by Frank Smith
‘Are you leaving because of Maurice Blake?’
Penny shook her head. ‘No, not really. He doesn’t bother me all that much, although with Ernie gone there’ll be no holding him. No, it’s just that the new job is closer to home and there’s more money in it. And I know the people, so that helps.’
Paget questioned her closely, especially with regard to Blake. How could she be so sure that it was Blake she had heard inside the shed? But Penny Wakefield wouldn’t be shaken. She said she’d recognize his voice anywhere, and he saw no reason to disbelieve her.
When he asked where he could find Blake, the girl told him he had been there earlier but had left for Birmingham as soon as the yard was clear, and wouldn’t be back until Monday.
He was copying down the address of the place where Penny Wakefield would be working after she left Glenacres, when Sally Pritchard called to him from the door of the red barn.
‘Telephone for you,’ she told him as he approached.
It was the duty sergeant. Julia Shaw’s London office had notified him that Mrs Shaw was flying in from Switzerland. She would be driving down to Broadminster, and expected to be there by late afternoon. Would Paget be there when she arrived? ‘I’ll be there,’ he told the sergeant.
Before he left the yard, Paget went back to the shed and tried the outside light. It was working now.
Julia Shaw lit another cigarette and blew a stream of smoke towards the ceiling. She was tall, willowy, and quite beautiful in a brittle sort of way. She reminded him of a picture he’d seen in a book of fairy tales as a child. The Snow Queen, cold, distant, and unapproachable. Yet, beneath that cool exterior, Julia Shaw was a bundle of nervous energy. Except for a very short time there in the mortuary, she had chain-smoked ever since her arrival.
‘Suicide?’ she said. Her eyes met his across the desk in a blaze of blue. ‘I must say I find that a rather remarkable conclusion with so little evidence to support it. Chief Inspector. Monica was never what you might call an outgoing child, but suicide...? Oh, no. I don’t mean to sound callous, but she wouldn’t have had the courage for one thing.’
‘I said it was a possibility we had to consider, Mrs Shaw. We will know more after the post-mortem.’
Julia Shaw shuddered delicately. ‘That dreadful place!’ She drew deeply on her cigarette.
Paget had taken her directly to the mortuary to identify the body. Not that he’d ever had any doubt that the body was in fact that of Monica Shaw, but coroners could be sticky about things like that.
It was impossible to read her expression as she stood looking down on the pale features of her daughter. If anything, Julia Shaw appeared to be more annoyed than sad or distraught, but it was hard to judge people’s feelings under such circumstances.
‘Yes, that is my daughter, Monica,’ she said in answer to his question.
They drove back to the station in silence. There were no tears to mar the flawless make-up, Paget noted.
Another stream of smoke. ‘I sincerely hope you haven’t released any of this speculation to the press,’ she said sharply.
‘Nothing has appeared as yet,’ he said. ‘No doubt there will be something in the papers tomorrow, but no details will be released until we know more ourselves.’
Julia Shaw eyed him for several seconds. ‘Good,’ she said at last. ‘If, as you seem to be suggesting, Monica took more insulin than she should have. I’m quite sure it was by accident.’ She tapped her cigarette in a brief tattoo against the ashtray. ‘Why, in God’s name, would a young, healthy girl like Monica want to take her own life?’ she asked irritably. ‘It’s ludicrous to even suggest it! She had everything. God knows I’ve sent enough money to that school over the years. She’s been well looked after.’
‘She was the only girl left in the school over Christmas,’ Paget pointed out. It wouldn’t take much for him to dislike Julia Shaw. ‘Her housemistress. Miss Wolsey...’
‘Jane Wolsey?’ The housemistress was dismissed with a disdainful snap of the cigarette against the ashtray. ‘What would the likes of Jane Wolsey know? Monica understood the situation. She was well aware of the demands of my job, and she accepted it. If I could have returned home for Christmas, I would have, but it was impossible. These meetings are important; crucial to the country’s future. I’m sure you understand that yourself. Chief Inspector. You can’t just leave in the middle of them, Christmas or no Christmas. It isn’t as if she were a child. She was almost eighteen.’ Julia Shaw lapsed into brooding silence.
Paget was finding it difficult to even talk to this woman. From the very start it had seemed to him that she was more put out by having to fly back to England than she was about the death of her daughter. And why from Switzerland and not Belgium?
He assumed a puzzled expression. ‘I was given to understand that the talks were being held in Brussels,’ he said, ‘and yet I believe you said you flew in from Switzerland?’
She ground out her cigarette. ‘I hardly think that is relevant to your investigation. Chief Inspector,’ she told him. ‘But if you must know, I went there for a few days’ rest. These meetings have been dragging on for months. I was utterly exhausted. I needed to get away. Completely away.’ She took out another cigarette and lit it.
‘Did Monica know that, Mrs Shaw?’
She shook her head impatiently. ‘I thought it best not to tell her,’ she said. ‘She would have wanted to join me there, and I simply couldn’t stand...’ She took a deep breath. ‘I needed rest. I told the Crowther woman that the meetings were continuing over Christmas because I knew Monica would understand that. I knew...’
She stopped abruptly. ‘But why I’m explaining all this to you, I don’t know,’ she said as she rose to her feet.
Paget stood up as well. ‘There is the matter of the inquest, and of course, the funeral arrangements,’ he said.
‘My private secretary will see to all the details.’ Julia Shaw took out a card case and handed him a card. ‘His name is Brown. Jeremy Brown. He can be reached at that number.’
‘And you, Mrs Shaw? Where can you be reached?’
She pulled on her gloves. ‘I hardly think that will be necessary,’ she said, ‘but in the event, that number will serve. Now, if that is all. Chief Inspector, I must get back to London tonight. That is,’ she added ominously, ‘after I’ve had a few words with Miss Crowther at Thornton Hill.’
11
Sunday, 27 December
Paget spent Sunday at home. He rose late and had a leisurely breakfast, then spent the rest of the morning reading the newspaper and catching up on the news.
But his thoughts kept drifting back to the tableau he’d witnessed in the stable yard the day before. Andrea rising in the stirrups, arm upraised, and this man, this stable hand or whatever he was, just standing there grinning at her. If looks could kill...
And why had she told him she would be so busy at the hospital over Christmas that she wouldn’t have time to see him? Because, he told himself, she didn’t want to see him.
He thought back to that night just over a week ago; went over every word, every look, every detail. They’d enjoyed the evening. Andrea had said several times that she had had a lovely time, and he was sure she meant it. She’d been so relaxed on the way home. All the way to the flat, in fact. Even after he stopped the car, she had shown no inclination to get out. And yet, within seconds, she was anxious to be gone. What had he said?
There was only one way to find out. He picked up the phone and dialled her number. No answer. He rang the hospital, and was told that Dr McMillan was not available.
Angrily, he put the phone down. No matter what he’d done or not done, the least she could do was talk to him. He was disappointed in her. She must know he’d been calling. And if she had time to go riding, then she’d certainly had time to ring him back. Well, enough was enough. If Andrea wanted to talk to him, she knew where to find him.
For lunch he made a pot of coffee and a sandwich, then cast round for something t
o read; something light to take his mind off brooding over what had gone wrong. His eye fell on the gift from Mrs Wentworth, still wrapped in Christmas paper, but unmistakably a book. He stripped the paper off and groaned aloud.
It was the latest book by Dick Francis, and there on the cover was a damned great grey that looked for all the world like Busker.
Monday, 28 December
Detective Sergeant John Tregalles stuck his head inside the open doorway to DCI Paget’s office and cocked a quizzical eye at the chief inspector. Paget was on the phone. He motioned the sergeant to a seat while he continued the conversation.
Tregalles slumped into a chair and smothered a yawn. Too many late nights and too much food over the holidays: that was his problem. And not enough exercise. The crease in his belt, normally covered by the buckle, was clearly visible one notch over. No doubt about it, he thought gloomily, he was putting on weight.
Not that he was exactly fat. Tregalles had the broad shoulders and compact body of the athlete; the build of a dedicated swimmer who had been collecting trophies since the age of ten. He was younger than Paget by some four years, but deep furrows in his forehead and around his eyes and mouth gave his face an oddly crumpled look that made him appear much older.
‘Smudged while it was hot,’ Audrey used to tease him, but she said it with affection, and wouldn’t have had it any other way.
Paget was looking better these days, Tregalles thought. In fact the chief inspector had been downright perky these past few weeks. He’d put on a bit of weight as well, and looked the better for it. He would be quite good-looking in a craggy sort of way if he’d just let himself relax and ease up a bit.
The chief inspector was thirty-six, according to Leona in Personnel, but he’d looked more like fifty when he’d first arrived. He rarely smiled. But then, from the little Tregalles had been able to glean about the chief inspector’s past, he hadn’t had much to smile about. Lost his wife, they said. Some sort of explosion. And he’d been ill. Not that he’d ever mentioned it. He wouldn’t, though, would he? Kept himself to himself, the chief inspector did. Aloof. That was the word for Paget.
Paget hung up the phone, sat back in his chair, and eyed Tregalles over steepled fingers.
‘A seventeen-year-old girl by the name of Monica Shaw died Christmas morning,’ he said. He made it sound like an accusation, thought Tregalles. What happened to ‘Good morning, Sergeant. Have a nice Christmas, did you?’ So much for perky.
‘The evidence suggests it was a suicide attempt. The girl was diabetic, and the amount of insulin she pumped into herself would have been sufficient to bring on hypoglycaemic shock. According to Dr Starkie, that might have been enough to kill her, especially if no one found her for several hours. I say “might” because the actual cause of death was an aneurysm in what he calls -‘ Paget consulted a notepad on the desk - ‘the Circle of Willis. It’s a ring of arteries located at the base of the brain, and one of them simply burst. The technical term for it is subarachnoid haemorrhage, if you’re interested. Starkie says almost anything could have triggered it - even something as simple as turning the head.’
Paget pushed the notepad aside. ‘It will be up to the coroner to decide, of course, but under the circumstances there’s bound to be an inquest, so we’d better have some answers ready. The girl attended a Christmas party at Glenacres Riding Stables just hours before she died, so I want to get out there later on this morning, and I’d like you with me to take care of some of the interviews. I was at the scene on Christmas Day, and I’ve done some follow-up since, but we’ll need more. It’s all in here.’ He pushed a folder across the desk. ‘Read it, then get back to me by -‘ he looked at the clock - ‘ten thirty.’
Tregalles took the folder and stood up. ‘Time of death?’ he said.
‘Roughly between 1 and 2 a.m. Give or take half an hour each way at the outside.’
‘Any suggestion of foul play?’
Paget didn’t answer immediately. ‘Only the girl’s fingerprints were found on the syringes,’ he said. ‘And apart from the fact there was no note, everything seems to point to the suicide theory. But we’ll see. Read it for yourself; I think you’ll see what I mean.’
‘Right.’ Tregalles tucked the file beneath his arm, and made his way back to his own small cubicle. It was typical of Paget that he’d not even asked what else the sergeant had on his plate. The man became so immersed in whatever he was doing that he expected others to be ready to jump in at a moment’s notice. He just assumed that you’d clear the decks and get on with it.
Still, he’d rather work with Paget than some he could think of. He worked you hard and he was a bugger for detail, but you always knew where you stood with him. Tregalles felt comfortable with the man, perhaps because they shared a similar background and spoke the same language. Tregalles was from Cornish stock, but he had been born and raised in Bethnal Green, and despite his more than twenty years in the border country, he was still a Londoner at heart.
Tregalles surveyed the pile of paper on his desk. He’d better get cracking if he was to clear this lot by ten thirty. Paget wasn’t a man to be kept waiting.
Superintendent Alcott lit a cigarette, and flicked non-existent ash in the general direction of an already overflowing ashtray.
‘Sit down,’ he told Paget. ‘I’ve just had a call from Mr Brock.’ Morgan Brock was the chief superintendent, and Alcott’s immediate superior. ‘He wants a full report on this business at Thornton Hill School for the Chief Constable. It seems Sir Robert received a telephone call from Lord Tyndall about it this morning. His wife. Lady Tyndall, is on the board of governors at Thornton Hill, and she is concerned about adverse publicity affecting the school.’
‘I’m sure she is, sir,’ said Paget. ‘But I rather think that decision will rest with the coroner.’
Alcott drew deeply on his cigarette. ‘What about our side of it? I thought I detected a certain - cautiousness in your report.’
‘We still have a few people to talk to,’ Paget said, avoiding a direct answer. ‘Particularly about the girl’s state of mind, and what happened before she died. According to Sally Pritchard - she’s the one who took Monica back to the school on Christmas Eve - Monica claimed to have been attacked by a man and dragged inside a shed in the stable yard. You’ll see by the report there were bruises and scratches on her arms, thighs and lower abdomen, but they were relatively superficial, and there was no penetration. I’m not saying she wasn’t attacked, but there are things about her story that bother me. Forensic did find traces of skin beneath the girl’s nails, but it was her own. They say that’s not unusual if, for example, she was trying to pry the attacker’s fingers loose from some part of her body, but they would have expected to find foreign elements as well.’
‘And then there’s the matter of what happened after she returned to the school. I believe she got up, got dressed, and went out again after Miss Wolsey left her in bed. But where she went or why, I have no idea as yet.’
‘When she returned, she dropped her coat on the floor, kicked off her boots, and flopped down on the bed, still fully clothed. Not long after that, if we’re reading the signs right, she attempted to take her own life by giving herself several injections of insulin. Whether she would have succeeded in killing herself is open to question. Perhaps she merely wanted to draw attention to herself, but whatever her motive, the aneurysm completed the job.’
Alcott looked sceptical. ‘She was a bit young to be having an aneurysm, wasn’t she?’
‘According to Dr Starkie, it can happen at any age,’ said Paget. ‘If there is a weakness in the wall of the artery, it can rupture without warning, and when it occurs in that particular area beneath the brain, death follows almost immediately. If, for example, she was having convulsions, that might well have been enough to cause the rupture.’
Alcott rocked back and forth in his chair. ‘Is there any doubt in your mind that the injections were self-administered?’ he asked.
P
aget hesitated. He and Starkie had discussed at length the possibility of someone else having given her the injections forcibly, but it had been the pathologist’s opinion that Monica Shaw had administered them herself. ‘The entries were clean,’ he told Alcott. ‘There were no signs of tearing or bruising of the skin such as you might expect to find if there had been a struggle. However, Starkie did mention one other possibility. The injections could have been administered by someone else while the girl was unconscious.
‘I think the most likely explanation is that Monica Shaw did attempt to kill herself, but I’m not at all satisfied about what went on prior to her death. For one thing, it’s been suggested that it was the wine that made Monica act the way she did at the party, but Starkie says there was virtually no alcohol in her blood. He did point out that, as a diabetic, even a change of food coupled with over-excitement could have brought about a change in her behaviour, but he says there is no way he can prove that now.’
Paget hesitated. ‘I may be wrong, sir, but I get the feeling that there’s something not right here, and I’d like to get to the bottom of it.’
Alcott stubbed out his cigarette, scattering ash across the desk. ‘Very well,’ he said, ‘but let’s not waste too much time on it. And keep the Press Officer informed, will you? He’s had his instructions from the Chief Constable’s office, so let him take care of the media. The last thing I need is Sir Robert on my back, and the last thing he needs is Lord Tyndall on his.’
‘Sorry. My fault. I wasn’t paying attention. I’m afraid. Here, let me get them for you.’
Andrea McMillan knelt quickly and picked up the books she’d knocked from the hand of a stooped, grey-haired man. His name was Stanton. Dr Isaac Stanton, a senior member of the staff and her immediate superior. He stood back against the wall as others leaving the meeting flowed around the kneeling figure.