by Frank Smith
Bob scratched his head. ‘Can’t say I knew him well at all,’ he said. ‘Hardly ever spoke, see. He was all right, though. Good with horses, he was; you could see that. Gentle with ‘em, too. He was all right, was Victor.’
And that was all Paget could elicit from the man.
Maurice Blake also claimed to have spent the evening watching television, and Paget wondered what everyone used to do before the arrival of the ubiquitous box. But when he asked Blake about specific programmes, the man began to hedge, and said he’d only fiddled with the thing, and had turned it off when he couldn’t find anything he liked. He said he hadn’t left the caravan all evening, neither had he heard anything unusual outside.
Blake went on to say that the last time he’d seen and spoken to Victor was about half-past five when they talked about four new horses that were due to arrive within the next few days.
‘Did you talk about anything else?’
‘I don’t think so, no.’ Blake frowned. ‘Victor didn’t talk much; kept himself very much to himself.’
‘Mr Lucas said something about Prescott having moved here because of a girl-friend. Did he ever mention a girl-friend to you?’
Blake shook his head. ‘I got the impression he didn’t know anyone outside Glenacres,’ he said.
Paget, who had been watching the man closely, said: ‘Did you like Victor Prescott?’ Neither he nor Tregalles had mentioned that Prescott was not the man’s real name.
Blake took his time answering. ‘I don’t know,’ he said soberly. ‘He was all right, I suppose, but there was something about him I couldn’t take to. Knew his job. I’ll give him that, but I always had the feeling that he was -‘ he laughed self-consciously - ‘it sounds a bit stupid, now, but I had the feeling that he was waiting for something.’
‘Waiting for something? Such as what?’
Blake shrugged his shoulders helplessly. ‘I’ll be damned if I know,’ he said. ‘As I said, it was just a feeling. I’m probably doing the poor devil a terrible injustice.’
17
Tregalles recommended the Black Swan at Longley Marsh for lunch. They do a Gloucester sausage you wouldn’t believe,’ he told Paget. ‘And the mustard …’
The Gloucester sausage was off, and they had to make do with what tasted like recycled shepherd’s pie. Not that Paget seemed to notice. He remained preoccupied throughout lunch, and the sergeant’s attempts at conversation drew little response. Wisely, the sergeant made no attempt to probe. No doubt Paget would reveal all in his own good time.
Abruptly, Paget pushed his plate aside, and picked up the conversation begun earlier in the car as if there had been no break. It was a habit of his, and one that could be disconcerting to those who failed to store previous conversations in their memory banks ready for instant retrieval.
‘So,’ he said softly, ‘Victor Palmer did five years inside for sexual offences against children.’
Tregalles nodded. He had spent almost an hour on the phone tracking down Palmer’s record. They reckon he was responsible for thirteen cases altogether, girls and boys around the age of four to six, but they could only prove two of them in court. I should be able to get a full print-out when we get back this afternoon.’
Paget thought of what Penny Wakefield had told him earlier about Palmer trying to make friends with young James. James with his blond hair, fair skin and large brown eyes. He shuddered inwardly at the boy’s narrow escape. What Penny, in her innocence, had thought to be a show of paternal affection, had been, in all probability, nothing more than an attempt to gain the confidence of the boy.
The motor bike had been stolen from outside a garage in Cheltenham on the fifteenth of November, ten days after Palmer was released from prison. And he had turned up at Glenacres at the beginning of December.
Where had he been during those two weeks? What had he been doing? And why did he have a photograph of Andrea and the child in his case?
Paget rose and made his way towards the door. Tregalles quickly drained his glass and hurried after him.
As they reached the car, Paget said: ‘What about this man, Dennison? Any luck there?’
‘No. He’s out and won’t be back until this afternoon. I’ve left a message asking him to ring us when he gets in.’
‘Right. In that case I think I’ll get back to the office, but I’ll drop you at the stables on the way in. Find out whether Charlie’s people have come up with anything of interest. Also, I’d like you to have a look at the yard office again. Talk to Sally Pritchard; find out exactly what they keep in those files. Perhaps there is something of value there; something other than money. And keep an eye open for Mrs Lucas and the boy. I don’t expect that she’ll have seen or heard anything, but you never know.’
‘And you, sir?’
‘I have to stop at the hospital,’ Paget told him. ‘After that, I should be in the office.’
Tregalles got in the car. ‘Ah, yes. Dr McMillan,’ he said. ‘Funny, that. Palmer having her picture in his case.’ Paget made no comment, lapsing once again into a brooding silence. Tregalles took the hint and said no more throughout the drive to Glenacres.
As he drove into town, Paget continued to wonder how Andrea McMillan fitted into the scheme of things. The photograph in Palmer’s case had come as a shock to him. What was the connection between Palmer and Andrea? And what of the child? The likeness was too great to be coincidental; the girl in the photograph had to be Andrea’s daughter. But why, then, had Andrea never mentioned her?
Which led to the question Paget had been subconsciously trying to avoid. What did he really know about Andrea? Not much when it came right down to it, he thought wryly. She had always avoided talking about herself, except in a very general sort of way, and he hadn’t pressed her. But she couldn’t be mixed up with this convicted sex offender; the idea was preposterous. God knows, he’d been wrong about people before, but he couldn’t be that wrong about Andrea. Not when he felt as he did about her.
But something didn’t add up. For example: where was the child? He felt sure she wasn’t living with her mother, so where was she? Was she with her father? And if so, why? When families split up, the courts invariably gave custody to the mother, unless, of course, there were reasons, such as abuse...
Paget brought himself up short. Oh, no. Let’s not start jumping to conclusions, he told himself. Let’s wait and see what Andrea has to say.
But Dr McMillan was not on duty, he was told when he enquired at the desk, and she was not expected back until Monday.
Neither was there a response when he pressed the button opposite Andrea’s name at the flat. He looked down the list and pressed the button marked ‘Manager’.
The manager was a short, plump, grey-haired woman who peered short-sightedly through gold-rimmed glasses at Paget’s card. Her name was Mrs Ansell, and once she had assured herself that Paget was indeed a policeman, she told him that Dr McMillan had gone away for the weekend.
‘At least, I assume she has. She usually does when she has the weekend off.’
‘Do you know where she’s gone?’ he asked.
‘To her mother’s, I should imagine, to see young Sarah.’
‘Sarah?’
‘Her little girl. She’s staying with the doctor’s mother, though for the life of me I don’t know why, the way she misses her.’
‘Do you know where Dr McMillan’s mother lives?’
‘Devon. Somewhere in Devon,’ the woman said. ‘I don’t know where, exactly. I’m sorry, but that’s all I can tell you.’ Mrs Ansell peered at him anxiously. ‘Nothing’s wrong, is it? I mean, there hasn’t been an accident or anything like that?’
‘No, nothing like that, Mrs Ansell,’ Paget assured her.
‘Sorry, but I’m afraid I can’t help you,’ she said.
‘Do you happen to know when Dr McMillan left for Devon?’
Mrs Ansell frowned. ‘She was late,’ she said. ‘It must have been going on nine when I saw her going out last night.
That’s why I was a bit surprised this morning when I saw her car was still gone. Being as it was so late, I didn’t think she would be going at all, but she must have done. See, she likes to get on the road no later than seven when she’s going down to Devon, so I thought something must have come up and she wasn’t going after all. And because she didn’t have her bag.’
‘Her bag?’
‘The one she calls her “weekender”. It’s a big floppy thing that holds everything she needs when she’s going away for the weekend. She always takes it with her. But she didn’t have it with her last night.’ The puzzled expression on Mrs Ansell’s face cleared. ‘It was probably in the car already,’ she said, ‘and she’d just gone back upstairs for something she’d left behind when I saw her coming down again.’
‘Did she say she’d left something behind?’
‘Well, no. It was just that she was in such a hurry, and she had this envelope in her hand when she came down. I just assumed...’
‘Did she say anything at all?’
Mrs Ansell frowned. ‘No, she didn’t, and that wasn’t like her. Not like her at all. Still, like I say, she was in a hurry.’
‘You’ve met her daughter, Sarah?’
‘Met her?’ Mrs Ansell looked at Paget wide-eyed. ‘Oh, my word, I should say so,’ she said. ‘Why, I’ve looked after young Sarah since she was just a tot.’ Mrs Ansell’s face became sad. ‘I really miss her. We always got on so well.’
‘When did she go away?’
‘Oh, let’s see, now. It must be going on for two months.’ The woman looked distressed. ‘I thought she’d be sure to come home for Christmas, but the doctor said Sarah liked it at her gran’s, and she wanted to stay over.’ Mrs Ansell sighed heavily. ‘It doesn’t seem right, somehow,’ she said. ‘It doesn’t seem right at all.’
As Paget made his way back to the car, he silently agreed. Something was not right, and the sooner he got to the bottom of it, the better.
It was five past three when Tregalles saw the Cavalier Estate go up the drive adjacent to the stables. He waited a few minutes, then made his own way over to the house and knocked on the door.
He waited. The Cavalier Estate was parked askew, its nose mere inches from the garage door. Faint ticking sounds came from its engine as it cooled, and Tregalles noticed that the interior light was on. The door on the driver’s side had not been properly closed. He went over and pushed it shut; the light went out. He returned and knocked again.
The door was opened by a fair-haired boy with solemn eyes. ‘Are you a policeman?’ he asked.
‘Yes, I am,’ said Tregalles. ‘My name is Tregalles. Detective Sergeant Tregalles. You must be James.’
The boy’s eyes grew round. ‘Detective!’ he said and opened the door wider. ‘Mummy?’ he called over his shoulder. ‘It’s Detective Tre-Tre-‘
‘- galles,’ the sergeant supplied. ‘Tregalles.’
‘It’s Detective Tregalles,’ called the boy.
Tregalles heard the click of heels on the tiled floor and a woman appeared behind the boy. She had a cigarette in her hand. ‘Yes?’ she said in a voice that lacked interest in his answer.
Tregalles stared. Having met Lucas, he was unprepared for such a young wife. And beautiful, for Georgie Lucas was a very beautiful woman indeed.
‘I - aahh - Mrs Lucas?’ he managed at last. ‘Detective Sergeant Tregalles.’ He displayed his warrant card. ‘I’d like a word with you about what happened down at the stables last night. May I come in?’
‘Can I see?’ James reached up and tugged at Tregalles’s sleeve. He examined the warrant card carefully, then looked up at his mother. ‘Can I go and tell Sally?’ he asked. ‘Please?’
‘I suppose it will be all right,’ the woman said absently, touching her son’s hair. ‘But don’t get in the way down there.’
‘I won’t.’ The boy was off like a shot. The woman looked blankly at Tregalles for a few seconds as if she’d forgotten why he was there, then moved aside and motioned for him to come in.
‘I don’t know how I can help you,’ she said as they made their way to the same room where he and Paget had spoken to her husband earlier in the day. ‘I don’t know anything about - about what happened down there.’ She made a vague gesture with her hand that Tregalles interpreted as an invitation to sit down, but he remained standing, waiting for her to sit down first.
Georgie Lucas was younger than her husband by twenty years or more. Like her son, her hair was blonde, but unlike his close-cropped cut, it flowed like honey around the perfect oval of her face to form a golden pool across her shoulders. Its flowing lines melded with a body of voluptuous curves and long, exciting, slender legs.
She was dressed as if for spring; light-coloured suit with straight skirt ending well above the knees - and very nice knees they were, Tregalles thought appreciatively - with just a touch of deeper colour accenting the collar and false pockets. A silk scarf, almost hidden by the collar, was held in place by a rhinestone brooch - a large rhinestone brooch.
She saw him looking at it, and her fingers touched it lovingly. ‘Do you like it?’ she asked coquettishly.
‘It’s very nice,’ he said. ‘Very nice indeed.’
She tucked in her chin, trying to look down at it. ‘It should be very nice,’ she said, ‘considering what Jack paid for it. They are real diamonds, you know.’
Good God! Tregalles thought. ‘Oh, yes, I could see that,’ he lied.
She looked pleased. ‘Would you care for something to drink. Sergeant?’ she asked. He was about to say that a cup of tea would be welcome, when she moved to a cupboard in the corner and opened it to reveal an array of bottles. ‘Scotch? Gin? Rum? I think Jack has some beer somewhere...’
‘Ah - no. Nothing for me, thank you, Mrs Lucas,’ he said.
She drew heavily on her cigarette. ‘I think I’ll just have a small one,’ she said, and poured a good three fingers of gin into a glass. ‘Shopping with Jimmy can be rather wearing,’ she said by way of explanation as she removed a fur coat from one of the chairs beside the fireplace and sat down. ‘Do you have children, Sergeant?’
‘Two,’ he said, taking a seat across from her. ‘Olivia is eight and Brian is six.’
‘Jimmy’s eight,’ she said. Her eyes wandered round the room as if she’d lost interest in what she was saying.
‘A nice lad,’ Tregalles observed. ‘Now, then, Mrs Lucas, perhaps you could tell me about last night. You were here in the house, were you?’
‘Mm-hmm,’ she said, regarding him over the top of her glass.
‘All evening?’
She reached for an ashtray and butted her cigarette. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘All evening.’
‘Mr Lucas was out, I believe?’
‘That’s right. Just Jimmy and I were here.’
‘Did you have any reason to go outside during the evening?’
Again she shook her head.
‘Do you recall hearing anything unusual? Shouts, cars starting up or anything like that?’
Georgie Lucas sipped her drink and appeared to think about it. ‘I can’t recall anything like that,’ she said. She crossed her legs and her skirt slid over nylon with a sound like rustling grass.
Tregalles fixed his eyes firmly on her face. ‘How well did you know Victor Prescott?’ he asked her. ‘Did you ever talk to him? Did he ever tell you anything about himself?’
Georgie Lucas reached for another cigarette and lit it before she answered. ‘I didn’t know the man at all,’ she said. ‘I saw him here when my husband took him on, but I don’t think I ever saw him after that.’ She leaned forward and lowered her voice as if about to impart a secret. ‘You see. Sergeant, I’m afraid I don’t share my husband’s enthusiasm for horses. I seldom go near the stables. In fact I hate them, so I’m afraid I can’t help you at all. Sorry.’
Tregalles, having returned to headquarters in Charter Lane, was in the incident room when a WPC by the name of Wooller cupped a hand over the phone an
d called out: ‘Got a call for DCI Paget. Anybody know when he’ll be back?’
Tregalles looked up. ‘Who is it?’ he asked.
‘Says his name is Dennison,’ Wooller told him. ‘He’s ringing from a place called Chaslow in Surrey.’
‘I’ll take that,’ Tregalles told her, and picked up the phone.
It was late in the afternoon by the time Paget returned to the office. Tregalles followed him in, pausing only long enough to pick up two cups of coffee from the machine.
‘Dennison rang back,’ he told Paget. ‘He says he’s never heard of Prescott or Palmer.’ He set the coffee on the desk and sat down. ‘He says he doesn’t know Lucas, and he denies ever talking to him on the phone. He could be lying, of course, but he sounded straight enough. When I said we’d probably be checking further, he told me to check and be damned.’
‘I suspect that Palmer himself made the call to Lucas, purporting to be Dennison,’ said Paget. ‘Either that or he had someone do it for him. But why? Why was he so anxious to get on at Glenacres? Why that particular stable? And doesn’t it strike you as a bit of a coincidence that Ernie Craddock, a key man at Glenacres by all accounts, just happened to be killed when Palmer was looking for an opening there? The timing couldn’t have been better if he’d planned it.’
The day staff had gone home, and it was quiet in the office except for the sound of a rising wind and the occasional slap of rain against the window. Tregalles, who had been about to take a drink of coffee, paused and set the cup down again as he digested this new idea.
‘You think it was Palmer who killed Craddock?’
Paget leaned back in his chair and massaged his face with both hands. He felt tired. ‘I don’t know,’ he said wearily, ‘but you must admit Craddock’s death came at a very convenient time for Palmer. I had a word with DI Martin - he was on the Craddock case - and he tells me that one of the tyre impressions lifted at the scene was that of a motor bike. I told him about the stolen bike that Palmer was using, and he’s going to check it for a possible match. If they do match, it could mean that Craddock’s death was not a mugging gone wrong at all, but a very deliberate murder. It might also mean that Palmer’s death was no accident either.’