by Frank Smith
‘Please tell me you have something we can work with,’ Ormside said when Molly appeared, ‘because this puts a whole new face on the investigation into the Travis killing as well. What have you got?’
‘Not much, I’m afraid,’ Molly said as she sat down at the desk with him and opened her notebook. ‘As far as his wife is concerned, Dennis Moreland wasn’t worried or apprehensive about anything; their finances are in order, and he went off to work that morning as usual, and she has no idea why or how he would end up in Clapperton quarry. He has no enemies as far as she knows, and he hasn’t fought or argued with anyone recently. She knew where the camera shop was, but the name Billy Travis meant nothing to her, and she was sure she’d never heard her husband mention it.’
‘Didn’t they see the piece in the local paper about Travis?’
‘She said she recalled seeing something about a local man being killed, but the name meant nothing to her.’
‘Did Moreland belong to anything, any organization that might have brought him into contact with Billy Travis?’
‘Not that I could find,’ Molly told him. ‘Dennis Moreland was an ardent golfer for years, but Billy Travis wasn’t; Billy was in the choir at All Saints, but, according to his wife, Dennis Moreland was never in a choir. They attend a different church, though I gather he didn’t go as much as Mrs Moreland and the children. The only other activity Dennis was involved with was the Minster Players, the repertory theatre on Vicarage Walk. He was a volunteer there, working backstage.’
‘Friends, relatives?’ Ormside queried.
‘Parents live in Sheffield, and he has one brother, a teacher, who lives in Cheadle. They have a number of friends, but only three couples they see on a regular basis. It doesn’t look too promising, but if Dennis Moreland was in any sort of trouble he might have confided in one of those, so I have them on my list.’
Ormside grunted. ‘Promising or not, if it’s all we’ve got, then let’s get on and do it. We’ve spoken to a number of people in Osmond Street, but we didn’t get them all, so we’ll keep going back until we do. There isn’t anyone living within a mile of the quarry, so we’re not going to get anything at that end, which means we’ll have to concentrate on the street. Does Mrs Moreland work?’
‘Apart from scrubbing, cleaning, washing, ironing, shopping, cooking, and looking after the house and the children, you mean, Sergeant?’
‘Don’t be cheeky,’ Ormside admonished sharply, but a hint of a grin tugged at the corners of his mouth. ‘You know what I mean, Molly. Does Mrs Moreland work outside the home?’
‘No. She runs a quilting course at the Thread Basket in Market Square every now and then, and she’s a volunteer at the local library, but that’s about it.’
‘A quilter?’ Ormside looked thoughtful. ‘The wife used to do that years ago, and I remember her saying some of the best quilters were men. Do you know if there are any men in Mrs Moreland’s classes?’
‘No idea,’ said Molly. ‘Why?’
‘Just a thought,’ Ormside said. ‘Any sign of marital problems?’
‘I think Joan Moreland and her husband were very happily married,’ Molly said. ‘In fact, I think they were a very close family.’
‘Still, best to keep an open mind,’ Ormside said. ‘Granted, even if one of them was playing away from home, it may not have anything to do with why Moreland was killed, but it’s still a possible lead, so don’t be too hasty in crossing that possibility off your list.’
He looked up at the clock. ‘Better get your notes written up and make enough copies for general distribution,’ he said. ‘And make sure you put the highlights on the boards. Tregalles is down at SuperFair market talking to the people Dennis Moreland worked with, so maybe he’ll pick up a lead there. There’s a CCTV camera at the bottom of Osmond Street, and two more in the car park, but we looked at them yesterday and Moreland wasn’t on any of them, so it looks as if he never made it to the bottom of the street, let alone into work.’
‘When will we have the post-mortem results?’
‘Not till Monday, I’m afraid.’
Molly looked puzzled. ‘I keep wondering how that could happen to someone like Dennis Moreland in Osmond Street. It’s not a long street, and there are houses on both sides. There’s no open land; there are no deep driveways or large bushes where someone could lie in wait. I suppose someone could have driven up in a car or van, grabbed him and bundled him inside. But if it did happen that way, you’d think there would have been a struggle; that Moreland would have shouted, and someone would have heard. So why didn’t they? How could someone vanish in a street like that? And why him?’
‘All good questions, Molly,’ Ormside agreed, ‘and the sooner we know the answers, the better, so—’ The ringing of his phone cut off whatever it was he was about to say. He picked it up, then covered the mouthpiece with his hand. ‘Paget,’ he whispered. ‘He’s on his way in, so you’d better get on with those notes.’
Norman Beasley was a heavy-set, red-faced man with a balding head beneath a white cap, and a bulging stomach behind a striped apron. He looked every inch the butcher, Tregalles thought. They were standing outside on the loading dock, where Beasley had insisted they go to talk while he had a smoke. It had begun to rain, and there was a cold wind behind it.
Beasley sucked deeply on his cigarette. ‘You’re lucky to have caught me here on a Saturday,’ he said. ‘I’m only here because we’ve been a man short since Dennis went missing.’ He picked a thread of tobacco off his lower lip and flicked it away. ‘I still can’t believe the poor bugger’s dead.’
‘You say he was a good worker, got on well with everybody and everybody liked him,’ Tregalles summed up. ‘But somebody didn’t. What about women? Anything going on between him and any of your female workers?’
Beasley sucked on his cigarette. ‘Not that I know of,’ he said. ‘I’d’ve noticed if anything was going on here. We work pretty closely together, and the two girls in this department are married and have kids.’
‘But this is a big store and there are a lot of women working here. He must have mixed with them as well. Tea breaks and lunchtime? Social activities after work?’
‘Believe me, mate, you’re barking up the wrong tree,’ Beasley said decisively. ‘Dennis wasn’t that sort, and why would he look somewhere else for his jollies with a nice little piece like Joanie waiting for him when he got home?’
‘Fancy her yourself, then, do you?’
Norman Beasley butted his cigarette and leaned closer to Tregalles. ‘I wouldn’t say no if it was on offer, if you know what I mean,’ he said. ‘You’ve seen her, haven’t you?’
‘No, no I haven’t,’ Tregalles said, ‘but I’ll take your word for it. Ever been tempted? Tried chatting her up?’
Beasley shook his head. ‘Not that I wouldn’t have liked to,’ he confided, ‘but it would’ve been more than my life’s worth to have tried it on while Dennis was around. Very protective of Joanie he was.’ He paused, and his eyes grew thoughtful as he looked off into the distance. ‘But he’s not, now, is he?’ he said slowly. ‘Around, I mean, and it’s going to be hard for her with those two kids to bring up, so she’s going to need a friend, someone she knows.’ A sly smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. ‘Like they say, it’s an ill wind . . .’
Tregalles pulled back to look hard at the man. ‘Are you suggesting what I think you’re suggesting?’ he asked. ‘The man’s not been dead five minutes.’
‘Which is why she’s going to need some support,’ Beasley shot back. ‘I’m only thinking of her, for Christ’s sake! What do you think I am?’
‘To be honest, Mr Beasley, I’m still trying to work that out,’ Tregalles said. ‘And, since you seem to be more than a little interested in Dennis Moreland’s wife, you can tell me where you were last Thursday morning around six o’clock, when Dennis Moreland was on his way to work.’
Back at Charter Lane, Tregalles sought out Molly. ‘You’ve seen Mrs Moreland,’ he s
aid. ‘What’s she like? Good looking, is she?’
‘She is as a matter of fact,’ Molly said, ‘but that’s a strange question to be asking about a woman who’s just lost her husband.’
‘No, no,’ Tregalles protested, ‘it’s nothing like that. It’s just that Moreland’s boss seems to have more than a passing interest in Moreland’s widow. In fact, if it weren’t for the fact that there are witnesses who confirm where he was when Dennis Moreland disappeared, I’d have brought the slimy little toad in for questioning. But what about Mrs Moreland? What’s your impression of her, Molly?’
‘She is a very attractive woman,’ Molly agreed. ‘But if you’re suggesting she might have been seeing someone else, I would doubt that very much.’
‘Certainly not his boss, then. He’s a fat slob, but there could have been others. I couldn’t talk to all of the people Moreland worked with today, so I’ll try and catch the rest on Monday. Anyway, that’s it for me, so I’m off. See you, Molly.’
The sergeant was on his way out of the building when he was stopped by Gavin Whitelaw, the PC who had been at the scene where Billy Travis was killed. ‘Got a minute, Sarge?’ he asked, then lowered his voice. ‘I just heard about the bloke they found out at Clapperton quarry. They’re saying it looks like the work of a serial killer, because it’s the same MO as Billy. Is that right?’
‘That’s right.’ Tregalles glanced at his watch. Time was getting on and he’d told Audrey he would be home on time for dinner.
Whitelaw lowered his voice even further. ‘Same sort of thing carved in his forehead, was there?’
‘That information is still not being released,’ Tregalles warned. He began to move away, but Whitelaw stopped him. ‘Was it an A like the first one?’ he persisted.
‘Why are you so interested?’ Tregalles asked. ‘Does it mean something to you?’
Whitelaw raised his hands, palms outwards, and backed away. ‘No, no, it’s nothing like that,’ he said quickly. ‘It’s just that I keep seeing the way Billy looked out there. Can’t get it out of my head, and now with another one . . .’ He blew out his cheeks and flicked his head from side to side as if trying to clear it. ‘You think he might strike again?’
‘God knows, but I hope not.’ Tregalles eased past Whitelaw and was about to continue on his way, when he paused. ‘And the less said about that, the better,’ he warned. ‘All right?’
‘Right!’ Whitelaw said. ‘Understood.’
When Paget arrived, Ormside called Molly over. She repeated what she had told the sergeant, concluding by saying that if there was a connection between Dennis Moreland and Billy Travis, she hadn’t been able to find it. ‘I had a look at several family photos,’ she said, ‘but I didn’t see anything by Travis and son, and their wedding photos were done by a Ludlow photographer. I’m just finishing up my notes now, if you’d like a copy before you go home, sir. Give me fifteen minutes?’
Paget looked at the clock, but Ormside spoke up before he could answer. ‘Superintendent Pierce said she’d like a progress report before you leave,’ he said. ‘In her office,’ he added as Paget reached for the phone.
Paget put the phone down. ‘I don’t know how long I’ll be,’ he told Molly, ‘so leave a copy of your notes on Sergeant Ormside’s desk, and I’ll pick it up on my way out.’
Judging by the amount of paper on her desk, Amanda Pierce looked as if she would be there for the rest of the evening. She was wearing glasses, which surprised him; he’d never seen her with glasses before. She removed them and waved him to a seat.
‘Is this normal?’ she asked, indicating the heaps of paper.
‘Pretty much,’ he told her. ‘But it looks to me as if you’ve taken on Fiona’s job as well.’
‘It’s just that I feel I have to involve myself in everything, at least until I know what’s going on,’ she said. ‘And I’m certainly not trying to take over Fiona’s job. In fact it’s almost the other way round. She has things so organized I almost feel redundant. I don’t know what I would do without her. She’s very efficient.’
‘Believe me, I know,’ he said. ‘So you’ll be keeping her on, then?’
‘Absolutely. I knew she was worried about her job, but I didn’t want to make any decisions until I’d had a chance to assess her work. I’m also aware she would have preferred to be working for you rather than me, so we had a chat about that at the end of last week to clear the air, and I think we have.’
‘Good. I’m glad,’ he said, and was about to say more, but stopped short. He was tired, it was the end of the day and he’d almost allowed himself to slip into the comfortable relationship he’d once enjoyed with Amanda. Annoyed with himself, his tone changed as he said, ‘You wanted a progress report on the Moreland killing,’ and proceeded to bring Amanda up to date in short, clipped sentences.
‘The MO’s the same,’ he concluded, ‘and while we haven’t been able to come up with a motive in the Travis case, I’m hoping we can find a link between Travis and Moreland. But we also have to consider the possibility that there may not be a connection, and the killer is choosing his victims at random, picking them off dark streets whenever he gets the chance. It’s that damned letter A that bothers me. It’s clearly a message, but is he trying to tell us something, or is it meant for other potential victims?’
Paget spread his hands. ‘I know that’s not what you want to hear, and I’m sorry, but it’s the best I have to offer at the moment.’ He rose to his feet. ‘Was there anything else?’
‘For the moment, no,’ Amanda said crisply. The abrupt change in Neil’s tone and body language had not gone unnoticed, but she decided not to comment on it. ‘But I want to be informed immediately if there are any developments. Night or day.’
‘Of course,’ he said as he made for the door.
Sunday, 16 October
Although there was no doubt in anyone’s mind that the latest victim was Dennis Moreland, it had to be confirmed, so it was Molly who was given the task of picking up Joan Moreland and taking her to the mortuary on Sunday morning. ‘I could send someone else,’ Ormside told her before she’d left for home on Saturday, ‘but she knows you, Molly, and I’m sure it’s hard enough for the woman as it is.’
Which was why Molly now found herself escorting Joan Moreland through the lower corridors of the hospital to what was known as ‘the viewing room’.
Starkie had done his best to clean him up, but there was only so much he could do. The right side of Moreland’s face and skull had been crushed when he’d fallen some sixty feet onto the jagged rocks, and that side of the head was bandaged, while a small flesh-coloured patch covered the letter on the forehead. But enough of the face had to be exposed for formal identification, and there was little that could be done with Moreland’s right eye, which had been pushed down and sideways into the side of his nose. The result was a grotesque distortion of his features, and even though Molly had been warned about what to expect, and had tried to prepare Joan, it still came as a shock to both of them when the sheet was lifted.
It was too much for Joan. She gave one long, agonizing gasp, and almost ran from the room. Oddly, though, she did not cry. Eyes closed tightly as if to wipe the scene from memory, she allowed Molly to guide her out of the building and into the car.
Joan sat slumped in the passenger’s seat, eyes closed, head resting against the window. Molly waited, wishing she didn’t have to ask the question, but it had to be asked and she couldn’t put it off any longer. ‘I know how hard this is for you,’ she said quietly, ‘but I have to ask you this question: was that your husband, Dennis Moreland, whom you saw just now?’
Joan lifted her head to stare at Molly. ‘Why?’ she asked hoarsely. ‘For God’s sake, why, Molly? Why would someone do this to him? He was a good man; he was . . .’ Her hands fluttered in a gesture of helplessness. ‘The kids . . . What am I going to do?’ Suddenly it was all too much and tears streamed down her face.
Joan was still sobbing quietly when Molly st
arted the car and drove slowly out of the gates into Abbey Road, blinking hard to keep her own tears in check. Technically, Joan hadn’t answered the question, so, according to the rules governing the identification of the deceased, it should be asked again and the answer recorded. But, rules or not, there was no way that Molly could bring herself to ask that question again. It would appear as a ‘Yes’ in her notebook.
Later that day, a funeral service was held in All Saints church for Billy Travis. Billy had been a long-time member of the choir there, and George Travis was pleased to see that every member of the choir was present. But it was a big church and most of the pews were empty. Ted Grayson was there with half a dozen members from the camera club, and George recognized a smattering of friends and acquaintances who lived or worked near the shop. It was a disappointing turnout, but then Billy had always kept to himself. Trudy Mason stood at George’s side, and they both wept openly when the last hymn was sung. Gordon Mason wasn’t there.
Paget sat at the back and was one of the first to leave. He moved a discreet distance away, watching as people filed out of the church. A small, sandy-haired man dressed in dark suit and tie followed him out and stood at the edge of the path as if waiting for someone. His hands were clasped loosely in front of him and he held a small leather case about the size of a prayer book. He remained there until the last person had gone, then made his way down the path to his car. He nodded to Paget as he went by. He was one of Charlie Dobbs’ SOCO team, borrowed by Paget for the occasion, and there would be a video clip and a batch of still photographs of everyone who had attended the funeral on Ormside’s desk on Monday morning.
NINE
Monday, 17 October
The Minster repertory theatre, with seating for three hundred and twenty-two people and eight spaces for wheelchairs, was a funny old building that had been many things in the past, including an armoury around the time of the Boer War. Parking was a problem for patrons, but at eleven o’clock on Monday morning, Molly had no trouble.