by Frank Smith
Malone smiled tightly. “Perfectly,” he said. “But it is very hard to be in two places at once, and as I told you, I was in Shrewsbury from three o’clock Saturday afternoon until Sunday morning. I had no idea that Prudence was here until I arrived back around ten, so I’m afraid I can’t help you.”
“Where were you last Tuesday evening?”
“Tuesday? What … ? I don’t understand.”
“It’s not exactly complicated,” said Paget. “Where were you last Tuesday evening?”
Malone scratched his head. “What time?”
“Let’s say from nine o’clock on.”
“I’ll have to check my book, but I think that was the night I made a delivery to the Spencers in Clunbridge.” Malone dug out a tattered book from among a pile of papers on his desk and thumbed through it. “Yes, here it is. Six blue spruce and eight Katsuras.” He showed Paget the entry.
“How long were you out there, and what time did you get back?”
“I left here about seven, and I was out there by half past. Spencer gave me a hand unloading the trees, and we carried them round to where he intends to plant them. We discussed his plans for other parts of his garden, and then we went inside for a drink.”
“And you left there when?”
“Around ten, I should think, but you can check with Spencer if you like.” Malone was visibly annoyed. “Look,” he said, rising to his feet, “I’ve had enough of this, and I have work to do. In case you hadn’t noticed, we had a storm the other day, and I’ve lost almost half my stock.”
“Yes, I did notice.” Paget remained seated. “Tell me, are you the owner or the manager here?”
Malone hesitated as if searching for some hidden significance to Paget’s question. “I’m the manager,” he said. “This nursery is part of the Beresford chain. I work for Trevor Beresford. He owns Lyndwood Farm as well.”
“Right,” said Paget. “In that case, if you’ll give me the address and telephone number of Mr. Spencer, as well as that of Mr. and Mrs. Trowbridge, I’ll be on my way. But let me know if you intend to leave Broadminster, because I feel quite sure I shall need to talk to you again.”
CHAPTER 25
“John, I phoned to let you know I’m driving down to Hereford today to see Bert Cox,” said Laura. “I telephoned, and he’s expecting me. As I told you after the funeral, your Great-Aunt Emily Lambert said Bert Cox was there the day your grandfather fell from the scaffold, and she suggested that I talk to him. I know it won’t do any good now, but I’d like to know once and for all what really happened. Your father spent his life blaming Keith for it, and I want to know the truth.”
“How did you find out where he lives?”
“I rang Emily, and she told me that he lives with his daughter in Hereford, a Mrs. Leacock. I rang Mrs. Leacock, and she spoke to her father—he’s in a wheelchair now—and he’s agreed to see me. She sounds like a nice person; she invited me to lunch.”
“Thanks for letting me know, Mother.” John Bolen looked at the digital clock on his desk. “When do you expect to be back?”
“Oh, I don’t expect to be all that long. Probably by tea-time. Don’t worry, I haven’t forgotten that you’re bringing Linda’s parents over here this evening.”
“Actually, I was about to ring you to tell you they won’t be coming,” said John. “Linda phoned a few minutes ago to tell me that her father found out last night that he’d made a mistake in the date of the golf tournament he’s playing in. He thought it was Thursday, but apparently it’s tomorrow, so they are going back today. They came down by train, but since Linda had already arranged to have the week off in order to spend more time with her parents, she’s going to take them back by car and stay there until the weekend. It will be a bit of a holiday for her as well. You’ll just have to meet them some other time.”
“Oh, dear. I am sorry, John. I should have liked to have met them. I’ve been meaning to ask how you were getting along with them, but I keep forgetting.”
“Her mum’s all right, but I’ll tell you, I don’t want to hear another word about fly-fishing or golf for a long, long time. Her dad’s a nut on both.”
Laura laughed. “Give my love to Linda, if you are talking to her again before she leaves,” she told him, “and wish them all a safe journey for me. Bye, John.”
“Goodbye, Mother. Take care.”
“You found us all right, then,” Emma Leacock greeted Laura as she ushered her into the house. “Do come through. Dad’s in the sunroom at the back. Likes the warmth, does Dad.”
Emma Leacock was a buxom woman of about fifty. She had a round face and a double chin that wobbled when she talked. She led the way to the back of the house, where a small, white-haired man sat dozing in a wheelchair.
“It’s Mrs. Bolen, Dad,” the woman said loudly; then to Laura, “You have to speak up. He’s going deaf but he won’t have a hearing aid.”
“I heard that, Emma,” the old man said, opening his eyes. “I hear a lot more than you think.” A broad smile took the sting out of his words. He cocked his head to one side as he looked at Laura. “You were just a lass when I saw you last,” he said, “but you haven’t changed.”
“Now that is flattery.” Laura smiled. “But I’m afraid I can’t recall the occasion.”
Bert Cox shook his head. “You wouldn’t remember,” he told her. “You and Jim hadn’t long been married. My, but you were a pretty one. Jim was a lucky lad.” The smile left his face. “I heard what happened, and I’m sorry. Don’t know what things are coming to these days.”
“Sit down, Mrs. Bolen,” his daughter said, “and I’ll put the kettle on. It’s just soup and a few sandwiches, if that’s all right?”
“That would be lovely,” Laura said, “but you needn’t have bothered, really.”
“It’s no trouble,” Emma told her. “It’s not often anyone comes to see Dad these days, so it’s a bit of an occasion.” She disappeared inside.
The old man eyed Laura shrewdly. “And what brings you all this way to talk to an old cripple like me?” he asked.
Laura met his gaze. “Accident?” she asked.
“Osteo,” he said. “Lifted too many bricks in my time and I’m paying for it now.”
Laura nodded sympathetically. “The reason I came down,” she said, “was to ask you about the day Jim’s father died. Emily Lambert told me at the funeral that you were there that day, and it was she who suggested that I talk to you.”
Bert Cox looked off into the distance. “Jack Bolen,” he mused. “I thought it might have something to do with that.”
“Were you there? Did you see what happened?”
“Oh, I was there all right,” Cox said, “and it happened more or less the way they said at the inquest.”
“More or less?”
Cox used his elbows to ease himself up in the wheelchair. A stab of pain made him wince. “Let me help,” said Laura, half-rising from her chair.
“No, thanks just the same, but it’s best if I do it,” he told her, shaking his head. “Ah, that’s better.” The tense muscles in his face relaxed as he turned his attention once more to Laura.
“It was an accident,” he said slowly, “but it was Jack’s own fault. He was always playing silly buggers, was Jack, if you’ll pardon my French. Always showing off, and the biggest slacker we ever had. If his name hadn’t been Jack Bolen, he’d have never got on in the first place.”
Laura looked puzzled. “I don’t understand,” she said. “According to Jim, his father was one of the best workers Lambert ever had. He always claimed that the inquest was a farce, and he was convinced that it was Keith Lambert who was responsible for Jack’s death.”
Cox waved a dismissive hand. “And who do you think fed Jim that load of rubbish?” he demanded. “Jack himself, that’s who. And Jim’s mum, my sister Mary. She thought the sun shone out of Jack’s backside, and nobody could tell her different.”
He shook his head. “No, take it from me, Jac
k was a no-good layabout who’d run a mile before he’d put in a decent day’s work. But talk? By God, he could talk! And it was always about himself. He thought he was cleverer than anyone else, but he wasn’t so clever that day, I can tell you, and if you ask me he got what he deserved!”
Laura sat back, shocked at the vehemence of the old man’s words. She’d never known Jim’s father; everything she’d ever heard about him had come from Jim. Even Harry had never really talked about his father.
Bert Cox leaned forward in his chair, anxious now to have her understand. “See, young Keith was working up there on the scaffold with Jack that day. Old Sam, Keith’s dad, wanted the lad to get to know the building trade from the ground up, so he had him labouring. But Keith was deathly scared of heights, and Jack knew it. He was a mean bastard, was Jack. He made that kid’s life miserable. But I’ll give Keith his due; he could have complained to his father, and Jack would have had his cards. But he didn’t. He stuck it out.
“But this particular day, Jack was showing off and daring Keith to do the same. Jack would hold on to one of the metal uprights of the scaffold—like pipes they were—then swing himself out into space, holding on with just one hand, and land back on the platform again. It’s not all that hard to do, and some of the lads would do it if they saw some bit of skirt watching them from down below. But Jack would dare Keith to do it, and call him a coward if he didn’t.”
The old man sat back in the chair. “But Jack did it once too often. He swung out all right, but lost his grip and that was it. Fell straight down and broke his back on a pile of bricks. Keith was nowhere near him.”
Laura closed her eyes. She found it almost impossible to believe that Bert Cox could be talking about the same man whose memory her husband had revered all his life. Yet what would the old man have to gain by lying? And why had he not said something at the time? She put the question to him.
“It seemed like the best thing to do at the time,” he said soberly. “Jack’s wife, my sister Mary, wasn’t well; we didn’t know it at the time but she was dying of leukemia, and she wouldn’t have believed it if I had told her how it happened. Neither would young Jim. And then there was Jack’s sister, Emily. It was she who persuaded Sam Lambert to take her brother on, and it was mainly due to her that he stayed on. She was there when I told Sam what I saw, but she told me to keep it to myself; she said the family had suffered enough, and there was no need to show Jack up for what he was now that he was dead. So I stayed out of it. I was never called as a witness, so it went down as an accidental death, which it was.”
Bert Cox wheeled his chair forward and put his hand on Laura’s arm. “I’m sorry if I’ve upset you,” he said softly. “I didn’t mean to, but you did ask me. And my keeping out of it never did any harm. Like I said, it was an accident.”
Never did any harm. Laura didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Never did any harm, indeed! All those years of hatred. All those years …
The only reason I married you was to get my own back on Keith.
Jim had hurt her in so many different ways over the years, but with those words he had killed the last remnants of her love for him. So many wasted years.
“Ah, here we are, then,” said Emma Leacock as she came bustling in. “Everybody ready for lunch, then, after your nice chat?”
Driving home that evening, Paget couldn’t get the image of Simone’s distorted features out of his mind. Had she known, he wondered, where Julia Rutledge had gone? Even more importantly, had she told her killer? It was one thing to lie to the police, but it was quite another to remain silent when you were fighting for your life.
The results of the PM had come in that afternoon. Asphyxia by ligature, Martindale had said in his precise way. Her windpipe had been crushed beneath the pressure of a heavy-gauge yellow nylon rope, fibres of which had been found embedded in her neck. There were cuts on her face, and deep scratches on her neck where she’d tried to get her fingers under the rope. Two fingernails were broken, and there were traces of her own skin and blood beneath the rest. There were bruises on her legs, which could have been made as she struggled to free herself, but there was nothing to indicate she had been tied up.
Martindale went on to say he’d found traces of short blue fibres in Simone’s hair, neck, and clothing, which suggested to him that Simone had been strangled while sitting in a car, and the fibres were from the upholstery. There were bruises on the back of her head, which could have come from contact with a head-rest, and the bruises on her shins were consistent with what he’d expect to find if someone was thrashing about in the front seat of a car.
With any luck at all, thought Paget, Forensic would be able to identify the fibres, perhaps identify the fabric itself, and if they were really lucky, match it to a particular make of car. Charlie’s people had found two sets of tyre tracks next to the gate, but neither they nor the upholstery fibres would be of any value unless they found the car itself. As for where the body was found, the location had probably been chosen because of its isolation and proximity to town, but Paget had told Ormside to find out who owned the cottage and whether there was any connection—no matter how remote—to any of the suspects in Jim Bolen’s murder.
Estimating the time of death had been tricky, Martindale said, but in his opinion, Simone had died between ten o‘clock on Tuesday evening, which was when she was last seen by her friends, and one o’clock Wednesday morning. Tomorrow, Tregalles would be checking on the whereabouts of everyone connected to the case, as well as looking at their cars, but Paget was very much afraid that unless they found Julia Rutledge very soon, she, too, would become a victim.
Dark clouds had been creeping in all afternoon, and it began to rain as he entered Ashton Prior. A sudden gust of wind blew leaves across the windscreen, and it reminded him of the storm on Saturday, and the wild ride home in Grace’s car.
He’d enjoyed their time together. It was as if her presence in the house had made it come alive, and even though she had been there such a short time, he was going to remember her cheerful smile and gentle laugh, to say nothing of the pleasant conversation.
He recalled Grace’s invitation to join the hiking group, and the more he thought about it the more the idea of exploring the countryside with her group appealed to him. Perhaps Andrea would enjoy it, too. He’d have to ask her.
He arrived at the house and went inside. It sounded hollow and empty again, not at all the way it had sounded when he and Grace had stumbled inside, soaking wet and chilled to the bone. He shrugged off his coat and began to climb the stairs, then abruptly changed his mind and came back down again.
He picked up the phone and punched in Andrea’s number.
Andrea answered on the first ring. “Neil. What a nice surprise. I got your message and I’ve been meaning to ring you back, but we’ve been rushed off our feet since the storm and I’ve hardly had a minute to myself. How are you after your horrible trip back?”
“Fine, thanks,” he told her, “now that I’ve had a chance to dry out. How was the parade?”
“It went off very well, but we were lucky the storm didn’t hit until after it was all over. Unfortunately, all the afternoon events were washed out, but that’s the way it goes some years.”
“What are you doing next Saturday?”
The question came out without conscious thought, and it seemed to catch Andrea by surprise. There was a pause, then, “Morning, afternoon, or evening?” she asked.
“Well, depending on your schedule, any of the above, but I was wondering if you would like to go out to dinner?”
“That sounds wonderful, but I’ll have to make sure that Mrs. Ansell’s free. Can I get back to you?”
“Of course.”
“Good. I’ll call you, then.”
“Fine.” Paget was about to say goodbye, when a thought occurred to him. “Tell me,” he said, “do you like hiking, Andrea? Tramping the hills? That sort of thing?”
Andrea gave a short laugh. “Much rather g
o on horseback,” she told him. “Why?”
“Oh, no reason,” he told her. “Just happened to be thinking about it today, that’s all.”
“I’m sorry, but we’ll be closing in fifteen minutes,” the woman warned. The man had been there for more than an hour, studying books and making notes, but now he seemed lost in thought.
He looked at her and smiled. “That’s all right,” he told her pleasantly, “I think I have all I need.” He began to gather up the books around him and was about to pick them up, when the librarian stopped him. “Just leave them there,” she told him. “We like to put them back ourselves.”
He nodded his thanks and bade the woman good night.
Parkinson Arm, indeed! Had Simone deliberately tried to mislead him? Not that it mattered now. There was no doubt in his mind that he had found what he wanted. And he felt quite sure Simone had given him the woman’s right name. She’d had no time to make one up; he’d seen to that.
Joanna.
Tomorrow, he promised himself as he left the library. Now that he was on the right track, the sooner he followed it up, the better.
The librarian began to pick up the books, pausing for a moment to look at the titles. Waterways of England; A History of Canals; From Horse-drawn Barge to Narrow-boat, Public Houses of Great Britain; Cotswold Country; and one of their older copies of the Ordinance Survey Atlas of Great Britain. It was nice to see someone taking an interest in such subjects. She hoped the man had found what he was looking for.
CHAPTER 26
TUESDAY, 3 OCTOBER
As Paget drove north on the A49, there was evidence everywhere of the damage done by Saturday’s storm. Gaping white wounds where huge limbs had been torn from trees, water lying in the fields, and the road littered with debris. Work crews, repairing damage to a washed-out culvert, held him up for twenty minutes, so it was after ten by the time he found Lyndwood Farm on the outskirts of Shrewsbury.