The Cold Hand of Malice

by Frank Smith

  ‘All covered, I can assure you, sir,’ Tregalles said evenly, heeding Audrey’s caution as he was leaving for work. ‘I know it might not be easy,’ she’d warned, ‘but you’ve done your best, so don’t let them goad you into saying something you’ll regret later.’ Good advice, but not so easy to follow under Alcott’s challenging stare.

  ‘Charlie’s people have been extremely thorough,’ he continued doggedly. ‘I doubt if there’s a square inch that hasn’t been examined closely and dusted for prints of every kind.’

  Inspector Charlie Dobbs, universally known by high and low alike throughout the service simply as ‘Charlie’, was in charge of the scenes-of-crime unit. ‘They found traces of talc on any number of things, which suggests that they were wearing latex gloves at all times. As for footprints, it seems they put something on over their shoes the moment they were inside the house; something that leaves no tread or trace at all. And as far as we can tell, they were careful to avoid stepping in anything they smashed.

  ‘And believe me, sir, that would not have been easy to do. You’ve seen some of the damage yourself, so you’ll know what I mean. On the one hand they act like drunken sailors on a mindless rampage, yet on the other they seem to maintain tight control over everything they do. It’s completely contradictory; it doesn’t make sense, at least not to me.

  ‘None of the homes have alarms,’ he continued, ‘and the thieves or vandals, or whatever they are, always seem to know when a house will be empty, and for how long, because they’re never in a hurry to leave. And that, it seems to me is the key; if we could find the source of that information, I’m sure it wouldn’t take long to find them.

  ‘And as I said earlier, sir –’ he hurried on before Alcott could speak – ‘we’ve blanketed the area in every case; gone from house to house; stopped people travelling through the area on foot, on bikes, in cars, to ask each and every one of them if they were in the vicinity around the time of each burglary, and if they saw or heard anything suspicious or out of the ordinary, and we’ve drawn a blank.

  ‘We think they have a car, because the houses they’ve hit are all over town. We suspect they leave it some distance from their target, then simply walk in and out. If that is the case, it could explain why they never take anything they can’t carry in their pockets. They’ve taken money, and the odd trinket or two, and yet they’ve never taken cash cards or passports or anything of that nature, and I think that’s because they don’t have a way of selling them on. They haven’t even taken anything worth pawning or selling on the street, so that line of enquiry is closed to us as well.’

  Alcott eyed him bleakly. ‘So what do the profilers say?’ he asked harshly.

  ‘Not much, I’m afraid, sir. They believe there are two distinctly separate personalities at work here, one being led or directed by the other. The one doing the directing is a control freak, while the other is compliant and will probably do whatever the dominant one tells him to do without question.’ Tregalles hesitated. ‘There’s even been a suggestion that it could be a lad trying to impress his girlfriend, and they’re in this together.’

  Alcott grimaced. ‘Possible, I suppose,’ he conceded, ‘but personally I doubt it. Is that the best the profiler can come up with?’

  ‘I’m afraid their behaviour doesn’t fit any of the normal patterns,’ Tregalles told him, ‘and she’s had a consultant in from Birmingham University as well, but he’s just as baffled by the evidence.’

  ‘And I’m sure that will cost us a pretty penny,’ Alcott muttered more to himself than to the others.

  His mouth was set in a thin, tight line as he sat drumming nicotine-stained fingers on his desk. He couldn’t really fault Tregalles under the circumstances – the sergeant seemed to be doing everything possible – but the fact remained that there were two violent people out there who had to be stopped.

  ‘You say the homeowners were all away from home for different reasons?’ he said. ‘Are you quite sure there isn’t a connection there?’

  ‘If there is, we haven’t found it,’ Tregalles told him. ‘Mr Baxter in Dunbar Road is a single man who was working at one of the clubs on New Year’s Eve. Rose Wilson in Abbey Road was away from the Friday till Sunday at her sister’s wedding in Chester. The couple in Westfield Lane were out from about six till midnight at a retirement do here in town, while the Bolens in View Street were away for several days in Oxford to be with their daughter when she delivered their first grandchild. As for the Pettifers in Holywell Street last week, they went down to Cardiff for a couple of days to help Mrs Pettifer’s grandmother celebrate her ninety-fifth birthday.’

  Alcott blew out his cheeks and looked up at the ceiling as if seeking inspiration or divine guidance, but when that failed to appear, he fixed his gaze on Paget. ‘This can’t go on,’ he said grimly. ‘I can’t afford to have you tied up with CPS and West Mercia on the Greywald case any longer. As of now, I want you to concentrate on this case. No,’ he said forcefully as Paget opened his mouth to protest, ‘I know what you’re going to say, but I have no other choice. CPS isn’t going to like it, but you’ve been tied up with them for weeks, and the way they’re going on, nit-picking their way through every bit of evidence, you could be there for another six months. It’s all very well for them, but the appeal won’t be heard until September at the earliest, so they’ll have to make do with someone else.’

  Alcott was right; it wasn’t going to sit well with the Crown Prosecution Service, but they would have to take that up with the superintendent. As far as Paget was concerned, he would be only too happy to return to his regular duties, even if it did mean taking on a case that seemed to be going nowhere. Certainly it would be better than what he’d been doing for the past few weeks.

  Greywald Industries had been found guilty of allowing toxic chemicals to leach into marshlands in an area covered by both the West Mercia and the Westvale forces. The poisoned ground water had found its way into wells and water systems in the area, and a number of people and animals had become sick as a result. Greywald Industries was appealing the verdict, knowing that they would be facing a string of civil lawsuits if the verdict stood. So, for the past several weeks, Paget and a representative from the West Mercia force had been working with the Crown Prosecution Service re-examining every scrap of evidence that had been collected over a period of several years to make sure it would stand up to scrutiny in court.

  In fact, Paget would be only too happy to be rid of it. Spending his days answering endless – and in many cases, seemingly pointless – questions by a battery of lawyers, was not his idea of a useful way to spend his time.

  Alcott swung his chair around to face Tregalles. ‘This is no reflection on you, Sergeant,’ he said, ‘but I can’t let matters stay as they are. The people in this town are frightened; the press have the bit between their teeth, and New Street is pushing hard for results. You, of course, will remain on the case, but DCI Paget will be in charge of the investigation.’

  He turned back to Paget. ‘And I want you,’ he said, emphasizing his words by jabbing a finger in the DCI’s direction, ‘and only you, to deal with questions from the media. I’ll have a word with the press officer about that, and I want you to make sure that everyone, including Charlie’s people, understands they are to refer any questions from the media, or anyone else, for that matter, to you.’

  The intercom on Alcott’s desk buzzed softly. The superintendent touched a button and said, ‘Yes, what is it, Fiona?’

  ‘Chief Superintendent Brock is on line one, sir,’ his secretary said. ‘He said you were supposed to have called him twenty minutes ago . . .? He sounded—’

  ‘Yes, yes, I can imagine what he sounded like, Fiona,’ Alcott broke in testily. ‘I’ll talk to him now. Though God knows he’s not going to like what I have to tell him,’ he muttered beneath his breath as his hand hovered over the button on line one.

  A brisk nod told the two detectives Alcott wanted them to leave as he put the phone to his ea
r. ‘Good morning, sir,’ he said cheerfully, as they made for the door. ‘Sorry I couldn’t get back to you sooner, but I was just discussing a new line of enquiry in this string of burglaries with DCI Paget, who is heading the investigation now . . .’

  ‘Sorry, boss,’ Tregalles said as he and Paget descended the stairs together. ‘I didn’t intend to land you with this, but on the other hand I have no idea what we can do that we haven’t already done. There has to be a connection between these people, some common thread, but I’ll be damned if I can find it. I felt like a perfect idiot in there.’

  ‘Nobody’s perfect, Sergeant,’ Paget said lightly. ‘Not even you.’ He had never seen Tregalles so tense as he’d been in the superintendent’s office, and he was pleased to see the flicker of a smile on the sergeant’s face in response.

  ‘Now,’ he continued as they arrived at his office, ‘what I need from you is everything – and I mean everything – you have right from the very beginning. I want to see the statements made by the victims, by their neighbours, and by anyone and everyone who has been interviewed. I want a list of everything that was taken and everything that was destroyed, and I want the collator’s material as well as the profiler’s report.

  ‘I know, I know,’ he said as Tregalles was about to speak. ‘I know you told Mr Alcott that neither she nor the consultant from the university could tell us anything we hadn’t already guessed, and it may be a waste of time, but I want to see them just the same. And if there is anything I’ve overlooked, I want to see that too,’ he ended.

  Tregalles blew out his cheeks. ‘There’s a hell of a lot of stuff,’ he warned. ‘It will take some time.’

  ‘I know,’ Paget told him, ‘but we can start on the material from the first burglary while the rest is being put together. Now, I have a few things I must clear up here, but I want you back here with the first lot, let’s say at two o’clock this afternoon.

  ‘And be prepared to work late, tonight,’ he called after him as Tregalles left the office.

  Three

  Wednesday, March 4

  Paget drank the last of his tea and gave a sigh of contentment as he settled back in his chair. ‘That was a delicious meal,’ he said with feeling, ‘and I was certainly ready for it, Grace. But you shouldn’t have waited this long for your own dinner.’

  ‘Well, you did promise to be home by eight, and you know I don’t like eating alone.’

  Even though they had been living together for more than a year now, Paget still couldn’t believe his good fortune, and chills still ran up and down his spine when Grace came into his arms. Devastated by his wife Jill’s untimely death, he’d convinced himself that no one could ever take her place, and he’d withdrawn into himself, leaving London and the Met behind for the solitude of what used to be his father’s house in Ashton Prior. But he’d become restless there, and finally allowed himself to be coaxed into joining the Westvale Regional Force headquartered in Broadminster as a replacement DCI.

  Those first few years hadn’t been easy. Taciturn and demanding, he’d had trouble fitting in, but when chance brought him and DS John Tregalles together on a case, they seemed to click. Tregalles, originally from Cornish stock, had grown up in London, and between his irrepressible spirit and irreverent approach to life in general, he wasn’t at all phased by Paget’s gruff and unbending manner, and the two had gradually formed a solid working relationship.

  Paget had no social life. His work was his life, although there was a time when it looked as if he and Dr Andrea McMillan, a suspect in a murder case, might become something more than friends, but that hadn’t worked out. It had depressed him at the time, but he had cause to be thankful later on when he met Grace Lovett, an analyst with SOCO. Even then, it had taken him longer than it should have to recognize the feelings he had for her, and even longer before he allowed himself to believe that she could feel the same about him.

  ‘Penny for them?’ Grace said with a questioning look. ‘There was a faraway look in your eyes just then. I hope you’re not still thinking about the job?’

  He smiled. ‘As a matter of fact, I was thinking of you, and the first time we met,’ he said.

  ‘The first time we met you didn’t even notice me,’ she reminded him. ‘The next time we met you took me to lunch, then told me I had to pay for mine because I was on expenses.’

  He grinned. ‘Well, things have changed a bit since then,’ he told her, ‘and as for what I was thinking just now, I was thinking how lucky I am to have you.’

  Grace eyed him with mock scepticism as she stood up and began clearing the table. ‘They always say the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach,’ she said, ‘but I have the feeling that this is leading up to something?’

  ‘It is,’ he told her as he got up and came round the table. He placed his hands lightly on her shoulders and held her at arm’s length. ‘I don’t know what sort of day you’ve had,’ he said, ‘but mine’s been very tiring, so why don’t we leave the clearing up till morning and have an early night? What do you say?’

  Grace’s eyes danced mischievously as she pulled away. ‘I’d say you were trying to get me into bed, DCI Paget, and I suspect your intentions are not entirely honourable.’

  ‘Is that a yes or a no?’

  Grace grinned. ‘You don’t get anything for free in this world,’ she told him. ‘You should know that by now; there’s always a price to pay.’

  ‘Which is . . .?’ he asked cautiously.

  ‘We clear the table and do the washing up before we go to bed, because there is no way I want to face this lot when I come downstairs tomorrow morning. So, the sooner we get them done, the sooner you can have your way with me.’

  Moira Ballantyne slid the letter into the envelope and sealed it. It was shorter than usual, but she’d found it hard to concentrate on the weekly letter to her mother after the encounter with Laura Holbrook last night. She’d tried to dismiss it from her mind; tried to tell herself that things would straighten themselves out between them, but Laura’s accusation had been niggling away in the back of her mind all day, refusing to go away.

  And the more she’d thought about it, the angrier she’d become.

  Laura had all but accused her of having an affair with Simon; right there in the club last night. She hadn’t mentioned Moira by name, but by the way she had gone on about ‘some people’ getting their claws into other people’s husbands, then pretending to be ‘little Miss Innocent’, she had made her meaning very clear, and Moira could just imagine the sort of gossip that had broken out the minute they left the club.

  It would have been bad enough if it had been true, but it wasn’t. Not that she and Simon hadn’t had their moments in the past, she thought guiltily, but that was over long ago. It had happened at a time when she and Trevor were going through a rough patch, in fact she had given serious consideration to divorce. The work wasn’t coming in the way it had; Trevor was depressed, and the more he worried about the situation the worse things became. Bills were piling up; nothing was going right, and they’d fallen into the habit of sniping at each other over the most trivial things. She knew she’d been bitchy – unbearably so, if she were honest – and Trevor had finally withdrawn into himself and wouldn’t even talk to her unless it was unavoidable.

  And then Simon Holbrook had asked them to design a security system for his new premises. It wasn’t a big job; the premises weren’t large, but it was a lucrative one, because Simon wanted the best system going. It had meant that Moira had had to spend a lot of time on site, much of it in Simon’s company as he explained in painstaking detail exactly what he wanted. But with his scientific background, and being the kind of man he was, he had insisted on having every circuit explained to him in detail as they went along, and had in fact shown them how they could miniaturize some of the equipment they were using. He had also come up with some interesting and innovative ideas about where to conceal the cameras.

  The new job had been a godsend. Apart from anyth
ing else, it got Moira out of the house, because she was the one who took care of the initial on-site assessment and evaluation. It was her job to work with the client, record his needs, make recommendations, and provide Trevor with the information and working sketches from which he would design the system.

  Often working together far into the evening in order to meet the deadline Simon had set, it was almost inevitable that they would end up in bed together. Simon was such a breath of fresh air after the claustrophobic atmosphere at home – and he could be so damned charming when he put his mind to it.

  It was all over in a matter of weeks. It was just sex – that’s all it was. No regrets on either side. Except, a small voice whispered as Moira stared blankly at the envelope in her hand, that wasn’t quite true, was it? Not if she were honest. Even now, there were times when he would give her one of those sidelong looks from those dark eyes of his, and her heart would beat a little faster, and she would shiver as if he’d touched her. She’d felt guilty about the affair, brief as it had been; she’d even thought long and hard about confessing all to Trevor, but thankfully she hadn’t. It would have been the end of their marriage, and she didn’t want that. Trevor might not be the most exciting man in the world, but he was a good man, and she loved him.

  As for Simon, Moira had always marvelled at the way he drifted in and out of relationships as casually as he might drop in and out of a restaurant for lunch. He was like a magnet; women were attracted to him – they couldn’t seem to help themselves – even though most of them soon realized there was no depth to him and he would always be moving on.

  Until Laura, of course. Simon had met his match there. Moira had watched from the sidelines as their relationship developed, intrigued by the way Laura had taken control from the very beginning, first of Simon himself, and then his business.

  ‘And now she has it all,’ Moira murmured to herself as she moistened a stamp and stuck it on the envelope.