by Frank Smith
Bolen frowned into the distance. “The trouble was,” he continued, “I hadn’t counted on there being so much blood. I wanted it to look as if he and the girl had been having it off when things turned ugly and she’d killed him in self-defence. But he had to be undressed for that to work, and his clothes were soaked in blood. I thought that when the heart stopped, it would stop pumping blood, but it kept on pouring out, so I had to get rid of the clothes.”
“And you wrapped him in a blanket to keep the body warm so that it would look as if he had been killed at a later time.”
“Oh, yes. Mind you, I’d planned on that in any case,” he said. “I knew I’d have to kill him before the regular prostitute arrived at eleven, so the body would have to be kept warm until Vikki arrived. Killing him an hour earlier simply meant keeping the body warm for a bit longer, that’s all.”
“How did you know about the prostitute?”
“I used to hear my father making the arrangements with Quint. He always called from the office. Everybody knew why he spent weekends at the Tudor. And he always arranged for the girls to come at eleven. But what I hadn’t counted on was Harry turning up. He kept knocking and calling out, and I thought he’d never go away. Then this woman came—Stella, she said her name was—but I was ready for her. I imitated my father’s voice and shouted at her through the door.”
Bolen turned to Paget. “You see, I wanted her to be able to testify that Dad was alive at that time.”
“And then you settled down to wait for Vikki to arrive.”
“That’s right.” Bolen leaned forward and spoke earnestly. “Turned out the lights and left the door ajar, then waited for her. I had the dark glasses on and kept my face turned away when she came in, so I know she only had a glimpse of me before I knocked her out. It must have been later …” He fell silent.
“But her fingerprints and hair were everywhere,” Paget prompted.
“Oh, yes.” Bolen sounded almost pleased that Paget had brought it up. “And that was a job, I can tell you,” he went on. “She’s not very big, but when you’re carrying her around, trying to get her prints on things in the right places, it’s hard work, harder than you’d think.”
He paused and pursed his lips, avoiding Paget’s eyes.
“I didn’t like beating the girl up,” he said, “but she had to look beaten up, I mean, really beaten up, or they might not believe that she’d killed my father in self-defence. But I didn’t enjoy it; in fact I found it quite distasteful, especially when I had to drag her nails across Dad’s face.”
Tregalles found it hard to hold his tongue. There wasn’t even a trace of pity or remorse in Bolen’s voice as he continued.
“After that, all that remained to be done was to phone down to the desk, pretending to be my father calling for help. I took a quick look at the girl to make sure she was completely out, and then left by the back stairs. I left the door ajar deliberately so they were bound to go in.
“The first time I knew for certain that Vikki had got away was when I heard your broadcast, and that made me wonder if she’d been faking when I last looked at her. I didn’t think she would be able to identify me, but I couldn’t afford to take the chance. And the one thing your broadcast did tell me was that she must be afraid to go to the police because she feared they wouldn’t believe her story, so if I could get to her first, everything would be all right.”
“So you went after Simone,” Tregalles put in harshly.
Bolen shrugged. “I’d seen her with Vikki,” he said. “It was the logical place to start.” He might have been discussing the weather for all the emotion he displayed.
Tregalles could contain himself no longer. “And once she’d told you what you wanted to know, you killed her,” he said angrily.
“Well, yes. I had to; she’d seen my face.”
Paget was feeling no less repelled by the man, but he kept his own voice under control.
“You killed her in a car,” he said. It wasn’t a question. “But it wasn’t your car, was it, Mr. Bolen?”
Bolen shot a baleful glance at Tregalles. “You rang Linda in Inverness, didn’t you?” he accused. “You must have done, because she’s the only one who knew I’d borrowed her car that night. What was it? Something to do with the colour of the upholstery?”
Tregalles remained silent. John Bolen, lips pursed, stared into the distance. “I really didn’t want her dragged into this,” he said. “I was afraid she might mention that I’d borrowed her car if you asked her about that night. But I thought with her being away in Scotland, there was a good chance no one would think to question her when she got back.”
Bolen drew in his breath and sighed heavily. “But you’re right, of course; I did use Linda’s car. As I told you, I went over to her flat after leaving Mother, and pretended that my car wouldn’t start when it came time to leave. I asked Linda if I could borrow her car till morning, then went round to Cresswell Street and picked up Simone. Trouble was, Simone knew where Vikki had gone, and the name of the woman she was with, but she couldn’t remember the name of the canal or the pub where she worked, so I had to do a bit of digging. That’s why it took so long to find the boat, that and the fact that I had to spend so much time with Linda’s parents, so that set me back a bit.”
He frowned as a thought occurred to him. “But how did you know I killed Simone in a car?” he asked Paget.
“Never mind that for the moment,” Paget told him brusquely, “but I am curious about one thing: How did you manage to get behind Simone to do it? She was a street-wise woman. I can’t see her allowing that to happen.”
“Ah!” Bolen slid forward on his chair, eager to explain. “That took a bit of thinking about, but it was simple, really. I put a package on the back seat, all tied up with ribbon as if it were a gift for someone, and I told Simone I had to deliver it before going on to a motel. When I got to the house, I got out of the car, went round and opened the back door as if to take the gift out, but instead I slipped into the back seat and had the rope around her neck just like that! Then all I had to do was keep twisting until she told me what I wanted to know. You see,” he continued earnestly, “that’s why I used Linda’s car. It has four doors; mine only has two.”
“And you still got it wrong in spite of all your so-called planning,” Tregalles burst out. “And damned near killed another innocent girl.”
“You can hardly blame me for that,” Bolen shot back. “How was I to know there was another girl on the boat?”
The sergeant opened his mouth to speak, then clamped it shut as Paget gave him a warning glance.
“This plan of yours,” said Paget, “stealing your father’s car, arranging for a girl to come to his room so that she could be set up to take the blame, knowing ahead of time what time Stella Green would be coming to the room—all that took planning. How did you do that in such a short space of time? I mean, you must have thought there was still a chance that your father could be persuaded to drop the Ockrington project.”
John Bolen stared at the chief inspector. “This had nothing to do with the Ockrington project,” he said scornfully. “You don’t understand at all, do you? I’ve been planning this since the day my father forced me into the firm when I was sixteen years old! I hated my father, hated him for making me do what he wanted instead of letting me do what I wanted. But I couldn’t fight him, not then, so I pretended to fall in with his wishes. I became the dutiful son, and he never once suspected that I was just biding my time. As for the Ockrington deal, that was just the catalyst. I could see that Dad was going to destroy everything if he went through with it, and we would all be left with nothing. But the final straw was when he hit my mother. When I saw her at the hospital that day, and she told me what had happened, I knew the time had come. My father had to die; it was the only way, and I knew exactly how to do it.”
And Laura Bolen had been afraid that John would be upset because she wanted to sell the firm, thought Paget. How little she had known about
her son.
“We found bloodstains on the rim of the sun-roof of the car where Moss said he cut his hand,” said Paget. “There’s a nick in the chrome, and blood has soaked into the seal. Forensic will check it out, but I don’t think there’s the slightest doubt that the blood came from Moss’s finger. The car is also being checked for mud, grasses, tyre impressions and the like for a match with samples taken from the area where Moss says he saw the car.
“And speaking of cars, we’ve been on to the Inverness police and asked them to impound Linda McRae’s car and hold it for a forensic examination.”
Paget, Tregalles, and Sergeant Ormside sat in Superintendent Alcott’s office. Len Ormside had been roused at four o’clock by Paget, and had been at his desk by five. He, in turn, had called others out, and the Incident Room was fully staffed by seven.
The hospital stairway had been searched, the flowers and the box had been found, and members of the staff who had been on duty the previous evening were being questioned.
“A length of yellow rope and a piece of wood found on a bench in Bolen’s lock-up garage appear to match the rope and home-made handles of the garrotte found where Bunny Brown was attacked,” Paget continued. “We also checked his belts, all of which are of exactly the same length, and creased in the same places as the one found on Jim Bolen’s body, the belt John was forced to substitute for Bolen’s own when it became soaked with blood. And, of course, we have Julia Rutledge’s testimony as well.”
Alcott butted out a cigarette and lit another. “How is the girl?” he asked.
Ormside spoke up. “When I spoke to the doctor this morning, he said her ankle was badly sprained but nothing’s broken. But there is a hairline fracture in the skull where Bolen hit her, so he wants to make sure there’s no hidden damage before he releases her from hospital.
“And speaking of Rutledge,” Ormside continued on, “I checked her record with Northampton, and they confirmed that her case is under review. She was convicted for stealing from the motel rooms where she was employed as a cleaner, but just last month the owner’s son was caught stealing from the rooms, and among the things recovered were several items young Rutledge was supposed to have stolen. The lad admitted that he was responsible for the thefts and said his mother knew about it when she testified against Rutledge. So she faces a charge of perjury. Which,” Ormside concluded, “leaves only the theft of a bicycle in Northampton, and the one she took from Longford Marsh.”
“It’s about time that kid had a break after what she’s been through,” Tregalles observed. He could still see the terror on the girl’s face as he shone the light on her in the minster ruins.
“And Bolen still refuses to talk to a solicitor?”
“That’s right, sir.”
Alcott swung his chair around to face the window and the playing fields beyond. “Do you think he’s sane?” he asked.
“I’m sure he understood what he was doing,” said Paget. “But I’m no psychiatrist.”
Alcott grunted. “You can be sure the family will want one brought in,” he said, “and Bolen could still retract his statement. Let’s make sure we have every scrap of evidence there is. I don’t want him wriggling out of this through some technicality.”
He swung back to face Tregalles. “You’re to be commended, Sergeant, for saving that girl’s life,” he said warmly. “If you hadn’t gone in when you did, we could have had another murder on our hands. Good work, Tregalles.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Alcott turned to Paget. “But what puzzles me,” he said, “is how you happened to be at Bolen’s car when he came out of there?”
“Bit of luck, really,” Paget told him. “Tregalles had the only torch, and it was pitch-black in there, so I couldn’t see that I would be much help blundering about in the dark. But I spotted Bolen’s car as I crossed the road—I remembered it from the first time I went to see him at his mother’s house—and I knew he’d have to come back to it. So I called for back-up and waited by the car.”
There was a light tap on the partly open door, and Alcott’s secretary, Fiona, stuck her head inside. “Excuse me, sir, but I thought you would like to know they’ve found the weapon and a pair of latex gloves hidden under a stone in the minster ruins.”
“When can we see him?” Harry Bolen paced the floor, hands clasped behind his back. He and Dee had come to the house as soon as Laura telephoned earlier that morning. Prudence was there as well, numb with shock, although she was more concerned with the fate of Mark Malone than that of her brother, John. She had raced up from Bristol the day before when a close friend had phoned to tell her she’d heard that Mark Malone had been injured in a car crash. She’d spent a tearful hour beside his bed before a doctor managed to persuade her that there was little point in staying while Malone was still unconscious.
First her father, then Mark. Now John had been arrested. It seemed to Prudence that the world around her was falling apart.
“They said they’d ring,” said Laura. She rose from her chair and moved restlessly around the room. “I rang our solicitor as soon as I heard the news,” she continued, “but he rang back a short time ago and said that John refused to talk to him and told him to get out. Perhaps you could ring them to see what’s …” Laura clamped her lips together. Her eyes filled with tears.
Harry picked up the telephone. “Do you have the number?” he asked.
“Here, I wrote it down.” Laura picked up a bright-pink envelope from a side table and read the number off to Harry. She was about to put it back, then handed the envelope to Prudence. “I’m sorry, Prudence,” she said, “but this was delivered yesterday while you were out, and it completely slipped my mind.”
It was a large envelope. The name and address were typewritten, and there was no return address. Probably some promotional material, Prudence thought idly as she slit the top with her nail. She’d had all sorts of things like that come through the post since she’d entered university. But why had it come here?
“Yes, I’m his uncle,” she heard Harry say as she pulled out the contents. “I’m calling on behalf of John Bolen’s mother. She …”
Prudence didn’t hear any more as she stared at the pictures. Pictures of Mark, naked and entwined in the arms of a woman. The woman’s face had been blotted out, but the rest of her body … Prudence didn’t want to look but she couldn’t help herself. There were seven of them in all, each more revealing than the last.
She began to shake. No one noticed; all eyes were fixed on Harry. Her long, thin fingers curled around the prints and began to tear them into strips. Her mother heard the sound and looked at her. “What is it, Pru … ? You’re shaking.”
Prudence rose unsteadily to her feet. The torn pieces fluttered to the floor. Without a word to anyone, she walked stiffly to the door and left the room.
Trevor Beresford sat in front of the console, staring blankly at the row of screens mounted above it. The room was soundproof, and one wall was lined with shelves, three quarters of which were packed with tapes, all carefully indexed and labelled. Next door was the bedroom Malone had described in so much detail; a room covered from virtually every angle by concealed video cameras.
It was a pity about Malone, thought Beresford, but then studs like him were two-a-penny. Not that they would be much use to him until he could find a replacement for Ronnie. And that wasn’t going to be easy, especially as he would have to play the part of the grieving widower for a while. She’d been a delight to work with, very professional, and very much in demand by the clientele on the net.
He sighed. He was going to miss her very much.
CHAPTER 35
SATURDAY, 7 OCTOBER
The nurse smiled encouragingly. “I should think they’ll let you go home tomorrow, or Monday at the very latest,” she told Vikki.
Home! There was a hollow ring to the word in Vikki’s ears. It was a word that should mean warmth and safety and comfort. It should not be a place where you were scared to de
ath of being left alone with your stepfather, where your mother accused you of lies and worse when you tried to tell her what he was doing to you.
Vikki lay there, staring at the ceiling. She didn’t have a home. The police had said they would be talking to her again, which probably meant that her next home would be a cell somewhere. After that she’d be on the streets again.
They had given her something to ease the pain, and she was half asleep when someone sat down beside the bed and took her hand. Vikki opened her eyes.
“Joanna!”
Joanna smiled. “Feeling a bit better, now, are you, luv?” she asked. “You certainly look better than you did yesterday.”
“You were here yesterday?” Vikki struggled to sit up in bed. “How … ? I didn’t know you were here.”
“You didn’t know because you were still out of it when I was here. You’d had a pretty rough time, so I let you sleep. And as for how I knew you were in hospital, Chief Inspector Paget telephoned George at the pub and asked him to let me know that you’d been found and were in safe hands.”
Vikki’s fingers closed tightly on Joanna’s. “Bunny is all right, isn’t she?” she asked anxiously. “The police said she was, but …”
“She’s fine,” Joanna assured the girl. “She’s coming out on Monday.”
Vikki’s eyes were moist. “I’m sorry I ran off like that …” she began, but Joanna reached over and put a finger to the girl’s lips.
“Now that will be enough of that!” she said severely. “And don’t you worry about what will happen when you’re released from here. I’ve talked to Bunny about it, and she’s agreed: You’re coming back with us, and you can stay as long as you like on one condition.”
Vikki swallowed hard. “Condition?” she echoed fearfully.