger off home any time you please if that’s all you’ve got to say for yourself, Paget,” Starkie growled.
“I will,” Paget told him, “if you’ll bear with me for a few more minutes.” He turned to Ellen Starkie. “If you don’t mind us talking shop?”
“Not at all. I can leave …”
“No. No need for that,” he told her. He turned back to Reg. “The PM on Jim Bolen was delayed until Monday, when we finally got Dr. Martindale in from Worcester,” he said. “But by that time it was hard to establish a time of death with any degree of accuracy. On top of that, there was a problem with the tape you recorded, so what I’d like to know is this: Do you recall your own estimate of the time of death? It’s not crucial, but it would be useful if you can remember.”
Starkie nodded slowly. “Funny you should bring that up,” he said. “I was thinking of that only last night. I mentioned it on the tape, but if the tape’s no good …” He shrugged. “I remember wondering about that myself, because it looked to me as if someone had tried to make it look as if the victim had died later than he actually did. I think he was wrapped in that blanket to keep his body temperature up, and then it was taken off at the last minute and made to look as if he’d dragged it off the bed. See if the stab wounds match the bloodstains. Wrap it around the body if you have to, but that’s what it looked like to me.”
Paget didn’t like to tell him that the body had been buried the day before.
“What time was it when I examined him?” Starkie asked.
“Roughly three o’clock, but I can verify that from the reports.”
Starkie nodded thoughtfully. “In that case, my gut feeling is that he died around ten—say between nine-thirty and ten-thirty, to be on the safe side. Not that I could swear to it in court, but I think that’s pretty close. Is that any help?”
Paget nodded. “It helps a great deal,” he said. “Thanks, Reg. I appreciate it.” He turned to go, but Starkie called him back.
“If you happen to see Charlie, you might tell him it’s been a week since I had my last cigarette,” he said. “Mind you,” he grinned, lowering his voice, “I was unconscious at least half that time, but no need to mention that.”
Paget turned two thumbs up. “Which reminds me,” he said, “Charlie was wondering whether you’d throw him out if he came to see you. What should I tell him?”
Starkie scowled. “Tell him he can come if he wants to,” he said grudgingly, “but I will personally chuck him out if he turns up here saying ‘I told you so’ or bearing a bunch of bloody grapes!”
Before returning to Ashton Prior, Paget went into the office to see if anything new had turned up since Friday. There was nothing. Twenty-two people who had parked in the Tudor car-park the night Bolen was killed had been interviewed without result. Several recalled seeing the red Jaguar, but no one remembered seeing it leave or return. In short, the Bolen case seemed to have ground to a halt. Neither was there anything new on the killing of Simone, and nothing could be expected from Forensic until at least the middle of the week. People in the area had been questioned, but the cottage where Simone’s body was found was some distance from its nearest neighbour, and no one had seen or heard anything suspicious.
Paget wondered how the killer had managed to get Simone to go with him to such an isolated spot; there was nothing to indicate that she had been tied up, no traces of sticking-plaster around her mouth. Unless she’d been drugged, but if that was the case, it would show up on the autopsy report.
There was one matter still outstanding, however: Pru Bolen’s whereabouts on the night her father died. He picked up the phone and punched in a number. John Bolen answered. Paget identified himself and asked to speak to his sister.
“She’s not here, I’m afraid, Chief Inspector,” John told him. He sounded tired. “But she should be back later this afternoon. She leaves for Bristol tomorrow morning, and she promised faithfully to spend the evening with Mother. Can I give her a message?”
“Yes. Would you tell her I would like to see her before she returns to Bristol? Perhaps she could come in on her way tomorrow morning.”
“I see. Can I tell her what it’s about?”
“It’s just routine, really,” Paget told him. “I doubt if Miss Bolen will be able to tell us anything new, but we would like a statement from her before she leaves. Shall we say nine o’clock tomorrow morning? I shan’t keep her long, so there will be plenty of time left for her run to Bristol.”
John Bolen put the phone down and sat there frowning as he tried to think why Paget would want to talk to Pru. What did she have to do with the investigation into their father’s death? Still, he’d pass on the message and see what sort of reaction he got.
He was annoyed with her himself. Pru never stayed home, never offered to help, just breezed in and out whenever she pleased. No doubt she would be with Malone again. The man had her hypnotized. If Pru wanted to sleep with him, that was one thing, but he hoped she would have enough sense not to marry him. John and his father hadn’t seen eye to eye on many things, but they had agreed on that. He sighed heavily.
“That was a big sigh, John.” He looked up. His mother stood in the doorway watching him. “Problems?” she asked. “Anything I can do?”
He shook his head. “No, thank you, Mother. Just thinking. That was Paget; he wants to talk to Pru. Any idea why?”
“No. Didn’t he say?”
“No. He’s not the sort to give much away.”
Laura nodded, but her mind seemed to be on other things as she moved closer to her son. “I want you to know, John, that I do appreciate all the time you’ve spent here helping me through this ghastly business. I don’t know what I would have done without you.” She stood before him and took his face between her hands. “I do love you, John,” she continued in a low voice, “and I would never do anything to hurt you. I truly believe that what I am doing is best for everyone.”
John looked puzzled as he took his mot
her’s hands in his. “Only too happy to be here to help,” he said, “but I don’t understand what—”
But Laura drew away. “It will be all right, John, you’ll see,” she said soothingly. Her voice changed. “Now, why don’t you get off and spend some time with Linda and her parents? The poor girl will be wondering if you’re having second thoughts after meeting them.”
“But …”
“No ‘buts,’” said his mother firmly. “Now, be off with you. I have things to do.”
Bunny handed Vikki the mirror and said, “Take a look. Makes a difference, doesn’t it?”
Vikki looked into the mirror and could hardly believe that the face looking back at her could be her own reflection. The pinched, thin face of a child, framed by long, straggly fair hair of a week ago, had been replaced by that of a young woman with colour in her cheeks and a mop of dark curls. The bruises were still there beneath the make-up, but they were no longer obvious.
Her eyes sparkled. “It’s great!” she told Bunny. “Did you used to be a hairdresser?”
Bunny began to gather up the curlers and put them in a bag. “There’s not all that much to it,” she said, avoiding the question. She stood back and surveyed her handiwork with a critical eye. “You do look different,” she went on, “and it’s not just the hair and make-up. I don’t know what it is, but you’re not the same girl who came here last week. Go outside and see what Joanna thinks.”
Vikki took the towel from around her shoulders. “Thanks, Bunny,” she said softly. “I wish I could pay you. But I will one day, you’ll see.”
Bunny smiled, and wondered if that included the money Vikki had stolen from her the other night. It hadn’t amounted to much—a few pennies, that was all—but it meant Vikki couldn’t be trusted, and that was a shame because she liked the girl.