[DCI Neil Paget 01] - Fatal Flaw

by Frank Smith

  ‘How long had he been here?’ Tregalles asked her.

  Sally Pritchard thought back. ‘He came just after Ernie died,’ she said. ‘That would be almost four weeks ago. He...’ Whatever she was about to say remained unsaid as she lapsed into silence and looked puzzled. ‘I just realized’, she said in a hushed voice, ‘that three people I know have died in less than a month.’ She looked at Paget as if she expected an answer to her unspoken question.

  The same thought had crossed Paget’s mind, but he sidestepped the implied question.

  ‘You say the body was lying behind the door, and you had to push hard to get it open?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then how, I wonder, did the person who killed Prescott get out of the barn?’

  ‘Through the other door,’ said Sally promptly. ‘It’s behind the office. You probably didn’t notice it when you were here the other day.’

  ‘Are either of these doors normally kept locked?’

  ‘No. There’s no need. There’s nothing of value in the place. We don’t keep any money or anything like that in the office; just the records, that’s all.’

  ‘Records?’

  ‘Yes. We keep the training schedules there, mine and Maurice’s, and we keep the daily log in there as well.’ Seeing their enquiring looks, she went on to explain. ‘You see, we keep a log on all the horses here; changes in routine - exercise, training, special diets, treatments by the vet, shots, things like that. As I said, nothing of value.’

  ‘What about invoices, bills, cheques, petty cash - anything of that sort?’ asked Tregalles.

  ‘No. Anything like that is picked up by Mr Lucas at the end of the day and taken up to the house. Nothing is left here overnight.’

  ‘I see. We think that Prescott died somewhere between nine and ten last night. What would he be doing in here at that time?’

  ‘Probably doing evening rounds,’ she said. ‘Maurice said he was going to put him on soon. We usually do a final round between nine and ten each night, and we make a note of anything out of the ordinary. That could include such things as medication, or a horse that’s, say, off its feed or seems a bit off colour; how a new one is settling down; things like that. It all goes in the log.’

  ‘Can we take a look?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Inside the office, Sally took a book from a drawer and flipped it open. ‘Here’s the last entry,’ she said, running her finger down the page. ‘It’s mine. I made a note that Firefly went out yesterday. His owner picked him up at four o’clock. He’s moving up north - somewhere outside Glasgow, I believe he said. That’s the last entry, so Victor couldn’t have...’ She sat down abruptly. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m afraid I’m not used to this.’

  ‘It’s not the sort of thing one wants to get used to,’ Paget said with feeling. ‘Just take your time. Miss Pritchard.’

  Tregalles said: ‘We found a clipboard underneath the body, but there was nothing on it. It’s been taken away by Forensic.’

  ‘We carry that with us and make notes as we go,’ said Sally. ‘He must have surprised someone when he came in. Someone who was in here already. But why would they be in here? And why did they have to kill him?’ She closed her eyes and shuddered. ‘It could have been any of us.’

  Could it? thought Paget. Had Prescott just been in the wrong place at the wrong time? Or had someone been waiting for him, specifically, to walk through that door? ‘Tell me. Miss Pritchard,’ he said, ‘what time did you leave here last night?’

  ‘Six, ten past, something like that,’ she said. ‘Why?’

  ‘You didn’t come back for any reason?’

  ‘No,’ she said guardedly. ‘Why? What are you suggesting?’

  ‘I’m not suggesting anything,’ he said, ‘but I do want to know where everyone was last night. It’s simply a process of elimination, that’s all.’

  ‘Oh. Well, I went straight home and stayed there until I came in this morning,’ she said. ‘I can’t prove that, but then I would hope I’m not called upon to do so. Chief Inspector.’

  Paget smiled. ‘Let’s hope not. Miss Pritchard,’ he said pleasantly.

  16

  ‘The house’, as it was commonly referred to, was on a knoll behind the stables, half hidden behind a scrubby hedge of dogwood. Access to it could be gained along a separate driveway connecting with the road, but from the stable yard it was simpler and much quicker to use the gate behind the schooling ring.

  As he approached the house, Paget could see it once had been two buildings. A small stone cottage and a large stone barn had been converted into an L-shaped house and two-door garage. Tregalles’s That must have cost a bob or two’ echoed Paget’s own thoughts, and the same could be said for the pale green Mercedes parked outside the garage.

  Jack Lucas came to the door himself, and invited them into what appeared to be the sitting-room, but it seemed to serve the function of an office as well. A large desk littered with papers took up a quarter of the room. The ceiling was low, and beneath it Lucas looked even larger than he had outside. He indicated chairs and settled himself in an old-fashioned wooden swivel chair beside the desk, and lit a cigarette.

  ‘Right,’ he said briskly once they were seated. ‘You said you had some questions; what is it you want to know?’

  ‘I’d like you to tell me what you know about Victor Prescott’ Paget said. ‘I gather he hasn’t been here long?’,

  ‘Came here on the seventh of December,’ Lucas said. ‘I looked it up before you came. I’d just lost Ernie Craddock, and Prescott happened to be looking for a job, so I took him on. Good background, and he knew his business.’

  ‘So you knew him, or knew of him before he came here?’

  ‘No. He came from Haslemere or Horsham - somewhere down in that part of the country; I forget, exactly. Worked for a man named Dennison down there.’ He squinted at Paget through curling smoke. ‘Do you know anything about this business. Chief Inspector?’

  ‘Virtually nothing. I’m afraid,’ Paget confessed.

  Lucas nodded as if it confirmed his own suspicions. ‘If you did you’d know that Dennison is something of a name in the trade. I’ve never actually met the man, myself, but apparently he’d heard of Glenacres. He rang me up. Told me that Prescott was coming up this way. Something to do with Prescott’s girl-friend landing a good job up here, so he wanted to come up here to be with her. Said Prescott had worked for him for several years, and was a good man. He said he’d tried to talk him out of coming, but he wouldn’t be persuaded, so Dennison said he’d phone round and see if there was anyone up here who could take him on until he could get himself sorted out. Decent of Dennison, considering.

  ‘I told him I couldn’t do it. What with things the way they are these days, you’ve got to watch the pennies. Prescott himself turned up the next day, but I had to tell him that I had a full staff. But I liked the look of him, so when Ernie Craddock got himself killed that same weekend, I got in touch. He’d left his number just in case I heard of anything, so I rang him and told him I’d take him on. On trial; daily wage, of course. I mean, I’d never seen the man before. Mind you, with Dennison recommending him, I didn’t have too many doubts, but you can’t be too careful.’ Lucas tilted back in the chair and shook his head. ‘Shame he’s dead,’ he said. ‘I would have kept him on.’

  ‘Seems a bit of a coincidence,’ said Tregalles ruminatively. ‘First, this man, Craddock, is killed, then the man who takes his place winds up dead. Odd, that.’ He shot a quizzical look at Lucas. ‘You don’t keep racehorses here, by any chance?’

  Lucas shook his head. He looked genuinely puzzled. ‘Run of the mill, mostly. There are a few good hunters here, but there’s nothing special about them.’

  ‘What about this girl-friend of Prescott’s?’ Tregalles asked. ‘Do you know her name or where she lives or works?’

  Lucas scratched his ear. ‘I don’t think he ever mentioned her,’ he said. ‘You might ask them down at the yard; h
e might have told some of them.’

  ‘What about next of kin? When he signed on he...’

  Lucas shook his head impatiently. ‘I told you, he was paid by the day. I paid him out of my pocket. There was no “signing on”. Apart from what I’ve told you, I know nothing about the man. Sorry, but that’s all I can tell you.’

  ‘Do you have this man Dennison’s telephone number?’ Paget asked. ‘If Prescott worked for him presumably he’ll have some sort of record.’

  Lucas shook his head. ‘No, but it will be in the breeder’s directory.’ He crushed out his cigarette and pulled a book from a shelf above the desk. ‘Ah, here it is. Chaslow, near Dorking. I knew it was somewhere down in that country.’

  Paget copied down the address and telephone number. ‘We’ll be having a look at Prescott’s room,’ he said. ‘Perhaps we’ll find something there that will help us. It’s odd, but there was nothing in the way of identification in his pockets, not even a wallet.’ He pulled a set of keys from his pocket. ‘I assume one of these will fit the door of his room?’

  Lucas looked them over. ‘That one,’ he said, pointing to the largest one of the bunch. ‘The rest, except for that silver one, look like ours. The small one is probably for his bike. He parks it round the back behind the stalls.’

  Paget stood up. ‘Thank you, Mr Lucas,’ he said. ‘If you should think of anything else, perhaps you’d let us know. We will be setting up an incident room this afternoon. It’s a portable unit. There’s a bit of ground behind the red barn, so we’ll set it up there if you have no objection. It will be out of the way, and it should be a fairly simple matter for British Telecom to run phones in for us.’

  ‘I suppose it will be all right,’ Lucas said grudgingly. ‘How long do you expect to be there?’

  ‘Probably not too long,’ said Paget, ‘but there will be some police activity around here for a few days, at least. We’ll try not to be too disruptive.’

  Lucas lumbered to his feet. ‘I hope you’re not,’ he said bluntly. ‘I’ve still got a business to run, you know.’

  ‘There is just one more thing,’ said Paget as he and Tregalles made their way to the door. ‘Can you think of any reason why someone might have been in the barn last night? I’m told that nothing of value is kept there.’

  Lucas shook his head. ‘Someone who knew about the office being there might have thought they’d find money,’ he offered.

  ‘I suppose that is a possibility,’ said Paget. ‘Were you by any chance around the stables yourself last night?’

  The big man shook his head. ‘Last time I was down there would be about four in the afternoon. I went down to see Firefly loaded, and to have a word with his owner.’

  ‘You were home all evening, were you?’

  Lucas poked at his ear again. ‘No, I went into Broadminster,’ he said. ‘Darts match. I’m on a team at the Coach and Horses. Got back about eleven or thereabouts. Why?’

  ‘Did you see anybody about when you returned?’

  ‘You mean around the stables? No. But then, I came straight up the drive to the house, so I wouldn’t, would I?’

  ‘What about your wife? Perhaps she...’

  ‘She’s out,’ said Lucas shortly. ‘Took the boy with her to keep him from wanting to go down to the yard to see what was going on. She won’t be back until this afternoon, but she wouldn’t have heard anything.’

  ‘How can you be so sure, Mr Lucas?’

  ‘Because,’ Lucas said with exaggerated patience, ‘even if there was something going on down at the yard, she wouldn’t hear it up here. Too far away.’

  ‘I would still like to talk to her,’ Paget said. ‘Perhaps you’d be good enough to tell her that either I or Sergeant Tregalles will be back to talk to her when she returns. Good morning.’

  Prescott’s room above the stalls was very small. It reminded Paget of a prison cell, albeit slightly larger and with a dormer window that overlooked the yard below. Everything was clean and tidy; everything in its place. A narrow cot was neatly made, an extra blanket folded precisely at its foot. A washstand in the corner contained fresh towels, toothbrush, shaving kit, and the usual assortment of odds and ends, all set out with such precision that Paget wondered if Prescott had spent time in the army.

  Beside the washstand was a curtained-off set of shelves containing three shirts, three pairs of socks, and three sets of shorts and vests. The bottom shelf had been reserved for a motor-cycle helmet, a pair of heavy brogues, and a pair of lace-up boots. The rest of his clothes, a two-piece suit of medium grey, a plastic mac, a blazer and a pair of trousers, and a tie that looked vaguely regimental, hung from a metal rod above the shelves. That seemed to be the extent of Victor Prescott’s wardrobe. Everything looked new - Paget fingered the material of the suit - and cheap.

  The suitcase Tregalles dragged out from beneath the cot was locked, but a closer look at Prescott’s key-ring revealed a small flat key that opened it. The case looked empty at first glance, but further inspection revealed a wallet and large envelope in the pocket of the lid. Paget riffled through the wallet.

  ‘Ah-ha!’ he muttered softly as he unfolded a piece of paper and quickly scanned it. He passed it over to Tregalles. ‘Prison discharge,’ he said. ‘Dated November fifth. And his name wasn’t Prescott. It was Palmer. Victor Palmer.’

  While Tregalles scanned the discharge, Paget opened the envelope. It contained a photograph of a child; a fair-haired girl of about four or five with laughing eyes and a cheeky grin. She sat astride the top rail of a wooden gate, her long hair blowing in the breeze across her face, her expression clearly saying: ‘Hey, look at me!’

  But Paget’s eyes were drawn to the person beside the girl, arms half extended as if fearful that the child might fall.

  Tregalles looked over his shoulder. ‘That’s Dr McMillan from the hospital!’ he exclaimed. ‘Is that her little girl? Pretty kid, whoever she is. But why would Palmer have her picture?’

  Why, indeed? Paget felt a chill go through him as he recalled the scene he’d witnessed in the stable yard a week ago. Andrea with arm upraised, face white with anger, looking down on the slyly smiling Palmer.

  He drew a deep breath. ‘Find out everything you can about Palmer,’ he said. ‘I want to know exactly who he was and what he was up to.’

  Although he doubted if Palmer’s room held any further secrets, Paget had Tregalles seal it until a more thorough search could be made, then sent the sergeant to check out the motor bike behind the stables.

  Finding the photograph of Andrea McMillan and the child hidden away in Palmer’s suitcase had knocked the wind out of him. Andrea had never spoken of a daughter, but there was no doubt in his mind that the child belonged to her. The likeness was too striking to be coincidental. But why, then, had Andrea never mentioned her? Surely she would have...

  Unless the child had died.

  The chilling thought came unbidden to his mind, and he thrust it away. It was ridiculous to start speculating on so little information, and only Andrea could tell him the truth of the matter. But still the nagging thought remained: where did Palmer fit into all this?

  Paget blew out his cheeks. The answer to that would have to wait.

  The two girls. Penny Wakefield and Sylvia Gray, said they had stayed in the previous evening, and gone to bed early. ‘You see, we were at a New Year’s Eve party the night before. We didn’t get to bed till about four, so we were dead tired last night,’ Penny explained.

  ‘When did you last see Victor?’ Paget asked.

  ‘About five, I should think it was,’ said Penny, glancing at her room-mate for confirmation. Sylvia nodded. ‘He was coming in from the paddock as we were going for our tea.’

  ‘What about later in the evening?’ said Paget. ‘Say about nine or ten o’clock. Did you hear anything out in the yard? Any strange noises; someone calling out, perhaps?’

  Both girls shook their heads.

  ‘How well did you know Victor?’

  Th
e two girls looked at each other and shrugged. ‘Can’t say I really knew him at all,’ Penny said at last. ‘Syl’s the one who goes in for older men, aren’t you, Syl?’

  Sylvia Gray turned scarlet. ‘Penny! That’s a rotten thing to say.’ She looked to be on the verge of tears.

  Penny Wakefield was immediately contrite. ‘I’m sorry, Syl,’ she said. ‘I was only joking. You know me. I’m sorry.’ She looked at Paget and shrugged apologetically. ‘Sorry,’ she said again. ‘Whatever must you think of me?’

  ‘Did he ever talk to you? Tell you anything about himself? Did he ever mention a girl-friend?’

  The two girls shook their heads. ‘He was ever so shy,’ said Penny. ‘I used to wonder about him. He seemed sort of sad, somehow. I used to wonder if he had children somewhere. I said that to you more than once, didn’t I, Syl?’

  ‘Yes, you did,’ her friend acknowledged, but the words came grudgingly, and it wasn’t hard to see that she was still annoyed.

  ‘Why?’ asked Paget. ‘What made you think he had children?’

  ‘It was the way he used to watch young Jimmy,’ Penny said. ‘He’d just stand there watching him. I told Syl I thought he was pretending that Jimmy was his own little boy.’ She lowered her voice. ‘And he used to give him sweets when his dad wasn’t around. See, Jimmy’s got bad teeth, and Mr Lucas doesn’t want him to have sweets, but Victor used to keep some in his pockets, and he’d slip a few to Jimmy every now and then. ‘Course, clumsy old me has to catch him at it, and Victor gets all embarrassed and walks away. I wouldn’t have split on him, but I never had a chance to tell him.’ She looked sad. ‘That was rotten luck, him walking in on someone in the barn like that. Poor sod. Could’ve been any one of us, though, couldn’t it?’

  Could it? Paget wondered.

  Short, stocky, black-haired, and as Welsh as they come. Bob Tillman, the stableman, said he’d spent the evening at home in Malford where he lived with his elder sister. They, too, had spent the evening watching television, and after Bob’s long-winded and detailed account of what they’d watched, Paget didn’t doubt it for a minute. He asked him the same question he’d asked the two girls: ‘How well did you know Victor?’