The Cold Hand of Malice

by Frank Smith

Despite what she’d just been told by security, she said on impulse, ‘Is Simon there by any chance?’

  ‘No. He left some time ago. He’s had a stressful day. Is there anything I can do for you?’

  ‘No. Thanks anyway.’ Careful now, remember who you’re talking to, a small voice whispered inside her head. ‘It was just something that occurred to me about Laura’s estate, but it’s not important. It will keep till morning. Sorry to have troubled you, Peggy.’

  ‘No trouble at all,’ Peggy assured her. The tone of her voice changed to one of concern. ‘But how are you coping, Susan? I know how hard this has been on Simon, but it must have been just as hard on you.’

  ‘It is,’ Susan said. ‘I can still hardly believe it happened the way it did. Work helps, of course, and business has been surprisingly brisk for the time of year. How has business been at your mother’s shop? And how is she? I’m afraid I haven’t been in for ages.’

  ‘Not too well, I’m afraid,’ Peggy told her. ‘It’s the arthritis in her hands, mainly, but she has an electric wheelchair, now, so that helps a lot, and she manages to stay cheerful with it. But business has been quite good. I know I’m kept busy on the weekends there. Now, sorry, Susan, but I must go if I’m ever to get to bed tonight.’

  ‘Of course. I shouldn’t be holding you up like this. Say hello to your mum when you see her. And speaking of bed, I think I might have an early night myself.’

  Susan put the phone down and looked at the clock. Ten past nine. What did Simon think he was playing at? He’d had all evening to call her, and she’d had the phone switched to the shop while she was down there, so she couldn’t have missed it if he had called.

  The suspicion that was never far from her thoughts pushed its way forward. She tried to ignore it; tried to tell herself that all that was in the past. It had to be. She’d waited so long. He wouldn’t dare . . . She closed her eyes. God! If Simon was up to his old tricks again, she’d kill him!

  Susan’s mind went into overdrive. Peggy Goodwin? Not very likely, since the woman was still at work. But there was Moira, sweet little butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-her-mouth Moira, who lived so conveniently just down the street from Simon, and Susan knew for a fact that Trevor Ballantyne would be out of town sometime this week, because Moira had mentioned it the other night. Attending an electronics fair in Wolverhampton, she’d said, and she’d sounded pleased at the prospect of having time to herself for a change. ‘Working and living together twenty-four hours a day can be a bit much, sometimes,’ she’d confided, ‘so I’m looking forward to being able to do what I like, when I like.’

  Simon had been there when Moira had said that, and he’d made some remark at the time. It had seemed innocent enough, but was it? Had Moira been telling him quite openly in front of others, that she would be available?

  Or was there someone else she’d never heard of?

  Susan shivered. She looked at the clock again, and decided to give him fifteen minutes more to return her call before making a move herself.

  Simon Holbrook sat slumped in the big leather recliner chair facing the blank screen of the television set in the corner. He had often talked disparagingly of the mind-numbing pap masquerading as entertainment these days, but even it had failed to numb his mind this evening, and he’d turned it off. The neck of the bottle rattled against the glass as he poured himself another drink. Straight whisky, unusual for him, but then, everything had been different since Laura died, and he needed something to dull the senses.

  And Paget had him in his sights, he was sure of it. Prime suspect – wasn’t that what they called it? Why else would Paget keep coming back to him? Simon sipped his drink and laid his head back against the cool leather. He’d really made a balls up of his alibi. He should have known better than to rely on Trevor to back him up. But then, he hadn’t expected things to turn out quite like this. And that call from Trevor this afternoon to say that he was sorry, but he’d had to do it for Moira’s sake, was the last straw.

  ‘Honestly, Simon, I don’t really think you did it, and I’m sure the police will get it right, so I don’t think there’s any real harm done. It probably was the same lot who’ve been breaking into houses all over town.’

  Bollocks! Stupid little shit!

  But he should have erased those emails before the police started poking about, because he had the uneasy feeling that they could come back to haunt him. Not that there was anything in them relating to Laura’s death, but the police might wonder about the timing.

  He rubbed his face with his hands. No need to worry, Simon. The hell there wasn’t!

  He leaned his head back, closed his eyes and opened his mouth, trying desperately to control his breathing. The last thing he needed now was for another panic attack like the one he’d suffered earlier in the day. Thank God he’d been in his office and there was no one there to see it, but next time . . . He found the pulse in his wrist and started counting.

  Twenty-two. Times four. Eighty-eight. A bit high, but not all that bad, he told himself as he took his fingers off his wrist. His breathing steadied. Simon sat up and poured himself another drink.

  He thought suddenly of Moira. What the hell had she been up to that night? She was the talk of the street after the police brought her home and all but torn the Ballantyne’s house apart. Trevor had finally admitted that Moira had been in the house the night Laura was killed, but he wouldn’t say why, and Simon had been afraid to ask Paget about it in case the chief inspector misconstrued his interest.

  Paget again. A cold shiver ran down Simon’s spine. Damn the man for prying into things that didn’t concern him. And that question about Henry Beaumont. Was it simply an innocent enquiry, or was it Paget’s way of telling him that he knew more than he was letting on? It was a question that had continued to trouble Simon for the rest of the day, clouding his thinking to the point where he’d had to tell Stan to carry on the tests without him.

  And then there was Peggy. He couldn’t fob her off much longer; she knew something was up. He emptied the glass and reached for the bottle.

  ‘Oh, Simon, Simon darling, what on earth do you think you’re doing? Sitting here in the dark drowning your sorrows? You know you can’t take that stuff. You’re going to have a fearful headache in the morning.’

  He blinked his eyes. Susan? He thought at first he must be dreaming, then he smelt her perfume as she came up behind him and put her arms around his neck. He struggled to get up, but Susan held him back and bent to kiss the top of his head.

  ‘I let myself in,’ she said unnecessarily. ‘I thought you might need company tonight. Hard day, was it my love?’

  He grasped her hand. ‘Paget knows about Beaumont,’ he whispered. ‘Did he say anything to you?’

  ‘Not a word,’ Susan assured him. ‘You worry too much, Simon. He doesn’t know anything, so don’t let him get to you. He’s fishing, that’s all. Now, stop worrying and relax. Everything is going to be all right, so let’s get you upstairs to bed.’

  Twenty-Three

  Thursday, March 19

  It was trying to rain, and the reflection of the ornamental street lights glistened on the wet pavement when Susan let herself out of the house just after five o’clock in the morning. She could have parked within yards of Simon’s house last night – there were still a few spaces open this morning – but she didn’t want anyone to recognize her car, so she had left it some distance away in Tavistock Road and come the rest of the way on foot.

  She turned the corner into Tavistock Road, then paused beneath a street light to open her handbag to search for keys. At first, she thought the owner of the car beside her had left the windows open by mistake, but then she saw the glint of broken glass in the gutter. Her heart sank as she looked ahead and saw her fears confirmed. Her own car, together with several others, had received the same treatment.

  Susan could feel the rage boiling up inside her as she approached her car and peered through the broken window. Gingerly, she opened the door.
More glass fell out, but there didn’t seem to be any other damage. The radio/disk player was still there; even the box of disks that the police were always telling you to hide had been ignored. She gritted her teeth. Just a mindless bunch of yobs roaming the streets late at night with nothing better to do than smash windows for the hell of it. Bastards! It was time the police did something about these roving gangs. Hanging by their thumbs would be too good for them.

  Susan glanced up and down the street. There wasn’t a soul in sight. She closed the door and went around the other side and got in. ‘Bloody yobs!’ she breathed disgustedly as she took out her mobile phone, preparing to phone the police, then paused. They were bound to ask questions about why she had left the car there overnight. Name and address, then: Why were you parked so far away from home? Visiting? Visiting whom? May we have the address? What time was it when you left the car? What time did you return?

  Susan put the phone back in her handbag and started the car. The last thing she needed was to draw attention to herself and Simon, so best forget it and simply have the window repaired. She started the engine, glanced in the side-view mirror and pulled away from the kerb.

  Good! She was clear. Let one of the other poor devils report the damage. Let them talk to the police.

  ‘Are you quite sure that Mr Holbrook didn’t leave a message, Janice?’ Peggy Goodwin asked the receptionist for the second time that morning. ‘You know what he’s like. Stick a note up somewhere with Sellotape and expect someone to find it. I’ve looked but I can’t find one, and no one down at the lab has heard from him, although they did say he didn’t seem himself yesterday.’

  Lips compressed, Peggy looked at her watch again. ‘He promised he’d be in early this morning,’ she said, ‘and just look at the time! Quarter past nine and not a sign of him, and he knows we have a lot to do before the meeting at the bank this afternoon. I’ve called his house, I’ve left a message, I’ve tried his mobile phone, which, as usual, he hasn’t switched on, and I’ve even emailed him, and still no reply.’

  Janice West shook her head. ‘I’ve looked around, but I can’t see any note, and there’s nothing in the overnight log. I have tried to call Mr Holbrook several times myself, but there’s no answer.’ She lowered her voice, although there was no one else in the room. ‘Perhaps he was up late last night and slept in this morning,’ she suggested. ‘He has been under a lot of stress lately, what with one thing and another. He was quite short with me yesterday, and that’s not like him. It could be happening again.’

  Peggy eyed Janice thoughtfully. ‘You mean depression,’ she said. It wasn’t a question. ‘I had hoped we were past that,’ she said, ‘but you could be right, and if you are . . .’

  ‘He could be hung-over if he’s started drinking again,’ Janice finished for her.

  Peggy drew in her breath as she looked at the time again. ‘Well, hung-over or not,’ she said, ‘I need him here, so someone had better go to the house to see if he’s there, and I’m afraid that has to be you, Janice. If he has been drinking, I don’t want anyone else to see him in that state, so I’ll have Miranda look after the desk while you’re gone. If he is there and still in bed, he probably won’t want to come down to open the door, but don’t give up. Keep pounding on it until he answers. Then get him down here as fast as you can.’

  Simon Holbrook’s car was in the driveway, but Janice found a vacant space a couple of doors down. She parked the car and walked back. She’d been to the house only once since Simon and Laura were married. A Christmas party arranged by Laura for their friends and a few carefully chosen members of the staff. Finger food and wine, catered, of course, but Janice hadn’t felt comfortable there. She’d made her excuses and left as soon as she could without causing offence.

  She mounted the shallow steps and rang the bell. No answer. She leaned on the bell and kept the pressure on for a good half minute. Still no sign of life. She grasped the doorknob and turned it. She hadn’t expected it to yield, but it did and the door opened to her touch.

  She gave it a push and looked down the empty hall.

  ‘Mr Holbrook?’

  No answer. Janice stepped inside, calling out as she moved down the hall, poking her head inside each room as she went. No sign of Holbrook, but then she hardly expected him to be pottering about downstairs, because he would have answered her calls by now.

  Janice didn’t like the thought of going upstairs, but she couldn’t put it off any longer. She called out loudly as she mounted the stairs; paused on the landing to call again.

  Nothing. The door to the front bedroom was open. She peeked inside and found it empty and smelling of fresh paint. Of course! This would be the bedroom where Laura . . .

  Janice turned away and knocked on the door of the second bedroom before pushing it open. The bedclothes had been thrown back and lay in a heap in the middle of the bed, partly obscuring the pyjama-clad form of Simon Holbrook, who lay facing away from her on the far side of the bed.

  ‘Mr Holbrook?’

  Suddenly, Janice was angry. This was the man who was supposed to be in charge; a man she’d looked up to before Laura Southern had virtually taken over the company, yet here he was, drunk as a lord and oblivious to the world.

  She raised her voice, unable to disguise her anger as she shouted, ‘Mr Holbrook! It’s Janice from work. You have to get up. Please, Mr Holbrook . . .’

  She didn’t really want to go any further into the room; it didn’t seem right to go marching round the large bed to shake the man in his pyjamas, even if he was in a drunken stupor. But she’d come this far and she had to do something. Gingerly, she leaned over the bed and touched his shoulder. ‘Mr Holbrook!’ she called loudly. ‘Please wake up.’

  No response. Angrily, she put one knee on the edge of the bed and reached for the man’s shoulder. ‘Mr Holbrook!’ she called sharply, and shook him hard. ‘Please wake . . . Oh, my God!’ she breathed as Holbrook rolled onto his back. His eyes were wide open and he was covered in blood.

  And the black-handled knife buried to the hilt in his stomach like a crude exclamation mark only served to confirm what Janice already knew.

  Paget counted five stab wounds on the body, although there could be more concealed by the pools of crusted blood. Whoever had done this must have hated the man as much as they had hated Laura – different weapons but the same result – assuming, of course, that both had been killed by the same person. The possibility that there could be two killers out there was something he didn’t even want to think about.

  ‘Looks pretty straightforward to me,’ said Starkie as he stripped off his gloves. ‘Don’t quote me until I have the results of the autopsy, but I think it would be safe to say he’s been dead for at least four hours and no more than six.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Let’s say somewhere between four and six this morning. Depends to some degree on what sort of activity he was engaged in immediately prior to his death. The blood on the floor suggests that he was standing beside the bed when he was first attacked, and he probably put up some resistance before falling back on the bed as his assailant continued to stab him. As you can see by the way the blood is spread all over the sheets, he must have struggled, but he would be dying by that time.

  ‘If he was standing beside the bed when the first blow was struck,’ he continued, ‘then was struck again and again before being manhandled into his present position, the killer would probably have some of that blood on himself. It would certainly be on his shoes; you can see where blood was tracked across the carpet.’ He indicated a number of dark patches that had been marked off by the quick-thinking constable who was first on the scene. ‘Interesting that they stop there at the foot of the bed; there doesn’t seem to be anything beyond that point.’

  Paget stepped gingerly around the stains on the carpet to the end of the bed. ‘I think that he – or she – sat down on the end of the bed in order to change before leaving the room,’ he said, pointing to a smear of blood on the bottom of the duvet. ‘V
ery deliberate, I’d say.’

  ‘Probably a “she”,’ said Starkie. Paget looked at him. The doctor rarely ventured into the realm of speculation on something as specific as the sex of a killer. But he might well be right this time. Someone had been in bed with Holbrook; someone who had left a few tell-tale strands of dark hair on the pillow.

  Starkie pulled back the bedclothes. ‘Semen stains,’ he pointed out. ‘We’ll need these sheets. However, I’ve got better things to do than stand here solving your case for you. I think it would be safe to assume that he died from his wounds, but I’ll let you know if I find anything to the contrary.’

  Tregalles entered the room. ‘No sign of a forced entry,’ he told Paget. ‘The back door is locked and the key is on a ledge beside the door, but the spring-loaded lock on the front door was set on the latch, so it didn’t lock when the killer went out.’

  He moved closer to the bed. ‘Nasty,’ he said with a grimace. He put his face close to one of the pillows and wrinkled his nose. ‘Don’t know if that’s perfume or hair spray,’ he said, ‘but it looks like he was sleeping with someone with dark hair. Susan Chase, maybe? You think she killed him?’

  ‘Certainly looks that way. We’ll need to talk to her.’

  Tregalles nodded slowly. ‘Not just a crime of passion, though, is it?’ he said. ‘I mean that knife isn’t exactly the sort you’d normally take to bed with you. But if she did, why wait till morning to kill him? Unless she wanted a sort of farewell ride-to-hounds before she did it. Unless, of course, it was the other way round, and it was her way of telling him she didn’t think much of his performance in bed. So she nips downstairs, gets the knife, then comes back up and stabs him. Either way it doesn’t sound quite right.’

  ‘As you say, it is odd,’ said Paget thoughtfully, ‘although I’m not sure I would have expressed it in quite the same way, but in either case it suggests premeditation.’

  Tregalles sighed. ‘Want me to bring her in for questioning?’ he asked. He didn’t sound as if he was looking forward to the task.