Night Fall

by Frank Smith

  Molly took out her notebook. ‘These friends you had in last week,’ she said, ‘could you give me one or two names?’

  ‘Is this really necessary?’ Rachel asked icily.

  ‘If we are to eliminate your husband from a list of possible suspects, yes, it is, Mrs Fulbright.’

  ‘I’ll give you two, but there’s no need to go into detail regarding why you want the information, so for God’s sake try to be discreet.’

  ‘Just one more thing, Mrs Fulbright,’ said Molly after jotting down the names. ‘I understand that Mr Fulbright’s father is living with you. No one answered when we rang the bell, so could you tell me where we might find him?’

  ‘He’ll be in his room,’ Rachel said. ‘Probably had his radio on and didn’t hear the chimes. Why do you want to talk to him? He can’t tell you if Mike was home or not; his room is at the other end of the hall.’

  ‘It’s about another matter,’ Molly told her.

  Rachel continued to look at her as if expecting further elaboration, but when Molly remained silent, she reached into a pocket of the overalls and pulled out a phone, and thumbed in a number. ‘He’s a bit slow these days,’ she said, not unkindly. ‘Oh, hello, Theo? There’s someone here to see you. Can you come down? We’re on the seat outside the workshop. It’s the police. They want to ask you some questions.’ There was a pause, then, ‘No, it’s not about your driving licence.’ She cupped a hand over the phone. ‘He wants to know what it’s about,’ she said.

  ‘It’s a question we have about some of the people who were in the All Saints choir fifteen or more years ago,’ Molly told her. She took out the picture and held it up for Rachel to see.

  Rachel relayed the information, then closed the phone. ‘He says you can go up, but he’s in the middle of a delicate operation, so he wants you to wait outside the door of his room until he tells you to come in. As I said, his room is at the end of the hall, and it will be open.’ She slipped the phone back into the pocket of her overalls and got to her feet. ‘I have to get back to work,’ she said brusquely, ‘but since you are the police, I suppose I can trust you not to steal the silver. The back door’s open, so go through the kitchen and the hall and to the top of the stairs and follow the sound of the radio.’ She turned to go, then paused. ‘And please don’t go poking around in other parts of the house. I do know you need a warrant for that.’

  They could hear the radio before they reached the top of the stairs. They turned to the right, followed the sound to an open door at the end of the hall and stopped as ordered. An elderly man, wearing corduroy trousers and a stained white smock, was seated at a trestle table. On his balding head was a magnifying visor with light attached. It was focused on something very small, held in the grip of tiny pincers on the end of a prosthetic arm, while in his right hand was a very small paintbrush. But, fascinating as that was, Molly’s attention was drawn to the three beautiful doll’s houses sitting on three separate tables.

  ‘With you in a minute,’ Theodore Fulbright called loudly without looking up. ‘Just stay where you are.’

  Two of the small houses were closed, but the third, a two-storeyed house with furnished attic, was open and lighted. ‘Now that is beautiful,’ Molly breathed. Tregalles followed her gaze. ‘It is,’ he agreed. ‘Olivia had one when she was small. Nothing like that, of course, but the same idea. I made a few bits and pieces for her, but she didn’t really appreciate it, in fact I spent more time with it than she did, so it ended up in the gift shop. Too bad, because I quite enjoyed working on it.’

  The Reverend Fulbright sat back in his chair and took off the visor, then turned the radio off. ‘Come in, come in and tell me what it is you want,’ he said. ‘I have to wait a few minutes for the paint to dry.’

  ‘What are you working on?’ Molly asked with a nod toward the table.

  ‘A stained glass window for the front door,’ Fulbright replied. ‘You can buy them, but I prefer to do my own. Are you interested?’

  ‘I’ve always loved doll’s houses,’ Molly confessed, ‘but I’d never have the time to work on them. But this one’s beautiful.’ She pointed to the house that was open. ‘Mind if I have a closer look?’

  ‘Not at all.’ The tone of his voice was considerably softer as he got to his feet. He raised his left arm to display the prosthesis with the claw-like pincers where a hand should have been. ‘Does this bother you?’ he asked. ‘It does some people.’

  Both detectives shook their heads, and he said, ‘Good. It is interchangeable for a hand, of course, but this is what I use when I’m working. It was specially made for the work.’

  Despite Tregalles’s sidelong glances and shuffling signs of impatience, Molly spent the next few minutes examining the interior of the doll’s house. ‘Did you make everything in here?’ she asked.

  ‘Almost,’ Fulbright said. ‘Never found a way to make a light bulb, but I made just about everything else.’

  ‘It’s gorgeous,’ Molly said, straightening up after a not so gentle nudge from Tregalles. ‘You do beautiful work, Reverend Fulbright.’

  He shrugged modestly, but it was evident he was pleased. ‘And I prefer people to call me Theo now that I’m retired. And you are . . .?’

  ‘Sorry,’ Molly said guiltily as she produced her warrant card and introduced herself, and Tregalles. ‘We’re investigating the deaths of Billy Travis and Gavin Whitelaw,’ she explained. ‘Both were in the All Saints choir years ago, and we wondered if you could put names to the people in this old photograph of the choir.’ She took out the picture once again and handed it to Fulbright.

  He took the photo in his right hand and studied it.

  ‘There’s my son, Michael,’ he said. ‘Can’t miss him, can you? He was tall for his age even then. Oh, yes, there’s young Billy. Poor little devil. He was still there in the choir when I left. Still is, for that ma—’ He stopped abruptly. ‘I mean was,’ he said quietly. ‘When I read about him being killed, I couldn’t believe it! Any idea yet who did it?’ His eyes flicked from one to the other, then returned to the picture when both remained silent.

  ‘That’s Meg Bainbridge,’ he said, tapping the picture. ‘She’s still there. In fact she’s one of the few originals. The chap on the end is Fairfield, the choirmaster back then.’ He indicated a heavy-set, balding man in the back row. Fulbright went on to name every one of the adults in the back row, but said they’d been gone for years. ‘Trasler is dead, and Mary Monahan and her husband were living in Spain last time I heard, but that was a few years ago. I still see Preston in church from time to time, so you could try him.’ Fulbright didn’t sound too hopeful. ‘As for the rest, I don’t know if they’re still around or not, but I haven’t seen them lately. And as for the youngsters . . . I don’t know. They came and went; I don’t remember their names.’

  ‘What about this one?’ Molly pointed to Whitelaw. Fulbright looked closely. ‘The face is vaguely familiar,’ he said, ‘but I don’t remember the name.’

  He started to hand the picture back, but his hand suddenly shook and the picture dropped to the floor. ‘Sorry,’ he said brusquely as Molly stooped quickly to pick it up. ‘Careless of me. Is that it, then?’

  ‘Can you tell us when this picture was taken?’ Molly asked.

  ‘Judging by how old Michael looks, I’d say it’s at least fifteen or sixteen years old,’ he said. ‘But what does this have to do with Billy Travis’s death?’

  ‘To be honest, sir, it may have nothing to do with it,’ Molly confessed, ‘but the killings appear to have a common motive, and the only connection we’ve found so far is that two of the victims were in the choir when they were teenagers, and both had pictures of the choir in their possession. The latest victim, Gavin Whitelaw, was also a friend of your son.’

  ‘Michael?’ Fulbright said sharply. ‘How does he come into it? Have you spoken to him?’

  ‘I have,’ Tregalles said. ‘Whitelaw went to see your son shortly before he was killed, and we had hoped he migh
t have said something that would help us, but Michael claims the only reason Whitelaw was there was to talk about trading his car for a newer one.’

  Fulbright’s eyes narrowed. ‘Unless I misjudged your tone, Sergeant, I get the distinct impression that you didn’t believe him.’

  ‘Let’s just say that it’s hard to believe that story when we know Whitelaw didn’t have a car to trade. In fact he sold it months ago, and he was in no position to even consider buying a car, old or new.’

  ‘Is the name Dennis Moreland familiar to you, sir?’ Molly broke in quickly before Fulbright had a chance to respond. ‘Do you recall if he was ever in the choir?’

  ‘Couldn’t tell you, I’m afraid. Youngsters rarely stayed long. They’d come in keen as mustard, but then either their voices would break or they’d get bored, and they’d be off again. Is he in the picture?’

  ‘His wife says he isn’t, but I thought it was worth asking anyway,’ Molly said. ‘I don’t suppose you have any other old photographs of the choir tucked away somewhere?’

  Fulbright shook his head. ‘I presume you’ve spoken to Peter Jones?’

  ‘The present choirmaster? No, not yet,’ said Molly. ‘The Reverend Phillips thought you might be our best bet, since Mr Jones hasn’t been here very long and the previous choirmaster has moved away. But perhaps you can give us the names you do remember, and we can contact them to see if they can help us.’

  Fulbright shook his head. ‘Memory’s not what it used to be,’ he said. ‘Try Michael. He might know. Or Peter Jones. Failing that, I suppose you could try tracking Fairfield down.’

  Fulbright walked back to stand behind the table. ‘Sorry I can’t be of more help,’ he said, ‘but I really must get on with this, so perhaps you can find your own way out.’

  ‘Just one question, if you don’t mind, sir,’ Molly said as Tregalles headed for the door. ‘What happens to the doll’s houses when they’re finished?’

  Fulbright picked up the magnifier visor and slipped it over his head. ‘They go to various charities for auction,’ he said. ‘The one you were looking at is going to Manchester next month to be auctioned off at a charity event there.’ He smiled. ‘You could put in a bid if you like.’ He snapped on the light and settled into his seat. ‘But you’d better have deep pockets,’ he called after her as she went out the door. ‘The reserve price is fifteen hundred pounds.’

  ‘Connie not in tonight, then, Rick?’ The middle-aged man wearing a flat cap and tweeds was a regular in the Red Lion. ‘I thought Sunday and Monday were her nights off. Not poorly, is she?’ He sounded quite concerned.

  ‘She’ll be more than bloody poorly when I get hold of her,’ Rick Crowley growled. ‘Gone half five and no sign of her. I must have rung ten times, but she’s not answering. The girl she shares a flat with said she didn’t come home last night, so God knows where she is.’

  ‘Not like her, though, is it?’ the man said. ‘I mean if there’s one thing you can say about Connie, she’s reliable.’

  ‘Not tonight, she bloody isn’t,’ Crowley growled. ‘All right, all right, I’m coming,’ he called to the man at the other end of the bar, who was waving money about. He looked at the clock again and swore beneath his breath.

  Six o’clock. Home at a decent time for a change. Molly dropped her handbag on the hall table, shrugged out of her coat and hung it up, then carried the shopping bag containing her dinner into the kitchen. Tonight it would be a chicken, vegetable and pasta dish she’d picked up at the market on her way home. If only they tasted as good as they looked on the box, she thought wistfully as she read the instructions and turned the oven on.

  She wandered into the bedroom and started to undress, then changed her mind and went into the living room, where she turned on her computer. There’d been nothing from David for a week now. Nothing since she’d sent a reply last Thursday, and she couldn’t help wondering whether he’d lost interest. Too many things on his mind, perhaps? Too many distractions?

  She had mail. Molly sat down at the desk. It was from David! A long one.

  She read it through to the end, then read it again before sitting back in her chair, her mind in turmoil. Two weeks at Christmas? He said he hadn’t mentioned it to Lijuan or her grandmother yet, but he thought it might be the best way to reintroduce Lijuan to England, and they would be staying with David’s aunt and uncle, Ellen and Reg Starkie. He said he was looking forward to having Molly meet his daughter and her grandmother, which was nice, but then David had gone on to say that he’d had to turn down the offer of a job at Broadminster hospital. He said he couldn’t see any prospect of returning to Broadminster in the near future, so he’d felt it only fair to let them know so they could offer the job to someone else. Meanwhile, he’d taken a temporary job at the Tung Wah hospital – there was an attachment with some pictures.

  Two months away. Molly felt a chill when she read that and saw the pictures. The Tung Wah hospital looked like a big one, and she couldn’t help wondering what ‘temporary’ might mean. But two weeks at Christmas? Was it realistic to think that Lijuan would choose to live here, when her grandmother and her friends were in Hong Kong? Molly didn’t think so. David had said that Lijuan was eight when she left England with her mother; and she was fourteen now. Crucial years in a young girl’s life, and David had said himself that Lijuan was happy there and doing well at school. And having just lost her mother . . .

  And Christmas! Maybe it was supposed to be a jolly season, with its carols and joy to the world and all that stuff, but there could hardly be a worse time to come to England. Crowded airports; cold, miserable weather. Rain, sleet or snow – it was bound to be one or the other. Dark by four o’clock; people dashing about doing their last-minute shopping . . . Lijuan was probably used to crowds, so that might not bother her, but weather-wise . . .? No, it was not a good time to come if David was hoping his daughter would opt for England over Hong Kong.

  Molly turned to the computer and brought up the current weather in Hong Kong. Eighty-two degrees and clear skies! She listened to the sound of rain outside and groaned aloud. She typed in ‘Hong Kong seasonal weather/winter’. Ranges between fifty and sixty-two degrees. Warmer clothing is recommended.

  Molly slumped back in her chair. Oh, yes, she thought glumly, Lijuan and her grandmother would really be impressed. They would probably want to get on the next plane back to Hong Kong. There was no way it would be a fair test.

  She was still thinking about it when she sat down to dinner. She poked at it, ate a bit, stirred it around, but finally pushed it away only half eaten. Later, when she was clearing up, Molly looked at the picture on the box before disposing of it. Good picture: it was what had prompted her to buy it in the first place. As for the product . . .? She made a face, dropped the meal in the bin and closed the lid.

  EIGHTEEN

  Friday, 28 October

  The missing person report was logged in at 07.38, and the information was relayed instantly to the incident room, following a request by DS Ormside that he be notified when anyone was reported missing. The report was made by a Sandra Palmer of 31 Chelsea Court, a block of flats near the railway station. The person missing was her flat-mate, Connie Rice, single, aged thirty-one, who had not been seen or heard from since midnight on the previous Wednesday, when she left the Red Lion where she worked as a barmaid.

  ‘Ms Palmer is coming in to supply more details,’ Ormside told Paget when he arrived for the morning briefing. ‘It may have nothing to do with the serial killing, since they’ve all been men so far, but the one thing that does make me wonder is the woman’s age. It’s in the same range as the men’s. I thought it was worth checking.’

  ‘Quite right,’ said Paget. ‘Who’ll be doing the interview?’

  ‘I thought you might be doing that yourself,’ he said. ‘Forsythe’s available if you need her.’

  Paget was tempted; it was hard to let go, but he had told Amanda he would give it a try, and he couldn’t back out now. He’d given
the matter a lot of thought recently, and he had to admit, albeit reluctantly, that he’d been too ready to jump in and take the lead, when it should have been left to others to do their job.

  ‘Tregalles and Forsythe can take care of it just as well as I can,’ he said. ‘Did they talk to the new choirmaster yesterday? What’s his name?’

  ‘Peter Jones. No. They had arranged to see him this morning, but Jones is a computer tech with B and B Data Specialists, and he had to go out on an emergency call to one of the banks in Tenborough, so he’s going to give us a call when he gets back.’

  Paget looked at the whiteboards and decided it wasn’t worth sitting in on the morning briefing. It would be a regurgitation of old material, and although he knew everyone was doing their best, there was little left for them to follow up.

  ‘Keep me posted, then,’ he said as he walked away. ‘I’ll be with Superintendent Pierce for most of the morning, so call me on my mobile if you have anything to report.’

  Sandra Palmer was a small, plump young woman with a baby face, straight fair hair, large blue eyes, a nose-stud, and mother-of pearl fingernails that sparkled every time she moved her hands. She wore a bulky sweater and black slacks beneath a plastic mac, and carried a shoulder bag that would barely make it through most airports as carry-on luggage.

  ‘Change of clothes for the office,’ she volunteered when she saw Molly looking at it. ‘I ride a bike to work. I should be there now, by rights, but I called in sick. Didn’t want to tell them I was going to be talking to the police, or they might have thought all sorts of things.’ She giggled self-consciously. ‘Anyway, here I am, so what do you want to know?’

  ‘Let’s begin at the beginning,’ Tregalles suggested. ‘You share a flat with Connie Rice, right?’

  ‘That’s right. We split everything down the middle: the rent, the meals, the washing up and the—’