by Frank Smith
“Was she injured in any other way?” Paget asked.
Marshall nodded. “Severe bruising around the throat, and she had received a blow to the side of the head. That doesn’t seem to have caused any serious damage, but only time will tell. She was conscious throughout most of the examination.”
“Did she say anything? Anything that might help us find who did this to her?”
“No. She was still somewhat disoriented, and it was hard for her to talk at all after being half strangled, as she was, so I’m afraid I can’t help you there. However, perhaps you can help me. All I have on my record is the name ‘Bunny.’ She gave me that herself, but I couldn’t get a surname from her. Do you know her full name?”
“No. I’m afraid I don’t know any more than you do.”
Marshall sighed. “In that case we’ll have to give her one or the computer won’t accept it,” he said. “Let’s see, now, is it going to be Smith, Jones, or Brown? Ah, yes,” he said, answering his own question, “it has to be Brown, doesn’t it? Bunny Brown—Brown Bunny. Do you think she’ll like that?”
CHAPTER 30
THURSDAY, 5 OCTOBER
“ … Doctor would only say that the young woman who was attacked and almost drowned in a canal last night is in serious but stable condition, and will remain under close supervision for the next twenty-four hours. The identity of the young woman is still unknown.
“The police are still looking for Julia Rutledge, also known as Vikki Lane. Rutledge is seventeen years of age, and when last seen, had altered her appearance, and is now believed to have short dark hair …”
He switched the television off. Not Vikki? The young woman he had almost killed was not Vikki? No! It wasn’t possible; they must have it wrong. Unless … He closed his eyes and tried to think. Just suppose for a moment that the girl in the hospital really was Vikki, but the police wanted him to think she was still at large. What would be the point?
He smiled grimly to himself. It was obvious, wasn’t it? They wanted him to think that Vikki was still on the run and have him chasing all over the countryside looking for her, while she was safely tucked away in hospital.
The question was: How much did she know? And how much had she told them already? One thing was certain: After last night’s botched attempt, they would be much more likely to believe her story about being set up for the Bolen murder.
On the other hand, without her they had nothing. He got up and began to pace.
On the plus side, the very fact that she had remained hidden on the boat suggested that she had been afraid to go to the police for fear they wouldn’t believe her story. And why should they, with all that evidence against her? Perhaps he was mistaken in thinking that she had seen his face. Perhaps she had been unconscious all the time and he had nothing to fear.
But he couldn’t afford to take that chance.
He sat down and bent forward, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. That damned girl! She had ruined a perfect plan. If it hadn’t been for her … He stared at the floor with unseeing eyes, thinking hard.
“Yes!” he whispered fiercely as he raised his head. It could still be done. And this time he’d make absolutely sure there was no one there to save her life.
Vikki sniffed and wiped her nose on her sleeve. She had spent a miserable night huddled between bales of hay stacked high in an open-sided shed. She’d made a bed of loose hay and burrowed into it, but it was no match for wet clothes and the chill of an October morning, and she was cold and stiff and hungry when she awoke.
The hay shed was in the middle of an open hillside, overlooked by a farmhouse at the top of the hill, and bordered by fences on two sides and the road below. Vikki heard the sound of voices and cautiously raised her head above the bales. A man and a woman chatted in desultory fashion as they crossed the yard and entered a stone shed. A large black dog sat on the farmhouse steps, yawning and surveying the world. She ducked down again. The last thing she needed was a dog sniffing around.
Vikki groaned aloud. The sun had yet to show itself above the eastern horizon, but the sky was crystal-clear. She’d planned to be on her way before daylight, but if she moved now she was almost bound to be seen. And the police would be looking for her, so she daren’t venture out on the road.
She couldn’t stop shivering. She reached out to pull more hay around herself, and uncovered the wheel of the bike she had borrowed last night.
Stolen, a small voice said inside her head. Vikki drew her knees up to her chin and rested her head on them. She hadn’t meant to steal the bike, but she had to put as much distance between herself and her pursuers, so when she saw it sitting there along with several others in a builder’s yard in Longford Marsh, it had seemed like a gift from heaven.
Like Joanna’s horse.
She heard the sound of a car. Vikki raised her head and watched the bend in the road, waiting for it to appear … and drew back when it did.
Police! And they were looking for her. Why else would they be on a small country road at this time in the morning? The car drifted by and disappeared around the next bend. Vikki flopped back in the hay and stared up at the sky.
She was trapped … and she couldn’t stop shivering.
Mark Malone slid down in his seat as the blue Mercedes came out of the driveway and turned toward town. Good. Trevor was driving and he was alone. He glanced at the time. Twenty past nine.
He’d been waiting there in the tree-lined street for more than an hour, waiting for Trevor to go so he could have it out with Ronnie. What the hell she thought she was playing at he didn’t know, but the one thing he did know was that she had better change her story or he would personally make sure that Trevor found out what sort of wife he had. See how she liked that!
He started the car and drove slowly along the street. No one was about as he turned in and drove up the curving drive and stopped in front of the house.
A woman answered the door. She was short and dumpy and wore brown tweeds. A pair of glasses hung from a chain around her neck, and she put them on as she looked him up and down. Malone hesitated. He hadn’t considered the possibility that someone else might be in the house. “Who are you?” he blurted.
“Ms. Gage,” the woman answered brusquely, “Mrs. Beresford’s private secretary, and I was about to ask you the same question.”
He remembered, now. Ronnie had said she’d engaged someone to deal with her charity work. “Never mind who I am,” he told her; “I’m here to see Mrs. Beresford.”
“Is she expecting you?”
He smiled mirthlessly. “I doubt it,” he said and pushed the woman aside as he entered the house. “Where is she?” he demanded.
“You can’t force your way in here just like that,” the woman shrilled. “Besides, Mrs. Beresford isn’t up yet. She’s still upstairs, and … No!” she screamed as he made for the stairs. “You can’t go up there. I’ll call the police!”
“You’d better not,” he warned as he started up the stairs. “Not if you know what’s good for you! Now shut up and mind your own damned business!”
“What the devil is going on here?” Veronica Beresford appeared at the top of the stairs, clad in a shimmering wrap-around negligé. “What are you doing here?” she demanded. “Get out of my house!”
She looked magnificent, eyes ablaze, hair spilling round her shoulders, and suddenly all he could think of was the wonderful times they had enjoyed together, and how much he wanted her. He’d known many women in his time, but none like Ronnie. His anger evaporated.
“Ronnie, please!” he pleaded. “We have to talk. What have you been telling the police? They think that Prudence and I planned to kill her father, and you know that’s not true. I was here with you. You have to tell the police.”
Veronica Beresford started down the stairs. “I don’t know what you are talking about,” she said angrily, “and if you are not out of this house in thirty seconds, I shall call the police myself. Now, get out!”
She went to
push past him, but he grabbed her wrists and held her. “You don’t mean that, Ronnie,” he said earnestly. “Not after all the great times we’ve had together, you can’t just …”
The woman tried to free herself but he held her firm. “Jane! Ring the police!” she called to the woman standing transfixed at the bottom of the stairs. “Now!”
She wrenched one hand free and swung it hard.
The open-handed slap sounded like a shot. Malone blinked and staggered back, releasing her other hand. “You bitch!” he breathed, and struck her with his fist.
It caught her on the side of the chin. Veronica’s head snapped back. Her feet left the step and she fell, tumbling over and over down the long staircase to land with a bone-crunching thud on the tiles below. She lay there like a discarded doll, face down, her hair a golden halo round her head.
“Keith! I’ve been trying to reach you ever since yesterday afternoon. I finally gave up at midnight. The hotel kept telling me there was no answer from your room.”
“Sorry, Laura, but I went out with some friends and it was late when I got back.” He stifled a yawn. “And I slept in this morning, so I’ll have to leave in a minute. Is anything wrong?”
“Harry thinks the police suspect him of being involved with the murder of that girl last week—you know, the prostitute—and perhaps of killing Jim as well. They took Dee’s car in for some sort of tests, and he’s convinced the police know he’s been lying to them. He wants to tell them the truth about where he was last Tuesday evening.”
Keith Lambert was silent for a moment. “Has he told anyone else?”
“I’m sure he hasn’t, but he is going to tell Dee, and you know what that means. She’s going to be very upset, but I don’t think she’ll do anything rash—at least, not right away. Harry and I will have to make sure she doesn’t, that’s all. As far as his going to the police is concerned, I made him promise to let me go with him. I want to make sure they understand the situation.”
Lambert gnawed his lip. He didn’t need this. Not now, but he didn’t see how he could stop Harry from going to the police. If Laura couldn’t stop him, there was nothing he could say that would change Harry’s mind.
“Are you still there, Keith?”
“Yes. Yes, of course. I was just thinking.”
Laura sighed. “God! I’ll be glad when this is over,” she burst out. “Did you watch TV this morning? They’re broadcasting the picture of that girl again. Remember the one they were looking for after Jim died? Julia Rutledge. The police aren’t saying much, but there was an attack on another young woman last night, and the implication is that there could be a connection.”
“No, I haven’t seen it. Who’s this other girl? Did they say?”
“If they know, they’re not saying. I don’t understand what’s going on.”
“Look, Laura, sorry, but I have to go. This meeting is crucial. If this goes well, I think we may have an agreement in principle by tomorrow. Do your best with Harry. Got to rush. Bye.”
Rutherford Hill was one of the prettiest areas in Broadminster, but its beauty was lost on Paget, preoccupied as he was with his forthcoming interview. Veronica Beresford was hardly likely to welcome him, especially when he explained to her exactly why he was there.
Do you mind if I take a look round your bedroom, Mrs. Beresford? This employee of your husband’s insists he spent a night in bed with you, and I’d like to verify his description of the room—oh, yes, and would you mind showing me your night attire?
Number 700. Paget entered the driveway and drove up to the house. A car blocked the drive beside the steps leading up to the front door, and Paget pulled in behind it. The car was old, the body rusted, and the driver’s door was open, giving the impression that the car had been abandoned rather than parked.
A green Escort. Malone!
Paget swore softly under his breath as he got out and mounted the steps. He rang the bell.
Suddenly, the door was flung open and Malone charged out. Bent low, he rammed a shoulder into Paget’s chest and sent him sprawling. He ran down the steps and jumped into his car. The engine roared into life, and gravel sprayed in all directions as he slammed the car into gear and took off down the drive and rocketed into the street.
Shaken, Paget struggled to his feet. It was too late to follow Malone, but at least he could call in and have the man picked up. Limping slightly, he moved toward his car, but stopped abruptly when someone screamed inside the house.
The police were out in force, talking to everyone who had been within a mile of the Invisible Man the night before. George had given them a list of everyone he could remember being in the pub the previous evening, and they were all being sought out and interviewed.
Scene-of-crime officers had been over the path inch by inch. They found the home-made garrotte in the long grass, and it was quickly bagged and sent off to be examined by Forensic. Men in wet suits searched the waters where Bunny had been pushed in, but between the reeds and two feet of mud on the bottom of the canal, it was hardly surprising that they found nothing of consequence. With Joanna’s help, Grace Lovett searched the narrow boat from stern to stern, but there was so little that had belonged to Vikki that it wasn’t worth the effort.
The guitar and case yielded three sets of fingerprints—Bunny’s, Joanna’s, and those of Julia Rutledge—which was hardly surprising considering the cramped quarters aboard the boat. The guitar itself was undamaged.
“Thank God for that, at least,” Joanna said when she was told. “That guitar means everything to Bunny.”
Too late for the morning papers, pictures of Julia Rutledge had been on the telly since early morning, together with a description of what she was wearing when last seen. The Incident Room was swamped with calls from people who were convinced that they had seen Rutledge, some as far afield as Leicester in one direction and Alderly Edge in another. Unlikely as they might seem, they all had to be carefully logged and submitted for follow-up. Meanwhile, in an ever-widening circle around the crime scene, half a dozen constables went from door to door asking the same questions over and over again. It was a thankless task, but it had to be done, and notebooks filled up quickly.
Closer to home, a man’s bicycle was reported stolen from a builder’s yard in Longford Marsh. According to its owner, it had been there around nine o’clock last night, but it was gone when he went to get it at seven-thirty this morning. There were other things there worth stealing, but nothing else had been touched. Ormside jotted down the details.
Longford Marsh wasn’t any more than a mile from the Invisible Man. If the Rutledge girl had taken it, chances were she’d be well away by now, but at least it might indicate in which direction she had gone. He motioned to one of the constables as the phone on his desk began to ring once more. “Add ‘may be riding a man’s bicycle’ to the Rutledge information,” he told him.
He swallowed a mouthful of coffee and reached for the phone. The thought flashed through his mind that perhaps—just perhaps—this would be the call that brought good news for a change. “God knows we’ve had more than our share of the other,” he muttered as he snatched the phone from its cradle. “Sergeant Ormside.”
But it was not to be. Paget was on the line, reporting yet another murder.
Tregalles was half-way up Rutherford Hill on his way to the Beresford house when he saw the flashing lights ahead. An ambulance and a police car blocked the road, and a uniformed PC stepped out to wave him down.
“You’ll have to go back down and round …” he began, then recognized Tregalles. “Oh, sorry, Sergeant,” he said. “Didn’t realize it was you. You got here fast. It can’t be more than ten minutes since we reported in. Malone’s alive, but we’ve had to send for the cutters to get him out. The other poor devil’s in shock, and no wonder when you see what was done to his car. Alfa Romeo, it was. Not much more than scrap metal now. That’s him over there being looked after by the ambulance men.”
“Malone? You’re sure it’
s him?”
“It’s his car, according to the description.”
“What happened?” Tregalles turned off the engine and got out of the car.
“Seems like the other driver was proceeding along Oakview Drive when the Escort came screaming past the stop sign on Tanglewood, couldn’t make the turn, and smashed into the side of the Alfa. If there’d been a passenger he’d’ve been mincemeat, but the driver was dead lucky. Got away with hardly a scratch. God knows how, but he did. Shaken up pretty badly, though.”
“And Malone?”
“Like I said, still trapped inside. Unconscious but still breathing. Engine was pushed back and his legs are trapped. Gashed his head as well.”
Tregalles moved closer. “It’s Malone all right,” he said. Malone’s head had been forced back by the steering wheel, and his hair was matted with blood. The ambulance men had managed to get an oxygen mask on him, but there was little else they could do until help arrived and Malone could be cut free.
“Better call in and tell them that Malone’s identity has been confirmed,” he told the constable, “and have them cancel the alert.”
It was mid-morning when an elderly man by the name of Moss was brought in to look at pictures of cars after telling the police that he had seen a car parked about a hundred yards down the road from the Invisible Man on two successive nights—last night and the night before. He’d thought it odd that someone would park there when the pub car-park was half empty and there were no houses in the immediate vicinity.