Thread of Evidence

by Frank Smith

  The stairwell door closed behind him, shutting out the sound. He dropped the flowers and ran down the stairs. The sooner he put some distance between himself and the hospital, the better.

  He was at the top of the last flight of steps when the door to the ground floor opened. He put his head down and a hand up to his face as he continued on down, then stopped, slack-jawed, as the person below looked up.

  Vikki!

  At the same time he recognized her, she recognized him. He could see it in her eyes, see the shock on her face as she stood there, paralysed with fear as all her nightmares suddenly came true.

  He ran down the steps, knife glinting in his hand.

  “No one home,” said Tregalles. “No sign of the car, either.”

  Paget looked at his watch. They could sit here for the rest of the evening and wait for their man to come home, or they could return in the morning. Julia Rutledge was probably half-way across the country by now, so it wasn’t as if there was any immediate danger, and he couldn’t see their man leaving town.

  Assuming he was their man.

  He yawned and stretched, and heard the rustle of paper in his shirt pocket. It was the note he’d made to remind himself to ring Andrea. He’d tried to reach her earlier, but Mrs. Ansell had answered and told him that Andrea was working late at the hospital.

  “We’ll come back first thing tomorrow morning,” he told Tregalles, much to the sergeant’s relief. “But stop in at the hospital on the way back. I’ll only be a couple of minutes.”

  “The hospital it is,” Tregalles said. “Something to do with the girl, is it?”

  “No.”

  Tregalles waited, but as the silence between them lengthened, it became obvious that no further explanation was forthcoming. Five minutes later, he swung the car into an empty space close to the hospital steps, then settled back in his seat as Paget got out and went inside. A couple of minutes, Paget had said. That probably meant ten or fifteen.

  Inside, Paget identified himself to the elderly head porter who sat behind the reception desk, walked over to the open door of the lift, and pressed the button for the fourth floor.

  Andrea was in her office, and she looked pleased to see him when he knocked and poked his head inside. “What brings you here?” she asked. “I hope it isn’t anything serious this time.”

  “Oh, but it is,” he assured her. “I happened to be passing, so I thought I’d drop in and make sure everything is set for Saturday. It seems that every time we make plans, something gets in the way. We’re still on, are we not?”

  “As far as I’m concerned, we are,” said Andrea.

  “Good. What time would you like to go for dinner? Seven? Eight?”

  “I think seven,” she said. “I don’t like keeping Mrs. Ansell up too late if I can help it. Where are we going?”

  “I thought the Tudor. What do you think?”

  “I should have thought you’d had enough of the Tudor after that murder there last week, but yes, that would be very nice. The food is always good there. You haven’t booked, then?”

  Paget hesitated. “I suppose I should have,” he said, “but to tell you the truth, it slipped my mind. Could I use your phone?”

  “I’ll do it,” Andrea told him. She flipped a Rolodex and punched in the number.

  “Very efficient,” Paget commented. “I’m impressed.”

  “Put me through to the dining-room, please,” Andrea said into the phone. “Yes, good evening. I’d like to make a reservation for two for dinner tomorrow night, and … I see. Completely booked? That is unfortunate. I’m sure Chief Inspector Paget will be most disappointed when I tell him … Oh! Yes, I can hold on.”

  Andrea put her hand over the phone and raised an eyebrow in mock surprise. “It seems he may have made a mistake,” she said softly. “Yes? Oh, there is? A cancellation. Wonderful. Yes, at seven. Thank you so much.”

  She put the phone down and grinned. “I thought it might be worth a try,” she said, “and it seems to have worked. They’re familiar with your name.”

  Paget returned the grin. “They should be,” he said, “but I doubt if I’m on their list of favourite people. There’s probably a note against my name saying: ‘Don’t upset this man, whatever you do!’”

  “Now it’s my turn to be impressed.”

  “I have to go,” he told her. “Tregalles is waiting in the car. Quarter to seven all right? It’s not as if we have far to go.”

  “That would be lovely. I’ll see you then, Neil. Take care.”

  Vikki wrenched open the heavy door at the bottom of the stairs and ran. The lobby was deserted except for the elderly night porter on duty at the desk, and he wouldn’t stand much chance against the man who was after her. Where were all the people when you needed them? She made a dash for the door, the instinct for survival overriding the pain.

  “Oi!” the porter yelled as he scrambled out from behind his newspaper. “Oi! You, there! Where do you think you’re going?”

  But Vikki was through the door and down the steps before he could so much as come out from behind the desk. His back was turned toward the man who hurried past, a hand to the side of his face. “Good night,” the man said as he, too, left the building.

  “Good night, sir.” The porter didn’t even look at the man as he made his way back to the desk. “Bloody kids!” he muttered as the door closed behind the man. “Need their arses tanned, the bloody lot of ‘em!”

  Tregalles saw the girl come flying down the steps. She was running awkwardly, and she kept glancing back over her shoulder as she cut off to the right toward the trees. He lost sight of her as she plunged into the shadows. A man was standing at the top of the steps, framed in silhouette against the light. Tregalles couldn’t see his face.

  But he’d seen the face of the girl, and she’d been terrified. She’d looked familiar, and yet her features had been so distorted that it took a few seconds for it to register that she was the girl whose picture had been taped to a board in the Incident Room for more than a week.

  Julia Rutledge.

  Tregalles paused only long enough to snatch something from the glove box before leaping out of the car. The girl had disappeared, but the sergeant caught a glimpse of the man as he passed beneath a light, running hard. Tregalles was half-way across the car-park when Paget appeared on the hospital steps.

  “It’s him!” Tregalles yelled. “He’s after the girl. Come on.”

  Vikki heard the shouts, but they only served to spur her on as she tried to find an opening in a chain-link fence that surrounded the hospital grounds. She hadn’t realized it was there when she’d made for the shelter of the trees, and found out too late that the trees were on the far side. The fence was high, impossible to climb, and she could hear the man behind her as she followed the fence toward the road. There had to be a break somewhere. There had to be!

  She found it. A small gate exiting to the street. She darted through. There wasn’t a soul to be seen in either direction. Oh, God, she screamed inside her head. Help me. Please help me.

  Across the street, the crumbling towers of the ancient minster rose against the sky. Beyond the perimeter lay a maze of broken walls and tumbled stone and shadows darker than the night itself. It was her only hope. There was nowhere else to hide.

  With every step a piercing stab of pain, Vikki plunged across the road and reached the shelter of the ruins. She blundered on, seeking ever deeper darkness, spurred on by the thud of feet behind her, twisting, turning, bumping into walls until she didn’t know where she was. She staggered on, her whole body now a blinding sheet of pain.

  She tripped and fell, but was up on her hands and knees in an instant, scrambling sideways like a crab into the deepest shadow she could find. She lay there panting, trying to still the pounding of her heart so she could listen.

  Nothing. No sound at all. But then there wouldn’t be, not here on the grass. Perhaps the man would give up and leave. She’d heard someone shout back there. Perhaps
he’d been scared off—but it was far more likely that he was listening, too, waiting for her to make a move. All right, she wouldn’t move. She would simply lie here close to the wall and wait for him to go away.

  But it was hard to lie still. What if he didn’t go away—or worse! What if he knew that she was there and was creeping closer?

  She held her breath. Was that another footstep or her own imagination? She dare not take a chance; she had to move. The man with the knife had tracked her down, and he was not going to leave until he’d found her.

  Her only hope was to work her way out of the ruins on the Bridge Street side where it was well lighted and she’d find more people. But which way was Bridge Street?

  Vikki attempted to stand up, but as soon as she touched her swollen foot to the ground she knew it wouldn’t hold her. If she was to get out of there, it would have to be on hands and knees. She dropped back down. The grass was wet beneath her hands, and her jeans were soaked.

  She used her hand to probe the darkness ahead of her and found an opening. She paused, listening. Nothing. Within these walls she couldn’t even hear the sound of traffic. Vikki crawled through, gritting her teeth to prevent herself from crying out against the pain, inching forward, careful not to make a sound.

  A shoe scraped on stone, and Vikki froze. The sound came from the other side of the wall. She could hear him breathing! She held her own breath and crouched low, covering her face and hugging the ground.

  Suddenly there was movement, a thud, and someone swore. Vikki had a sudden urge to laugh hysterically. Serve the bastard right! She hoped he’d turned his ankle. Better still if he’d broken his bloody neck!

  But she had to move while she had the chance. Still on hands and knees, she inched forward—and ran head-first into a wall. Dazed, she was forced to turn to her left again. Another wall! She bit back a groan. She’d boxed herself in.

  She turned too quickly; her hand slid on the grass and she toppled over. Her foot shot out and hit the wall. She screamed and rolled around in agony. A blinding light exploded in her face and pinned her there. She saw the upraised arm; saw something glint …

  She closed her eyes and waited for the blow to fall.

  He pressed himself into the niche of darkness, panting hard and shaking. He’d managed to get rid of the knife, stuffing it and the gloves under one of the many fallen stones that lay scattered among the ruins, and he’d eluded his pursuer. But he dare not stop for long. Reinforcements might well be on the way, and he had to get away before anyone else arrived. He could see the car from where he stood. The street was quiet; nothing stirred. No sign of movement anywhere.

  He stepped out of the shadows, forcing himself to keep to a normal walking pace, eyes darting everywhere. His keys were ready in his hand as he approached the car. The air was cool, but his face was damp with sweat.

  He pressed the remote button on the key chain and heard the quiet click as the door unlocked. He glanced up and down the street as he grasped the handle, then froze as he heard the voice behind him.

  “That’s far enough,” said Paget quietly. “Don’t turn round. Let’s have your hands on top of the car where I can see them.”

  His legs began to shake. It wasn’t supposed to end like this. How could everything have gone so wrong? Tears of sheer frustration streamed down his face as he sagged against the car.

  She heard the words but she couldn’t comprehend. Why didn’t he have done with it? Put her out of her misery. But he kept on talking, talking …

  “Look at it, please,” the voice insisted.

  She opened her eyes, squinting against the light. He was holding out a card, and the words slowly filtered into her brain.

  “I’m a policeman, Julia,” he said, “and you’re safe. You don’t have to run any more. Look at the card. That’s me, Sergeant Tregalles.” He flipped the torch so the light shone on his face.

  It was all too much for Vikki. There was a roaring in her ears, the light began to spin, then everything went black.

  CHAPTER 34

  FRIDAY, 6 OCTOBER

  The warrant didn’t arrive until eight o’clock in the morning, but John Bolen was talking long before the team went in to search his flat. He admitted freely to the killing of his father and seemed more concerned with the fact that his carefully thought-out plan had failed so miserably than he was with the consequences of his act.

  “You have to understand,” he said earnestly. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this at all. I didn’t want to kill the girl. But she shouldn’t have run away. If she had stayed there in the room, it would have worked, I know it would. The courts wouldn’t have gone hard on her. I mean, everyone would have seen how badly she’d been beaten by my father, and that would be taken into consideration. She might even have got off completely.”

  “But she wasn’t beaten by your father, was she?” said Tregalles. “That was done by you!”

  Bolen merely shrugged. “The courts wouldn’t have known that, would they?” he countered.

  “I must remind you once again that you are still under caution, Mr. Bolen,” said Paget. “And I ask you again: Do you wish to have legal counsel or anyone else present during this interview?”

  John Bolen shook his head impatiently. Now that it was over, all he wanted to do was make them understand, and the last thing he needed was some solicitor telling him what he could or could not say. He was sick and tired of having someone else tell him what to do. He didn’t need advice; didn’t need anyone telling him what to say. For as long as he could remember he had done whatever his father wanted him to do, said whatever his father wanted him to say. But that was finished now. It had ended when he thrust the knife deep into his father’s heart, time and time again.

  “Please answer for the record,” said Paget.

  “No!” John Bolen turned his head toward the tape recorder and spoke loudly and distinctly: “I told you before, I do not wish to have anyone else present! I don’t need anyone else. I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself, thank you.” He sat back in his chair and met Paget’s gaze across the table. “I had everything worked out, you know,” he insisted. “Absolutely everything!”

  “Even so, something went wrong, didn’t it, Mr. Bolen?”

  “But that wasn’t my fault,” Bolen objected. “It was the girl. She …” He looked baffled. “I simply don’t understand how she could have got away before someone came up to the room.”

  “The receptionist was delayed by a gang of hooligans who wouldn’t let her off the lift,” Paget told him, “which is why no one found your father until much later.”

  Bolen stared at him. “Well, there you are then,” he said flatly. “I couldn’t possibly have known that, could I?” He hunched forward, brow furrowed as he continued. “You see, not knowing that, I couldn’t understand why there was no mention of her being taken into custody and charged with the murder. That’s why I asked you to come out to the house. That was my idea, not my mother’s, as I told you. I told you about the prostitutes, expecting you to tell me that you had Vikki in custody, but you made no mention of finding her in the room.”

  The man leaned back in his chair, lips pursed as he stared off into the distance. “Mind you,” he said pensively, “I suppose things really began to go wrong when Dad told me that Underwood would be along in half an hour. He’d just finished talking to him when I arrived, and that forced my hand. You see, I hadn’t planned on killing him until just before the regular prostitute was due to arrive at eleven, but I couldn’t afford to let Underwood see me there, so I had to do it before Underwood came round.”

  “So you arrived in your father’s room after he’d phoned Underwood,” said Paget. “Not before, as you told me. And you must have known it was Underwood who was supplying your father with Lambert’s figures.”

  “Of course I knew!” said Bolen contemptuously. “Although I didn’t let on to Dad that I knew until recently. He thought he was being so bloody clever, but I knew he must be gett
ing figures from somewhere, and it didn’t take long to find out it was Underwood who was supplying them. I used to sit in the car-park of the Tudor and watch him arrive on Sunday mornings, then I’d try to look surprised when Dad came along on Monday to tell me that the estimates I’d worked on for the past month were useless, and I was to use the figures he gave me. Finally, I’d had enough and I tackled him about it, and do you know what he said?” His voice rose. “Do you?” Paget shook his head. “He said, ‘Go and play with your calculator, John, and leave me to run the business.’”

  His face grew dark with anger. “I could have been at Wimbledon long before now if it hadn’t been for my father; everybody said I had the talent. My tennis coach even came to the house and pleaded with my father, but, no, I had to go into the firm because that’s what he wanted. It didn’t matter what I wanted. To him, tennis was a waste of time, and no son of his was going to pursue something like that as a career.”

  Bolen shook his head sadly. “I was only sixteen at the time, so I had little choice, but I thought: All right! If that was the way it had to be, I’d show him. So I went to university, got my degree and went into the firm. All those years I’d worked my guts out for him, and that was all he thought of me.”

  He turned moist eyes on Paget. “I’m twenty-seven years old and he still treated me like a child,” he ended bitterly.

  “So you were in the room when Underwood arrived?” Tregalles prompted him.

  “That’s right, although I’d been downstairs in the meantime to tell them that my father wished to be called at seven-thirty, because I wanted to make sure they saw me leave. Then I nipped around to the back stairs and returned to the room. I knew I had the time, because Dad told me that Underwood wouldn’t be there for half an hour.

  “I had taken his key with me, so I let myself in and set to work. Underwood knocked on the door a few minutes later, but he soon went away and I was able to get on with arranging things for when Vikki arrived.”