by Frank Smith
‘I’m not sure I follow you,’ Tregalles said.
Paget sniffed his coffee, grimaced and set it aside. He wasn’t that thirsty.
‘Look at it this way,’ he said. ‘The first thing that came to mind this morning was that Palmer had surprised someone when he walked into the barn last night. Someone who panicked and hit him with the first thing that came to hand. The pitchfork. But, if that was so, what was the person doing there in the first place? We’re told that there was nothing of value in the office; no money, no confidential files, in fact nothing of interest to anyone except the staff, and virtually everyone knows that. So why was the person there? No one in his right mind sets out to rob a barn. Which leads me to believe that whoever killed Palmer was there for some other reason.’
‘To kill Palmer.’
‘Or to meet him, and something went wrong. If our theory is correct. Palmer went to a lot of trouble to get into Glenacres. Everyone seems to agree that the man knew his job, so he’s obviously worked around stables before. His file should tell us that. Which reminds me: what about his file? Do we have it yet?’
Tregalles shrugged apologetically. ‘We have some stuff on computer, but we won’t be able to get his complete file until Monday at the earliest.’
Paget grunted. Damned holidays, he thought irritably. How the hell were they supposed to work with everything closed down for days?
‘It seems to me’, he went on, pursuing his original thought, ‘that people who work with horses move around quite a lot. It may be that there is someone at Glenacres who used to work with Palmer, or at least knew him before he went to prison. Someone who may know more about this than they’re telling us, so I want a background check made on everyone who works there.’
Tregalles frowned into his cup. ‘What about that photograph?’ he said. ‘Did you talk to Dr McMillan?’
‘No. She’s away. She won’t be back until Monday.’ Paget’s words were clipped and sharper than he’d intended.
‘It wouldn’t surprise me if Palmer intended to have a go at that kid of hers,’ Tregalles said. ‘With his record, it’s the sort of thing he might do. But I wonder how he got the picture? And why the doctor?’
Paget began to shuffle papers on his desk. ‘What about this girl-friend Palmer is supposed to have followed here?’ he said. ‘Anyone know anything about her?’
Tregalles slowly shook his head. ‘I don’t think there ever was a girl-friend,’ he said. ‘I think it was just something Palmer made up when he called Lucas, pretending to be Dennison.’
‘But we can’t be sure of that,’ said Paget. ‘Better look into it.’ He pulled a file towards him and opened it. When Tregalles didn’t move, the chief inspector looked up and said: ‘Well?’
The sergeant scrambled to his feet. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I thought we still had...’ He shrugged. ‘I’ll get on it,’ he said. He took what remained of his coffee and left the office.
What the hell was the matter with Paget? he wondered. This girl-friend story was something Palmer had made up to account for his being in the area; Tregalles was sure of it, and he was sure Paget knew it as well. Palmer had never mentioned a girl-friend to anyone at Glenacres, apart from Lucas, and apparently he’d hardly ever left the stables since he’d been there, so why was Paget suddenly interested in having him spend his time on a task they both knew to be pointless?
At his desk, Paget pushed aside the file and sat back in his chair. He was allowing his emotions to cloud his judgement, he told himself. There had been no need to snap at Tregalles. The man was only trying to do his job.
There was no doubt in his mind that Palmer had been threatening Andrea that day he’d seen them at Glenacres. The look on her face was more than proof of that. But with what? Something to do with Sarah as Tregalles had suggested? The thought of someone like Palmer with the child made his blood run cold. The trouble was he couldn’t get over the fact that Andrea had lied to him. Or if not lied, she had certainly withheld the truth. Was it because she felt she couldn’t trust him? Or was it, perhaps, because he was a policeman?
Someone had waited in the barn for Palmer. Someone who hated him so much that they had rammed a pitchfork into his chest...
Paget closed his eyes against the picture in his mind.
18
Sunday, 3 January
Sunday was a frustrating day. Both Paget and Tregalles spent time in the incident room with Cooper, but between the holiday weekend, three people off with flu, and almost everything they needed for support being shut down or on skeleton staff, they were making no progress at all. The mobile incident room had been put in place at Glenacres, but no telephones or data lines had been hooked up; neither would there be anyone out there to man the mobile unit until Monday. Tomorrow, no doubt, activity would resume, but until then there was little they could do.
At eleven o’clock, Paget sent Tragalles home. Paget remained there for another hour then packed it in himself.
Monday, 4 January
‘I hate this time of year.’
Superintendent Alcott stood before the window, staring out across the rain-swept playing field behind the building. ‘Dark when you come to work; dark when you go home. Day after day of rain.’ He turned away and lit a cigarette. ‘They should outlaw bloody January in this country,’ he said as he sat down. Paget and Tregalles sat down and faced him across the desk.
‘Well, it’s not that bad, sir,’ Tregalles said cheerfully. ‘What is it, now? A couple of weeks before you and your wife leave for sunny Florida?’ Alcott had talked of almost nothing else but his forthcoming visit to America for months, it seemed.
‘My younger brother, Arnold, you know,’ he was fond of telling anyone who’d listen. ‘Done very well for himself out there. Invited us for a month. Just look at those beaches.’ The superintendent had a stack of holiday brochures depicting bikini-clad Amazons lounging in provocative poses on golden sands, with palms and endless surf serving as a backdrop.
Alcott glowered at him. ‘No, we don’t leave for bloody Florida,’ he said curtly. ‘My sister-in-law rang us from Miami last night. It seems she and Arnold are getting a divorce. Just like that. Married fifteen years; two kids, and now he’s gone off with some woman he met at work. Bloody idiot.’
He drew heavily on his cigarette. ‘But that’s enough of that. What have we got on this Prescott killing?’
‘Palmer,’ Paget corrected. ‘Victor Palmer. Child molester. Got five years for it and served his full time. No parole. He was released November fifth. Got a job at Glenacres a month later, using the name of Prescott, after he was supposedly recommended by a man named Dennison who owns a stable down south. But Dennison claims he never heard of the man.’ The chief inspector went on to summarize what they had learned so far, including their finding of the photograph of Dr McMillan and her daughter.
‘Palmer’s file should be here this morning,’ he ended, ‘and I’m hoping that will give us a clue. Dr McMillan has been away, but she should be back at work this morning, so I shall talk to her as soon as possible. Also, I spoke to Dr Starkie a few minutes ago. and he tells me that Palmer died between nine and eleven Friday night, and the cause of death was undoubtedly the pitchfork. One tine went right through the heart. The thrust was almost straight on, like a bayonet thrust, and Starkie sees that as unusual. He said it would have seemed more natural to him if the thrust had been slightly upward - unless, of course, the killer was much taller than Palmer, but Palmer himself was close to six feet, so that’s not too likely. One of the outer tines struck and broke a lower rib, but that didn’t even slow it down. Starkie said it would take a lot of power to do that.’
‘Motive?’ said Alcott.
Paget shook his head. ‘I’m afraid we haven’t got one at the moment, sir,’ he said bluntly. ‘My feeling is that Palmer got a job at Glenacres for a particular reason, but I have no idea what that reason was as yet. I’m having backgrounds checked out to see if anyone working at Glenacres has crossed paths
with Palmer before, and as I said, there may be something in Palmer’s file.’
Alcott grunted. ‘Let’s hope so,’ he said. ‘Make sure you keep me posted.’ With a curt nod, the superintendent swung round in his chair to face the window, effectively dismissing them.
Rain rattled against the glass. ‘Bloody weather,’ he muttered. He swung back to face the desk and crushed out his cigarette with such violence that butts and ash went flying from the ashtray.
As the door closed behind the two detectives, he picked up the travel folders and spread them like a fan. ‘Sod you, Arnold,’ he said beneath his breath. ‘Why the hell couldn’t you have waited till we’d had our holiday?’
Paget glanced at the time. Ten thirty. He stood up and looked outside as he shrugged into his coat. It seemed the rain had settled in for the day.
Tregalles appeared in the open doorway. He was carrying a bulky file. ‘This came in by courier from Exeter about fifteen minutes ago,’ he said. He sounded strangely subdued. ‘It’s the file on Palmer.’
‘Anything interesting in it?’ Paget was sure that the sergeant would have skimmed it already.
‘Let’s just say that if you’re on your way to the hospital to see Dr McMillan, I’d suggest you look at it before you go. You might try page three for a start.’
Paget tracked Andrea down on the fourth floor of the hospital where she was just finishing her rounds. He waited until she’d finished issuing instructions to one of the nurses behind the desk then said: ‘Is there somewhere private we can talk?’
It was significant that she didn’t ask him why he was there, but simply led the way to a small consulting room. ‘We won’t be disturbed here,’ she said as she closed the door. She stood there leaning against it, hands thrust deep inside the pockets of her white coat, watching him with those calm eyes of hers as he walked over to the window and turned to face her.
She looked tired. Bone weary would be closer to the mark. Even make-up couldn’t hide the dark smudges beneath her eyes, and the lines seemed etched more deeply in her face.
In a quiet voice she asked: ‘What is it, Neil?’
‘Don’t you know why I’m here?’ he said.
Andrea McMillan walked over to a chair beside the desk and sat down. She waved a listless hand towards the only other chair and thrust it back into her pocket again. ‘I’d rather you told me,’ she said.
Paget searched her face as he lowered himself into the seat opposite her, but he saw nothing there but weariness.
‘You’ve seen the morning papers?’ he said.
There was a momentary flicker in her eyes. She nodded but remained silent.
‘So you know that Victor Palmer is dead?’
Andrea McMillan turned her head and looked into the distance. ‘Yes,’ she said almost inaudibly.
‘You were once married to him?’
She closed her eyes. ‘Yes.’
‘When did you last see him?’
There was a slight frown on her face as she turned back to face him. ‘Five years ago in court,’ she said.
Her answer stopped him dead. He hadn’t been expecting it. He hadn’t expected her to lie. Perhaps, he rationalized, she didn’t realize how important it was.
‘This is important, Andrea,’ he said earnestly. ‘Are you quite sure you haven’t seen him since?’
Her eyes met his squarely. ‘Quite sure,’ she said calmly.
‘You didn’t know he was working at Glenacres?’ he persisted.
‘No - at least not until I read it in the papers.’
‘I see.’ So that was that, he thought resignedly. He’d given her the opportunity to change her story, but she had chosen not to take it.
Tell me, where were you last Friday evening?’
‘I went down to see my daughter, Sarah, at my mother’s place in Devon.’
‘What time did you leave Broadminster?’
She thought. ‘About eight thirty, I think it was,’ she said.
‘And your mother lives where, exactly?’
‘Not far from Newton Abbot.’ She gave him the address.
‘And what time did you arrive there?’
‘Just after eleven. Sarah had gone to bed, of course, but Mother was up. I usually try to get down there before Sarah goes to bed, but I was running late that night.’
‘Any particular reason?’
‘No. I was late getting away from the hospital, and that put me behind all evening.’ Andrea looked faintly puzzled. ‘Look, Neil, is all this really necessary?’ she said. ‘It’s true I was once married to Victor, but that was years ago. To be truthful, I can’t say I’m sorry he’s dead. I assume, since you know about me, that you know why he went to prison?’
‘We have a copy of his record,’ said Paget.
‘Then you will understand why I feel the way I do,’ she said. ‘He tried to kill me, Neil. And those children...’ She shuddered.
‘I saw you talking to him at Glenacres on Boxing Day,’ he said softly. ‘I was there, Andrea.’
It jolted her. He could see it in her face. She had looked pale before, but now her skin was almost grey. Slowly, she stood up and walked over to the window, standing with her back to him as she looked out across the town with unseeing eyes.
‘You’re right, of course,’ she said quietly, still with her back to him. ‘I did see him there on Boxing Day. I had no idea that he was there until he suddenly appeared. It shook me up, I can tell you.’
‘What did he want?’
‘Want?’ Andrea turned away from the window and came back to her chair. She was frowning as she sat down. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘He said he just wanted to say how sorry he was for all the trouble he’d caused. He said he had changed; that he’d had therapy. He kept saying he was sorry.’
‘Did he threaten you?’
‘No.’
Her answer was swift and unequivocal, but he didn’t believe her. ‘Why is Sarah living with her grandmother when she used to live here with you?’ he asked.
‘She is just visiting, that’s all. They get along well together, and my mother enjoys having her. She’ll be coming home soon.’
‘Now that Victor’s dead, you mean?’
Colour rushed into Andrea’s cheeks. Her lips compressed into a thin line and her mouth set stubbornly.
Paget leaned forward and spoke earnestly. ‘Look, Andrea, I need to know the truth. After reading Palmer’s file, I don’t think it is a coincidence that you sent your daughter away shortly after he came out of prison. I think you were afraid he might trace you here, and you wanted her out of harm’s way if there was any trouble. You had changed back to your maiden name of McMillan after divorcing Palmer, and you’d moved up here to Broadminster, but I think you were still afraid that he might find you. Now, for your own good, please tell me the truth. If you had nothing to do with Palmer’s death, you have nothing to fear.’
Andrea McMillan remained silent for a long time. Her face might have been made of stone, and her eyes were as blank as shutters. At last she sighed and gave a tiny shrug of resignation. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘What is it you want to know?’
‘I’ve read the file, but not the transcript of the trial, so I’d like you to go back to the beginning, when all this began.’
She grimaced. ‘Is that really necessary, Neil? It’s a part of my life I’ve tried very hard to put behind me. It’s not something I like to talk about, especially with you.’
‘It may help me understand,’ he said gently.
‘But Neil...’ Her eyes pleaded with him, and he longed to go to her. He wanted to put his arms around her and hold her close, and tell her that everything was going to be all right.
But he had a job to do. And, dammit, she had lied to him. Several times. Deliberately, he got up and walked over to the window and turned to face her. ‘I’m sorry, Andrea,’ he said stiffly, ‘but I have to know. I can read the transcript, but I’d rather you told me in your own words.’
Andrea se
nsed his withdrawal. The distance between them in the room was a mere few feet, but the gulf between them had suddenly become immeasurable. Why, of all the police in this town, did it have to be Neil? For years she had kept the world at bay; kept people at arm’s length, especially men. She didn’t need them; didn’t need anyone. Not after Victor. She would never allow any man to get close enough to hurt her ever again.
But Neil...There was something different about him. Something solid; something safe. Perhaps it was the feeling that he, too, had been hurt, but in a different way. Not that he ever dwelt on it, but it was there in his eyes and in his voice when he spoke of his dead wife, and she felt a kinship with him that she’d never felt before.
More than kinship. Much more. She’d allowed herself to feel again. And to dream.
Until last week. Until Victor had appeared to smash her life to pieces once again.
Rage welled up inside her, and a cold fury gripped her. She held her breathing steady for fear that Neil would notice when she spoke.
‘Very well,’ she said. ‘It seems I have no choice.’
Paget felt the barb, and winced inwardly. He should have sent Tregalles. He was breaking his own rule about emotional involvement, and yet he couldn’t bear the thought of anyone else questioning Andrea like this.
She was speaking, and he forced himself to listen - as a policeman.
As he had learned from Palmer’s file, Andrea McMillan had been married to Palmer at the time of his arrest. They’d lived, she said, not far from Taunton where Victor had a small stable he was trying to build up. Both he and Andrea had married relatively late; he was thirty-two, and she was twenty-eight. The stable was barely paying its way, but with Andrea working full time they were managing quite nicely. They had, she said, a normal marriage, and as far as she was concerned, a healthy relationship.