by Frank Smith
‘That’s right. Came inside, and . . .’ His voice broke and he lowered his head to cover his face with his hands. ‘I’m sorry, but I can’t,’ he whispered, shaking his head. ‘Trevor, would you? Please? I can’t do this.’
Ballantyne cast an enquiring glance at Paget, who nodded and said, ‘If you wouldn’t mind, sir? We can take Mr Holbrook’s statement later.’
‘Of course.’ Ballantyne was about the same age as Holbrook, but a heavier build altogether. High forehead, fair hair cut short and neatly combed, brown eyes; a little heavy around the jowls. Avuncular was a word that came to Paget’s mind.
‘I came in with Simon for a nightcap before going home,’ he said. ‘Simon went upstairs to see how Laura was, and it was only when I came in here and saw this mess that I realized that someone had broken in. I thought immediately of Laura upstairs, so I ran into the hall and was about to go up myself when I saw Simon coming down. He looked awful, and before I could say anything, he just sort of crumpled and sat down on the stairs and started vomiting.
‘I tried to ask him what was wrong, but he couldn’t speak, so I went upstairs myself and took a look in the bedroom.’
Ballantyne sucked in his breath. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it,’ he said shakily. ‘It was horrible. How anyone could do such a thing God only knows.’
‘I understand that under normal circumstances Mrs Holbrook would have been with you,’ Paget said, ‘but she stayed at home tonight because she had a migraine?’
‘That’s right. Normally the four of us would have gone out together, Simon, Laura, and my wife, Moira, and I. But when Simon phoned to say that Laura wouldn’t be going, Moira decided not to go either, so it was just the two of us tonight. As a matter of fact, I rang her as soon as I put the phone down after calling the police, because I thought if thieves had broken in here, they might have tried it on other houses in the street. I told Moira to make sure all the doors and windows were locked, and said I’d be bringing Simon home with me as soon as we were finished here.’
‘This won’t take much longer,’ Paget assured him. ‘You say you came in with Mr Holbrook for a nightcap. Do you usually do that?’
‘Not every time, but Simon asked me in, and I wanted to find out how Laura was so I could tell Moira. And speaking of Moira, I would like to leave soon, because she will be worried. She isn’t easily upset, but I don’t like to think of her alone right now.’ He looked at his watch. ‘And the doctor should be there by now, so I think the sooner I can get Simon over there and have the doctor give him something to make him sleep, the better.’
‘Just a couple of questions before you go, Mr Ballantyne. Did either of you touch anything or try to move Mrs Holbrook?’
Ballantyne shook his head. ‘I certainly didn’t’ he said. ‘Simon . . .?’
Holbrook raised his head and shook it slowly.
‘In that case,’ said Paget, ‘that will be all for now. And thank you for bearing with me. I know how difficult it is. We will need each of you to come down to Charter Lane to make a formal statement, but that can be arranged later. Someone will be in touch with you to set up a time.’
He rose to his feet, and Ballantyne stood up as well. He touched Holbrook on the shoulder and said, ‘Come on, Simon. Let’s get you away from here.’
‘I don’t like to bring this up at a time like this, Mr Holbrook,’ said Paget as they moved toward the door, ‘but I’m afraid I must. It’s a formality, but a necessary one for the record: can you confirm that the body you saw in the bedroom upstairs, is that of your wife, Laura Holbrook?’
Holbrook swallowed hard. His eyes were moist as he nodded dumbly before turning away. Paget looked enquiringly at Ballantyne for confirmation. ‘Oh, it’s Laura all right,’ the man said gruffly. ‘I only wish to God I could say it wasn’t!’
Moira Ballantyne counted the strokes as the downstairs clock struck five. Beside her, Trevor slumbered on apparently untroubled by the events of the previous evening. That had always been Trevor’s way. ‘Put it out of your mind and go to sleep,’ he would tell her when she was worried about something. ‘Things always look better in the morning.’
All very well for him; that might be his way, but it certainly didn’t work for her. How could you put something like that out of your mind and go to sleep?
Moira slipped out of bed and wrapped her dressing gown around her as she left the bedroom. She opened the door of the back bedroom – Trevor preferred to call it ‘the guest room’ – to look in on Simon. He, too, was sleeping soundly, sedated by the doctor.
Moira went downstairs and switched the fire on in the living room, then snuggled down in a chair in front of it.
They hadn’t gone to bed until nearly three. It was Trevor who had insisted on ringing Susan, Laura’s sister, despite the hour. ‘You don’t want her to hear it on the eight o’clock news, now do you, Simon?’ he’d said when Holbrook had demurred. Then, ‘Why don’t you call her, Moira? She might take it better from you.’
She remembered staring at him blankly, her mind racing wildly as she made an imaginary call. ‘Hello Susan. How are you? Yes, I know it’s one thirty in the morning, but Trevor insisted that I ring to tell you that Laura was battered to death a few hours ago.’
Moira drew her knees up and wrapped her arms around them. She’d made the call, but she couldn’t remember what she’d said or what Susan had said in reply, except that she would get dressed and come over right away. She did remember that Susan had taken it well considering what a shock it must have been. In fact she’d seemed almost more concerned about how Simon was bearing up than how it was affecting her.
Moira had made tea when Susan arrived. She remembered listening to Susan’s questions and Trevor’s answers; remembered standing over the sink in the kitchen, feeling sick and wondering how she could walk back in there and carry on as if she knew nothing about what had happened before Trevor had rung to tell her.
The doctor had gone, and Simon was fast asleep in bed by the time Susan left. Moira had told Susan she was welcome to stay with them for the night if that would help, but Susan had said no, she would rather go home. There could be little doubt that she’d been badly shaken by the news of her sister’s death, and yet, as always, Susan had kept a tight rein on her emotions. Her biggest concern, it seemed to Moira, had been how she was going to break the news to her father. ‘To tell you the truth, I’m not even sure if I should,’ she’d confided. ‘Laura was always his favourite from the time she was little, but he hasn’t recognized any members of the family for years, so I doubt if it would even register. What do you think, Moira?’
Susan’s father, Alec Chase, was in the advanced stages of Alzheimer’s disease. He’d been in a home for years. She hadn’t known what to say. In the end she’d mumbled something trite and meaningless, but it seemed to satisfy Susan. She’d given Moira a hug and thanked her again for letting her know about Laura, and for the offer to stay the night.
‘And do try to get some rest,’ she’d said solicitously as she was leaving.
Moira stared into the warm glow of the fire. That was the sort of person Susan was, always concerned about others rather than herself. Moira had never met anyone who didn’t like Susan, and she had known her a long time. Not as long as Trevor, though; they’d been at school together, which meant that Susan must be close to Trevor’s age, and he’d just turned forty. She certainly didn’t look it, Moira thought with just a touch of envy. In fact Susan was older than her sister by a year or two, yet Moira had always thought of her as the younger of the two sisters. And a much nicer person all round, thought Moira coldly, remembering the way Laura had treated her at the club the other night.
Lovely girl, yet she’d never married, nor did she seem to be interested in anyone – other than Simon, of course, until Laura had come along. And the unfortunate part about it was that it had been Susan who had introduced Simon to her sister, and in doing so had killed her own chances with Simon.
Susan had be
en Simon’s badminton partner for years. It had always been Simon and Susan versus Trevor and Moira – until that fateful day when Moira had broken her wrist, and Susan had brought Laura along the following week to fill in. Until then, there had never been any doubt in Moira’s mind that Susan was in love with Simon, and if anyone was ever going to get him to the altar again, it would be Susan. But when Laura appeared on the scene, Simon had fallen for her like a ton of bricks, and it was game over for Susan. Laura had taken Susan’s place as Simon’s badminton partner, and Susan had become Trevor’s partner.
Initially, Laura’s interest had been in Simon’s failing business, and even Moira had to admit that if it hadn’t been for Laura’s expertise and money, Simon’s company would have gone under. But it soon became apparent to everyone that their relationship had gone well past that of business partners.
Even then, Susan might have clung to the hope that Simon’s infatuation with Laura would pass, but it must have really hurt when Simon announced that he and Laura were married.
Laura! Moira closed her eyes, trying desperately to shut out the scene that had been playing over and over again inside her head. It was there when Trevor phoned; it was there when he’d brought Simon home, and it was there now. She’d washed away the blood, scrubbed herself clean, then bundled up the bloodstained clothes and stuffed them in the boot of her car. Tomorrow – no, today! – she must find an excuse to get away and dump them where no one would be likely to find them or connect them with her if they did.
But what she was going to do about the bloodstained coat? was still a question in her mind.
She couldn’t get rid of it. It had been a Christmas present from Trevor, and he would be bound to notice it was gone, and he would keep on asking questions about it until . . .
‘Moira? Moira! What are you doing out here?’
Startled, Moira’s eyes flew open to see Trevor standing in the doorway in his pyjamas.
His voice softened. ‘Can’t sleep, I suppose,’ he said. ‘Too much on your mind. But sitting out here worrying about it isn’t going to help, is it? Come back to bed. Things will look better in the morning.’
Five
Thursday, March 5
Grace felt a little guilty as she left the house and closed the door quietly behind her. Neil would probably be annoyed about what she’d done; he hated to be late, but it had been almost four o’clock by the time he’d tumbled into bed, and he’d fallen asleep within minutes of his head touching the pillow. He hadn’t so much as moved when the alarm went off at six thirty, so she’d reset it for eight thirty before gathering up her clothes and slipping quietly out of the room. The morning traffic was hazardous enough if you were wide awake, so Grace was quite prepared to face Neil’s displeasure rather than have him fall asleep at the wheel on his way in to work.
Inspector Charlie Dobbs was in his shirtsleeves, shaving, when she arrived. A tall, thin, gaunt-featured man at the best of times, he looked as if he’d been up all night.
‘Hardly seemed worth the effort to go home by the time I got back here this morning,’ he said in answer to her question, ‘but I’ll grab a couple of hours’ sleep at home later on this morning, and still be back by lunchtime. I assume Neil has filled you in?’
‘All I know is that there’s been another burglary, and a woman was killed,’ Grace told him. ‘Neil was dead tired when he came in somewhere about three thirty this morning, so I didn’t ask for details. He did say the murdered woman was the wife of Simon Holbrook of Holbrook Micro-Engineering, and the MO was the same as the others.’
‘That’s right,’ Charlie said, ‘at least as far as it goes. But I have an odd feeling about this one – apart from the murder itself, of course – so I’ve been going through the records of the previous burglaries, and I think I may be on to something. But I could be wrong, which is why I want you to go over to the house and take a look for yourself. See if anything strikes you the same way.’
‘What am I supposed to be looking for?’
Charlie smiled and shook his head. ‘Just look,’ he said. ‘Do what you do best, then come back and tell me if anything strikes you as odd or different about this one – apart from the murder itself, of course.’
It was nine thirty when Paget nosed the car into his parking slot in Charter Lane. He knew Grace had meant well by letting him sleep, but he still felt he should have been there earlier, regardless of how little sleep he’d had.
To make matters worse, Tregalles was there ahead of him, looking as fresh and scrubbed as if he’d had a full night’s sleep, and it appeared that he and Sergeant Ormside already had matters well in hand. Paget had left instructions for Len Ormside to be called in early to set up the incident room and begin the task of calling people in to work on what was now a full-blown homicide investigation.
‘We’re pretty well up and running,’ Ormside told him. ‘We’ve got people knocking on doors throughout the neighbourhood, and we’re following up on the list of names of the people who were out there in the street last night.’ He pointed to the task board.
Paget studied the board, and made a mental note of the assignments, then turned his attention to the large plan of the town, and the pins marking the location of the burglaries. He studied it for several minutes, but if there was a pattern there, he couldn’t see it.
‘Anything new this morning from SOCO?’ he asked.
Ormside shook his head. ‘No, but they haven’t finished yet. Charlie said there’ll be someone in the house for the rest of the day at least. Also, we received a call from Holbrook’s insurance agent asking for permission to have one of their investigators go in to assess the damage, but I told him he would have to wait until we’d been through the house with Mr Holbrook ourselves, and it was no longer a crime scene.’
Paget frowned. ‘I would have thought that would be the last thing on Simon Holbrook’s mind this morning, considering the state he was in when we left him earlier this morning,’ he said.
‘It wasn’t Holbrook who rang him,’ Tregalles said. ‘It was Ballantyne. Said he was acting for Holbrook.’
‘Interesting,’ Paget observed. ‘Which reminds me: get hold of Ballantyne and Holbrook and arrange a time for them to come in and give a formal statement.’
‘Already done, boss,’ Tregalles told him. ‘Ballantyne is coming in this afternoon, but Holbrook won’t be in until tomorrow. His doctor doesn’t think he’s in a fit state to talk to anyone today, but thinks he should be OK tomorrow. Was there anything else?’
‘Yes, there is,’ said Paget slowly, ‘although I think this is something for one of Len’s people,’ he said, turning to Ormside. ‘I’d like you to get me as much background material as possible on the Holbrooks. Were they happily married? How is Holbrook’s business doing? Any financial problems? Who benefits from Laura Holbrook’s death? You know the sort of thing.’
Tregalles eyed Paget narrowly. ‘I thought we had this one pegged,’ he said. ‘I mean it’s the same MO, same tools, same sort of damage. The only difference is that there was someone home who shouldn’t have been because of a last-minute change of plan due to Mrs Holbrook’s migraine.’
‘And you’re probably right,’ Paget agreed, ‘but let’s make absolutely sure we don’t become too focused on the obvious.’
‘I hope you weren’t too upset when I reset the alarm this morning,’ said Grace as they carried their after-dinner coffee into the living room and sat down. ‘I know you hate to be late, but I couldn’t let you go stumbling out of here into the morning traffic with no more than a couple of hours of sleep.’
Paget smiled and shook his head. ‘It’s a good job you did reset it,’ he told her, ‘because I’d have probably slept till noon if you hadn’t. Anyway, my well-trained staff had everything under control by the time I got there, so there was no harm done. How was your day? I hear you spent it in the Holbrook house. Find anything I can use?’
It wasn’t exactly a rule, but they had both agreed early in their rela
tionship that they should try to avoid talking shop at least until after dinner. Grace, who was very health-conscious and knew about these things, had made the point that it was bad for the digestion. Paget agreed, not so much because he was worried about his digestion, but because too much conversation during dinner allowed the food to go cold.
Grace wrinkled her nose. ‘Not really,’ she said. ‘Once again we found a few strands of fibre mixed with dog hair, and a bit of dark fuzzy material that seemed to be out of place among the bedclothes, but that was about it. I don’t know who these people are, but they’re clever enough to avoid leaving clues behind them. Fingerprints all over the house, of course, but I’m willing to bet not one of them belongs to those two killers.
‘Charlie’s being a bit more enigmatic than usual, though,’ she continued. ‘He seems to think he’s found something odd about this particular burglary, and he wants me to see if it strikes me the same way, but I’m afraid, if it’s there at all, I haven’t seen it yet. It has something to do with a comparison of crime scenes, but I’m not sure what I’m supposed to be looking for.’
‘He didn’t give you a clue?’
‘Not really. Just handed me copies of the reports from all the other crime scenes, and said, “see if anything strikes you as odd about them”. And that was it. I asked him again this afternoon if he could give me a bit more to go on, but he just smiled, you know the way he does, and said, “No. If it’s there I’m sure you’ll find it; if it’s not, then perhaps it’s my imagination after all.”’ Grace made a face. ‘I don’t know what he expects me to find, but one thing I have learned over the years, is that you don’t ignore one of Charlie’s gut feelings, so I shall go back there tomorrow and keep digging. Has he mentioned anything to you about it?’
‘No, but if there is anything there to be found, believe me, I wish you luck, because we are literally grasping at straws on this one.’