by Frank Smith
Paget and Grace were sitting in the kitchen of a farmhouse half a mile up the road from home when the call came through on Paget’s mobile phone. He and Grace had walked up the hill to pick up a fresh supply of free-range eggs, and they had been invited to stay for a cup of tea and to sample some freshly made scones. Two minutes later, Grace received a similar call, so they made their apologies and returned to the house, where Grace picked up her working gear, then followed Neil to the quarry in her own car.
Tregalles was there already, as was Superintendent Pierce. ‘Looks like he came off that piece jutting out up there,’ Tregalles said, pointing. ‘A sixty-foot drop, give or take. His name is Dennis Moreland. He was reported missing by his wife last Thursday. He’s a butcher by trade, at least he was, and he vanished on his way to work around six o’clock on Thursday morning.’ Tregalles grimaced. ‘And you’re not going to like this, I’m afraid, boss: he’s got a dressing on his forehead like the one on Billy Travis’s forehead.’
‘Same initial?’ Paget asked.
‘Don’t know yet. Doc Starkie’s only just arrived and I didn’t like to mess with it before he got here. I’m just hoping to God it doesn’t turn out to be a B,’ he added drily, ‘and whoever’s doing this isn’t working his way through the alphabet.’
Amanda shot the sergeant a sharp glance, and, despite the gravity of the situation, Paget found himself suppressing a smile. It might take the new superintendent time to get used to Tregalles’s quirky, and sometimes dark, sense of humour.
‘Who found him?’ he asked.
‘Chap by the name of Jackson. He and his boy came out from town to get some stones for a wall he’s building at home. They’ve been coming out here for the past three Saturdays. Fortunately, the kid didn’t see the body, so Jackson got him into his pickup and drove out of here, then waited for us up the top by the gate.’
‘Isn’t this place supposed to be off limits?’
Tregalles shrugged. ‘Has been for thirty years or more, according to Jackson, but it’s never been enforced. They built a fence around it when they closed the quarry, locked the gate, then walked away and forgot about it. Jackson said he only found out about it last year, but some people in town have been coming here for stones for years.’
‘So let’s go and see what Starkie has to say.’ He turned to Amanda. ‘Superintendent . . .?’
‘I’d like to hear what the doctor has to say as well,’ she said, ‘and I’d like to know what’s under that dressing on the victim’s forehead.’
Dr Starkie rose to his feet to nod in Amanda’s direction when Paget introduced them. ‘I won’t offer to shake hands for obvious reasons,’ he said gruffly, ‘but congratulations on your appointment, Superintendent.’ He looked down at the body at his feet. ‘Pretty smashed up after hitting these rocks,’ he observed clinically, ‘so it may be a while before I can tell you with any certainty whether he was killed by the fall or not. But I can tell you he’s been dead for at least twenty-four hours and possibly longer. Same MO as the other one a couple of weeks ago: tape over the mouth, plastic ties around his wrists, and his ankles have been bound at some point.’ He bent and pulled back the dressing on the forehead. ‘And another A just like the first one.’
Paget looked at Amanda. ‘If we can establish a connection between these two men, it could prove to be the break we need,’ he said. He shaded his eyes as he looked up to the top of the cliff, where he could see two white-clad figures taking measurements. ‘So, while SOCO’s taking care of things out here, I’d like to get back to the office and bring DS Ormside in, because the sooner we get our people out there asking questions, the better.’
Amanda nodded. ‘Of course,’ she said brusquely. ‘I’m going back to the office myself.’ She started to move off, then stopped and took out her phone. ‘But I suppose I’d better let Mr Brock know before he hears it from some other source,’ she said as she flipped through the numbers and put the phone to her ear.
Paget moved away, but he couldn’t help feeling a twinge of sympathy for her. New at the job and two high-profile murders in two weeks. Not the best way to start, and he doubted if Brock would be inclined to cut her any slack.
With a whole weekend before her, Molly Forsythe had decided that this would be a baking day, or at least a baking morning, and if that went well, she might go shopping for some new tights in the afternoon. Big deal, she thought as she stacked the breakfast dishes, to be done later when she’d finished baking. How much more exciting could life get when shopping for tights was the highlight of the day?
She’d checked her e-mail messages before breakfast, but there was nothing from David. He was probably very busy, she told herself, and tried not to think about it by keeping busy herself.
She made the blueberry muffins first. Molly kept promising herself that she would make muffins from scratch, but it was so much easier to use the mix from the shop, and while the muffins were in the oven, she cut up the apples for the pie. She hadn’t made a pie for ages, so this was going to be a special treat. Humming softly to herself, she rolled out the pastry, cut out a circle and lined the pie plate with it. The timer went off. She took the muffins out of the oven, then cranked up the heat in preparation for the pie.
Molly finished making the pie, trimmed off the edges, then popped it in the oven. The muffins were smelling particularly good, so she eased them out of the tin, ‘accidentally’ breaking one in the process, which meant the only reasonable thing to do with it was slather it with butter and eat it . . . just to be sure they were all right, of course.
The phone rang. Mouth half full of warm muffin, she swore softly to herself when she saw the calling number.
Moments later, Molly took the pie out of the oven and stood staring at it, trying to decide what to do with it. Finally, she cleared a space in the fridge and shoved the pie inside. So much for the baking morning, she thought crossly as she swept the dirty pots and pans into the sink and wiped the counter top.
She put a couple of still warm muffins in a plastic container, closed the lid and stuffed it into her shoulder bag. With one last glance around the kitchen to make sure the tap wasn’t dripping and the oven was off, she let herself out. Another weekend gone sideways, she thought as she got in the car. On the other hand, she thought, trying to look on the bright side, the day should prove more interesting than shopping for tights.
‘Clapperton quarry,’ Ormside said thoughtfully as he and Paget stood looking at the map on the wall. ‘Used to be you were really something if you had a house built of Clapperton stone, but times change. Like everything else, costs were rising, people couldn’t afford the stone, so the builders looked for cheaper materials and that was the end of the quarry. Closed down around the end of the seventies, I think it was.’ His blunt finger circled the area around the quarry. ‘No houses,’ he pointed out, ‘and the closest farm must be a mile away. So the chances of finding a witness are probably next to nil, especially if Moreland was taken up there at night, so there’s no point in putting the mobile unit up there. We’ll have to work from here again like we did with Travis. Let’s hope SOCO finds something we can use. Is it possible Moreland’s the man they were after in the first place?’
‘I’m inclined to think not,’ Paget said slowly. ‘Billy Travis was a small man. Moreland’s much bigger, and he lives in a different part of town. I’m very much afraid the killer knew exactly what he was doing, so our only hope is to find the connection between the two men, and pray there aren’t any more to come.’
He glanced at his watch. He couldn’t put it off any longer. Someone had to break the news to Moreland’s wife, and the fact that they had two young children wasn’t going to make the task any easier. His gaze swept over the room, then stopped when he spotted Molly. Good. Forsythe could come along for support.
The house in Osmond Street was a semi-detached with a paved driveway barely long enough to accommodate a car. A small patch of grass with a flower bed in the middle lay like a mat beneath t
he bay window. Half of the flower bed was bare, the soil neatly banked and raked. The rest of the flowers looked wilted and sad, and Molly wondered if Dennis Moreland had planned to finish the job this weekend.
Paget rang the bell.
‘Mrs Moreland?’ he asked, holding up his warrant card when a woman opened the door. She nodded, her mouth suddenly dry. She ran her tongue over her lips and said, ‘That’s right. I’m Joan Moreland. Are you—?’
‘My name is Paget,’ he said. ‘Detective Chief Inspector Paget, and this is Detective Sergeant Forsythe. May we come in?’
‘Yes, yes, of course,’ Joan Moreland said distractedly, retreating before him as he stepped forward.
‘Are your children at home?’ he asked as he and Molly followed her down the narrow hallway.
‘They’ve gone to the shops for me,’ she said over her shoulder. ‘I didn’t want to go out in case there was news and someone phoned.’
‘Perhaps we could sit down,’ said Paget when she led them into the front room. It was nicely furnished with a sofa in front of the bay window and big armchairs on either side, and a leather recliner chair next to the fireplace. A glass china cabinet took up about a third of one wall, but apart from a couple of figurines on the top shelf, the rest of the shelves were filled with cups and plaques and pictures attesting to Dennis Moreland’s prowess at golf.
But Joan Moreland didn’t sit down. Instead, she walked to the centre of the room, turned to face Paget and took a deep breath. ‘It’s not . . . not good news, is it?’ she said. ‘Is Dennis injured? Where is he? Is he going to be all right?’
‘I’m very sorry to have to bring you this news, Mrs Moreland,’ Paget said quietly, ‘but your husband was found this morning in the Clapperton quarry. I’m afraid he’s dead.’
Joan Moreland stared at him. ‘Found . . .?’ she said huskily. ‘I don’t understand. Do you mean he fell? In a quarry? What would he be doing there? He went off to work Thursday morning. Are you sure it’s Dennis?’
‘I’m afraid there’s no mistake, Mrs Moreland. We do have the picture you gave us, and his wallet with his driving licence was in his pocket.’
Joan sat down slowly on the edge of the recliner chair, then looked up at him. ‘In a quarry?’ she whispered. ‘Where is this place? I’ve never heard of it. What was he doing there?’
‘It was closed down years ago,’ Paget told her. ‘It’s about four miles from here; it’s off the Cleebury road.’ He sat down in one of the armchairs. ‘Your husband was taken there,’ he continued. ‘The way it looks now is that he was attacked on his way to work on Thursday morning and taken to the quarry, where he was killed.’
‘Killed?’ Joan drew a deep breath and closed her eyes. Her small fists were clenched so tightly that there seemed to be no skin over the bone. ‘Dennis was murdered?’
‘I’m afraid so, Mrs Moreland.’
‘But why?’ Joan opened her eyes and looked to Molly as if expecting her to have the answer. ‘Why would anyone want to kill Dennis?’
‘We don’t know,’ Molly told her as she, too, sat down, ‘which is why we have to ask you some questions, Mrs Moreland.’ She flicked a glance at Paget, who nodded. ‘I know this is the very worst time,’ she continued, ‘and we understand and can come back later if you don’t feel up to it right now, but if we are to catch whoever did this, we do need your help. Would you like a cup of tea? I can make one.’ Molly started to rise, but Joan shook her head angrily and waved her back.
‘I don’t want a cup of tea,’ she snapped. ‘I want Dennis! I want to know he’s alive. I can’t . . .’ She ducked her head and began to cry.
‘Is there a relative or close friend you would like us to call, Mrs Moreland?’ Paget asked. ‘Someone who could stay with you? We can come back at a better time, if . . .?’
Joan raised her head. ‘What “better time”?’ she asked bitterly. She brushed tears from her eyes with the back of her hands. ‘There isn’t going to be a better time, is there?’ She looked at Molly. ‘Well, is there?’ she demanded shrilly. ‘My husband’s dead and you—’ She stopped, mouth half open as she saw the hurt in Molly’s eyes. Joan squeezed her own eyes shut and shook her head from side to side. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said huskily, ‘I know it’s not your fault. It’s just that . . .’
‘You’d like to scream at someone . . . anyone!’ Molly finished for her.
Joan Moreland looked at Molly for a long moment. ‘But it won’t bring Dennis back, will it?’ she said, and turned to Paget. ‘You said you have questions, Chief Inspector . . .?’
Paget tried to be as brief as possible, but as time went by, Mrs Moreland’s voice grew stronger and she seemed to want to volunteer as much information as possible. But the more she told them, the less likely it seemed that Dennis Moreland would be the target of a killer. ‘I see your husband was a member of Broadminster Golf Club,’ he said, pointing to the trophies. ‘Do you know if he’s had any trouble there? Any arguments or possibly threats from anyone?’
‘He hasn’t been for a long time,’ Joan told him. ‘He packed it in a couple of years ago when they put up the fees. Gave up his membership. He said he’d sooner put the money towards the kids’ education. I thought he would miss it, but . . .’ Suddenly she burst into tears. ‘Oh, God!’ she wailed, ‘what am I going to tell the kids?’
She kept shaking her head and insisting that she would be all right when Paget asked again if there was a friend or relative who could come and stay with her. She brushed every suggestion away, then suddenly jumped to her feet and said she was going to put the kettle on, and would they like a cup of tea? Molly said yes, she would like a cup, and offered to help, but Joan waved the offer away.
‘We can’t leave her on her own,’ said Molly when the woman had left the room. ‘I think I should stay with her at least until the children come back. There’s no telling how they’ll take the news, and they might find the two of us a bit intimidating.’
‘You’re probably right,’ Paget conceded. ‘Stay as long as you think necessary. And if you can pick up any more information, so much the better, because from what we’ve learned so far, I’m beginning to wonder if these are random killings.’
Once Paget was gone, Molly made her way to the kitchen where Joan was trying to set out the tea things on a tray, while brushing away tears every few seconds. ‘The chief inspector had to leave,’ Molly told her, ‘so why don’t we just sit down and have tea here, Mrs Moreland?’
Joan blew her nose, then sank into a chair and focused her attention on the teapot in front of her. ‘Do you have children?’ she asked abruptly. ‘I’m sorry, but I’ve forgotten your name.’
Molly sat down to face her across the table. ‘No, I don’t,’ she said. ‘And just call me Molly, Mrs Moreland.’
Joan blinked an acknowledgement through her tears and said, ‘I’m Joan.’ She reached for the teapot and was about to pour when the front door banged open and a young voice called out, ‘Hi, Mum. They didn’t have any of the biscuits you like, but we got some other ones.’ Two pairs of feet came running down the hall. ‘And Mr Beasley wants to know if we’ve heard from Dad.’
EIGHT
It was two o’clock in the afternoon before Molly left the house in Osmond Street to walk the half mile to Charter Lane, so she had plenty of time to think.
Children were funny; you never knew how they would take things. Laura, blonde and pretty, had kept shaking her head when Joan finally managed to tell her and her brother that their father wouldn’t be coming home again. ‘But he has to,’ she insisted stubbornly. ‘He promised to take us to the pantomime at Christmas, because we couldn’t go last year because Michael was ill in bed.’ Joan, eyes brimming with tears, had gathered her daughter to her and tried to explain, but Laura just kept shaking her head, refusing to listen.
Michael had set the bag of groceries on the kitchen table and turned to Molly. ‘Dad’s really, really dead?’ he asked solemnly.
Even now, Molly felt a lump in
her throat as she pictured again those innocent brown eyes fixed so intently on her own. ‘I’m afraid so, Michael. I’m so sorry.’
The boy had glanced at his mother rocking back and forth, head half buried in her daughter’s hair, then turned back to Molly. ‘Can I see him?’ he asked.
‘I’m afraid that’s not possible, Michael,’ she’d said. ‘Sorry.’
‘But Mum will have to see him, won’t she? I mean to make sure it really is Dad, like they do on Law and Order?’ He was a child, and yet Molly couldn’t help feeling that there was someone older behind those dark, enquiring eyes. She’d said yes, that would have to be done, and asked if there was anyone who could stay with him and his sister when that happened.
‘Aunt Sadie,’ he said promptly. ‘But she just comes in at night when Mum and Dad go out. We don’t need anyone here in the daytime now I’m ten.’
Aunt Sadie, Joan explained through her tears, wasn’t a relative; she was a friend and neighbour who lived three doors down. ‘She’s a good soul, but I don’t want to bother her,’ she said. ‘Really, we’ll be all right on our own.’
‘I’m not so sure you will be,’ Molly told her, ‘and I don’t feel I can leave you and the children here like this. This has been a terrible shock; someone should be with you, so it’s either someone like Aunt Sadie or I shall have to ask social services to send someone round.’
Joan gave in, and Sadie Greenhill had come round straight away. She was an older woman, calm and motherly. ‘I’ve buried two husbands myself,’ she confided quietly when Molly let her in, ‘so I know what it’s like. I live on my own so it’s no trouble to stay here for as long as Joan and the children need me.’
When she reached Charter Lane, Molly stopped in the cafeteria for a cup of coffee to go with the two muffins in her bag. You weren’t supposed to bring your own food into the cafeteria, but Molly preferred to chance it after she saw what was left on the lunch menu.