by Frank Smith
Peter Trowbridge was working on a stuck ventilator in one of the greenhouses. He was a small man, slim and wiry, with a weathered face that made it hard to judge his age. He could have been anything from thirty-five to fifty.
“Chief Inspector, eh?” he said when Paget introduced himself. “From Broadminster. Sounds serious,” he added with a nervous laugh. “What am I supposed to have done?”
“Nothing, as far as I’m aware,” said Paget. “I’m here because Mark Malone gave me your name. You’re a friend of his, I understand?”
Trowbridge frowned. “Mark? Yes, I know Mark. Why? Is he in trouble?”
Before Paget could reply, a slim, sharp-featured woman carrying a hanging basket of bedraggled, half-dead flowers, came through the door. “Ah, there you are, Peter,” she said, “what do you want doing with these?” She flashed Paget a smile and said, “Sorry to interrupt, but I do need to know. There are six more baskets like this one, and we can’t possibly sell them.”
“Take them round the back and leave them, Sheila,” Trowbridge told her. “I’ll see to them later.”
The woman began to turn away, but Paget stopped her. “Excuse me, but are you Mrs. Trowbridge?”
She turned back and looked at him, frowning slightly. “Yes?” The answer was a question as she looked from Paget to her husband and back again.
“This is Chief Inspector Paget from … Broadminster,” said Trowbridge, emphasizing Paget’s title. “But there’s no need for you to stay, Sheila. I can take care of it.”
“No, please stay,” said Paget. “I’m going to have to talk to both of you in any case, so this will save time in the long run.” He turned back to Peter Trowbridge. “Can you confirm that Mr. Malone stayed with you the night of Saturday, September twenty-third?”
But before the man could answer, his wife spoke up. “What’s this all about?” she asked sharply. “What has this got to do with the police?” She set the basket on the ground and folded her arms.
“We are investigating the murder of James Bolen on that night,” Paget told her, “and Mr. Malone is helping us with out enquiries.”
“Helping you with your enquiries?” The woman’s eyes narrowed as she looked past Paget at her husband. “You told me this had to do with Ronnie and some other girl who’d turned up unexpectedly,” she said. “But this sounds serious, and I don’t intend to lie for him if he’s involved in murder, even if he is your friend.”
“He’s not up for murder,” her husband snapped, then looked at Paget. “Is he?”
But Paget avoided the question. “Am I to take it that Mark Malone was not here on that night?”
Sheila gave an emphatic shake of her head. “He left here about seven. He said he had to get back to his precious Ronnie. Then he phoned Peter the next day to ask him to back him up if some girl should ring to find out if he’d stayed here overnight. Said he was in a bit of a bind with one of his women, and he’d had to say he’d stayed here with us that night. I didn’t want any part of it, but Peter has known Mark for a long time and said he couldn’t see the harm.” The woman snorted as she gave her husband a withering look. “And now it turns out he’s mixed up in murder,” she ended. She picked up the basket and was about to leave, but Paget stopped her.
“Just one more question, Mrs. Trowbridge, before you go. Tell me, who is Ronnie?”
“Be with you in a minute,” said Malone. “I want to get these trees moved first.”
“Leave them,” Paget told him brusquely. “I’ve wasted enough time because of your lies, Malone, and unless I get some straight answers from you now, you could be facing charges of obstruction.”
Malone scowled and wiped his hands on a rag. “I’ll be in the office if anyone is looking for me,” he called to one of the girls. He led the way into the office and closed the door. “All right,” he said, “what is it this time?”
“Where were you the night Jim Bolen was killed?” Paget demanded. “And I must warn you I’ve just come back from Shrewsbury, where your friends state categorically that you did not stay with them that night, but returned to Broadminster in the early evening.”
Malone grimaced. “Seems like you can’t trust anyone these days,” he observed. “Not even your friends.”
Paget waited.
Malone sat down behind the desk and leaned back in his chair. “What else could I do?” he asked. “I’d already told Prudence that I was in Shrewsbury, so I couldn’t change my story when you came round, now could I?”
Paget grunted. “You could have saved me and yourself a lot of trouble if you’d told the truth,” he snapped. “I really don’t care what you told Miss Bolen. So, were you with Veronica Beresford, as your friends say?”
“Bastards!” Malone said softly. “I’ll bet it was Sheila who told you, wasn’t it?” Paget remained silent, and Malone heaved a sigh of resignation. “Yes, I was with Ronnie,” he said. “Trevor was away, so I went over there when I got back from Shrewsbury, and stayed the night. I had a hell of a shock when I came back next morning and found Prudence had been in the house all night. I had to think of something, so I told her I’d just driven down from Shrewsbury.”
“What time did you get to the Beresford house?”
“Somewhere around nine; I can’t be sure exactly.”
“And you remained there? You didn’t go out again?”
Malone seemed to be amused by the question. “Why should we?” he asked. “We had everything we needed right there.”
“And Mrs. Beresford will swear to that, will she?”
“As long as you don’t ask her in front of Trevor, she will, yes.”
Paget eyed him for a long moment before opening the door. “We’ll see,” he said grimly, “and if you’re lying to me this time, I don’t think you’ll find it quite so amusing.”
“Harry should be home any minute now,” said Dee nervously as she looked at her watch again. “He told me this morning that he wouldn’t be late back. Would you like more tea, Sergeant?”
“Perhaps half a cup,” Tregalles told her.
“And a piece more cherry cake?”
“It’s very good,” Tregalles said as he took another piece. “Is it your own recipe, Mrs. Bolen?”
“Well, no, not exactly, but I do put just a touch of lemon in mine. I think it adds a little something, don’t you?”
“It does indeed,” Tregalles agreed.
The sound of tyres crunching on the gravel drive announced the arrival of Harry Bolen. Tregalles could see him through the window, getting out of the same Isuzu Trooper he had seen outside Laura Bolen’s house the week before. Harry paused to look at Tregalles’s car, then disappeared from view.
“He comes in the back,” Dee explained. “Takes his boots off and has a bit of a wash before he comes through. He’ll only be a couple of minutes. I’ll tell him you’re here.”
Dee hurried from the room, and Tregalles sat back in the chair, enjoying his second generous slice of cake.
Thankfully, this was the last call of the day. He hoped that Harry Bolen was in a better mood than his nephew, John, had been, or, for that matter, Keith Lambert. Both of them had resented the implication that they might have had something to do with the death of a prostitute last Tuesday night. Understandable if both were innocent. Laura Bolen, on the other hand, had shown almost no emotion, seemingly disinterested in why he was asking questions, and answering them with an air of weary resignation.
The trouble was, thought Tregalles, he couldn’t see that he was any farther ahead. John Bolen said he’d been at his mother’s house until roughly eight o’clock, and then had gone round to see his fiancée. “It had been a long day, and I was tired,” he told the sergeant, “so I left Linda’s about ten-thirty and went straight home and went to bed.”
Keith Lambert said he’d had dinner at home with his mother, after which his mother retired early while he spent the rest of the evening working before going to bed himself around midnight. “So if you’re looking for a
n alibi, Sergeant,” he’d concluded, “I’m afraid you’re out of luck.” As for Laura Bolen, she said she’d gone to bed shortly after John had left the house.
And when he’d checked their cars, none of them had blue upholstery.
Tregalles set his cup aside and stood up as Harry Bolen entered the room.
“Sergeant … Tregalles, is it?” he said. “What brings you here?”
“Just one or two questions, Mr. Bolen. Shouldn’t take long.”
“Might as well sit down anyway,” said Harry hospitably as he dropped into a deep armchair. “Rough day. Too much work and not enough time.” He draped one stockinged foot across his other knee, and rested his head against the plump cushioned back of the chair.
“Can you tell me where you were last Tuesday evening?” the sergeant said as he sat down again. “From, say, nine o’clock on?”
Harry frowned and looked up at the ceiling as if searching for an answer there. “Tuesday?” he repeated slowly. “Why the devil do you want to know that?”
“A young woman was picked up that evening and killed later that night, and we believe there may be a connection between her death and that of your brother.”
Harry brought his gaze down from the ceiling and regarded Tregalles levelly. “And you think that I had something to do with it?” he asked softly. Tregalles didn’t answer. Harry shook his head from side to side as if to say he couldn’t believe what he was hearing, then gave a sigh of resignation. “All right,” he said, “Tuesday. I was down at the office that night, as I was most nights last week.”
“How long were you there, sir?”
“Seven till about eleven or twelve.” Harry shrugged. “Something like that.” His brow creased in concentration. “I think Dee was still awake when I came in; you can ask her if you like.”
“Was there anyone in the office with you?”
“Not.”
“No cleaners who might have seen you? Anything like that?”
“Not.”
“Do you have any sort of sign-in log when you go in after hours? Any security people?”
“No. I told you, I was alone.”
“I see.”
“What does that mean—‘I see’?”
Tregalles drew in his breath. “Well, it does make it a bit difficult to verify what you’ve told me, doesn’t it, sir? Did you speak to anyone on the telephone? Take any calls while you were there?”
“No.”
“Do you have another car, beside the Trooper?”
“The Trooper belongs to the firm,” Harry said tersely. “My own car is a Granada, but I don’t see what that—”
“The colour, sir? Inside and out?”
The muscles around Harry Bolen’s mouth tightened. “Are you trying to wind me up, Sergeant?” he asked bluntly.
“No, sir. There are good reasons for my questions.”
“But you don’t intend telling me what they are. Is that it, Sergeant?”
“Something like that,” Tregalles said. “The colours, sir?”
“The Granada is a creamy brown or beige, whatever you like to call it, and the seats are tan.”
“Thank you, sir.” Tregalles jotted a note in his book. “Does your wife have a car?”
Harry snorted. “Oh, my God! What the hell has Dee’s car got to do with anything?” he demanded.
“If you would just tell me the make and colour of her car, sir, I’ll be on my way.”
“It’s a Fiesta; blue outside and blue inside,” Harry said testily. “Now, is that it?” He rose to his feet.
“Just one more thing,” said Tregalles as he put away his notebook and stood up. “Could I take a look at your wife’s car, sir?”
Paget was still in the office when Tregalles reported in. “Run that by me one more time,” he said.
“Mrs. Harry Bolen’s car has blue seats, and there are several lengths of yellow nylon rope in the boot. Mr. Bolen tells me the rope is in common use around the works yard, and I found more of it in the Trooper he normally drives at work. But he can offer no proof of where he was last Tuesday evening, and when I asked his wife if she could verify what time he came in, and where she was that night, she burst into tears and refused to talk to me. I’d say it’s at least worth a look, sir.”
“Right. Are they prepared to allow the car to be examined, or will it require a warrant?”
“In Harry Bolen’s words, sir, I can do what I bloody well like with the friggin’ car if it will get me off his back.”
“In that case, stay there until someone comes to bring it in. Oh, yes, and while I think of it, I checked Malone’s car while I was out there. It’s a green Escort with vinyl seats.”
“Good. Saves me a trip tomorrow. Thanks. Now, what about Mr. and Mrs. Bolen? Would you like them in for questioning as well?”
“Do you have anything other than the car and the rope?”
“No, not really, but I have the distinct feeling that he’s not telling me everything.”
Paget hesitated. “Let’s wait until we get the results back from Forensic. Then we’ll see.”
It was nine-thirty when he drove into the car-park outside the pub. There were two overhead lights near the entrance, but he made for the far end where trees blocked the light and the shadows were deepest. He got out and walked slowly past the lighted windows, scanning the rooms within. He looked into the lounge, then moved on to where he could see the bar. That was where she’d be, assuming Simone had told him the truth, and he was sure she had. He’d told her he’d cut her face if he thought she was lying.
He took his time, looking at every car to make sure no one was watching before taking a telephone from his pocket and flipping it open. He checked the number he’d taken from the book in the library, and dialled. One of the windows was ajar, and he could hear the phone behind the bar ringing above the general murmur of voices. He watched as a stocky, heavy-set man picked it up.
“Invisible Man,” he announced brusquely.
“I’d like to speak to Joanna.”
“Hold on.”
So, Simone hadn’t lied to him. Good!
The man moved along the bar to where a woman was serving. She was a big woman, dark, attractive. The man said something to her, and she nodded. She walked to the end of the bar and picked up the phone. “Hello? Who’s this?” she said.
He flipped the phone down and slipped it into his pocket. Now that he knew what she looked like, he would wait for her to leave. If his sense of direction was right, the canal should be behind the pub, which meant that Joanna would probably leave by the back door. He looked at his watch again. Plenty of time to have a look round before closing time.
He circled the pub. A path led toward the trees, but he decided against further explorations until later. He returned to the car, where he waited and watched as people began to leave in ones and twos. He checked the time; still a good half hour till closing time. It was starting to rain.
He left the car and took another look through the window to make sure that Joanna was still there. The bar was almost empty, and she was gathering up glasses and emptying ashtrays. A young woman entered through a door at the back, her face hidden by the hood of a plastic mac. She took it off and shook it out, then looked round for somewhere to hang it.
“Over there,” he heard Joanna say, pointing to a hook behind the door. She looked at the clock over the bar. “You’re early, Vikki,” she observed. “Trying to impress George, are you?”
Vikki! He sucked in his breath. He hadn’t recognized her at first. She looked different with dark hair. Healthier, too; not at all like the girl he’d approached in Cresswell Street, and nothing like the way she’d looked when he had last seen her, bruised and bloodied by his fists. And unconscious—or so he had believed at the time.
He felt a twinge of regret, but brushed it aside. After all, it was the girl’s own fault. If she had played the part he had planned for her, none of this would have happened.
He returned to the ca
r. Time to move to a less conspicuous place; time to get ready. He drove out of the car-park. He didn’t want to be the last to leave and have someone remember the car.
CHAPTER 27
WEDNESDAY, 4 OCTOBER
Rutherford Hill was considered the highest point in Broadminster, although strictly speaking it lay just beyond the south-west boundary of the town. The highest point, not only topographically, but socially, for this was where the people with real money lived. Originally owned by the Rutherfords for more than two hundred years, the land had gradually slipped into the public domain as the Rutherford fortunes declined. Now, winding tree-lined streets connected the modern equivalent of country estates, their manicured lawns and floral gardens screened from public view by walls of brick or stone.
Sunlight filtered through an arch of trees, dappling the roads as Paget made his way to Lansdowne Lane. Leaves and small branches brought down by the storm on the weekend had been swept to one side and lay in neat piles ready to be taken away.
Number 700 Lansdowne. Open gates and a wide curving drive that led to the house: mock Tudor, two storeys, gabled roof-line. It was charming in its way, with its leaded windows, beneath which stood white-painted tubs brimming with late-blooming flowers against a background of dark timbers. Even the window-boxes outside the upstairs windows overflowed with flowers and trailing vines.
But it was too set, a bit too much. What was the word Jill used to use? Twee, that was it. It reminded Paget of a country pub rather than a country house, and the home of the Beresfords.
Veronica Beresford was expecting him and answered the door herself. She greeted him pleasantly enough, but her manner was somewhat distant and aloof. She was a beautiful woman, elegant, suave, and stylish, and at least twenty years younger than her husband, who, Paget knew, having looked him up, was well over fifty.