Night Fall

by Frank Smith

  ‘Yes, yes, I understand,’ Tregalles broke in, ‘and according to the information you gave the officer on the phone, the last time anyone saw or heard from your friend Connie was Wednesday midnight when she finished work at the Red Lion. Why are you only reporting her missing now?’

  ‘Because I didn’t know she hadn’t been home after she finished her shift on Wednesday night until Rick started calling last evening to ask where she was. See, she comes off shift at midnight, so I’m well asleep by the time she gets in – we have separate rooms, of course, in case you were wondering – and I’m off to work before she gets up, so we sometimes don’t see each other for a day or two, except in passing and on weekends. So I didn’t know there was anything wrong until Rick called. Rick Crowley, he’s her boss, and he was in a right state. But then, Connie says he’s always like that. But I wasn’t particularly worried even then. It was only later, when I looked in her room and realized she hadn’t been home at all, that I started to wonder. I’d left a magazine on her bed the night before for her to see when she came in, and it was still there exactly like I’d left it; it hadn’t been moved.’

  Sandra looked troubled. ‘I tried to call her on her mobile, but got no answer. I kept trying but she obviously didn’t have it on because I wasn’t getting anything back at all. By the time I went to bed I was getting really worried, but then I thought maybe her mum might know something, but I haven’t been able to get hold of her. She and her husband are golfers, and they travel all over the place, and it’s always hard to get hold of her.’

  ‘Where does her mother live?’ Molly asked.

  ‘Bristol. She moved there when she got married again, must be seven or eight years ago. She’s Mrs Donovan now.’

  ‘What about Connie’s father? Does she have any brothers or sisters? Relatives of any kind?’

  ‘Her father disappeared after the divorce. Mind you, he’s in the navy, or he was, so he was never home anyway. She’s got a sister somewhere near London; I don’t remember where, but I don’t think Connie’s been in touch with her for years.’

  ‘Has Connie ever done anything like this before? Disappeared without letting you know? Perhaps gone off with a boyfriend?’

  ‘Chance would be a fine thing,’ the girl said with a grimace. ‘Poor old Con hasn’t had a boyfriend for ages. Come to that, nor have I. Fine pair we are.’ She shook her head. ‘No, she’s never done that before, and that’s why I’m a bit worried about her.’ The catch in her voice suggested that Sandra was more than just a bit worried about her friend. ‘I know I should have done something sooner than this,’ she continued, ‘because we always said we’d look out for each other, but I really didn’t know she was missing till this morning. You do think she’ll be all right, don’t you, Sergeant? I read somewhere that most people who go missing turn up all right. Is that true?’

  ‘Generally speaking,’ Tregalles said, then moved on quickly with another question. ‘When you were talking to Mr Crowley, did he say anything that might suggest Connie had asked for time off or anything like that?’

  ‘No. Not that she would have got it. All he was interested in was getting her in to work. He said she’d left at midnight the night before, and that was all he knew, and he seemed to think I was covering for her, because he swore at me a couple of times. So I stopped answering when he called again.’

  ‘How does Connie go back and forth to work?’ Tregalles asked. ‘Does she have a car?’

  ‘Yes, she does. Sorry, didn’t I say? It’s gone as well. At least Rick says it isn’t there, and it isn’t at the flat.’ She opened her bag and started rummaging through it. ‘Ah, here it is,’ she said triumphantly. She handed Tregalles a piece of paper. ‘Her car and her mobile phone number is on there as well,’ she said. ‘I thought you might need it. Oh, yes, and here’s a picture of her. It’s one she took of herself while she was messing about with her phone a couple of weeks back. I took it off her laptop before I came here this morning.’

  ‘Silver 2001 Renault Clio hatchback, and reg number,’ he observed as he handed the paper and the picture of Connie Rice to Molly. ‘Very good, Sandra. Thank you. We’ll get those descriptions out right away. Also, I’d like to have someone go with you back to your flat to take a look at Connie’s room, her computer and other things. All right?’

  ‘No problem,’ Sandra assured him. ‘I’m going back there myself.’

  ‘Just one thing before you go,’ Molly said. ‘Is Connie a member of a choir? Or do you know if she was ever in a choir when she was younger?’

  ‘A choir? Connie? Shouldn’t think so,’ Sandra said. ‘She’s never mentioned it to me, and I’ve never known her go to church since I’ve been sharing the flat with her, and that’s going on three years now.’

  Back in the incident room once more, Molly set the picture of Connie Rice beside that of the All Saints choir and scanned the faces of the girls. There were four of them. Three could be ruled out right away. But the fourth one . . . Molly brought out the magnifying glass. ‘What do you think?’ she asked when Tregalles came over to take a look for himself. ‘Do you think it’s the same girl?’

  He bent closer to look, then straightened up shaking his head. ‘Could be, I suppose,’ he said, but he sounded doubtful. ‘You could always run it by the Reverend Fulbright, but before you do that, perhaps we should make sure Connie Rice is really missing. I’ve just finished speaking to Connie’s boss, Rick Crowley, and he tells me Connie was being chatted up that night by a man he’s never seen before, and he left the bar not long before Connie did. So he thinks they may be shacked up somewhere, “shagging themselves blind” as he so colourfully put it.’

  ‘Or the man was our killer and she could be dead.’

  ‘Could be,’ Tregalles conceded, ‘but the other victims have all been men, and I don’t see a connection. Anyway, we’re wasting time here, so I think we should split up. You go and talk to Crowley, and I’ll go to the flat to see if there’s anything there that might tell us where Connie Rice has gone.’

  It was Rick Crowley himself who opened the door. ‘We open in an hour,’ he said brusquely, when she introduced herself, ‘so I hope this isn’t going to take up too much of my time. I had to bring my day man in last night when Con didn’t show, so I’ll be short-handed again today. There’s just Anna and me here until Cliff – he’s my day man – comes in at twelve, and Anna should be back in the kitchen getting ready for the lunch crowd.’ He nodded towards the bar where a young woman was setting up a menu board. ‘Anyway, I told the bloke I spoke to on the phone everything I know, and I told him I think it’s a waste of time. I don’t think Con’s missing at all. Well, not like really missing, if you know what I mean? I think she’s—’

  ‘Yes, I was told what you think,’ Molly cut in sharply, ‘but her flat-mate was concerned enough to report her missing, so we’re taking that report seriously.’

  The corners of Crowley’s mouth turned down, ‘Yeah, yeah, the Palmer woman,’ he said with exaggerated weariness. ‘It’s like she thinks I had something to do with Con taking off.’

  Crowley was short and heavy set. He stood with shoulders hunched and head thrust forward as if preparing for a fight, and, by the look of his face, he’d been in a few. His eyes were dark and probing, and they’d stripped Molly from head to toe within seconds of their meeting.

  She took out her notebook. ‘You said Connie left at midnight on Wednesday. What sort of mood was she in before she left? Did she say anything to you?’

  ‘She didn’t say anything,’ Crowley said, ‘but she kept looking at the clock, and when midnight came around she was off like a shot.’

  ‘Where was her car parked?’ Molly asked.

  ‘The far end of the car park next to the fence.’ Crowley indicated the direction with his thumb.

  ‘Which means she would have to drive past the front door to get out onto the road, right?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Did you hear or see her car go by? You mus
t have been closing up by then.’

  Crowley thought about that. ‘No, I didn’t,’ he said. ‘But then, I wouldn’t, would I? I was still trying to get old George Peacock out, but he was bound he was going to finish his story about something that happened in the war. He’s an old age pensioner who lives in the residence just up the road, so Connie would’ve been gone by the time I got him out.’

  ‘Were there any other cars in the car park?’

  ‘The lottery lot came by car,’ Crowley said, ‘but I couldn’t say about the others. Not many people come by car any more, they’re afraid of being breathalysed.’

  ‘Were there other customers who left about the same time as Connie?’

  ‘No, everybody else had gone by then.’

  ‘Including the man you say was chatting her up?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Can you describe him? Height, weight, approximate age?’

  ‘Could have been anywhere from thirty-five to early forties,’ Crowley said. ‘Tallish. Close to six feet, I’d say. Well set up. Not fat, but solid, if you know what I mean. Looked like he could take care of himself.’

  ‘Hair colour?’

  ‘Sort of dark brown, I think.’ Crowley’s heavy brows came together in concentration. ‘I remember it was long in the back, and he was wearing a pullover. One of those high-necked ones. Turtle-neck, grey.’

  ‘Trousers?’

  ‘He had ’em, or I would have noticed otherwise,’ Crowley said flippantly, ‘but I couldn’t tell you what colour they were, if that’s what you’re after.’

  ‘What about his facial features? Since you haven’t said otherwise, I assume he was white, but can you describe him for me? Eyes? Wide set or narrow? Eyebrows? Thick? Thin? Anything notable about his mouth, nose or chin? Any distinguishing marks? Scars, moles, tattoos?’

  ‘No, nothing like that,’ Crowley said. ‘Actually, he wasn’t a bad looking bloke, which made me wonder why he’d be chatting up the likes of Connie. I can sort of picture him in my head, but I can’t say there was anything special about him. He was . . . well, ordinary.’

  Molly sighed inwardly. So much for that! ‘What about his voice?’ she asked. ‘Did you happen to overhear any of their conversation?’

  ‘No. Like I said, it was a quiet night. Connie was all right on her own in the bar, so I spent most of my time in the lounge. I didn’t talk to him and I don’t know exactly when he left, but he was gone when I looked in around half eleven. Con left on the dot of twelve, and the way she shot out of here I think she must have arranged to see him outside. That’s probably why she kept looking at the clock after he’d gone. They’re probably shacked up in some motel or other, and Con’ll turn up all sorry for herself when he gets tired of her and kicks her out.’

  ‘Has Connie ever done anything like that before?’

  ‘Well, no, but she’s always on the lookout for a man, and with her looks it’s not as if she’s going to get many chances, is it?’ Crowley glanced at the clock above the bar. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘I’ve answered all your questions, but I’ve still got a pub to run, so can I go now?’

  ‘Just a few more questions, Mr Crowley,’ said Molly. ‘How long has Connie worked for you?’

  Crowley squinted into the distance. ‘Must be going on three years, now,’ he said, sounding surprised.

  ‘Good worker, is she?’

  ‘She’s all right. Haven’t had any complaints, so, yeah, I suppose you could say she’s all right.’

  ‘And what about your own relationship with Connie, Mr Crowley?’

  ‘My relationship?’ Crowley’s eyes were suddenly guarded. ‘She’s a barmaid,’ he said. ‘I’m her boss; she works for me. At least she did, but I’m not sure I’ll take her back if she’s going to pull stunts like this.’

  ‘But what about your personal relationship,’ Molly persisted. ‘Did you ever sleep with Connie?’ It was a shot in the dark, but Crowley looked the type who would think every female was fair game.

  ‘Sleep with her . . .?’ Crowley’s voice rose. ‘What the hell sort of question is—?’ He stopped, eyes narrowed. ‘It’s that Palmer woman she lives with, isn’t it? She told you, didn’t she? She’s the one who’s stirring all this up. Bitch!’

  Molly remained silent, but her eyes were steady on his face. ‘All right, so what if I did?’ he said belligerently. ‘That was a while back. There was nothing to it. It was just sex. It didn’t mean anything.’

  ‘So you weren’t jealous when you saw her being chatted up by another man? And a good looking one, according to you.’

  ‘Jealous?’ Crowley scoffed. ‘Of someone chatting up Con? You must be joking.’

  ‘You say it didn’t mean anything to you,’ Molly persisted, ‘but what about Connie? How did she feel about it?’

  ‘Grateful, I should think,’ Crowley said cockily, and laughed.

  Molly had to bite her tongue. She looked down at her notes. ‘I need a better description of the man Connie was talking to,’ she said, ‘so if you could give me the names of some of the people who were in here that night, I’ll see if any of them remember this man.’ She stood with pencil poised over her notebook. ‘What about this man Peacock, for instance? You say he lives close by?’

  Crowley shook his head impatiently. ‘It’s no good asking him,’ he said. ‘Silly old bugger’s out of it half the time, and he can’t see more than a yard or two ahead of him.’

  ‘So what about some of the others?’

  Crowley shrugged. ‘Like I said, it was a quiet night, and this bloke didn’t come in till after ten, so the few regulars who were here were gone by then. As for the rest, I’ve seen one or two of them before, but I couldn’t tell you who they are or where they live. So, sorry, can’t help you. Are we finished?’

  Molly closed her notebook. ‘Not quite,’ she said. ‘I’m afraid I must ask you to come down to the Charter Lane police station to make a formal statement, and to work with one of our photofit technicians to put together a picture we can circulate. I know it’s inconvenient,’ she continued as Crowley started to protest, ‘but considering the fact that three people have been killed in Broadminster in recent weeks, I think we should treat the disappearance of Connie Rice very seriously indeed. So the sooner—’

  The sound of her mobile cut off whatever she was going to say. She looked at the screen, which showed it was Ormside calling. What now, she wondered. She excused herself and moved away from Crowley, who took that as his cue to duck into the lounge.

  ‘We’ve found Connie Rice’s car,’ the sergeant said when she answered. ‘It was parked illegally in a residents only zone in Windsor Street. Been there since yesterday morning, till someone phoned and asked for it to be removed. Are you still at the pub?’

  ‘Yes, I am.’ Molly was trying to remember where Windsor Street was.

  ‘Good,’ Ormside said, ‘because you won’t have far to go. Windsor Street is a little cul-de-sac one street over from where you are. A two-minute walk at best, so get over there now and keep everyone clear until I can get a forensic team down there to take over. Has Crowley been any help?’

  ‘More or less,’ Molly said guardedly.

  ‘What about the man who was chatting up the girl just before she went missing? Can he give us a description?’

  ‘He says yes, but he’s reluctant to come in because—’

  Ormside snorted. ‘Never mind reluctant,’ he said. ‘It’s not his call. We need that description, and we’ll need a statement from him. And with the car being found so close to the pub, he could be a suspect as well.’

  NINETEEN

  Tregalles and Molly arrived back at Charter Lane within minutes of each other. ‘Lots of books and magazines,’ Tregalles told Ormside, ‘but I’m afraid Connie Rice wasn’t big on committing things to paper. We found an old diary of sorts, but it stops in March 2009, and it made pretty boring reading anyway. No personal letters, and as Sandra Palmer told us, not so much as a suggestion of a boyfriend.’
<
br />   ‘Any indication of a lesbian relationship?’

  Tregalles shook his head. ‘Not if the magazines she likes are any indication,’ he said. ‘The team’s still over there, but I don’t think we can expect much from them.’

  Ormside turned to Molly. ‘What about your man?’ he asked. ‘Is he cooperating?’

  ‘I had to almost drag him here,’ she said. ‘I think he sees Connie’s disappearance as nothing more than an inconvenience to him. I don’t think he could care less about what might have happened to her.’

  ‘Do you believe his story about a stranger chatting up Connie?’

  ‘Yes, I do,’ said Molly. ‘I don’t think he’s lying about that.’

  ‘Right. In that case, I’ll have Maxwell take his statement, but I want you to read it over and see if there are any discrepancies or deviations from what he told you. And get Keith Morran together with Crowley to see if they can come up with a credible photofit. He may or may not have anything to do with Rice’s disappearance, but the sooner we find him and talk to him the better.’

  ‘Right.’ Molly was about to turn away, but Ormside stopped her.

  ‘Almost forgot,’ he said. ‘Peter Jones, the choirmaster, is in room three. He came in looking for you and decided to wait when I told him you were on your way in.’ Ormside glanced at the clock. ‘He’s been there close to half an hour now, so better go and talk to him.’

  Peter Jones was older than she had expected. Late fifties, maybe sixty. Not very tall but solidly built. Short grey hair, broad forehead, steady grey eyes, strong facial features, and you knew he was paying attention when he looked at you.

  ‘It was very good of you to come in, Mr Jones,’ said Molly as she sat down facing him across the table. ‘Sorry you had to wait. It’s been a bit of a busy day.’

  ‘No problem,’ he said. ‘It’s been that sort of day for me as well, or I would have been here earlier. But when a bank calls and says it’s urgent, we have to respond immediately. Fortunately, it didn’t take long to fix the problem.’