by Frank Smith
He shrugged helplessly. ‘So that’s what I did,’ he concluded. ‘I know it’s a bit late to say I’m sorry—’
‘I might believe you if that was the only time,’ Paget broke in, ‘but it wasn’t, was it? We’re told you went berserk when you were docked pay; that you had a screaming match with Laura Holbrook in her office, and you confronted and threatened her on at least one other occasion since then. Late? Yes, I’d say it’s a bit late, Mr Bryce.’
‘That’s not true,’ Bryce said heatedly. ‘I’ll admit I was upset when she sacked me for no reason, and I have tried to talk to her since then, but she wouldn’t listen to anything I had to say. And I never actually threatened her.’
‘She told others that you did. She said you suggested that it would be a shame if her car went up like a bomb. You don’t call that a threat?’
‘Well, she would say that, wouldn’t she?’ Bryce countered. ‘But the truth is she wanted to be rid of me from the start. It had nothing to do with my work.’
‘What did it have to do with, then? Why do you think you were let go?’
Bryce shrugged. ‘I think it’s pretty obvious,’ he said. ‘She didn’t want me around to see what she was up to. She set out to drive a wedge between me and my uncle from the very beginning, and she succeeded. Laura didn’t want me working for the firm at all, and she tried very hard to keep me out when Simon insisted on hiring me. He managed to overrule her on that, but she made sure that I was given nothing but Mickey Mouse jobs that a first year programmer could do with one hand behind his back. It was insulting, and when I objected, she went running to Simon to say I wasn’t up to the job. I’ll admit I left the office a few times when I was supposed to be there, but I couldn’t just sit around twiddling my thumbs because I had nothing else to do until she came up with some other menial task. She used that and a few other things to stick the knife in whenever she got the chance until she finally won Simon over.’
‘And what, in your opinion, was Mrs Holbrook “up to”, as you put it?’ asked Paget.
‘She was after the firm. She wanted control. The woman was a control freak; ask anyone who works there. She simply walked in and took over, and Simon let her. She bought her way in at a time when he was on the ropes financially. I grant you she was instrumental in turning the firm around, but it was only because it was a means to an end. She wanted it all. Simon couldn’t see it, but that was what she was after. That’s why she married him. She didn’t love Simon, but he was besotted with her and let her walk all over him.’
‘But you saw through all that,’ said Paget.
‘Yes, I did, and I tried to warn my uncle, but he wouldn’t listen.’
‘In fact he backed up his wife’s decision when she sacked you, so you decided to take matters into your own hands. Isn’t that right?’
Bryce shook his head wearily. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘I’ve been straight with you. I admit I had every reason to hate Laura, but I had nothing to do with her death. Sally didn’t want me to come here today; she said you’d already made up your minds that I killed Laura. But I chose to come in and answer your questions as honestly as I can, because I am innocent.’
Paget sat back in his chair and folded his arms, and it was Tregalles who put the next question. ‘Sally Craig tells us you were out last Wednesday evening. Where were you around nine o’clock that night?’
‘Yes, she told me,’ he said. ‘I was out jogging. I find it relieves the stress. I usually do between six and eight miles; sometimes more, sometimes less. Depends on the weather and where the mood takes me.’
‘And where did the mood take you that night?’
‘I have a couple of regular circuits,’ said Bryce. ‘On that particular night, I went down the road to King George Way, across the bridge and out along Velacourt, along the old towpath where the canal used to be before they filled it in – you know, where it runs beside the main road for about a mile – then came out at the bottom of Strathe Hill, across the fields from Woodbourne Road, over the footbridge to Barnfield, then home.’
‘We have a report of someone jogging not far from your uncle’s house around nine that night,’ Tregalles said. ‘Are you quite sure you didn’t go south down Lower Bridge Street or along Riverview Road, or possibly into Pembroke Avenue?’
‘Quite sure.’
‘What were you wearing?’
‘A tracksuit.’
‘Colour?’
Bryce looked puzzled, but he answered readily enough. ‘Dark blue with flashes on it to make it visible in the dark.’
‘So you left the house around seven. How long were you out?’
‘A couple of hours, give or take.’
‘Which would bring you home at around nine? Is that what you’re saying, Mr Bryce?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Was the television on when you went in?’
Bryce looked puzzled, but he nodded. ‘I think so. It usually is.’
‘What was on?’
‘Oh, for God’s sake! How should I know? I had a shower as soon as I came in. I didn’t hang about watching TV.’
‘Sally Craig tells us she was watching the ten o’clock news when you came in.’
Bryce shook his head vigorously. ‘No, that can’t be right; she’s got it wrong,’ he insisted. ‘It must have been the nine o’clock.’
‘All right,’ Paget said, taking over from his sergeant, ‘give us something that proves you right. Was anyone with you while you say you were jogging?’
‘No,’ said Bryce irritably. ‘I don’t like company when I’m jogging. I like to go at my own pace.’
‘Did you meet anyone along the way? Anyone who could verify where you were at a given time?’
Bryce grimaced. ‘Not really,’ he said. ‘I mean I passed a lot of people, but whether they would remember me or not, I have no idea.’
‘Did you stop anywhere? As I recall, there are a couple of pubs along that route, and the supermarket on Barnfield stays open late.’
Bryce shook his head. ‘Sorry, Chief Inspector, I’d like to be of more help, but that’s all I can tell you.’
Paget’s expression expressed his disbelief, but he said, ‘All right, let’s assume for a moment that you are telling the truth. Sally Craig told us that, prior to your dismissal, you spent a lot of time at work after regular hours. Overtime for which you haven’t been paid. Is that correct?’
Bryce waved his hands and shrugged in a self-deprecating way. ‘It goes with the job,’ he said modestly. ‘You know how it is, Chief Inspector? You can’t always be governed by the clock when there are problems to be solved.’
‘And were there a lot of problems that needed to be solved in your – what was it you called them? – Mickey Mouse jobs, Mr Bryce?’
A flush came to Bryce’s face. ‘It’s quieter there at night,’ he said. ‘And no one was there to disturb me.’
Paget’s voice hardened as he leaned forward across the table. ‘I have better things to do with my time than listen to a pack of lies from you, Mr Bryce,’ he said scathingly, ‘so the sooner you get it through your head that this isn’t some sort of game, the better. Now, where were you on the nights you told your partner you were at work?’
Colour rose in Bryce’s neck. ‘I don’t know what . . .’ he began, but Paget brushed the words aside.
‘You’ve been lying through your teeth, haven’t you, Mr Bryce? You’ve been telling your partner a pack of lies about where you go. And now you’re trying to do the same with us. You’ve never worked an hour of overtime for your uncle’s firm in your life, so where did you go on those nights, Mr Bryce? And what’s your excuse since you lost your job? Out looking for a job, is it? That’s what Sally Craig seems to believe. Or does she? I wonder. So where do you go, Mr Bryce?’
‘That,’ said Bryce sullenly, ‘is none of your business. It has nothing to do with what you’re after. Nothing to do with Laura or who killed her.’
‘In that case, there’s no harm in telling
us, is there? And what about this obsession with jogging? How do you expect us to believe you were where you say you were if we know you’ve been lying to us about working overtime?’
‘But I do jog. I really do,’ Bryce said earnestly.
Tregalles shook his head. ‘Since when does it take a dedicated jogger like you three hours to cover six to eight miles?’ he asked scornfully. ‘I could do better than that on my hands and knees. Perhaps we should get Ms Craig down here,’ he suggested, looking at Paget. ‘I’m sure she would be interested in the explanation.’
‘No!’ Timothy Bryce closed his eyes and drew a deep breath. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘if I tell you where I was when I told Sally I was working, do I have your word that you will not tell her?’
Paget shook his head. ‘We are not interested in what goes on in your private life if it has nothing to do with the matter at hand, but we do not make promises. And if we have reason to believe that you are lying to us, we will talk to anyone and everyone who may be able to help us. Do I make myself clear?’
Bryce slumped back in his chair. He looked up at the ceiling, and blew out his cheeks. ‘She’ll kill me,’ he groaned. ‘I mean it! She’ll bloody kill me.’
‘Your partner?’ asked Paget.
Bryce grimaced as he shook his head. ‘She would as well, if she ever finds out,’ he muttered more to himself than to Paget. ‘No, I mean – do I have to give you a name? I mean I’m not going to lie about it, but if you could just sort of . . .’ Timothy Bryce sighed as he saw the look on the chief inspector’s face, and took a deep breath. ‘Her name is Lenore, Lenore Lattimer. Her husband works for the company. He’s a security guard. Bill Lattimer. He’s older than she is. He works evening shift most of the time. That’s when I see her.’
‘Her husband works as a security guard at the same place you do – or did?’
Bryce nodded. ‘That’s right. I suppose you’ll have to talk to her?’
‘Yes, we will have to talk to her,’ Tregalles told him flatly. ‘Address, please.’ He sat there with pen poised over his notebook.
‘Nineteen Grandview Gardens. Could you wait till the evening before you talk to her?’ he asked hopefully. ‘And let me phone her first just to let her know – I mean I would like to warn her. It will come as a bit of a shock if two policemen walk in and start asking about, well, you know.’
‘No phone call,’ said Paget firmly. He eyed Bryce narrowly for several seconds before asking, ‘Does this have anything to do with why you were sacked?’
Bryce looked horrified. ‘Good God, no!’ he breathed. ‘Jesus! If my uncle ever hears about this he’ll go up the wall, even though the randy old sod’s been doing the same sort of thing himself for at least as long as I’ve been close to him, and probably a lot longer than that. I’ve never seen anyone like him for pulling birds. But Bill Lattimer is a friend of his, so he’d really let me have it if he found out I was bonking Lattimer’s wife.’
‘Let me understand this,’ said Tregalles heavily. ‘You are out there every other night, screwing this man’s wife while he’s at work? You’re unemployed; your partner is supporting you and looking after a baby, yet you go out night after night and leave her stuck at home worrying herself silly about how she’s going to manage?’
Timothy Bryce seemed to shrink before the sergeant’s malevolent glare. ‘I didn’t mean it to turn out like that,’ he said sulkily. ‘It just sort of happened. Lenore was lonely, left all by herself night after night,’ he protested. ‘He’s pushing fifty, and she’s only thirty three or four, and she needed . . .’
‘A toy boy?’ Tregalles broke in. ‘Oh, yes, very understandable,’ he said derisively as he wrote something in his book. ‘At least Sally has the baby to keep her company. Yours, is he?’
‘Of course he’s mine. And I have been out looking for a job. I have been trying.’
‘Have you now? Very commendable, I’m sure. How long have you known this Lenore?’
‘We met at the Christmas party. We danced together and she came on to me. We’d both had a bit to drink, and we ended up in one of the offices. You know how it is, Sergeant? I mean it happens, doesn’t it?’
‘Obviously. Now, let’s get back to Wednesday, the fourth of March. Are you saying that this Lenore Lattimer will verify that you were with her that evening?’
Bryce looked startled. ‘Wednesday, the fourth?’ he repeated, hoarsely. ‘I thought . . .’ He tilted his head back, covered his face with his hands and said, ‘Oohh shit!’
Tregalles exchanged glances with Paget. ‘Mr Bryce, I am asking you if Lenore Lattimer will confirm that you were . . .’ He stopped. Bryce, face still covered with his hands, was shaking his head violently. ‘Mr Bryce?’
Slowly, Bryce lowered his hands. ‘I made a mistake,’ he said in a voice so low that Paget asked him to repeat it. ‘I made a mistake,’ he said more clearly. ‘In the date. I was confused; I thought we were talking about . . .’ He lifted his hands in a helpless fashion and let them drop as he shook his head and said, ‘Oh, never mind; it doesn’t matter now.’
‘Are you saying you were not with Mrs Lattimer that night?’ Tregalles prompted.
Bryce nodded slowly.
‘But you were out of the house?’
‘Yes.’
‘Jogging?’ Tregalles asked sceptically.
‘Yes. Well, not exactly.’
‘Which is it, Mr Bryce? Yes or not exactly? I’m waiting for an explanation and I haven’t got all day. Do you have a dog?’
‘A dog?’ Bryce stared at the sergeant as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
‘That’s what I said. Do you or don’t you have a dog? It’s a simple enough question.’
‘No – well, yes, we did until last week, but it’s not our dog. It belongs to Sally’s parents. Sally agreed to look after it while they were away. We don’t have it now. But I don’t understand this. What the hell has a dog got to do with anything?’
‘It could have everything to do with whether you will be charged or not,’ Tregalles said as he turned to Paget. ‘I’d say we are back where we started, sir. Mr Bryce was out jogging – or not, as the case may be – and we have a report of a jogger in the next street to Pembroke Avenue about the time of the murder. Dark tracksuit – could very well have been Mr Bryce, don’t you think, sir? I think that warrants a search of the house for a start.’
‘And three hours unaccounted for,’ said Paget. ‘So, in the face of the evidence, and since you can’t account for your movements that night, I’m afraid we’re going to have to hold you on suspicion of—’
‘Jesus Christ, man, you can’t be serious?’ Bryce burst out. ‘I’ve been telling you the truth! I made a mistake, that’s all. About the date. Look,’ he said desperately, ‘what If I do have an alibi? Can we at least keep all this from coming out?’ His voice dropped to an urgent whisper. ‘I don’t want Sally to know. I love her, I really do. It’s just . . .’
Paget eyed him stonily. ‘If you have something to say, Mr Bryce, then say it,’ he said, ‘and stop wasting our time. And you had better get it right the first time, because if you don’t, there is every chance that you will go down for the murder of Laura Holbrook.’
Although the tape was still running, Tregalles opened his notebook again. ‘All right, Bryce,’ he sighed as if already weary of the subject, ‘this is your last chance. Where were you between the hours of seven and ten in the evening on the night Mrs Holbrook was killed? And don’t mess me about this time.’
Timothy Bryce’s eyes flicked from one to the other but both faces were impassive. ‘Look,’ he said again, ‘it’s not really the way it looks. Honestly. I was with a girl I know. We were at uni together; we shared digs there for a while, and now she’s living here in town. Her name is Hilde DeGraff. She works in the municipal offices, and she has a flat two streets over from where I live. It was a spur of the moment thing. I started out to go jogging that night, but when I realized I was passing her door, I thought I�
��d just drop in to see how she was doing, and we stayed chatting for most of the evening. I didn’t tell Sally because I didn’t think she would understand.’
‘I wonder why?’ Tregalles muttered, shaking his head. ‘Let’s have it, then – the address of this Hilde DeGraff.’
Fifteen
Paget had just settled to the task of finishing off his daily progress report when Ormside called from downstairs to report that Bryce’s prints had been taken. ‘We don’t have enough hard evidence to apply for a search warrant,’ he said, ‘but I made a deal with him. He’s agreed to turn over the tracksuit and anything else he was wearing last Wednesday night, as long as we don’t mention where he was to Sally Craig. We’ll also be looking for dog hair, and anything else that Forensic might find interesting. As for the DeGraff woman, she’s at work today, so I thought it might be best to wait till after work to talk to her.’
‘Agreed,’ said Paget, ‘but make sure that Bryce understands that he’ll be in serious trouble if he attempts to talk to her before we’ve had a chance to talk to her ourselves. And have Forsythe do that. DeGraff might be a little more forthcoming to another woman. Anything else?’
‘Couple of things,’ Ormside said. ‘Just received a fax saying that Mrs Holbrook’s body can be released for burial.’
‘Better let Mr Holbrook know, then,’ Paget told him. ‘And find out when the interment will take place and let me know. What’s the other thing?’
‘It seems that Mrs Ballantyne forgot to mention a couple of things when you spoke to her on Saturday. The prints we took from her yesterday – once she eventually turned up – match some they found in the Holbrook house. They were on the banister, on the bedside lamp, the telephone, and the bedroom window sill. Could be the break we’re looking for, especially since we now know that something may have been going on between her and Holbrook.’
The information was sobering. It was hard to imagine the diminutive Moira Ballantyne beating another woman to death, but stranger things had happened. ‘Have Tregalles bring her in,’ he said. ‘Better send a policewoman with him just in case Mrs Ballantyne doesn’t want to talk to us and he has to arrest her. And let me know when she arrives. I’d like to talk to her myself.’